From mrspraycan.an@edtec.com Fri Feb 14 12:45:16 1997

Disclaimer:  Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this. If you don't like spanking stories, this isn't for you.

	What's this series about? Well, the title should help you decide if
it's for you, or not. It's BDSM, it's school spanking, it's dyke behavior,
it's kind of mean in places, it's the Spraycan mix. A persistent strummer,
rather unlovable, is the focus of futile efforts to make her clean up her
act.
	We're on the teen-adult border here, where, face it, a large
proportion of erotica dwells. But . . . Drive-a-Car, Join-the-Army teens,
though. No apologies beyond that, or any ridiculous (and insincere)
Politically Correct statements or polemics. You know the laws, obey them at
your own discretion, I advocate nothing, etc.
	This item is of fictional nature. All persons and places in it are
imaginary and no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. No
illicit behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the
idea.

	*Copyright* is claimed, 1997 by Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes, and for
the author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. For entertainment
purposes only. No commercial use is warranted without permission. Do not
repost. Store only with this notice intact. Remember, "All You Need Is
Love, But All You'll Get Is Fucked."




BETH, THE COMPULSIVE MASTURBATOR (1/3)

They've tried everything they can to stop Beth, at this fancy New England
prep school. Why? Because her persistent masturbation is past being a joke.
It's getting beyond control, and turning into a disciplinary issue. The
administrators are convinced that she's setting off a wave of self-abuse
among the other girls, and is a leading cause of other little signs of
rebellion they've been seeing lately. Smoking, hard cider drinking, shower
room seductive displays and leering, staying out late beyond curfew,
chasing the town boys, you name it, there's more of it going on this year
than last. Of course, it's also 1979, the end of the Carter administration,
a year of bitter angst and pointlessness. But the school management don't
think in terms of the big picture.
	Policy dictates that girls must be cured of this 'dirty habit', or
expelled.
	Beth is certainly the worst. She's only 16, but already she can't
stop. It's all part of her personality. She's a little gangly, taller than
most. Not much better than averagely pretty. Mousy shoulder-length brown
hair in a sort of do-it-yourself cut, greenish eyes. Here, at this school
filled with the daughters of the rich, she's nothing special. Which is a
big part of the problem. At home she's used to being the center of
attention. The spoiled youngest daughter, highly competitive. Her sisters
are all making careers or households, and here she is, doing geometry and
botany. That annoys her, somehow, and makes her more pouty and unlikable
than ever. Her new stepmother isn't doing much to help make her feel
wanted, either.
	No, it's not indelicate to wonder how everybody seems to know about
her bedtime habits. They've discovered it through laundry room worker
reports, through panty inspections and dorm monitors' reports. Yes, when
the lights are turned down at night, things happen. But they don't happen
completely unobserved. Several times a night, monitors -- senior girls,
sometimes one of the trainee teachers -- slip through the dorm room in
stockinged feet, watching.
	Beth is often observed at play. It's not something lightly
complained about, since they're sensible enough to know that all girls will
masturbate, at some time, to some extent. In fact, at this age, it's the
main pastime apart from dreaming about boys, trying makeup, listening to
records, reading magazines. It's as close as they can get to sex without
getting into some lezzie relationship (and most are not quite prepared for
that, yet). However, some discretion is expected.
	Beth isn't discrete, and she knows it. Though the idea of sex (with
a boy or girls) has drifted through her mind once or twice, she prefers the
manual approach. Beth is clearly the #1 wanker in her year, by a long way.
And the other girls in her class and dorm know it, and joke about it
constantly. It doesn't help her that they don't like her very much, think
her remote, and kind of strange.

	"So, what can be done?" asked class teacher Angela Strabolgi,
impatiently. "This girl is really out of control, if you want my opinion .
. ."
	"No argument about that, Angela," replied Heather Wheatstone, the
headmistress. "Various remedies can be tried: whether any will work . . .?"
she shrugs. "But you're right, we must try. This little brat is a serious
cause of indiscipline. Strong measures are called for."

	Beth's first formal encounter came soon after. She was summoned to
Miss Wheatstone's office. There, class teacher Miss Strabolgi was also
present. Both women wore stiff disapproving expressions. The headmistress
is a large plain woman, in her forties. Rigidly conventional. Miss
Strabolgi is in her early thirties, slim, hyperactive, bespectacled, drab.
	"Beth, sit down. Now, this is a formal warning, which will go into
your confidential school records. At this point, we will not communicate
its nature to your parents. But," she waved a finger, "we will, if we don't
see some serious improvement in your attitude here," Miss Strabolgi began.
	"Quite," Miss Wheatstone echoed, taking over. "Beth, let me be
quite direct about this. We have received a number of complaints that you
are 'touching yourself' too much at night."
	Until now, Beth had sat patiently, but somewhat perplexed. She'd
been expecting a stiff lecture about the packet of Merits found in her
locker, or maybe about being back a half-hour late from the "Star Wars"
trip. Now, she blushed hotly, wondering what they were getting at.
	"Ma'am . . .? I . . ." she began.
	"Quiet. I don't want to hear a pack of lies from you, so just
listen for a minute, please. Let me put it another way, Beth. You are a
very self-centered, selfish girl, and we have been hearing stories about
misbehavior. Quiet! Let me finish! There have been some comments made by
the laundry staff about poor personal hygiene, and the gym and field sports
staff have noticed that you linger and 'look around' in the showers a
little longer than decency or modesty would suggest appropriate. Do I make
myself clear?" Miss Wheatstone, like anyone whose point is being muddled
and missed, was getting quite angry.
	"Ma'am? I, well, excuse me, but I don't think it's really anyone
else's business if . . ." Beth began.
	"WHAT!" Miss Strabolgi shrieked. "What affrontery! Listen, Miss
know-it-all Smarty Pants, we make the rules here! Everything's our
business!! Understand!! And if we say no . . ."
	"Yes, Angela, yes, but please . . ." Miss Wheatstone smoothly
interrupted. "...let's be rational, all of us. Beth, this will be your
first and only verbal warning. It is unnatural and unladylike for young
women to spend very much time contemplating their own bodies -- or those of
others! -- except in pursuit of ladylike arts like learning make-up, or
taking care of personal matters. I, ahem, I really don't think I need to
say more, do I? And, concerning the other matter, the nighttime habit . . .
Please don't let me hear of any more complaints about you masturbating . .
. fingering yourself, playing with your pussy. Now, is that clear enough?"
	"Yes, ma'am . . ." Beth said quietly, not wanting to turn this into
a major confrontation. They escorted her to the door and watched her walk
away, chastened.
	Or was she? The old bitches, she thought to herself. I'll do as I
fucking well please. In fact, I'm off to the bathroom for a good strum
right now, before supper.

	It was only a day or to later that Angela Strabolgi heard the next
complaint. A young French exchange teacher, Yvette, had been assigned a
late night inspection duty. She'd heard heavy, labored breathing as she
padded through the darkened dorm in her bare feet. All the lights were out,
but she'd had no trouble isolating the source of the sound: Beth's bed in
the corner, the one she'd been warned about. She'd gone close enough to see
that Beth had pulled the sheets down, lifted her nightdress high, and was
fingering herself vigorously.
	Beth was summoned the next morning. Miss Strabolgi looked at her
with disapproval. "I have heard a report that you were not asleep at 11:45
last night . . ."
	"I don't wear a watch in bed," Beth replied, freshly.
	"Beth, don't provoke me! So, I have decided that you are going to
hand in your nightdresses, and that instead we will enforce pajamas for
you. As you know, PJs with long pants are quite suitable wear for young
ladies. And we can make them even more suitable for someone with, uh, your
particular problem, with the aid of special sewn-on tapes."
	"Yes, ma'am . . ."
	"So bring the nightdresses here this afternoon, and I'll issue you
with suitable sleepwear."
	The pajamas were flannel, baggy, sexless. They had been boys'
pajamas, but their crotch and flyfront had been sewn up. The cord at the
waist was elasticated, and the 'special tapes' were designed to join the
jacket and pants, to prevent either being pulled aside for the purposes of
exploration. Other tapes held the jacket firmly closed.

	The very next morning, Angela Strabolgi received a heated complaint
from the laundry. After just one night, Beth's pajama bottoms had been made
so sticky they might have stuck to the wall if thrown. And would have stood
up of their own accord after they dried. "You've never seen anything so
filthy in your life," the manager had told Angela, "and the smell! Oh!"

	Beth trembled with suppressed rage as she was lectured about this.
And with poor grace accepted the fresh pair of PJs, and the transparent
plastic continence pants. She was not the least bit happy that half a dozen
little brass bells had been sewn to the wrists of the pajama jacket.

	It wasn't clear whether it was the jingling of the bells or the
giggling of her neighbors that had gotten the awakened the whole dorm by
1.30am. When the lights came on and Yvette strode in shrieking "Stop this!
Get to sleep, all of you, you damned girls!!" it was Beth who was flushed,
sweating, guilt-stricken.

	Angela wasn't convinced, but thought it work a try. A pair of huge
padded gloves, with little padlocks to hold them on. Late that the night,
Yvette phoned and complained: "She was just laying on her belly and rubbing
herself up and down on her clenched fists . . ."

	The other girls thought this was just incredible. A special cot for
Beth, with bars, various restraints, so she could be strapped in at night.
They watched out of the corners of their eyes as she was dressed in her
pajamas, tapes were tied, bells were checked, and then she was guided into
the cot and the sides lifted and slotted into placed. Straps round her
wrists, and tethers on her ankles. And a little buzzer to press if she
needed to summon someone to help her go to the bathroom. By morning, Beth
was seething with rage and frustration. It was no surprise to anyone who
knew her that she'd stayed in the showers longer than usual that morning,
and spend an enormous amount of time washing and rewashing her pussy, until
she was smiling beatifically, and her hips were swaying back and forth in
unmistakable fashion. When she walked in with Yvette and Miss Wheatstone,
wondering why the problem girl was so late to breakfast, Angela Stabolgi
was incensed, and started raving about "Stop this filthy licentious
display! This moment!" Beth did, but came with a gasp of delight first.

	The next step would have happened anyway, Angela knew. But catching
the little strumpet rubbing herself in a public shower room, well that was
the clincher for her. Beth was sent a curt note telling her to present
herself at the matron's office at 2pm. When she arrived, happy to be
missing a tiresome American History class, she found Yvette, Miss Strabolgi
and Miss Wheatstone in attendance, along with Mrs. Smythe the school nurse.
She timidly closed the door behind her. This looked like trouble.
	Beth's stomach sank when Miss Wheatstone ordered with a snap of her
fingers: "Get undressed, Beth."
	After so many prohibitions, disapprovals, threats, Beth felt quite
lightheaded at the prospect of taking her clothes off. She started to
blush, but began to quickly unbutton her blouse. A powerful urge to be
naked gripped her.
	"I've decided there is a distinct possibility that there is
something physical, something physiological, wrong with you. So we've
invited Dr. Druhler from the town to give you a proper medical inspection."
	Beth shuddered. She might have protested, but it didn't seem likely
to produce any result. All four women had somewhat vexed, determined looks
to them. Druhler! That horrid, stooped old man, with his nose hairs and
slightly weird smell. Doubled as a veterinarian sometimes. Oh, no  . . .
She put her blouse on a chairback and began to remove her bra. They watched
with interest as she got her shoes and socks off, then unfastened her
skirt. Now here she was, in her panties. Beth had known, and they now all
saw too, that she had wet them quite badly, in a ten-minute frenzy in the
bathroom not half an hour before. She took them down with trembling
fingers, their stares fixed on her. Her pubic hair was damp, streaked with
milky goo underneath. Her clitoris was crimson, and bulging like a kid
about to start blowing a bubble with strawberry gum. Her nipples were dark,
hard, erect. Everybody, Beth included, took a deep breath at the powerful,
erotic scent that filled the room.
  She was a woman aching to be fucked, and there was no other way to
interpret it. The four staff members looked round in embarassment. A
battered old car pulled up with a shriek of brakes outside, rescuing them
from this moment.

	Now Beth wasn't breathing any more deeply than she had to. Druhler
had given a nasty smirk when he walked in and saw her sitting naked on the
table. He'd asked a few neutral questions, taken her blood pressure, popped
a thermometer in her mouth (relief!), run a stethoscope over her chest and
back, looked her body over superficially. Now he was starting in on the
female questions, assisted and prompted by this coven of witches. When had
she last? Did she ever suffer from? Describe this as your natural scent?
Any urinary problems? Bowels? Hmm, then I think I'd better take a good look
at your . . .
	And there she was, legs up and parted, showing off everything to
Druhler, and the other four. And whoever else: They hadn't pulled the
curtains in the office and she was showing her bush to anyone walking in
the gardens outside.
	Druhler coopted Yvette and Mrs. Smythe to hold her legs in the
absence of stirrups. And he looked. And peered, and prodded. And sniffed.
Tugged hairs. And dabbed with a finger. Then he wanted to look inside,
having the grace to warm up his various metal gadgets under a warm tap
first. Balancing that, he opened her very wide, and kept her that way for
longer than she was used to, prodding and exploring.
	"I agree," he told them at last, stating the obvious, as he wiped
his fingers and instruments clean with paper towels. "She is in a highly
sexually aroused condition, very wet. And there's no external reason that I
can determine. Puzzling, indeed."
	"She masturbates constantly, if you're looking for the obvious
reason," Angela piped up.
	"OH! Ah, well yes, of course, I can see . . . well, I mean, I can't
see, but, yes it's rather obvious now, looking at the size of her . . . and
the color of these parts . . . yes . . ."
	"Any suggestions, Doctor?" Miss Wheatstone asked politely.
	"Well, if she were a young married woman, harrumph, I'd have
several. Ha ha! But, for someone her age. Hum. Well, quite inappropriate.
No no. I . . . um. And I suppose you're not happy with the idea that she .
. .? No no, I see you're not. You'd prefer . . . Decency, modesty. School
to think of, too. Ha. Quite. Yes, well . . ."
	"Stop waffling, please," Yvette was able to say. "What do you
recommend?"
	"A change of diet. Less meat, and uh uh, how would you describe it?
Something to stop her . . .? To stop her, uh, diddling . . ."
	"A chastity belt, perhaps?" Yvette prompted.
	"Exactly! I think some of the big medical supply companies have
them, and if you like i'll write you a rather general prescription so you
can pick. . ."
	"Yes, do that," Angela summed up. "We have some catalogs here. I'm
sure we can figure out what's what . . ."
	"Get dressed, Beth," Miss Wheatstone ordered. "Yvette, go with her.
Take her to the showers, please. And have her do something about that
smell. Supervise her. She needs a good wash before sitting down to supper."

	Beth's chastity belt arrived by messenger the next day. A horrible
thing, like an orthopedic back brace or a surgical corset. Huge, covering
her from breasts to thighs. Draped with straps and buckles to pull it close
to her body. And with a panel that pulled up snugly under her underbelly,
totally hiding her genitals behind quarter inch thick canvas, lined with
rubber. If she's wanted to rub, it would have done no good at all. If she'd
tapped herself with a hammer, she might not have felt anything. Her dorm
mates though it quite hilarious. "Well, Beth, if you'd stopped when you
were told, you wouldn't be wearing it, would you?" They laughed more when
the various straps were tightened another quarter inch, and secured with
several little padlocks by Yvette.
	Angela arrived, and tossed a huge baggy nightdress and dressing
gown to Beth. "Cover yourself! Really!" She looked her charge up and down.
"Now, Beth. You'll wear that chastity belt every night, from the end of
classes until shower time next morning. And the rest of the day, this . .
." She brandished a tangle of chains, like something for tires on snowy
days. "This will lock round your, your . . . well, it'll stop you touching
yourself effectively. Now, into bed and don't let me find out you are
pleading for anything nasty in the morning when you go for your shower with
your friends here . . ."
	Beth played dumb, looked innocent.
	"Don't pretend, young lady. I've had a complaint from one of your
classmates that you whispered during the night about wanting to be, ahem,
fingerfucked in the shower. Is that true?"
	Beth paled, then blushed, and shook her head. "Oh, no ma'am. No. I
wouldn't do that!" Who had ratted? Oh, she'd have liked a friendly finger
up her cunt, and would have greeted it like a long-lost friend, that was
certain. But which of these bitches had told on her?

	The harsh chastity belt and the pubic chain stopped her for a
while. But it only made Beth more mischievous, frisky in class. She was
seriously frustrated, and began to be more of a disciplinary challenge than
ever.
	It was in Yvette's math class that she crossed the line. After some
particularly dumb and insolent responses, the young Frenchwoman had asked
Beth to step to the front of the class. As always, there had been nudges
and giggles. Beth rather creaking progress amused everyone. They knew she
was tightly crammed into a tangle of chains under her dress.
	Yvette's patience was exhausted. She took up a ruler. "Hold out
your hands, Beth," she said, her voice trembling. "Palms down."
	And Beth had yelped as she was given a half down vicious slaps
across the knuckles.
	"Now, turn them over." And another dozen strokes across the palms
while she was lectured patiently about the non-concordance of quadratics,
mischievousness and lust.

	"An old fashioned punishment, Beth," Angela Strabolgi had nodded
happily when the girl rushed to her to complain, showing her reddened
knuckles and striped palms. "Serves you right. You're a real brat! I'd have
done the same myself. In fact, what you need, my girl, is a damned good
spanking. And the way you're going, Little Miss Trouble, you're going to
get it very soon . . ."

	It was half-term, and a week at home was allowed. Beth wasn't
terribly excited at the prospect. Her Dad was away on a trip to Europe, her
favorite sister was in California. Her stepmother and two other sisters
greeted her. The former had never cared for her. The latter? She was
beneath their interest, but they listened politely for a few minutes to
'school stuff,' before reverting to a chat about curtaining.
	Everything went well, until about the fifth day. Beth was watching
TV, bored. The phone rang. Her stepmother answered. "Letter? What letter?"
she heard her saying. Beth slunk away. The letter, the damned letter. She
didn't know what was in it. But she was sure it was only going to stir up
trouble, so she hadn't given it to her stepmother.
	The woman came after her. "Where's this letter you were supposed to
give me? Some drudge from school, someone named Shitbogie, or something,
just called about it. Well?"
	Beth went to her suitcase and produced the letter.
	Her stepmother grabbed it, tore open the envelope and read it with
mounting rage, her hands trembling.
	"So," she said quietly, after a long pause. "So, now it's
disciplinary problems, huh? Do you know, do you have any idea how fucking
much it costs us to send you to that twat's preening pit?! You bitch, you
cunt, you ungrateful fucker . . . " she was screaming now.
	"I'll give you disciplinary problem, you fucking bitch!" Her
stepmother had her by the hair and was dragging her downstairs, into the
kitchen, furious profane incantations flowing from her. She was a small,
strong woman of Italian parents, nothing like Beth's own dearly departed
mother, and no more than 35 years old or so. Her vicious temper was boiling
over. She tore Beth's blouse off, ripped her bra loose, kicked her, slapped
her, ordered her to strip. In terror, Beth lowered her jeans. And in
seconds, Beth was thrown over her knee, legs kicking feebly, while her
stepmother took up a huge wooden serving spoon, ripped her panties to
shreds, and began spanking her bare ass with furious passion. She didn't
let up for twenty minutes, even when Beth's two older sisters arrived from
their latest shopping expedition. They shrugged at her pleas and squeals.
	"Beth, you earned it, I'm sure," one snorted.
	"Yes, shut the fuck up, sis," the other helpfully suggested.
	"Get me the riding crop from the hall cupboard," her stepmother
snapped. "I'll give this dirty little slut something to think about
tomorrow . . ."
	And she did, laying into her with a vengeance until Beth's thighs
and buttocks were bright red, crisscrossed with stripes, and the young
woman was sobbing pitifully. She roughly shoved her off her lap, kicked out
at her a couple of times, and watched with contempt as Beth limped away,
hands clasped to her blistered ass, shaking with emotion.
	"Is that the crop you used on Daddy . . ?" she heard one sister
ask, awestruck as she dragged herself upstairs.

	That night in bed, Beth masturbated more furiously than ever, her
imagination filled with straps and belts, crops and paddles, and the bitter
curses of ruthlessly cruel women. She came and came, dozens of times,
moaning with pleasure.
	Beth was half-asleep when her stepmother crept into her room after
midnight, slipped off her nightdress, climbed into bed and reached hungrily
for her. She couldn't resist. Dared not. Mouths met, tongues explored,
little gasps of delight were heard. Beth's nipples were pinched and rolled,
then long fingernailed hands were busy in her pubic hair, and she was
spreading herself wide, eager to give herself.
	"I knew you'd be in a sexy mood, Beth. I notice things. Your twat
was quite sticky after I'd caned you . . ."
	Beth kissed and hugged, passionately. Yes, it probably had been, if
she'd been able to concentrate on it instead of her fiery ass. Her mother
was talking, quietly: " . . . need it fucked, baby, really hard. I'm going
to have to get my guy in with you, show you what a ten-inch cock feels like
. . ."
	"No! Not Daddy!" Beth squawked, pulling away in dismay.
	"No, not 'daddy,' " her stepmother said with bitter contempt.
"Jesus! His wallet's ten inches thick but his prick is smaller than your
clit. And besides, that's unnatural . . .No, I have a nice blonde fellow
from the Dutch embassy with a real 'dikestuffer' you need to sample . . ."
	"Oh . . ." Beth moaned, a little shocked that her stepmother was a
such a slut, but relieved that she wasn't being asked to open her legs to
the man she'd always assumed had fathered her. But maybe not? Could it
really be that small? What was all this about using a crop on him . . .?
Oh, her fingers! What's she doing with her mouth? Oh oh oh . . .
	A little later, her stepmother was able to speak again. "God, Beth,
you have the smelliest, stickiest cunt I've ever found, for a girl your age
. . ." her seducer purred. "Uh, it's amazing. You've been rubbing yourself
tonight, haven't you? Yes?"
	Beth was nodding, yielding, opening wider, drooling juices. Fingers
werere dipping, then being sniffed and licked. She was bucking her hips,
horny as she could be. The woman chuckled, kissed her again, tugged her
clitoris. "Did that turn you on, getting spanked? The crop? I think it did.
Yes, it did, feel this thing. . . hot! Well, now I have something nice to
tell these women at your school, don't I? They want written permission from
me, permission to spank you, dear. Didn't you guess? No? And ha ha, you
know what my answer's going to be, don't you?"
	Her fingers were inside Beth, and she was rubbing and kneading her
into a frenzy. Their tongues were intertwined. "Oh oh oh, please please . .
." Beth sobbed.
	"Yes, slut. It's going to be yessssss!!!!..."
	"Ooooh . . ."
	"Yessss!!! Are they mean? Vicious?"
	"Yes. Horrible," Beth croaked. "Nasty . . ."
	"They scare you?"
	"Oh, yes . . ."
	"Good. Then I'm going to tell them to be extra cruel. To beat the
shit out of you, you wanky girl . . .you'll love that, won't you?"
	Beth arched her back in ecstasy. "Oh, please . . ."


/continued in Pt.2]



-- 
Story Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
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Archive site: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> (Not pretty yet)

From mrspraycan.an@edtec.com Fri Feb 14 12:56:23 1997

Disclaimer:  Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this. If you don't like spanking stories, this isn't for you.
Longer disclaimer in Pt 1.
	This item is of fictional nature. All persons and places in it are
imaginary and no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. No
illicit behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the
idea.

	'Ironic Eroticist' or 'Filthy Fucker'? You decide.

	*Copyright* is claimed, 1997 by Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes, and for
the author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. For entertainment
purposes only. No commercial use is warranted without permission.  Do not
repost. Store only with this notice intact.



BETH THE COMPULSIVE MASTURBATOR (2/3)

When Beth got back to school the next weekend, she was almost pleased to be
there.
	Almost. Mixed emotions wracked her. Suddenly, everything was
different. She was involved in some kind of weird sexual entanglement with
her stepmother. Which was good, superficially. She'd never enjoyed herself
so much, even if her backside was still a little sore. But, in the greater
scheme of things, it was bad. It could only hurt poor Daddy's feelings, if
he ever found out. It was a relief, in many ways, not to still be at home.
Because something that intense could only lead to trouble, delicious though
it was . . .
	At least she'd somehow reconciled her endless sexual longings.
Instead of just wanting to endlessly rub rub rub, now she wanted to fuck
fuck fuck. Mixed up with that urge was this powerful new desire to submit,
to offer herself, to be hurt. Was that so bad, totally perverse? She didn't
think so, somehow. To give was better than to receive, though of course it
all depended on what you were receiving.
	And that was the specific source of all these mixed emotions.
Suddenly she wanted more sexual outlets than she'd ever be able find here .
. . and restraint, well that wasn't even a faint possibility, with her.
And, worse yet, the school's prim and prissy rules forbade her satisfying
herself in the meantime with her favorite outlet. But, equally, those
selfsame dumb rules would ensure that she would get her ass spanked, if she
misbehaved during this half-term. Which was, definitely, good. Except, she
wasn't attracted to any of these older women who'd have the job of spanking
her. Apart from, oh well maybe, Yvette . . . Oh, this was going to be
confusing, she fretted.

	Beth stopped by at Miss Wheatstone's office first. The letter from
her stepmother was in her shaking hand. She knew what it said. She'd help
draft it, on her sister's Mac. She watched Miss Wheatstone's face. The
woman read it, a faint pink coming to her cheeks. Without looking up at
Beth, she picked up her phone and asked Miss Strabolgi to join her,
immediately. She began re-reading it, carefully. When the other woman
entered, she handed her the letter.
	Angela's reaction was more spontaneous, less contained. "OOOH! I
mean, well, I think, yes, we can live with this . . . can't we?"
	"We try to listen carefully to a parent or guardian's wishes," Miss
Wheatstone agreed.
	Beth stood impassive, trying not to appear too concerned. Trying to
look innocent.
	But she knew that the letter read:

	"Ladies:
		"Thank you for informing me of Beth's misbehavior. I was
shocked by your news. I firmly believe she should not be allowed to persist
with her disgusting habits. I heartily concur that she must be speedily
taught the error of her ways. This is _not_ behavior she learned at home, I
assure you.
	"You have my complete authority to inflict any corporal punishments
or public humiliations you see fit upon her. Please don't concern yourself
with protecting her dignity, or inhibit yourselves in any way in your
attempts at chastising her. To stand any chance of reversing her
indiscipline and immorality, you must punish her vigorously.
	"Let me be blunt: It must hurt.
	"In my opinion, she should receive a daily caning, no matter what
other disciplinary measures are planned or have been earned.
	"If you beat her, beat her long and hard. Let her know that her
disgraceful habits will not be tolerated.
	"Cordially/Francesca di Montepesci Higgins
	"PS: I believe that I observe a developing homoerotic tendency in
Beth. Please try to correct this trait. It is socially damaging, and
fundamentally unproductive."

	Beth kept a straight face as the two women read the letter again.
She had typed it nude, her fingers sticky from masturbating, her mouth and
chin still wet from an afternoon of feeding herself her 'seafood dip,' and
of carefully licking her stepmother's well-lubricated vulva. She'd written
and re-written it three or four times, with her stepmother and both sisters
reading over her shoulder, making lewd suggestions.

	Miss Wheatstone was quite pale. She told Beth with a trembling
voice: "Thank you, Beth, that will be all. We will discuss this matter with
you later."
	Beth left quickly, headed for the nearest toilet, to discover her
panties stuck to her. They didn't stay that way for long.
	Angela Strabolgi had dropped to her knees at Miss Wheatstone's
side. But she wasn't praying. Miss Wheatstone lifted her skirt and croaked:
"Angela . . . did you believe that? She's ours, that's for sure. Oh, I
can't believe it . . . I'm piddling myself . . ."
	Angela was kneading and stroking, and reassured the headmistress:
"Don't fight it. We've got her, so let's not waste our opportunities . . .
Let me get your panties off, Heather. Oh! My! You have made a mess! May I .
. ."

	That night, Sunday, Beth found out a little more about how things
had changed. The huge ugly chastity belt had been put away. She hoped for
good. It had left ugly marks, and been impossible to sleep in. Also gone,
it seemed were the ugly pajamas, the	bells, the gloves. All that
paraphernalia. She settled into bed, glad to be back, reading a paperback.
Soon the lights were turned down. She was too horny for sleep, of course.
	And she made the most of her opportunity. She rubbed and squeezed,
pulled and stroked, until her labia, clit and nipples were throbbing. Then
carried right on. She was paying no attention now. An hour or more went by.
She stifled her grunts and moans, thankful for a lot of noise from the
heating system, and the sound of rain on the roof.
	Suddenly, a bright flashlight shone on her. Not just on her
sweating, flushed face, or even her bare breasts. No, Beth had kicked off
the blankets, and she was displaying, flaunting herself. The light shone
like day on her spread thighs, her livid, juicy sex. Yvette, Angela and
three senior girls were watching, expressions of sheer disgust on their
faces.
	Beth was grabbed by the arms and legs and literally dragged from
her bed in mid-wank, a strong hand slapped firmly over her mouth to prevent
her yelling for help. She was rushed out into the corridor, the doors
kicked open. Rushed down the corridor, into a deserted classroom. There,
with not a second's hesitation,  she was thrown over Angela's knee. A fat
wooden paddle was produced, and her ass was given a tremendous spanking
that left her sobbing and gasping for breath.

	With her step-parent's full permission, public notoriety was the
next step for Beth. The next morning was the first school assembly of the
new half-term. After some boring announcements, school prayers, a pledge of
allegiance, Yvette came to Beth's side, where she was standing at the back
of the hall. The Frenchwoman took her politely but firmly by the upper arm,
and led her down the side of the hall, her heels clicking on the wooden
floor. She brought her to the side of the stage, and up the steps onto it.
By now, Beth was blushing, struggling weakly. "Stand still!" Yvette hissed.
"Or you'll be sorry!"
	Miss Wheatstone shuffled some papers, then began again: "One last
matter, before you all go. I think everybody is quite familiar with the
school's regulations concerning unnatural behavior. I'm not referring to
cigarette smoking or drinking now. Nor to the excessive interest that I see
being paid to pasty-faced weedy boys from town, or in the various media.
No. What I'm talking about, this time, is our rules about self-abuse and
excessive prurient interest in other girls. You know them, don't you? Yes?"
	A muttered, insincere chorus of "Yes, Ma'am," crept round the
crowded hall.
	"Quite. I thought so. Well, every once in a while, I regret to say,
we encounter young ladies who are NOT as familiar with the rules, or think
they are TOO IMPORTANT to obey them, and need to be reminded of them."
	There's excited whispering, nudging, and lots of knowing smiles
directed Beth's way.
	"Quiet, please. Now, it's often the case that an offender -- a girl
who doesn't seem to understand that self-abuse and homosexual lust are
SINS, as well as revolting, dirty habits -- ah, it's often the case that
such a girl, such an evildoer, becomes a persistent offender, someone who
won't be told, someone who can't be persuaded, someone who resists all
attempts to help her, medically or, uh, in other ways . . ."
	There's some laughter, which is shushed.
	". . . of course, this young lady here, Beth Higgins of Form
Five-A, is the one I am referring to. The nastiest young lady we've had the
misfortune of seeing here, in Lord knows how long. I mean it. Any of her
classmates or dorm companions will attest to her total lack of restraint,
her blatant offenses against the school's rules about lewd behavior."
	A rumble of sudden excitement from the 80% or more of girls who
knew nothing about this, other than vague gossip and spiteful comments.
Well, now they knew. And Beth's life would be made a misery.
	Miss Wheatstone spoke louder. "Alright. Simmer down. I'll just make
this last point. Beth must be carefully watched for the rest of this term.
And that means, by all of you. Yes, all of you." Angela Strabolgi had
appeared at her side, carrying a long leather spanking paddle. An object of
legend, of dread, so rarely seen. Another murmur of awe. Some suppressed
snorts of laughter.
	"Beth, turn around please," Miss Wheatstone ordered, sharply.
	Shaking, crimson with shame, Beth was glad to turn her back on the
giggling, whispering, smiling crowd.
	A long pause. "Now, Beth. Bend over. Touch your toes, young lady."
	Beth slowly bent down, realizing what a sight she was presenting to
her schoolmates.
	"Her skirt, please, Miss Strabolgi . . ."
	 Angela took the hem, lifted it, held it high, out of the way.
Beth's tightly stretched white panties seemed to shine in the morning
light. Careful observers would have seen the fading stripes on her thighs,
the pink glow through the thin cotton, and a moist patch between her legs.
	"Beth, you must learn to behave chastely and modestly," Miss
Wheatstone commanded, raising the paddle shoulder high and bringing it down
with a loud smack on Beth's backside. She grunted and hissed her pain,
unwilling to yell out loud.
	"A dozen swats with the paddle will cure you of the illusion you
can defy me," the headmistress said, with a thin smile.
	Another stroke, a third.
	"This time, Beth, we've allowed you the privilege of being spanked
on the backside with your skirt lifted. That's merciful . . .uh!" A fourth.
"But if I hear of any more dirty behavior, your skirt will be up . . . uh!
. . . and your panties will be down. So if you don't want the disgrace of
showing your bare buttocks to the whole school, you know what to do, don't
you? And . . . uh! . . . we won't stop at a dozen either, young lady . . ."
	Beth let out a loud yelp at number six, and was audibly sobbing by
the time the even dozen had been administered.
	"Wait," Miss Wheatstone commanded. Beth waited, bent over.
	"One last thing, ladies . . . since she has been such a disgrace to
the school, and is apparently determined to bring it into disrepute, I am
from today on cancelling her Uniform Privileges. From the time of this
announcement onward, Beth Higgins will wear a special outfit, signifying to
all, including herself, her flagrant disregard for decency and good manners
here . . ."

	Beth wasn't sure what to make of this "loss of uniform privileges"
until later in the day. She'd gone to her locker at a mid-morning break to
find all her clothes confiscated. And now, in Angela Strabolgi's office,
she was presented with the alternative. Instead of her regular schoolgirl
uniform, she was handed a ridiculous short-skirted outfit in a Raggedy-Ann
patchwork of satin materials to wear, a clown's outfit in stripes and polka
dots, pinks, lime greens, blues, yellows and oranges, with insulting
slogans sewn on the back of it: "I Play with Myself," and "I Smell: Stay
Away From Me". Topped with a pointed white conical fools' cap, with the
words "Dirty Girl" written around the lower edge.
	"No!" Beth had protested. "It's horrible! No, I can't. Please, how
can I wear this?"
	"It's this or nothing, you little troublemaker.Well? Don't tempt
me, because I would love to do that instead . . ."
	Dressed in the absurd costume, Beth had miserably wandered the
halls all day. from class to class, followed by contemptuous laughter,
excited shouts, mean-spirited curses and insults. Even girls she'd thought
of as being quite friendly, or possible allies, had shunned her, curled
their lips, laughed in her face. Out of earshot of the teachers, there had
been some nasty threats, even: "stay away from me, you lezzie bitch or
you'll get slashed!"

	And did it work? What do you really think?
	Beth consoled herself that night -- boy's pajamas, laces, bells,
the whole kit notwithstanding -- with a slow, gentle squeeze that did what
she wanted, even if it was much slower than she'd have wanted it.
	And, just as obviously, her fragrant pajamas were discovered by
inspection, and she was sent to Angela's office. The woman's solution: that
Beth's loss of UP required reinforcement,  and that day and night,  hand
restraints should be added to the dress code requirements.

	Her stepmother's influence began to show, now.
	Each morning, Beth was summoned at wake-up time, and taken to the
matron's office. There, in front of Yvette and Miss Smythe, she was
forcibly stripped and closely inspected for evidence of wanking.
	Not surprisingly, it was always found. It didn't require a very
keen eye or nose. But Beth would be made to spread her legs and submit to
all kinds of indignities to prove she was wet.
	And after this, she would be sent, just as she was, nude, with just
a short bathrobe on, to the senior gym mistress's office. Here, another
close associate of Miss Wheatstone had been drafted into the program.
Anthea Jones was a taut, fit jogging and gymnastics fanatic. From a poor
black family and determined to succeed in education. The perfect choice to
reward Beth with six vicious strokes of the cane on her bare backside, bent
over the back of a chair in the center of the room. Anthea took her time.
Added penalty strokes as she felt like it, several most days. Leaving time
for tears and some massaging of her victim's bottom after, of course.
Beth's sobs soon waned as Anthea stroked and fingered her anus and pussy,
with a quiet professional demeanor. She though it her duty to calm Beth
enough to rejoin her classmates. She was good about not being at all
judgmental as the young woman panted and moaned with pleasure, and
gratefuly kissed her hands after.
	Being late now, Beth was then left with no choice but to shower
with the junior girls, at the low end of the pecking order of the school.
This chattering giggling bunch of 13- and 14-year-olds gathered round,
jumping and leaping, like playful seal pups in pink. Most were only
shoulder-high to her. They found her nudity hilarious, a constant joke, a
perfect foil for their childish insults and occasional nasty pinches and
prods. Though some of the precocious ones had catty things to say about
what they saw as her small breasts, big ass, and persistent aura of musty,
seaweedy, fishiness. 'Stinkpot' or 'Cunty The Cow' were the nicest names
they had for her.

	They were two weeks into the 'clown suit' program, and Beth's daily
caning hadn't helped make her pajamas any cleaner. Maybe, the opposite. So,
Beth was summoned to Miss Wheatstone's office to hear what has been
decided. "Beth, what are we going to do with you? Really! We have spoken
with your mother . . ."
	"Stepmother . . ."
	"Mother, so far as you are concerned, dammit! And, humph, she
confirms that it is her intention to see this perversion stop. Understand,
s-t-o-p? Stop! So, since being made a laughing stock here has done little
to curtail your disgusting behavior, you are going to wear something that
will make it clear WHAT you are, you slut . . ."
	Which turned out to mean, that Beth's humiliation was to be
increased still further. How? By having her go bare-breasted and barefoot,
in just a pair of white cotton pajama bottoms.
	Miss Wheatstone had picked this idea out herself from many staff
suggestions. The logic behind it was to 'shame her wantonness,' a concept
an older religious studies teacher  thought would be effective. And . . .?
Beth managed to get the crotch of the pajamas wet by lunchtime, and so
brazenly smelly that no one would sit near her by mid-afternoon. She was
sent to bed early without supper as punishment.
	And how do you think she calmed herself enough to get to sleep? Of
course, she stroked herself, shamelessly.

	The next morning, Beth was woken early, and marched from her dorm
at 6.30am. But to her surprise she wasn't inspected or caned. She was quite
confused by that. Disappointed, almost. She'd grown used to spreading her
legs, seeing the revulsion on the nurse's face. And the caning? Well, it
felt better after it was over, but. . . And she'd come to enjoy looking at
the naked juniors cavorting round her.
	But, today was different. Instead, she waited in a small room off
the main assembly hall, in just her pajama bottoms. Not clean new ones.
Yesterday's filthy pair, sticking clammily to her. The smell even troubled
her, by now. She could feel herself oozing, feel her skin prickling, feel
her pubic hair gummed with her juices. She couldn't get the thought of sex
out of her mind . . . she longed to untangle her bush, to scratch, to touch
her hot, agitated pudendum. But, in front of a teacher? No, it wouldn't be
allowed. She kept asking what was going on. She was being monitored,
guarded really, by Yvette, who would say nothing, but just read a book.
	Finally, Yvette looked at her watch. "Okay, 8.15. Up you get, Beth
. . ."
	"Why? I mean, what . . .?"
	"You're for it now, young lady. Hold your hands out, in front of
you . . ." Handcuffs, brand new heavy ones, were snapped on and ratcheted
tight. "Now, follow me . . ."
	"Mam'selle . . . please? What's going on? Can't you tell me?" Beth
was quite anxious.
 The pretty Frenchwoman was smiling a little as she took a narrow leather
strap -- a dog collar! -- and put it round Beth's throat, fastening it
snugly.
 	"No, I can't . . ." Yvette said shaking her head vigorously. "Just
that, well, you have gone too far, and now, well I'm sure you understand .
. ."
	She smiled, then took Beth's wrists and lifted them high. A little
snap-fastener was quickly attached, joining the chain of the cuffs to a
ring on the collar.
	Beth gave a little gasp of fear, and almost protested. Yvette shook
her head and said: "elbows down, and pull them back . . ." She walked
behind Beth and grabbed one elbow, and looped a strap round it. Then, round
the other. Pulled it tight. Shortened the strap until Beth's elbows were
pulled closely to her sides, and her breasts were fully bared. She tweaked
Beth's swollen nipples with contemptuous familiarity.
	"Please, miss," Beth whimpered. "I'm sorry . . . I don't want to be
beaten . . ."
	The dribbling of her genitals would have disproved that lie.
	"Vraiment?" Yvette shrugged. "Too bad! Because . . ."
	Beth sighed and protested: "My pants are falling down . . ."
	"Which would be quite good," Yvette laughed. "But, it'll stop you
walking, and stink the place out. Okay . . . I'll lace them up." She pulled
the drawstring tight, knotted it roughly. And, unable to resist, kissed
Beth on the mouth. "Mmm, this is going to be fun," she purred, then
ordered, snappily, "Now, this way."
	Beth sobbed.	Yvette gave a shrug, and walked to the door,
beckoning Beth to follow. "Come on, or I'll find a leash and drag you there
. . ."

/Continued in Pt.3]

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