A Very Unusual Present to Myself

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

A Naughty Girl Confessed

“I offered to get rid of the magazine whilst picking it up and rolling it up. I then put it into my bag before anyone could complain. I fastened the bag and much to my relief no one seemed interested in having the magazine, so I just kept it.”

“What did you do with it when you got home?”

“I kept it hidden in my bag until I could go upstairs, I told mum that I had homework assignments to complete and then I escaped to my bedroom. I was going to hide the magazine for later reading, but once I took it out of my bag, the cover picture grabbed me. I wanted to open it and look at the school-girl getting whopped by her teacher, Sir.”

“So you read the magazine there and then!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You compound your disgraceful behavior by actually lying to your friends, and taking something that is not really yours to take. Something which you know nice girls should not read, therefore you should not be reading, let alone keeping; is that accurate, girl?”

His tone has changed, his head is tilted back, and he is looking at me, waiting for me to speak. What can I say but yes to him, as this is exactly what I did. I lower my head feeling shame flushing my cheeks, knowing that now it is my turn to become one of those naughty girls in the magazine. I said, “Yes Sir,” mumbling out my confession and waiting.

“This is the second offence you committed that day and for that you need to be punished. I sentence you to twelve strokes of the slipper. If you would please bend forward over the desk, grasping the far lip and spreading your legs as far as your underwear will allow, Miss, we can get this punishment over with all the quicker.”

I bend forward across the desktop, it is very cold and I can feel its touch through my blouse and bra. The far lip is quite a way for me to reach; I am not very tall, being five foot four or so at most. I stretch out lengthening my body until I can grip the distant lip, and at the same time I feel the desk edge cutting across the top of my bare thighs. I shuffle my feet as far apart as I can, doing so forces me up onto my tip-toes, I can feel my bottom thrusting up as though it is desperate to feel Sir’s slipper, the one I can see and have just been sentenced to receive across my bottom.

The slipper vanishes from my peripheral vision, he is now holding it in his hand, raised I imagine, ready to deliver the first of the dozen strokes I am sentenced to receive. I am wrong, it is not raised. It is, instead, hovering just slightly above my reddened buttocks. He lowers it gently allowing a cold terrifying contact with my skin. I suck in a sharp breath expecting pain, getting only the gentle touch of cool leather against my flesh. There is no reassurance for me in that touch before it vanishes. With a whoosh of air driven before it the slipper descends again. This time to slap harshly against my already soundly spanked and now very vulnerable naked bottom.

The pain explodes through my flesh, reaching deep inside of me before ripping upwards into my stomach, and turning my guts inside out. The leather-soled slipper strikes repeatedly with little respite between each blow. Soon, faster than I could ever have imagined my legs are kicking back and a howl of agony explodes from my mouth. A fourth stroke does not arrive when I expect it. Instead his voice speaks to me, cutting through my pain, telling me that I have been a very naughty girl, and because of that the last stroke will not be counted. I gulp and at the same time determine not to resist or buck again, or do anything that will extend the number of strokes my poor bottom is yet to receive.

“Two, shall we continue?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, girl?”

I lay neatly presenting my bottom to his slipper, trying to understand what he means, he repeats, “well girl,” again, and I still do not understand.

Then the light goes on, I remember one girl, in one of the stories, and what her discipliner had demanded of her, so I say quietly, “Please, Sir, may I have another stroke.”

“Certainly, my girl.”

The slipper thrashes at my skin, four harsh smacking whacks almost become one, but with each imparting a deep imprint to my flesh. I somehow manage to remain silent through the whacks, but my legs will not comply with my thoughts. They kick back, clamping shut with my pain, before opening and returning to their place for the next stroke. At six, plus the one he discounted, he stops for a while. He sits in his desk chair studying my tear streaked face, waiting for me to regain my composure and to be ready for the next half dozen strokes.

Finally, I must have obtained the level of calm he requires, because he sits forward, slapping the slipper against one hand and smiling at me, as he asked if I am ready to continue. I cannot find my voice, so instead I nod after a fashion, and he stands up and vanishes from my sight again.

The slipper explodes into my tender flesh, this time with only the slightest of air driven warning. No nice gentle touch this time, only the fire and pain of harsh contact. My fingers grasp the desk edge, my fingernails biting into the underside of the wood. Six strokes thrash my flesh, six hard thwacks of pure fire, and all the time I wonder how many other naughty girls have been bent over this very desk to receive and pay their dues. Finally, my slippering is over, I have received my full dozen, taken his sentence plus one for being a naughty girl. He has me back facing the wall again with my skirt pinned up and my knickers still at half-mast, waiting.

His voice is not loud but it contains enough power to make me jump when he asks if I preferred tea or coffee. I am instantly flummoxed by his question, which I know is stupid but it seems so out of place, what with me being stood as and where I am. I mumble a reply, saying that I do not drink tea, but coffee would be nice thank you, Sir.

I hear him stand up, his palms slapping the desktop with a clap like thunder, and then he walks toward the door, clicking his fingers to get my attention and calling for me to follow him.

He leads me down the corridor and into a large well appointed kitchen, where he indicates towards a cupboard saying, “Coffee for two, girl, please.” He then walks out of the kitchen passing through a low arched doorway that I had not previously noticed.

I make coffee in two nice brown mugs and then realize that I did not know how he likes his, and not wanting to annoy him by getting it wrong, I decide to cover all options. I look about, hunting for and finding a tray and then a sugar bowl and milk jug. With two steaming mugs of black coffee and all the necessaries I can think of, and with my bare fully revealed bottom on perfect display I pick up the tray. With my panties still at half-mast and trying continually to drop around my ankles, adds to my difficulty with carrying the tray without spilling the coffee. I follow him through the low doorway and out into a conservatory, which being fully glassed out reveals to me a quite extensive back garden.

Near to the house is a perfect example of a well-tended lawn and flowerbeds, further away it grows wilder, with trees filling out the distance and making for an interesting backdrop. I can just make out what appears to be a large shed covered in dense ivy placed just before the tree line commences.

“Coffee it is then, girl, please put the tray there and sit down.”

He looks at the tray before continuing, “What no cake!”

I jump up, feeling flustered by my error, though how could I have known I wonder, I literally skip back through that doorway, a thought flashes into my mind. What does my bare spanked bottom framed by my knickers and tucked up skirt look like to him; the thought and I vanish out of his conservatory.

The cake I seek is inside of a round flower decorated tin, resting in plain sight on the work counter next to a bread bin. I had completely missed it but then I had not thought of cake when I was making the coffee. It is a rich dark double chocolate cake, I cut two slices, find plates and feeling very nervous I carry them through to the conservatory, hoping he will be pleased with my efforts.

He is sitting exactly as he had been when I had scurried out, looking out of the window at his garden. His coffee still resting on the tray exactly as I had left it, placed exactly centrally on a low table. I put the plates with the cake slices down next to the mugs and stand up straight, waiting for him to say something. I have placed myself once more in his hands, my butterflies of fear, and the feeling of impending doom returns to hang over me. I am the naughty, though this time forgetful girl, and my bottom twitches in anticipation of being punished again, but for an entirely different type of offence.