It all came about because my husband, Roger, and I took in a lodger. She was a lovely young thing, a tall blonde, beautifully built if slightly on the muscular side, and the local girls school's new physical education mistress. I say "school", it was more of a home for wayward girls aged between 18 and 20 years – a place they would be sent to avoid going to adult prison.
My name is Priscilla Pain – an appropriate name, you may think, in view of the story I am about to relate. I am a former warder at a women's prison and as such it was often my task to discipline naughty inmates. That was back in the 1960s, when a lot of things went on that possibly should not have gone on – or so the lily-livered liberals would have you believe.
And even though the events I am about to relate occurred in the 1980s – 1985, to be precise - some government institutions, being a law unto themselves, still conducted the business of corporal punishment for their most recalcitrant troublemakers. Political correctness has, sadly, seen the most efficacious "rule of the rod" depart from our nation's educational curricula. And more's the pity, if you ask me.
I was, when the events of which I speak occurred, a rather matronly woman of 45. My husband, Roger – now, sad to say, deceased – was 40. He was a large man with a broad posterior. It was a posterior on which I practised my cane-wielding abilities, which was an admirable situation for us both.
You see, I have always been a somewhat assertive woman, and Roger was an extremely submissive man. I guess that a psychiatrist would today describe us as a sadist and a masochist, although I prefer using the words dominant and submissive, myself. I find those terms far less daunting, don't you?
Anyway, Roger and I answered an advertisement in the local newspaper calling for a respectable family to take in as a lodger a new member of the staff at Birch House School for Recalcitrants. We applied and obviously impressed the headmistress, a lovely lady called Mrs Ramsbottom – an apt name for a lady with a posterior almost as wide as my dear husband's.
On our way out of the headmistress's study, she called me back.
"Mrs Pain," she said, when she was sure my husband had entered the corridor outside, "I have decided to choose you because I was very impressed with your references. Especially the one about your career as a prison warder."
"It was one of my most pleasant jobs," I replied, candidly.
"Yes, I'm sure it was," said Mrs Ramsbottom. "I understand that one of your tasks at Hardcastle Prison was to administer punishments to those who had got out of hand, as it were?"
I smiled. "I was not known for sparing the rod and spoiling the child, if you get my meaning," I told the head.
"Precisely," smiled Mrs Ramsbottom, who now that I looked at her more closely had a beautiful, large but firm-looking bust.
"I only mention it because as part of her duties here, Miss Buxton will be required to administer corporal punishment on our more, let's say 'ill-disciplined' pupils. She is well aware of the requirement as part of her job description but is not aware how she will react until the need arises."
"And you want me to pass on some of my long-since acquired skills?" I said, as Mrs Ramsbottom paused.
"Precisely, my dear Mrs Pain," she replied. "Do you think you will be able to, how shall I put it – handle that?"
I gave her my most winning smile. "I still have a collection of rods, canes and birches which I will be able to use to help iron out any deficiencies in her technique, my dear headmistress," I told her. "In fact, I think I might even be able to provide her with a model to practice on."
Mrs Ramsbottom raised her eyebrows in dual question marks. "You mean?" And she nodded her head in the direction of the corridor.
"Exactly, Mrs Rambsottom," I told her. "There are times when Mr Pain has to be kept in line, as it were. I'm sure that Miss Buxton will be able to witness one of his correction sessions and learn a lot from them."
I was about to leave the head's study when it occurred to me that a list of the school rules regarding corporal punishment might be handy.
"Do you have any written rules concerning how your discipline is meted out?" I asked. "It will be helpful for me, and I may be able to suggest some refinements."
Mrs Ramsbottom nodded her head. "Miss Carter!"
An attractive young brunette of about 20, opened a side door and waited meekly.
"A copy of Birch House's flogging rules, Carter," the headmistress snapped and the young thing nodded her head, and quickly departed to fetch them.
Handing them to me, Mrs Ramsbottom smiled: "I think this is all you will need for the time being. Miss Buxton arrives in a week. I shall call you towards the end of next week to see how she is, er – progressing? I know you will be a most effective teacher for her, Mrs Pain."
Back home, I relaxed in an easy chair while Mr Pain prepared me a pre-dinner aperitif of Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry, if you can call sherry an aperitif. I opened the papers and read through the Birch House rules.
They were very simple and straightforward:
1. All discipline will be carried out on the miscreant's bare buttocks. 2. The flesh will not be broken. 3. The discipline will be administered by the school PE teacher, or whomever the headmistress appoints for the task. 4. The discipline will be administered in the headmistress's study and witnessed by her and school matron. 5. Discipline will be administered at the end of the school day. 6. For mild offences, six strokes will be delivered. 7. For serious offences, 12 strokes.
I read the rules and handed them to my husband, who was standing by my chair, as I had not dismissed him. "Your comments, my dear," I ordered, after passing him the piece of paper.
He read them and replied: "No nudity factor, no counting."
Roger was, as you will have seen, a man of few words.
"Precisely," I said, "and both matters which I shall take up with Mrs Ramsbottom when I see her next."
The day of Miss Buxton's arrival dawned and she seemed a pleasant enough girl – mid to late 20s, blonde, short-cropped hair, busty, strong calves and thigh muscles, judging by the little skirt she wore.
After dinner had been cleared away on her first evening, I dismissed my husband and sat down in the lounge for a chat with Miss Buxton.
After some pleasantries, I plunged into the subject that most interested me. "Part of your duties are to administer corporal punishment, I am informed," I told her.
"That's right, Mrs Pain," she replied, quietly. "I'm not at all sure I'm going to be very good at it. But Mrs Ramsbottom tells me that you are an expert." She looked at me, expectantly.
"Indeed, I am," I smiled. "And if you wish, I shall give you a short lesson in delivering the cane to a miscreant's backside, and then observe your technique." There was no point in beating about the bush, the girl had to be taught – there might be a pupil in need of a thrashing on her first day!
"What will you use for a target, Mrs Pain," the oh-so-innocent young thing asked, "a pillow?"
"No, something far more educational than that," I told her. "We shall use a real live bottom. Mr Pain's in fact."
Her eyes popped! "Mr Pain? Oh goodness, is that wise?"
I patted her softly on her knee. "Of course, my dear. My husband is one of those people who has come to experience the efficacy of the cane on a regular basis. He is now an expert at bending over and being whipped. Shall we go, I've told him to be prepared for us."
Miss Buxton stood.
"Oh, by the way," I said, as I walked to the door. "You're not a prude, I trust. You have no objection to a bit of male nudity?"
By "a bit of" I meant total nakedness, but she'd find out soon enough.
"Er, no, of course not, Mrs Pain," she said, although she didn't sound too sure.
I took her upstairs and ushered her into our rather cramped bedroom. But although I say "cramped", there was certainly room to wield a rod of discipline!
There, bent over the bed in his altogether was my pasty-bodied husband, quite naked. His big bum was thrust out ready for the cane, which he had laid on the bed. It was, I noticed, a slender Miss Whippy model, one of my favourites, if not one of his!
Stepping to the bed I picked up the cane and flexed it through my fingers. Lithe, supple, a real little stinger!
I tapped my husband's bum. "Ankles and thighs together, Mr Pain," I admonished him, "Miss Buxton has no desire to see your dangly bits."
"You may wonder why he is in the nude," I added, when he had settled. "The whole point of an effective punishment is first to deliver pain, of course. The second point is to humiliate. A humiliated floggee is far less likely to re-offend. Hence his nudity."
Miss Buxton nodded her understanding, then she stepped off to one side and I told Mr Pain to press up from the bed, so he was half-bent over it.
"I always use the half-bending position for a floggee," I informed Miss Buxton. "The bend-over-touch-your-toes position tautens the buttocks far too much – especially young, teenage buttocks. It makes the skin prone to tearing. And, I notice by the school rules, that is forbidden."
Then I raised the cane in my right hand and swished it down across Mr Pain's backside. The cane's path would not have exceeded three feet, but it cut delightfully into his big bum, the cheeks bouncing under the searing impact.
"One, thank-you, Mrs Pain," grunted my husband, in our little counting ritual.
"Another essential ingredient in a floggee's punishment and humiliation is having to count out the stroke and thank the punisher," I informed our young lodger.
"Now, are you right or left-handed, Miss Buxton?"
The lovely blonde said: "Left-handed, Mrs Pain."
I passed her Miss Whippy. "OK, let me see you in action."
Miss Pain took a rather long swipe and burned a stroke across Mr Pain's posterior. "One, thank-you, Miss Buxton," he intoned dutifully.
The blonde looked inquiringly at me.
"Far too long a stroke, my dear," I informed her. "By the time the cane reached his flesh it was decelerating. The point is to obtain maximum speed when the cane contacts the target. Try again."
Miss Buxton did, and this time she improved her technique. After another 11 strokes, I pronounced myself satisfied with the results. My husband's bum was criss-crossed with beautiful red slash marks, which must have caused exquisite agony.
"OK, Mr Pain," I said, "into the bathroom and apply some salve. Run along!"
My husband rose from his position and walked out of the room. It was obvious, as he did so, that his pathetic little five-inch penis was in an extremely aroused state. Miss Buxton certainly noticed it.
After my husband had closed the door, she gasped: "He was erect, Mrs Pain!"
"I'm afraid he was, my dear," I told her. "He's such a devotee of corporal punishment, I'm afraid, that a short session with the cane like that makes him extremely excited. Please accept my apologies."
Back in the lounge, Miss Buxton and I had a heart-to-heart. It transpired that while she had absolutely no qualms about using the rod on a delinquent male, it was another matter entirely as to whether she would be able to inflict the same type of medicine on a young woman. I sensed there was going to be trouble – and I was right.
On the second day of the new term, I was sitting at home, sipping my customary pre-dinner Bristol Cream Sherry when the phone rang. It was Mrs Ramsbottom.
"My dear Mrs Pain," she said, in a rather agitated tone. "I'm afraid we've had problems with Miss Buxton. Put quite simply she's not up to meting out the discipline our rules call for. The result is that I have three recalcitrants lined up waiting for their doses and no one to administer the medicine."
It didn't surprise me one iota. I had guessed that beneath her healthy, bouncing young woman's bold exterior lay a cowering little pussy at heart!
"And you wish me to step into the breach, Mrs Ramsbottom?" I said, knowing the answer only too well.
"Would you? I'll make it well worth your while. We have a special fund for such purposes," said the headmistress.
"Of course I will," I replied, "it will be my pleasure. Only tonight is out of the question. Mr Pain is about to serve his superb coq au vin and I have no intention of delaying my meal simply to thrash some trollops who cannot behave."
"Oh dear," said Mrs Ramsbottom, her voice thick with disappointment.
"But don't worry your pretty little head," I said, quick to assure her of my services. "I shall deal with them tomorrow after school – the wait will heighten their anxiety ahead of the punishments they are to receive."
Mrs Ramsbottom was delighted. "I knew you wouldn't let me down," she said.
"But," I said, and I heard her draw in her breath.
"There are some refinements to the discipline you administer at Birch House which I wish to discuss with you before I commence my duties. Shall we talk about them at, say, 4pm and then I'll deal with your naughty girls."
Mrs Ramsbottom agreed immediately, and soon I was tucking into Mr Pain's hearty coq au vin, washed down with a light but excellent claret. Miss Buxton explained her fears about whipping young women had been realised, but that Mrs Ramsbottom had asked her to stay on as the PE instructress.
"She told me she had you in mind as my replacement," she said.
"That is correct, my dear," I said. "But that your job, despite your reluctance to wield the rod on a delinquent's young bottom, is quite safe."
Miss Buxton smiled and looked down. "I'm sorry I cannot match up to your fine standards, Mrs Pain," she said, "but I'm really enjoying my duties at Birch House. Thank-you so much for standing in for me."
Later, while Miss Buxton was out on one of her lengthy keep-fit runs, I took Mr Pain upstairs for a strenuous session to celebrate my new appointment at Birch House. I may have been somewhat over-zealous – he was shrieking so much after 10 strokes of Miss Whippy that I had to gag him with a pair of my rather voluminous pantaloons. Not that that prevented him from displaying a huge – for him – erection by the conclusion of his 36 strokes!
The new day dawned and while Mr Pain was off to his job as clerk at some insignificant but highly regarded local accountant's office, I prepared for my visit to Mrs Ramsbottom and Birch House.
I chose a pair of fairly loose fitting French directoire knickers – black, of course, and a black satin brassiere for my rather large 44DD breasts. I pulled on some shiny black seamed, hold-up stockings, black flat-bottomed shoes – no high heel nonsense, you can't dare the risk of slipping in mid-stroke during a flogging, can you? Over it all I pulled a night black velvet dress, which came from neck to knees. I had my hair dragged back in a severe bun. I looked somewhat haughty – and haughty is, of course, how I wished to look.
At the appointed time, I presented myself to Mrs Ramsbottom's office and was ushered into her spacious working quarters by the obsequious little Miss Carter.
Mrs Ramsbottom offered me a glass of sherry – not Bristol Cream, alas, but some mild little pee-coloured thing. Still, any port in a storm – or should that be sherry? Pardon my slight joke.
"You suggested some refinements in our disciplinary procedures," said Mrs Ramsbottom, as I sipped on my sherry. I liked that, a woman who comes straight to the point.
I explained to her my thoughts on the women being naked for their punishments and having to count out the stroke and thank me for each delivery. For a moment I took her silence to be a refusal to meet my requirements, but then she broke into a broad smile.
"Excellent, my dear Mrs Pain," said the head. "I think they will make exquisite additional touches to our little after-school sessions. And I'm sure matron will approve, she thinks I am far too lenient with our little miss-no-gooders."
Mrs Ramsbottom said that she had been thinking about a title for me in my new position at Birch House.
"I intend to call you the CO," she informed me.
"Commanding officer?" I said, my voice displaying my surprise.
Mrs Ramsbottom laughed. "No, my dear Mrs Pain, CO as in Corrections Officer. But it has a nice, commanding sort of ring to it, doesn't it?"
I nodded. CO – very military. I liked it. Military discipline is all right in my book, or rather was, until the British army went all namby-pamby on us.
The headmistress then perused a sheet of paper lying on her spotlessly clean desk. "For your first subject we have Anna, an 18-year-old who is to receive six strokes," she said. "Her first taste of the rod at Birch House."
The second "subject", as Mrs Ramsbottom put it, would be a 19-year-old named Mary-Jane, who was also to receive six strokes. She was, apparently, no newcomer to the caress of the cane.
"And last, but by no means least," she said, "we have Karla, who is 20 and the school heroine. A tough nut – well, she thinks she is. I hope you may persuade her that she's just one of the girls. She is to receive 12 strokes for gross impertinence."
She passed me three sheets of paper with head and shoulders pictures of the trio selected for punishment. Anna was a stunning-looking blonde, Mary-Jane a plain-looking, pouting brunette, and Karla a fiery-eyed black girl, with sensual, thick lips. I licked my own lips as I looked at her – she was going to be fun!
"I have selected three canes of the Miss Whippy variety for the whippings," said Mrs Ramsbottom, who had obviously been appraised of my preferences in rods of discipline by Miss Buxton. "Both the canes for Anna and Mary-Jane are lightweights, but I've selected a light-heavyweight for Karla."
I nodded my approval. "Excellent," I said, draining my sherry glass. "Shall we start?"
Mrs Ramsbottom stood and pushed her chair away and called "Carter!" in her stern headmistress voice. The secretary peeped in the door. "Fetch matron – oh, and are our trio of flagellants waiting in your office?"
Miss Carter nodded: "Yes, madam, they've been here for 10 minutes. I'll get Mrs Arbuthnot."
I stepped towards a leather bench in the centre of the office. "This is where you punish them?" I asked.
"Yes, they bend over it," said Mrs Ramsbottom.
"Well, for my requirements they half-bend, keeping their arms straight and their hands flat down on the leather," I explained. "Too much tension in their buttocks and the skin can break. Can't have that."
"Exactly," said Mrs Ramsbottom, then matron entered the office.
A tall, dark-haired, fierce-looking woman walked up to me. About 40 years of age she had steely grey eyes and a fine figure.
"My dear Mrs Pain," she said, taking my hand, "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. I'm glad that at last we have a person here who can deliver the type of discipline which these young lasses require. No more beating about the bush – strict, stern discipline, eh?"
I smiled. A woman after my own heart. Then Miss Carter entered the room again and announced: "Pupil Anna, headmistress."
A lovely, tall blonde girl entered, in her school uniform of white blouse, gym slip and flat shoes. She was pretty and she looked well built.
Mrs Ramsbottom approached her. "Right, Anna, get your clothes off – all of them. Place them in a neat pile in the far corner, then bend over the leather bench, hands palm down on each side. Hurry up, girl."
I watched intently as the 18-year-old divested herself of her blouse and gym slip, then unhooked her pink bra and peeled off her matching panties. Her breasts were large, proud globes. Her nipples were large and erect. Her pussy was covered in a light thatch of fair hair. Her buttocks were lush and prominent – just made for the merciless Miss Whippy!
The youngster walked to the bench, turned her back to me and bent over until her palms were face down on the leather.
Mrs Ramsbottom handed me a cane from the top of her desk and nodded to me. I was about to earn my stripes – pardon the pun!
I walked behind the lovely lady's bare bum and tapped her lovely buttocks with the cane. "Spread the legs, Anna, much wider," I instructed her.
The 18-year-old complied, displaying to her three-woman audience a glorious pink sex cleft peeping out from between the fair hair. Her anus was a delightful little brown atoll at the top of her sex trench.
I walked in front of the naked girl and smiled down at her, dragging out her misery, a ploy flagellators have used down the ages.
"Hello my dear," I said, using as cheerful and friendly a tone as I could. "I am the new corrections officer at Birch House. My name is Mrs Pain, and you are Anna, is that correct?"
"Yes, Mrs Pain," the girl mumbled, in one of those flat, undistinctive Home Counties accents.
"Good," I said, "I can see we're going to get on famously. Now, I am going to give you six of the best. After each stroke you will say 'One, thank-you, Mrs Pain' and so on until the sixth stroke has been delivered. Understood?"
"Yes, Mrs Pain," the girl said, in a voice which scarcely rose above a whisper.
"Good, now we'll begin," I told her.
Stepping behind her lovely upturned arse, I then drew out the agony of her waiting just a teeny bit longer – I'm such a tease when I put my mind to it!
"Oh, Anna," I said, as if the thought had just entered my mind. "There's an old saying which goes along the lines of 'This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you'. You've probably heard of it."
I paused and the naked girl replied: "Yes, Mrs Pain."
I chuckled. "Well, when it comes to a Mrs Pain thrashing I can assure you that that is certainly not the case."
Then I laid the cane across the centre of the victim's buttocks, drew back and delivered my first stroke of correction at Birch House. The sound Miss Whippy made as she came into contact with Anna's lovely bum was sheer music!
The cane struck perfectly amidships, as it were, leaving a bright pink mark across her bum. "Aaargh," the girl cried, then hastily added: "One, thank-you, Mrs Pain."
My next stroke cut into the lower third of Anna'a arse, eliciting another "Aaargh" bellow from her, followed by a throbbing voice calling out: "Two, thank-you, Mrs Pain."
Stroke three was placed across the upper third of her bum and for her fourth, I changed the cane to my other hand and placed myself off to her other side. The stroke cut diagonally across the three stripe marks already deposited on her bottom. For the fifth, I returned Miss Whippy to my other hand, and laid that stroke in another diagonal, this one going across her arse in the opposite direction. Her final cut came on the underside of her buttocks, leaving a thin stripe just above the tops of her thighs.
"Thank-you, Mrs Pain," said the headmistress, after Anna had thanked me for her final stroke. "Now Anna, pick up your clothes and return to your dormitory. Matron will be along later to attend to your stroke marks."
As the girl departed, matron whispered to me: "Wonderful. It's so nice to see a professional in action."
Mary-Jane, the second girl on the list for today's discipline, entered, stripped naked, stood over the bench and duly received her six strokes. To be honest, I can't remember much about her – she must have been extremely plain.
But Karla – ah, now there's the one I do remember!
Karla was a tall, vivacious, sultry black girl. Before her entrance, Mrs Ramsbottom had reminded that she was Birch House's "troublemaker". She apparently considered herself something of a barrack room lawyer, constantly reminding the girls of their rights – silly thing.
Now I trust you won't think me racist – some of my best friends are Jews, for heaven's sake – but I have always considered black birds to be simply made for the lash, or, in the case of Birch House, the cane. They have such wonderfully upholstered bums. Flogging a black woman is top of my list of fetishes, that's if you consider I have a fetish!
Karla entered and looked aghast when the headmistress ordered her to strip nude. But she did – and it revealed to us all a magnificently built body. Her hair was close cropped, all tight and crinkly. Her breasts were big, with large nipples and massive areolae surrounding them. I could see why men like to suck women's breasts. Her belly was firm, her thighs muscular, sturdy. Her pussy was covered in a mass of dark, tight crinkly pubic hair. But her bum! It was a bum that flagellators dream of!
Large mounds of magnificent flesh, but firm like two great big black marbles. They gleamed, they had a sort of glow. I could hardly wait as she bent to place her clothes in the corner, displaying a stunning anus, puckered and inviting. I have to confess that the gusset of my directoire knickers was sopping wet at the sight of her.
Karla returned to the middle of the room, a sullen look on her very pretty face. I ordered her to turn her back to me and place her hands on the bench. The stance presented me with a view to die for!
I then introduced myself and informed her of the rules concerning counting. She nodded her head, she understood.
Standing behind her with the light heavyweight Miss Whippy in my right hand, I placed it gently across her posterior. I heard her give a sharp intake of breath, then I removed the cane and slashed it down across her glorious bum cheeks.
The stroke cut delightfully into her but no response. I cut her again, her buttocks wobbling sexily as Miss Whippy made her presence felt. Still no response. A third blow followed soon after. At last the little harlot spoke: "Three, thank-you Mrs Pain."
Time to educate her, obviously! I stepped in front of her, her breasts hung heavily, her nipples erect. I wanted to suck them, and there's nothing queer about me, I can tell you.
"No, no, no, Karla, my dear," I tut-tutted. "The first stroke did not count – you didn't thank me for it. Nor did the second. The third stroke should have been followed by 'One, thank-you, Mrs Pain. All of which, my dear girl, means we haven't started yet. So it would appear you're going to get 15 strokes, doesn't it."
They talk about looks that can kill. Well, my dears, if that were the case I wouldn't be around today to tell you about it.
I then stepped behind the lovely naked bum and swept Miss Whippy down in a diagonal blow to Karla's arse. "One, thank-you, Mrs Pain," came the cry. You see, Miss Whippy always gets through in the end.
Eleven more blows from my trusty cane whipped down across Karla's bare bum and by the time I had finished my handiwork her buttocks were ablaze with a delightful criss-cross pattern where Miss Whippy had done her corrective caresses.
Even for a "hardened" campaigner like myself, the thrill of flogging such a delightful bum was almost too exciting to bear. And Karla was a far more respectful woman when she left the head's study than when she had entered it, I can tell you.
As the door closed behind the black beauty, Mrs Arbuthnot came over to me and kissed me on the cheek: "That was simply stunning, my dear. My congratulations. I'm off to check on the girls now, but I look forward to many more of your marvellously therapeutic sessions."
I smiled, demurely, I hope, but inwardly I was glowing from the praise and the dampness in my knickers was now of monsoon proportions!
Word of my power of punitive punishment spread through Birch House like wildfire, but strangely did nothing to improve the behaviour of the young madams. There was always a steady stream of two or three young ladies, waiting apprehensively outside Mrs Ramsbottom's study each day for Miss Whippy and Mrs Pain.
Now let me fast forward, as the current saying goes, a few months. I arrived in Mrs Ramsbottom's office ready to deliver my after-school dose of punitive medicine.
Seated opposite her and accepting a glass of her dry sherry, I saw a strange, smug smile on Mrs Ramsbottom's face. "There will be no floggings to administer today, my dear," she informed me.
"I'm delighted to hear it," I said, putting as brave a face on it as I could muster, although secretly I was extremely disappointed. My directoire knickers, which I had been wearing all day, were by now very moist in anticipation of the punishments I was expecting to hand out. "I trust this means my methods have brought about an improvement in the pupils' behaviour."
Mrs Ramsbottom smiled another smug sort of smile.
"Well, no, actually," she replied. "But there is one pupil who has to attend after school – it's that awful Karla again, I'm afraid."
The lush black bird! "And why is she not to be flogged, if I may inquire?" I asked.
"Well," said Mrs Ramsbottom, "it would appear that her previous floggings – I see from our records she has had five, all of 12 strokes, except of course that first marathon session – have got to her. When she realised she was again on report she approached me recently and offered herself in another way. Would you like to hear about it?"
Would I! "I am intrigued," I told the head, trying to keep the mounting excitement from my voice.
"Well," said Mrs Ramsbottom, sipping her sherry, "a week ago she hinted that she might prefer to provide me with sexual favours in an attempt to forego her punishment. I acceded – on a trial basis, merely, you understand?"
"Yes," I nodded quickly, praying that Mrs Ramsbottom would get on with it.
"Well, she has now been reporting to me twice a week to provide me with cunnilingus. She performs it three times and I have three orgasms. Simple."
I nodded appreciatively. "And she's due soon?"
Mrs Ramsbottom nodded now. "Yes – and since you have such a close interest in her, shall I say welfare, that I decided to invite you along to witness her performance."
Just then there was a timid knock on the door. "Yes?" said the head.
"Karla here, madam, reporting for duty," came the voice.
"Enter," said Mrs Ramsbottom, and the black beauty came in. She looked surprised to see me and the headmistress informed her: "I have invited the corrections officer to witness your performance, Karla. I trust you have no objections?"
Karla shook her head. "No, madam, none at all," she said.
"Good, then lock the door and let's get started," the head commanded.
Karla locked the door, then went to a corner, stripped, making sure her clothing was left in a neat pile, then walked naked, her brown body glowing with health, into the middle of the room.
Mrs Ramsbottom rose from her desk and stepped to a large high-backed and high-sided leather chair. Dropping her skirt, I saw the she was already pantyless, her brown-thatched pussy with its labia lips lush and pink and ready for oral adoration.
The headmistress sat down, raised her legs and placed her thighs on the broad arms of the chair, her thighs white in contrast to her lovely black stockings.
Mrs Ramsbottom looked up at the lovely 20-year-old and smiled: "Righto, Karla, can we now make a start on orgasm number one?"
The naked woman knelt before her headmistress and buried her face in the older woman's hairy pussy. Then there was a sound of licking.
"Ah yes," said Mrs Ramsbottom, her head falling back against the back of the chair, her eyes shut in blissful concentration. "Start on my anus, you know how I love the feel of your tongue there. Yes, try to get it further up, yes, that's lovely."
Karla was certainly a keen analinguist but soon her task became that of cunnilingus as she was instructed to move to the head's cunt – Mrs Ramsbottom's word, not mine I hasten to say. Then her labia lips, then her clitoris. Soon the headmistress was shuddering to a noisy but and what sounded like an extremely satisfying climax.
As she recovered herself, the head ordered the panting black beauty to go to "her corner". Karla went to where her clothes were lying on the floor, turned her back to us and placed her hands, fingers intertwined on her neck.
Mrs Ramsbottom and I enjoyed another sherry, then the head said: "Come over here, I'll show you something." Together we walked to where Karla stood.
I observed faint traces of my corrective handiwork on the woman's bum, then the headmistress spoke: "Widen your legs, my dear." Karla complied.
"Feel her down there – go on!" said the head.
I did, my fingers trembling as they caressed Karla's statuesque bum, then slipped between her buttocks to her sex trench. It was sopping wet!
"She's aroused!" I exclaimed to the head.
"Precisely," said Mrs Ramsbottom. Then she issued her instructions to Karla.
"Karla, I have decided that since we are enjoying the presence of Mrs Pain here for your session this evening, you can give her the second orgasm of your little performance. Won't that be nice?"
The black woman spoke: "Yes, madam, I'm sure it will."
Mrs Ramsbottom looked at me and said: "Go over to my chair and get ready, Mrs Pain."
I removed my skirt, then pulled off my directoire knickers, aware that my pussy was dripping with excitement. I kept my bra and blouse on and my shoes, but since I was not wearing stockings I was ready.
I have, I must confess, a rather hirsute pussy and, to my embarrassment was aware that I had not bathed or showered for a couple of days. Then I thought, why be embarrassed? Any embarrassment should be Karla's!
The head then turned the black woman around and pushed her towards where I sat in the chair, my thighs splayed on the arms, my hairy pussy ready for Karla's caresses.
The obedient little harlot knelt in front of me and placed her mouth close to my pussy. She tried to recoil as my feminine aromas reached her nostrils, but Mrs Ramsbottom pressed the spike of her stiletto against the back of her head and then I felt the kiss of a woman's mouth on my pussy for the very first time.
"Tell her where to go," instructed the head. "I love it when she starts on my anus."
"You heard madam, Karla," I said, "anus."
Karla's educated young mouth began to work on my back passage, it delved into my musky channel. Like the headmistress, I closed my eyes as I experienced the bliss of a woman's mouth. Then she was working on my vagina, then my labia, finally my clitoris. I'm afraid I was just so aroused that I was soon panting and groaning as I enjoyed my first non-finger induced orgasm for simply ages!
Well, to cut a long story short – and I fear this story is getting a little long! – Karla's twice-a-week visits to the headmistress to provide oral pleasure continued with me in attendance as well. It was, Mrs Ramsbottom reminded me, "our little secret".
That was all, as I have said, in 1985. I continued as "corrections officer" at Birch House for a couple of years, until the government in its wimpish wisdom decided to close such establishments.
And now, I am sorry to tell you, Mrs Ramsbottom's and my "little secret" is a secret no longer. The bitch Karla went on to become a reformed woman. She even has a law degree. And she has, I am also sorry to say, become a whistle-blower.
The appalling harlot has complained to the government on behalf of herself and several other former pupils about the way they were treated at Birch House all those years ago. There is to be a government inquiry. Charges may be laid. It's disgraceful, and anyway, it was all so long ago.
Mrs Ramsbottom has, I'm afraid, gone to her maker. The matron has gone, who knows where. But the snake-in-the-grass Miss Carter is singing like the proverbial canary.
The press, of course, has been its usual scurrilous self. I have been vilified in the tabloids as "The dominatrix of Birch House". Really. Comparing me with prostitutes who take money to flog perverts! The utter cheek.
The weightier papers have also had their laughs. Columns have been written about girls undergoing "humiliations" involving lesbian sex. Karla's wet pussy was a give-away during her performances, I can tell you. Humiliations? What next.
While the press have been their usual guttersnipe selves, the legal profession, of course, has been crawling all over the case and making money, too.
And MPs! These men – and women, I'm sad to say – who have reputations slightly below pimps and used-car salesmen, have been saying scandalous things about me under the cover of Parliamentary privilege.
It is all so worrying and so trying. The ghastly paparazzi have been camped outside my home down here on the coast for days. One horrid little magazine even asked me to pose for them in sexy black lingerie and high heels, wielding a cane. I am 65, for goodness sake. It's all so disgusting.
And expensive. I've been forced to employ a lawyer, a loathsome little man who will only make money out of me, I'm sure.
The press is awful. The legal profession has no scruples whatsoever. MPs are lower than snake oil salesmen.
I often sip a Harvey's Bristol Cream and ask myself: whatever happened to moral behaviour?
