EMMA AT SCHOOL 22

Maggie's new deal

The next morning, the household were all up bright and early and there was no mention of any of yesterday's punishments.  Mr Sharpe did, however, continue to ask his eldest daughter about her work; had she been given any assignments for the holidays, and other such questions.  On discovering that the did not have any work to do during the summer, Mr Sharpe looked a little irritated and then asked, "Do you think your tutor would agree to give you some extra work if we asked him?" "I... I suppose so."

"What's his name?"

"Er... it's Eric."

"Just Eric?" her father repeated distastefully.  "Does he not have a surname?"

"Oh, yes," Margaret told him.  "It's Mr Dinwell." "No wonder there's no work going on.  You young people seem to have no respect for your elders any more.  I suggest you call him Mr Dinwell from now on."

Mr Sharpe looked thoughtful for a moment and then added, "Come to my study after breakfast, I would like you to compose a letter for Mr Dinwell." The teenagers saw little of the eldest Miss Sharpe until lunchtime and spent the day rambling round the grounds of the Sharpes' big house.  Naturally, with Hugh and Debbie for company, Emma did not get through the morning without having to bare her bottom for punishment; and even though the grounds for these were rather flimsy, Emma, being such a good girl, dropped her knickers on the command of either of her playmates.  From Debbie, Emma received a sound bare bottom spanking over her lover's lap for being "cheeky".

Then, later on when they were exploring a secret hideaway, Hugh claimed that Emma had kicked him. Deborah agreed with the boy that this was a horrible thing to do and must warrant a strapping, so Emma was held down by the other girl over a table while Hugh unbuckled his belt.  Without haste, the boy wrapped the leather strip about his hand and then, giving the prostrate girl no warning, snapped it down across her naked cheeks for the first of thirty hard whacks.

The three, and this will be no surprise, also took the opportunity of their being unsupervised, to indulge their sexual appetites, Emma and Deborah giving Hugh a joint blow-job just before they came into lunch.  Emma, despite the warmth in her rear end, decided that she had enjoyed herself immensely.

At lunch, the three youngest members of the party discovered what had kept Margaret away from the for so long as Mr Sharpe, despite his daughters protestations, required her to read the product of her morning's work for them She did so in a quiet voice, but the contents could not help but have an impact.

"Dear Mr Dinwell," she read. 

"Since arriving home I have had the opportunity to discuss this past year with my father and you may not be surprised to hear that he was rather disappointed in me.  I recall you saying something similar before we broke up for the holiday and I am writing to assure you that I mean to work much, much harder next year at my studies and to give my work, and you, the respect deserved.

"I feel it would not be appropriate for me to continue without apologising for some events which have taken place recently.  I cannot give any explanation as to why I behaved towards you in the manner I did and hope that you will be able to forgive the hurtful things I said to you.  I can faithfully promise that there will be no repetition of this behavior.  "I realise that it might well be difficult for you to accept this apology and promise so easily given in this way, especially compared to my brazen misdeeds last term.  I hope, however, to convince you of my sincerity and my intentions by explaining something of a personal nature.  I feel that you have a right to this information and I give it therefore without conditions.  I ask only that you treat it with the sensitivity warranted by the nature of the following revelations and requests.  "My father felt, on hearing about my poor year, that some additional and external input would be necessary to help me change my ways and, although I protested at the time, I now agree with him fully.  The first part of that input was given in the way that has been traditional in my family since I was a little girl, and that is through the use of corporal punishment.  You may feel that such a measure is inappropriate in dealing with a girl of my age.  I hope in that case you will agree, however, that the punishment administered to me by my father was quite in keeping with my childish behavior.

"My punishment for my poor performance last year was sixteen hard strokes of my father's cane on my bare bottom.  Later, when I told him of my rudeness to you at the end of term he disciplined me for that also.  For that I received a further forty strokes, also on the bare bottom, from his leather strap.  I deeply believe that I deserved both these punishments and hope that my acceptance of them will help you to forgive me.  "Having discussed my further studies with my father, I have agreed that continued vigilance will be helpful in ensuring that I keep to my new goals.  My father wishes to check my progress termly so that he can use his cane again if necessary, which I hope it will not be, to encourage my studies. 

"A term, however, is a long time and a lot can happen in the space of that many weeks.  My father therefore wished me to consider ways of maintaining my level of work and behavior between visits home.  Most obvious solutions, such as the withdrawal of finance, or loss of privileges seem impossible to oversee.  I have therefore come to the conclusion that, as difficult as this is, I would like to ask for your assistance in this matter.

"I would, in conclusion,  be very grateful if you would seriously consider taking on the role of my father while I am at college.  I do not wish to burden you with extra work, but hope that an arrangement can be made whereby, perhaps as part of my tutorial time, you could question me about, and give your opinion on, my progress.  In the event of your deciding that my behavior or work was of an insufficient standard, I would then submit, without question, to whatever punishment you considered reasonable.  "While it would not be for me or my father to dictate to you what form such punishment would take, I feel I must ensure that I have made myself absolutely clear.

"If, having decided to punish me, you feel that corporal punishment is appropriate, you must feel at liberty to employ whatever method you consider best.  You may require me to remove some or all of my clothing.  You may require me to bend across your knee or take up whatever other position you wish.  You may employ your hand, slipper, ruler, paddle, strap, cane, or any other implement in seeking to deliver adequate chastisement.  r, as my father does, that in requiring me to accept even the mildest spanking, the  baring of my bottom is necessary.  In any event, should you agree to take on this role, it will be my duty to submit to you.  Any reticence or resistance I exhibit, I will expect to result in further chastisement.

"I hope this letter has not shocked you, and that you feel able to take on this role.  I feel sure that, if I know my conduct is under constant supervision, and especially if I recognise that any misbehaviour is going to result in my knickers being pulled down and my bare bottom being spanked, strapped or caned, I will be able to live up to the high expectations of you and my father.

"Yours sincerely, Margaret Sharpe."

Having concluded her reading, cheeks flushing bright red, Margaret sat back heavily in her chair, the open mouths of her siblings and Emma the only response.  At length, Mr Sharpe spoke.

"It is a very good letter, I think," he congratulated her.  "Now, it is hardly the kind of letter one posts, so I reckon it would be fitting if you were to travel back up to university  and give it to him in person.  He will still be there, I take it?"

"I... I think so," Margaret responded, her eyes wide with disbelief.  "Good.  I'll get Sam to drive you to the station, there is a train at three o'clock."  Then, having delivered this bombshell, the patriarch turned to the youngsters.  "Now, what about a game of croquet?" This narrative, having already spent sufficient time away from St. Katherine Parr School for Girls to raise questions as to the relevance of our title, must not, of course, be allowed to stray away too from its principle protagonist.  Fortunately however, Margaret, whether from habit or for some more specific reasons, kept a diary over the course of the next few days and the reader might allow a little flexibility in the story-line and indulge the reprinting of a few pages here. 

Such is the nature of diaries, that what is written is not always what strikes the reader as important; many things which might have been of great interest find no mention here, similarly there are themes and events to be found in the densely written pages which do not concern the further history of Margaret's letter to her tutor.

Yet what is here is sufficient to give us a good insight into Margaret's future as a student, and to assure us that it (though not it alone) looks now quite rosy.

No further editorial comment is needed, the extracts begin on the day of the lunch-time reading just related.

Wednesday 2nd June - 4pm

So.  I'm sitting on a train on my way back to uni to give Eric a letter which asks - OK, not in so many words - but anyway asks him to check up on my progress regularly and, whenever "necessary" to spank me - or punish me more severely.

It's true, of course, that I had a crap year this year.  Well, as far as work went anyway.  Beer and boys, yes - great success there.  But work - whassat?  It's true, also, that being away from daddy and his cane does suggest to a twenty year old girl that it's time to have some fun.  But wasn't daddy's caning enough.  I mean, isn't the threat of another caning at the end of each term going to be enough to get my head down?  I guess that's the trouble - I can't honestly say I know the answer to that question.  I'd love it to be yes, but maybe....  Oh, God!  How did I get into this.

What's he going to say anyway?  Will he think it's a joke?  Blackmail?  Daddy said he'd fax him to assure him about the letter being genuine, without giving the contents away.  But still - I mean, it's not a very everyday request is it?

What if he's gay?  I mean, I know he's not married.  Although I guess that would be better for me.... better?  Who am I kidding?  It's just awful any way you look at it.

And then again - oh, diary, please let me never lose you - the things in here!! - I have a confession to make.  When I was in the train loo just a minute ago, I was thinking about Eric and imagining him stripping me and spanking me and I just couldn't resist... my hand was suddenly down between my legs and I was sitting on the loo, eyes shut tight and picturing the scene whilst wanking myself all the way to orgasm.  Classic or what?  I'm either perverted or insane.  I wonder which is better?

Wednesday 2nd June - 10pm

OK.  I've been able to get a room in the halls for an extra £10 a night which daddy's paying for, and the first hurdle is behind me: Eric - Mr Dinwell is still working in college and I have an appointment to see him at 10 tomorrow morning.  You know, one funny thing is that there are so many girls in Mr Dinwell's classes with crushes on him.  I wonder if daddy would have been so keen on this letter idea if he'd known how young Eric - oh, shit - Mr Dinwell is.  That's not to say I want to be spanked by him, but, you know....

Thursday 3rd June - 9am

OK diary, wish me luck.  Not that I know what that means.  Do I want him to accept or reject the proposal?  I guess the answer is yes - either of those would be better than the alternatives - I don't even want to think of what happens if he just thinks my family is severely fucked-up!  Later!

Thursday 3rd June - 1pm

Well, here we go.  I've seen Mr Dinwell and I'm now... no, hang on... I need to do this from the beginning.

I walked into his office at 10 this morning and there was a student there!  It hadn't occurred to me that I might not be able to speak to him in private, but luckily the student did leave when I said it was personal.  Still, I was worried about a witness even to my presence there - and the fact that I wanted to talk to Mr Dinwell alone.  Once he was gone, Mr Dinwell began speaking.  He said daddy had phoned him and told him that I would be bringing him a letter of some sensitivity and he promised to take whatever I had to say seriously and treat it in total confidence.  I don't know what he was expecting it to be about, but I felt a little more secure after this gesture.  He did also, of course, try asking about the subject matter, but I said I would find it easier if he would just read the letter.

So, I gave it to him.  I can still hardly believe that I did - but I did.  I refused the offer of a seat (to be honest, four hours sitting on a bumpy train was plenty for someone in my position!) and stood opposite him while he opened the envelope, smoothed out the pages and read.  His face was entirely impassive as he took in each line, finally folding the letter, putting it back into the envelope and passing the whole thing back to me.  "I think you may feel more comfortable if you were able to keep this," he said, giving away nothing in his tone of voice or in the expression in his face.

I nodded and took the paper parcel gratefully, waiting then for what seemed like an age while he sat still, full of thought, before finally speaking in carefully chosen words.

"I'm sorry, Margaret," he said, "But I must ask you a couple of things."

Again, I nodded.

"I have to know whether the contents of this letter represents your own wishes or whether your father, or anyone else, has compelled you to write to me in this way.  You can trust me not to repeat anything you say to anyone else."

I found it very hard to answer this question, not because I was unclear of my answer, but because it meant addressing the letter's contents for the first time.

"Daddy did suggest that I write to you, and we did discuss how much... er, support, I'd need to have to enable me to really change next year.  But the actual request to you in there is..."

I trailed off.  It was such an admission to make.

"What is the matter, Margaret?"

"I... I'm worried that you'll think there's something wrong with me."

Mr Dinwell allowed himself a smile.

"I promise I shall never think badly of you because of anything in that letter," he said steadily.  "Now, please continue what you were saying." I did.  "The request in the letter is my own idea.  It seemed like the right thing to do.  I mean, it seemed like the thing that might help me to do as well as everyone wants me to."

"Everyone?" he asked.

"You know," I explained.  "Daddy.  You.  Well, and me too I guess." want."

I know this is going to sound really daft, but I really hadn't considered it.  The answer seemed to come from deep within me.  "I want to achieve something I can be proud of.  To do one hundred percent as well as I am capable of doing.  I do want to change," I ended.  "And you think that I can help by agreeing to your request?"

"I... I think so."

"I see."

He sat still in his chair for a moment, as if pondering the whole question.  Then, with a sudden decisiveness sat up straight and fixed me with his piecing blue eyes.

"Let me ask you a question," he said.  "Your letter says you don't want to dictate to me.  I'm pleased about that.  However, I do require your opinion before I make any decision.  Tell me how you think I should deal with any lapses in your work or conduct if I decide to take on this task." Wow!  I thought.  Here it is then.

"I do believe in corporal punishment," I said.  "I will use it on my children and... and I'm already used to spanking my younger sister.  I don't know whether spanking a girl of my age is generally an appropriate mode of discipline, but when someone behaves like a naughty little brat, it seems reasonable that they should be treated like one." I was in my stride now and found myself talking to this near-stranger about some of the most intimate details of my past.  "When I was at school, physical punishment was used a good deal and I received plenty of it.  As a consequence, I worked hard at my lessons and did very well."

"So I see, "Mr Dinwell interjected.  "Straight As in your A-levels.  I must say, I was extremely disappointed in your work this year and a little at a loss as to what to do about it.  But carry on, please." "Well," I said, "I think that, even though I'm technically an adult, if I'm going to begin to behave like one, I need to be treated as a naughty child until I sort myself out.  And to me that means..." I looked down nervously at the floor.

"Yes, that means?  And do please look at me." I did as he told me, looking him right in the eyes, and continued, "To me that means skirt up, knickers down and a good dose of old-fashioned discipline."

"So, in effect, though you do, in theory, accept my judgement, your advice is that I should direct all discipline to your bare buttocks?" "I... yes, I suppose so."

"Thank you for being clear.  Please kneel on the armchair, elbows on the back.  I wish to have a better look at you."

Well, it was clear Mr Dinwell did not disapprove entirely of the suggestion, I thought as I took up the position required.  I could only sense him moving as he got up from his desk and walked behind me and then I got a tingling sensation all over as he took hold of my skirt and lifted it up over my waist.

I had been in similar positions for my daddy many times, as well as for prefects and teachers at school.  But this was somehow different I thought as his kind hands reached for my knickers and drew them slowly down to my thighs.

There was silence for a few moments and I prayed he wouldn't smell the arousal growing between my thighs.

"Very nice," he said, his fingers lightly following the length of each glowing stripe.  You may dress."

"Thank you," I said, pulling my knickers back up.  "You will address my as Sir when we are alone together and Mr Dinwell when others are present.  You will take the student room I let from my house so that I am able to follow your progress day by day.  You will be subject to whatever rules I lay down, and you will accept punishment in whatever way or circumstances I decide.  Those are my terms." "I... I accept," I stammered.

"Good.  Pack up your things and bring them to my house at 2pm.  I want you to spend a few days here before you return home,  I should also warn you to expect today to receive my punishment for your record last year.    I would love to put you over my knee now, but the room is not soundproofed, so it must wait.  I intend to honour your request with all appropriate vigor." And that was that.  Now I must leave.  I guess I'll write tonight.

Thursday 3 June - 11 pm

Ouch!

Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, OUCH!!

That was some afternoon.  Something tells me next year is going to rather different to last, rather more painful too.

I phoned daddy to tell him that Mr Dinwell had accepted my proposal, half hoping he'd tell me I had to come straight home.  No such luck.  So, at 2 pm sharp (I didn't feel it was a good idea to turn up late) I arrived at my new landlord's front door with my bags.  He let me in and showed me my room (which, I must admit, is really beautiful) and told me to unpack.  I was to "make myself at home" and then meet him downstairs in the sitting room in one hour.  I tell you, that was the longest hour ever.  But eventually the big grandfather clock in the hallway struck three and I made my way down to where Mr Dinwell was waiting for me.

"Good afternoon, Margaret," he said, rather formally.

"Er... good afternoon... sir," I replied. 

That seemed to please him.  He was sitting in a big, black chair in the middle of the room - no arms.  I knew what that was for.  He told me to come and stand in front of him, which I did, and then he began to speak.  Somehow, I was surprised by his voice.  I'd expected him to be rough and severe, but he wasn't at all.  His tone was soothing and kind.  He began to explain that he'd accepted my proposal because he saw the opportunity to help me become a first class student.  He wanted me to do well, and not look back in two years time and blame him for my failure.  He said he respected my "guts" in writing the letter and was sure we'd be able to work well together.

"Now, about the central question of discipline," he continued.  "I do mean to be strict with you.  And I do mean very, very strict.  Every minor infringement of the rules will result in punishment - and," he added, unnecessarily I though, "as you suggested, that will mean bare bottom punishment."

"What are the rules?" I asked, nervously.

And I think this was the moment when I began to really feel that, despite the discomfort involved, this was going to work.  It was what he said next.  He said, "Well, Margaret.  That is going to be the difference between the regime here and that you were used to at school, and maybe at home.  You see, I thought very carefully about your situation and I decided that your upbringing, guided as it has been by strap and cane, may partly explain your difficulties here.

"Please don't imagine that I am criticising your father, or your school for that matter.  They clearly were very successful in getting the best out of you during your education up until this point.  However, I wonder whether you were so used to being surrounded by a tight mesh of rule and punishment, that your ability, or need rather, to develop the 'self-discipline' necessary to success in higher education, was - shall we say - stunted.

"Has that occurred to you?"

I told him that it had, but that I didn't know how to move from living under imposed discipline to self-discipline.  And anyway, hadn't he agreed to continue the former?

"Well, yes and no," he answered cautiously.  "I hope to steer you towards the development of self-discipline, but in doing so I'm happy to use the more familiar penalties for failure in doing so.  "So, let's look to the rules.  First of all, yes there will be rules, lots of rules.  But, unlike those at school, I intend these rules to be ones that you yourself have written.  I would like you to consult with me in drawing them up, but I will exercise no veto.  You will need to consider sensible getting up and going to bed times, work schedules, leisure activities and so on and so forth.  I also want you to set out, while leaving some flexibility for my judgement, what punishments should result from the breaking of each of these rules.

"I wish you to really spend some time thinking about what is necessary for success here at university.  I want you to feel that the structure you're working under is one which you recognise is appropriate to your needs.  You will need to take into account the catching up you need to do after last year's disastrous results.  You may wish to build into your time a the housekeeping tasks around the house.  All of these things I want to come from you.

"When you're satisfied with the rules, we'll type them up and send a copy to your father, and then those rules shall be the sole means by which I shall measure your conduct.  In effect, if you then find yourself being punished, it shall be you yourself demanding that punishment.  We'll have a talk about how you might go about organising this first task in a short while.  Do you have any questions?"

It was right.  I could tell at once.  I knew, just to take an example, that if he set a rule saying I had to be in bed at ten every night, I'd feel it was all completely unreasonable and it would do nothing to help me develop my own proper sleeping pattern.  But now, I had to work out when bed time was - and be spanked if I failed to observe it.  My head began to fill with rules for everything from cleaning my room to the number of spelling mistakes in an essay.

"No, sir.  No questions, but..."

"Yes, Margaret?"

"Thank you.  Thank you for helping me."

"It will be my pleasure," he answered.  "Especially when I see the new Margaret Sharpe going up to collect her first from the Chancellor in two years' time."

He reached out and took my hand.

"But now, I want to talk to you about punishments.  As I've said, I want you to determine what level of punishment you should receive for each offence, but I will set out the various specific methods for you to choose from.

"Firstly, I'm going to split punishments into two groups.  Punishments relating to your studies will be given with you bent over a piece of furniture or touching your toes, with your skirt raised and your knickers lowered; punishments for misbehaviour or breaking house rules we will come to in a little while. 

"As for implements, well I think these can be demonstrated rather than me simply listing them.  This demonstration will act as your punishment from me for your general poor work last year.  We will start with my hand.  Turn around and touch your toes, please."

So I was wrong about the chair, then.  Well, for now anyway.  I did what he told me and turned away from him and bent down to begin  my new career under his guidance.  Already, I felt as if I trusted him completely and I felt a tingle all over as his footsteps, muffled by the thick blue carpet, traced him movement from his seat until he stood by my side.  "Before I begin," he said lifting my skirt so that only my frail white knickers covered my bottom, "I would like you, now that you've heard my intentions, to decide, firstly whether you still wish to submit to my guidance - in which case you will be bound to that decision for at least twelve months, and secondly whether you are certain that you wish to hand over to me the decision about your clothing during punishments." It was hard to speak from that position, not so much physically, but psychologically.  I told him that I was completely sure about handing the power to discipline me over to him for the coming year, and that I considered that it would be wrong for be to retain any veto over the methods of punishment employed.  I, rather bravely, also suggested that any loss of modesty should serve to remind me of my previous childishness.  And that was the end of the conversation.  Mr Dinwell took hold of my knickers with one hand and slipped them to my thighs and the began to spank me with the other.

Now, you know, diary, that my bare bottom has been spanked many, many times.  This was not the hardest, or the longest.  It didn't make me cry more or less than any other.  Yet it was different.  Maybe it was the long period leading up to it.  Maybe it was the fact that I had requested this punishment - and all the others to follow.  Maybe it was because I felt that this spanking was the beginning of the road to learning something new about myself.  Whatever.  All I know is that, as Mr Dinwell's hand landed on my upturned cheeks over and over, I felt my failures of the previous year being, if not wiped away, then at least paid for - in part.  I say in part because that spanking was not the end of things today.  Not by a long, long way.  Mr Dinwell had a programme ready for me.  In between each spanking I was allowed to replace my clothing, thus sparing my blushes a little, although it did mean that I had to repeat the traditional baring of my bottom each time.  In some ways it was a little bit like being back at school.

After that first spanking, Mr Dinwell introduced me to his paddle, a mean looking piece of wood which looked rather like a half-sized, flat cricket bat.  And it was mean!

This time, Mr Dinwell made me stand near the wall and pull my own knickers down to my thighs.  Then he told me to lift my skirt to my waist and lean forwards against the wall.  Well, it's just as well I wasn't just touching my toes because I'm not at all sure that I would have been able to remain on my feet, such was the force of the blow.  From the very first blow across my poor bottom, I knew that this was going to prove to be a very effective form of punishment.  True, it might lack the sharp sting of the cane, but it still sent shock waves through my whole body.  Twenty five hard whacks I got with the paddle, delivered in quick succession so that, while there was none of the horrid waiting some people make you suffer, the agony built up and built up until I was shrieking with the pain.  And, I guess, with the certain knowledge that there was plenty more still to come.

"Now, Emma, there are a few implements I might use to spank you with in place of the paddle, depending on my mood and where we are in the house.  For example, I have a nice long, wooden ruler in my study.  Please follow me."

I followed him.  Up the bare, wooden stairs and into the cramped, sparsely decorated front room which he uses as a study.  There was no furniture except for a wooden desk and chair, and Mr Dinwell bade me bend over the latter.

Again he lifted my skirt and slipped my knickers down to my thighs himself, and somehow it felt right when he prepared me with his own hands, and I simply held on tight to the seat of the chair, the plain back cutting dully into my tummy, and waited for the ruler.

My bottom was still stinging from the first two spankings, and as we were clearly working up to the worst, I knew that I had to keep my determination steeled if I was to get through the ordeal without collapsing.  WHACK!!  I still remember the sound of the ruler, fizzing through the air and then thwacking noisily across my neatly presented cheeks.  I admit I did cry out loudly for him to stop after that first stroke - funnily enough I don't think it really hurt that much, I think I was just terrified by the sound of it.  In any case, I'm sure that Mr Dinwell increased the force of his blows after my pleading, maybe just to make sure I didn't get the idea that I could plead my way out of just chastisement.  Well, I think that this was a bit of a barrier for me because the tears which I had managed to keep inside up until then suddenly began to flow and, as the ruler fell in its horrid rhythm, I bawled and kicked under its burning cracks.

Mr Dinwell made this spanking last much longer than the others, and somehow I know why.  I mean, it seemed as though my body was finally making the apology my mind had made in my letter.  That sounds silly doesn't it.  But that's the only way I can explain.

He just kept on spanking and spanking while I screeched like a wildcat until, after God knows how many, I finally just gave in to the terrible, red-hot pain in my bottom and just lay there, and took it, and wept.  That was when he stopped.  Well, after a little bit.  And then, when he put his hand on my shoulder to help me up I just buried my face in his chest and felt his strong arms holding me tight, his hand stroking my hair and felt looked after for the first time since leaving school.  After a short while, still snuffling, I reached down to pull my knickers back up and looked up at Mr Dinwell with eyes which would, I hoped, say, "OK, I'm ready to go on.  What next?"

"Now, let's go to your bedroom," he said.  "Do you have a wooden hairbrush?" d, still a little tearful.  "It's the one daddy uses to spank me sometimes."

"Fetch it please and place it on the dressing table.  Then I want you up on the bed, knickers down round your ankles this time, kneeling with your hands on the bedhead.

The hairbrush was still in my bag and I rummaged around hopelessly for ages before I found it, this sturdy friend and enemy which had accompanied me on so many trips across daddy's knee at home.

Dutifully, I placed it as requested and made my way over to the bed, climbing on and kneeling at the pillow end and then slipping my knickers right down.

"Good girl," Mr Dinwell praised me, lifting my skirt once more and then placing his hands on my poor bottom to move me into the desired position.  This was the first time he had touched me except to spank me and I admit that a small thrill shot through me, yes - that part of me too, at the touch of his fingers so close to my pussy.  They did not linger, however, but were gone in seconds and I tried to prepare myself mentally for the coming, familiar pain.

"Ohhhhh!  Arrggghh!" (or words to that effect) I screamed as Mr Dinwell's arm swept round in a wide arc to land the first stroke, followed, unbowed by the great noise emanating from my mouth, by another fifteen strokes, Daddy hadn't used the brush on me for ages (on the few occasions he had felt it necessary to beat me in recent years, I had got the cane) but it still had the same powerful effect on me as in the past and my screaming was, if anything, louder than last time.

When he'd finished, we went back downstairs again and Mr Dinwell stood next to the small chair in the middle of the room.

"Do you wish to take a break?" he asked.

"No," I said emphatically.  "I want it over with." "Very well," he agreed, and from his briefcase he took a long, thick strap cut into fingers for the last few inches of its length.  Then he pointed to the chair.

"Kneel on there," he told me, exposing my bottom in readiness once I had done as he asked. 

"Right down over it," he encouraged me.  "Hands grasping the feet of the chair.  Yes, just like that."

This was the most revealing posture so far as I was sure that, bending right down in the way, my pussy must have been at least partly visible to him.  And to make that thought worse, I need to explain that I was very warm and wet by now, and I did not want Mr Dinwell to know about that.  The first hard stripe from the strap stopped my daydreams pretty quick though.  These were the serious punishments now and Mr Dinwell clearly wanted to ensure that I saw them as such.  Although my bottom was already on fire and I had thought it couldn't possibly get worse, of course it did.  The strap was much, much worse.  I'm amazed I'm still here to tell the story; stroke after stroke of absolute agony lashing my already crimson behind while I, and I am ashamed admitting this, even in my diary, screamed the place down.  It was hell - and I didn't manage to count the strokes either.  It seemed to be over quite quickly though, so I guess it wasn't really as terrible as it seemed.  But it did seem like all the skin had been flailed off my entire backside.

"You now have just the cane to taste," Mr Dinwell said now.  "But I think it would be best to wait a few minutes before that.  Leave your knickers where they are so I can view my handiwork and stand up where you are, keeping your skirt up around you waist."

I got up carefully, my bared bottom to Mr Dinwell all the time, until I was standing as he had required, like some teachers at school would make girls stand in the corner after they had been punished.  Except my punishment wasn't over.

"Just one more," I kept saying to myself as Mr Dinwell went to a cupboard to fetch ( I assumed, correctly as it happened) his cane.  He walked right round in front of me with it to show me. "This cane was owned by a teacher I had at school who used it a great deal, especially on me, I always thought.  It always seemed excruciatingly painful when I was made to bend over for it, so I hope that it will have the same profound impact on you." I looked at the thing.  It was about three feet long and made of rattan, not as powerful as daddy's rosewood version then, although it seemed to be a bit thicker.  I guessed it would probably hurt about the same as one of the school canes used in house publics at St. Katherine Parr - certainly not something one would want to taste on a daily, or even weekly basis.  "OK, Margaret.  When you feel you're ready, bend down over the chair.  This is your real beating for last year's laziness.  I want you to remember it, so I'm going to cane you severely.  Thirty hard strokes on the bare bottom."

"Thirty," I exclaimed loudly.  "I'll never take that many... OWW!" Mr Dinwell had reacted briskly to my outburst by cracking the cane sharply across my rear and had silenced me with that single stroke.  He spoke firmly.

"When you consider your rules, you will want to consider the penalty for that kind of rudeness, won't you?"

"Yes, sir.  I'm sorry," I managed through my steadily increasing tears.

"Thirty just seems so many for a caning."

"And you don't think you deserve a punishment of that strictness?" I thought about last year, all my trips to the pub when I had assignments to complete and hung my head.

"Yes, sir.  I do deserve it.  Please forgive me." "I shall, on this occasion," he conceded.  "If you cannot take any more at some point, say 'STOP!' loudly and I will stop for fifteen minutes.  You will have to remain in position for that whole time though, after which I will continue your thrashing.  Now, bend over and show me that bottom!" I bent down to grab the chair legs again and, almost immediately, the caning began.  Mr Dinwell cut me three times in a row with hardly a break, lifting his arm high in the air for each stroke, and then, after each group of three, resting the cane upon my poor, badly marked cheeks.

WHACK!  WHACK!  THWACK!

Each loud trio of blows set my lungs going again and we spent the next fifteen minutes engaged in this long-established ritual: me offering up my naked bottom for the cane and crying and squealing noisily under its stern regime, Mr Dinwell ignoring my cries and flogging the naughty girl under his tutelage with all the ferocity she so clearly deserved.  I was so proud of myself.  I didn't yell stop, I got through the whole thirty strokes in one go, though it was almost unbearable.  I don't remember ever having gone through that much pain before, though I guess really hard punishments always make you think that.  Anyway, after my caning, I was thinking it was all over, until Mr Dinwell asked me what else was due to happen.  It suddenly came back to me, accompanied by almost uncontrollable sobs.  It wasn't over yet!  "You... you still have to explain to me about punishments for misbehaviour and breaking house rules," I snivelled.  "And... and I have to be punished for being rude to you."

Mr Dinwell smiled.  "I'm glad you have remembered.  Take your knickers right off and put them on the table."

I did what I was told and then returned, nervously, to stand before him, not knowing what to expect yet.

"Now, Margaret, this is what I have decided.  For your work punishments, I feel as if I'm taking very much a tutor's or teacher's role.  That's why those punishments were so formal.  On the other hand, I want you to think of punishments for misbehaviour as something more... intimate, something between the two of us.  I intend these punishments to be more like paternal discipline, and I want them to involve a degree of embarrassment on your part, as you need to feel not only that you've been disciplined for your misbehaviour, but I want you to feel ashamed too.  "So, whenever I punish you for these misdemeanours, I'm going to put you across my knee to do it, or ask you to remove all of your clothing before taking your punishment, or both.  Understood?" I just nodded.  I had been carefully tying to avoid Mr Dinwell seeing my private parts, and now he was telling me that I'd been wasting my time.  Tears began to run down my face again.

"Good," he said.  "I'd like you to strip, please.  And then I want you to decide upon what your punishment for last term's rudeness should be." I was determined to obey every instruction and slowly began to undress, baring my breasts finally to leave just my skirt.  At that point, racked by indecision, I was put out of my misery by Mr Dinwell pulling me to him and undoing the final garment which fell to the floor.  I quickly and instinctively covered myself up, but Mr Dinwell chided me gently, "Margaret, when you entered into our agreement, you lost your right to any modesty in this house.  Indeed, I feel inclined to undermine it.  Hands by your sides please."

Now, I obeyed, leaving my pussy uncovered in Mr Dinwell's presence for the first time.  And he didn't even look!  I mean, I guess I didn't want him to, but when he didn't... I don't know.  Anyway, then I had to decide on my punishment for all those things I called Mr Dinwell last term.  At last, I spoke.

"Sir, I feel that my behavior towards you last term warrants a very serious punishment, but I don't feel that now is the best time as it should be separate from other spankings.  So, if you agree, I propose to accept as punishment four bare-bottom canings, in the nude, during tomorrow, at three hour intervals, each caning to consist of twenty strokes.  I want to say sorry, and I just hope you consider that sufficient.  "I also, however, want to be made to reflect on that behavior and the consequent punishment.  Therefore I want you to put me over your knee here and now and spank me for a full five minutes and then send me upstairs to bed without any supper.  Then, in a few hours, I want you to come upstairs and spank me again, this time with the hairbrush, for another five minutes over your knee.

"I hope you consider that just punishment for my offences." "More than just," Mr Dinwell said, smiling.  "I think you have been more severe than perhaps I would have been, and, on condition that you do accept this discipline, I completely forgive you last term's conduct towards me, and won't mention it again.  Now, turn yourself over my knee, please." The five minute hand spanking, given what had gone before, was not too painful, although it did aggravate my raw marks from the cane and in that way make me cry.  It was still only mid-afternoon when I went to bed and fell straight to sleep.

I awoke to find myself in a strange house with a burning in my bottom, and to see a large figure at the foot of the bed holding a hairbrush.  My mind didn't clear for a moment, but when it did I got out of bed and walked round towards him.

Neither of us spoke.  Mr Dinwell sat on the edge of the bed and I stood in front of him and lifted my nightie right up to my tummy.  Then, as I held it in place, Mr Dinwell, reached out his hands to take hold of my knickers and lower them to my knees.

Holding my nightie up then, I moved to his right and leant down over his knee to offer my bare bottom up for the hairbrush, almost impatient for the next stage on the path to forgiveness.  I desperately wanted to feel forgiven for my naughtiness and, in my sleepy state, I knew only that this had to mean desperately wanting my bare bottom very soundly spanked.  And, tomorrow, four times, caned.

Five minutes might not seem a very long time, dear diary, but when your bottom is aflame from being strapped and caned already, and when your punisher raises and drops the brush at the greatest possible rate and with the greatest possible force... Well, you'll have to believe me, it was an agonising spanking.  About half way through, Mr Dinwell stopped for a breath and pulled my nightie right off so that my only remaining clothing was a tiny pair of knickers which had, by now, fallen almost to my ankles.  Nearly naked, lying across the knee of my college tutor at twenty years old, my bottom sore and still being chastised... I felt totally at home.

 

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