Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown (2 page)

Headmaster,

I am sending you Catherine Jones, a senior girl, to be disciplined. Catherine is a bright and creative student and likely will do well in life. However, she is headstrong, willful and disrespectful, which I cannot accept. She needs a firm hand to show her the error of her ways. This will serve her well in later life but the lesson must be administered now.

In the past, I have tried to counsel her, even reprimand her, without result. I am of the opinion that a sound spanking from the Headmaster would teach her a valuable lesson. The humility of being treated like a junior girl would, I believe, be motivation to be more respectful to her superiors. I trust you will attend to this matter as you see fit.

Respectfully,

Elsie Cunningham

As he read, I recited it in my mind. 'A firm hand…a sound spanking,' an artful choice of words, I thought. I almost smiled. Already I was imagining being over his knee.

When he finished reading he put the note down as if it were a fine piece of parchment. I glanced at his hands, his long fingers like a pianist's. What sweet music would they make?

He interrupted my reverie.

"
Do you know what this note says, Miss Jones?
"

For the first time, I looked up and our eyes met.

"
No sir,
"
I lied. He would get no help from me.

It was a crucial moment. If he had hesitated, I faced ignominy and shame. Certainly my parents would be involved. But he was a risk taker, that's what was said of him. And he was about to take the biggest risk of his career.

"
Miss Cunningham says you are disrespectful. This cannot be tolerated. She has requested that you be spanked like a junior girl. Do you have anything to say?
"

"
No sir, I'm sorry, sir.
"
I felt weak with anticipation.

"
I am inclined to agree with Miss Cunningham.
"
He stood up.
"
You have the right for her to be present while I administer the punishment?
"
He reached for the telephone.
"
Shall I send for her?
"

This was a sign. We both knew that corporal punishment had been banned in English schools since the '70s. What was about to happen was between consenting adults in private.

"
No sir,
"
I whispered.

"
Very well.
"

He said nothing more. He rose from his chair and locked his office door. He pushed a button on his stereo and I heard the faint opening refrain of Ravel's
Bolero
.
Perfect. From my days in the percussion section of the school orchestra, I know this piece well. Starting slowly, almost hypnotically, building to a rousing crescendo, Ravel's most famous composition resonates with the erotic rhythm of snare drums. Torvill and Dean won Olympic gold medals ice dancing to it. Now, apparently, I am going to be spanked to it. It is a long piece – about 15 minutes – time enough to fulfill the fantasy of Catherine Mallory Jones. But R.C. Montgomery is in no hurry to proceed.

My eyes never left him as he took out his Punishment Book and made an entry, or pretended to. He put the book away, rose from his chair and walked across the room to the high windows where he looked out for a full minute at whatever the storm had to offer before drawing shut the velvet curtains. He was playing his role to perfection. I was barely breathing as if the slightest movement on my part would break the spell.

By this time Bolero was entering its middle phase, the pace quickening, intensity rising. According to critics, it is the rhythm of love making, which is probably why it is one of the few pieces of concert music to have broad public appeal. In the swinging sixties, rock and roll was blamed for corrupting young people with the same provocative beat. I looked around. The dark oak paneling of his study was partially obscured by rows of books mostly in Latin or Greek. There was a large portrait of the school's founder looking suitably stern and scholarly and a framed photograph of the Queen, the school's Patron. A coal burning fireplace in the wall opposite the windows cast a flickering glow on the Persian rug before it. A large glass-topped desk occupied the center of the room and behind it, the headmaster's hard backed chair.

Slowly and deliberately he took the chair and placed it on the rug with its back to the fireplace. He took off his jacket, folded it and placed it carefully on his desk top. I felt a tremor of fear, but it was too late to back out now. He sat legs together and motioned for me to approach.

Seconds seemed like hours.

"
Bend over.
"

Slowly, I did so. His thighs felt firm and warm. Then with an abruptness that caused me a sudden intake of breath, he pulled up my skirt.

God, finally, finally, I was in the position I had craved for so long, over a man's knee, about to be spanked. This was beyond my wildest dreams.

"
Pull your knickers down.
"

The way he said it, the quiet, stern voice of authority, made me shudder. As I moved to comply, he assisted, slipping them to my knees. For several seconds he appeared to be concentrating on the music, but I knew he couldn't take his eyes off me. I clenched and unclenched my cheeks. Minutely, he adjusted my position and I thrust up my disrespectful bottom for punishment.

I felt his fingertips.

Seconds passed. Then, abruptly, his hand fell hard, then again and again, alternating cheeks. Pain fused with pleasure and became a single, wonderful, overpowering sensation. Whatever his thoughts on the legitimacy of the note, he was giving Miss Cunningham her money's worth. Sometimes the spanks were in time to the music, other times they were offbeat, fusing anticipation and gratification in equal parts. If I guessed right, I could raise up slightly to meet each delivery. Bolero had entered its final phase. Now French horns joined the chorus of clarinets, oboes, flutes, piccolos, trumpets and saxophones. My whole being vibrated to the music's incessant rhythm. the orchestra was my witness. Then as suddenly as he had started, he stopped. Was my punishment over? Please no. I half rose, only to feel a restraining hand on my back. My ass was stinging.

The best was yet to come.

I counted the spanks. One. A gap. Two, three, four. in quick succession. Then another pause. Five. A longer pause. Six. I gasped. Six of the best. My bottom was on fire. For a few seconds his hand rested where it had fallen. Instinctively, I parted my legs and felt his fingers slide towards my sex. As he touched me, I cried out. It was too much. The ritual, the excitement, the release, and now this, was more than I could stand. As Bolero reached its tumultuous climax so did I, adding my cries to the clash of cymbals.

He let me lay awhile, then I stood, giving him a glimpse of my downy thatch now damp and matted. He made no comment.

Then he said quietly,
"
You may get dressed.
"

But he was not yet finished.

"
I sense that you have more to learn, Miss Jones. You will return at 6 p.m. tomorrow.
"

"
Yes sir.
"

Softly, I closed his office door behind me and almost ran to my room. In front of the mirror, I pulled down my knickers and took a long look at my bottom. As I did so I heard the room key and Jen came in, calling out, 'How did it go…?
"
She stopped in her tracks,
"
Oh my God, he did it. I can't believe it. Oh my God.
"
She knelt down and kissed me tenderly.
"
It's so red, Cat. Does it sting?
"

I told her the whole story, sparing no details except his order to return.
"
Can you show me how he did it,
"
she said.
"
Do it like he did it. Can you, please?
"

"
I don't know, Jen,
"
I teased her.
"
We'll see, after lights out.
"
I hugged her and
held her tight.
"
Can you hum
Bolero
?
"

Outside our window, the late summer storm gathered momentum. Lightning repeatedly scorched the night and peals of thunder rolled back and forth across the heavens.

Broken
children
in
crumpled
houses
dug
from
the
rubble
for
burial;
Who
now
will
fly
their
kites?

From
Afghanistan
by CM Jones
The day after the great storm it was casual day at
Chiltern Hills
Academy
when senior girls are permitted to wear their own clothes. Nothing revealing, no logos, but otherwise the choice is ours.
The clock crawled. At five, I showered, put on a thong (forbidden) and a black bra. I chose a plain green t-shirt, the color of my eyes, and squeezed into my tightest pair of jeans. I tied a school sweater around my waist for the long walk to his office and I wore no makeup, because this also was forbidden.
The long wait, the anticipation, the memories of yesterday, had excited me. As a final touch, I unzipped my jeans, touched a finger to my secret place and dabbed behind my ears. I was ready. No one saw me approach his office.
I removed my sweater and slipped it over my shoulders. I knocked and entered. The clock on his wall chimed six.

As before, he was behind his desk. He did not invite me to sit. In front of him were two carved wooden boxes made of ebony I guessed, each about ten-inches long and six-inches wide. He opened one of the boxes, took out a leather strap and placed in carefully in front of me. It was beautiful. It had twin tongues about nine-inches long and two-inches across, one red, one black, each flayed at the tip. The striped handle was woven. I stared at it. I felt weak with anticipation. I could barely stand still. The music this time was an African chorus, the beauty and harmony of voices as old as time. Finally, he spoke.

"
I bought it in
Dakar
. Beautiful, isn
'
t it? Its use is reserved for the most delinquent students.
"

He stood up, came around to my side, and indicated I should bend over his desk. I did so. There were no preliminaries this time. I took six strokes, then six more, heard the snap of leather on denim, felt the exhilarating sting. He unzipped my jeans and pulled them to my ankles. I spread my legs and arched my back.
In a mirror, I could see him inspecting his handiwork, but I guessed there were no marks so far although I could feel the heat on my skin. The forbidden thong was an invitation. I ached for more.

Yesterday (how long ago it seemed) the spanking had been random, some soft and caressing, some hard and stinging. I was learning fast.
Artfully administered a spanking can last as long as you want. But the strap requires a more rhythmic delivery. The twin leather tongues lick my buttocks and I moan with each stroke. Occasionally he pauses and allows the leading edges to trail teasingly across my sex, then offers me a taste. I take it hungrily.
He kneels behind me to deliver the ritual six, as before saving the best for last. I straighten up at his bidding and rub my bottom. He puts the strap back in its box and opens the lid of its twin.

From box number two, lined with red velvet, he produced a black glass replica of an erect penis, so beautifully crafted you could see every vein.
My knees buckled and I put one hand on the desk for support.
I swear I have never imagined so perfect an object. It was, as far as I could tell, made of
molded glass in shades of night, the head a deep purple, the shaft gracefully curved, as smooth as the African voices that filled the room. I felt a desperate longing. He handed it to me and instinctively I took it to my lips. It was not large, maybe seven-inches long and four or five in circumference. Beneath the head, my tongue traced the outline of a small s-shaped vein. I moistened the head and shaft and handed it back. I tore off my t-shirt and bra showing him my breasts and bent to lay my head on his desk, my red hair spilling onto the surface, the glass top cool against my swollen nipples, my sex wet with desire. I was on fire. As before, he moved to a position behind me, knelt, and with his left hand gently parted my cheeks. This time there would be no waiting. I gasped. The angle of entry was perfect as the dark beauty moved in and out. This time I lasted longer. I moved to the rhythm.
When I came I felt my whole body spasm, the pleasure utterly consuming, my shouts of ecst
asy joining the African chorus 6
,000 miles away.

"
Take your time,
"
he said.
"
Then, if you have a few minutes, I would like to talk.
"
I nodded. He opened a door to his adjoining quarters, took both boxes with him, and left me alone with my thoughts. There was no pretense between us now. Years of fantasy had been realized beyond all expectations.
School was over and after today I would never see him again. I was a big girl now, ready for
Cambridge
and a whole new life. I washed and combed my hair in his bathroom. The face in the mirror smiled back at me, wise and worldly beyond my years.