Upper Class

by Frenulum

Before my secretary could make it through “Lady Effington is here to see you, Sir,” the lady herself strode into my office. No, that’s not the right word. She occupied the office, like an Empress conquering territory. My secretary added, weakly and unnecessarily, “Here she is, Sir,” before withdrawing in relieved haste.

Lady Effington stood and glared at me. The expression “she drew herself up to her full height” might have been appropriate, except that her ladyship was the sort never to bend in the first place, and that she was barely over five feet tall. Still, she was stiff and proud and erect, admirable qualities in a peer or a penis.

“You are…” she intoned, as if asking a docent to name an unfamiliar and somewhat repellent species.

“Harding Birch, Headmaster,” I replied. Never bow to an aristocrat or a Japanese: you’ll only get the nuances wrong and confirm what they already think of you.

She got straight to her mission. “My god-daughter, Emily Virgule-Bracket, tells me that you beat her yesterday afternoon,” she charged, indignation swelling every syllable.

“She was spanked, yes. We don’t beat our students, but corporal punishment, when called for, is —”

“It was certainly not called for in Emily’s case,” Lady Effington asserted. Members of her family or extended circle were clearly the sort to find fault, not to be at fault.

“She did confess to cribbing a maths exam,” I calmly replied.

The lady permitted a mild sneer. “I have no idea what you mean. Cribbing? How vulgar.”

“She had a hidden paper of formulas, for cheating on the examination,” I explained. My visitor’s look of offended outrage at the word “cheating” was predictable — full marks for degree of scorn, though.

“She never!”

“She did,” I was quick to reply, “She not only wrote the crib, but made copies for some of the other girls.” Before I could be treated to another helping of indignation, I carried on. “And sold them, I might add, earning quite a pretty sum on the black market, so to speak.”

There was finally a hint of something other than outrage in Lady Effington’s face. “Well, that gel does have the nose for valuable information, I’ll grant you that.” She quickly recovered her standard measure of hauteur. “In any case, she said she was beaten, and I’ll take her at her word.”

“Spanked, as I said. Just like the other girls involved. Quite in accordance with the school’s written procedures and, I might add, long history.” In fact, parents often chose to send their daughters to us precisely because of our effective discipline, too skittish or too preoccupied to deal with waywardness at home.

“Spanked, then, if you must. How hard?”

“How hard? I can’t tell you that,” I answered matter-of-factly.

“I was told that you were the one who did it, Mr. Birch,” the lady protested. If she had been misinformed, woe be it to the one who steered her wrong, and to me for wasting minutes of her valuable time.

“Yes, I spanked Emily.”

“Then you must know how hard,” Lady Effington insisted, impatient for an answer.

“I know how hard, of course,” I responded calmly, “But I can’t tell you. There’s no recognized scale for the severity of a spanking, nor the words to describe one.” She was about to protest again, but I continued. “It’s like asking how spicy a meal is, or how beautiful a flower, or how tight…”

I was pleased to see the dawning of a look of shock on my visitor’s face.

“…is a shirt-collar,” I finished, to her relief. “Descriptions aren’t adequate. And even where there is a scale, as there happens to be for spiciness, it’s not widely understood. So you see, I can only tell you that Miss Virgule-Bracket was spanked soundly, effectively, and fairly, in proportion to her offense — which, I might add, we consider to be quite a serious one. Academic dishonesty cannot be allowed to take root here.”

Satisfied that I had made my point, and that the balance of authority in the room had shifted in the proper direction, I waited. And made a silent wager with myself about the lady’s most likely response.

She tried glaring. She couldn’t master looking down her nose at me, as the angles were all off, but that intent was evident — years of practice, no doubt. Ladies mustn’t stomp or make exasperated noises like the lower orders. Yet somehow the moral high ground had been retaken by the opposition, and that would never do.

“Very well, then,” she harumphed, “You must show me.”

So I owed myself a tidy sum toward my vacation fund.

“You wish me to spank you as I spanked Emily,” I said levelly, more statement than question. Of course that was the only thing she could possibly mean, but I wanted to say it out loud just to watch her react to my bluntness.

Her body was still, but her face did a brief simulation of squirming uncomfortably. I took the moment to look her over: somewhere between the ages of our students and their parents — early or middle thirties, perhaps — shapely, extremely well turned out, hair in a French twist. She would have been quite beautiful, absent the hardening effects of long-term arrogance.

“Yes.” Definitely, defiantly — but at the same time, just a bit subdued, as the realization began to creep in that our meeting had gone entirely astray from the course she had plotted.

“Yes?” I used my best Headmaster-demands-an-answer tone of voice.

“Yes, you must spank me as you did Emily,” she proclaimed. Amusing. “Must” — as if she still had any remaining measure of control.

I held her gaze for a second or two. “Take your skirt off,” I ordered, and turned to move the spanking chair to its central place in my office.

“What?” she exclaimed.

I didn’t bother to face her. “Take your skirt off, as the students do.” I carried the chair to its proper spot, then gave my frozen-in-place guest a stern look. “This very minute.”

“But —” she began to protest, and then subsided, capitulating. She fussed briefly at the waistband of her skirt; it fell suddenly to drape her ankles, and she stepped out of it. The tails of her blouse covered her to her thighs, but I noted with approval that she wore proper stockings, not evil panty-hose, just as our girls are made to do.

I took a seat. “Over my lap, promptly if you please.” I indicated the direction with a gesture. Lady Effington stood motionless for a moment, struggled for some way to turn things around without losing face, and failed. Without another word she positioned herself across my knees. As she did, I helped her blouse to scoot upward, so that by the time she was settled she was bare, save for her panties, from above the waist to mid-thigh.

Her panties were snowy white, but any resemblance to the usual schoolgirl attire ended there. They were so well-fitted they might almost have been bespoke, and I smiled briefly at the thought of assorted tailor-maids poking around her privates and asking “A bit more snug over the perineum, m’lady?” They were such elegant panties that I almost thought it a shame to take them down. But only almost.

Without a word to suggest I might need permission, I took hold of the waistband and tugged Lady Effington’s pretty panties all the way down to her lacy stocking-tops.

She shrieked in dismay and tried to rise out of position, a difficult thing to do when over-the-knee. “What do you think you’re doing?” she squealed.

“Spanking you as I did Emily,” I replied calmly. “On the bare bottom, as we have always done here. It’s not really a spanking, not a proper one, if protection and modesty are allowed.”

The lady’s struggles continued a moment, but I had an arm across her back and her awkward pose to help me control her; in a moment she subsided. “Oh, very well,” she said scornfully, “Get on with it, then.”

I did not, though. I laid my right hand on one smooth cheek of her well-bred bum and stroked it softly. Fine skin, excellent muscle tone, appealing roundness. With so many tight teenagers turned bare-buns-up over my knee in the course of every year, I had become quite an ass afficionado, and I gave Lady Effington’s firm posterior quite a high grade indeed.

A bit of a squeeze gave me a better view of the pretty pink pucker of her aristocratic asshole, and a slight adjustment to her near leg granted me a glimpse of privileged pussy. She was fussing too much to notice what a fine spectacle she presented to — Headmaster’s title and trappings notwithstanding — a mere employee.

I lifted my hand once or twice in deliberate false starts, just to enjoy the lady’s anticipatory gasp, each time settling down softly again to stroke her bare bottom. I waited, judged the mood and moment, and without further warning, struck hard.

Two or three sharp reports echoed in my office before the percussion was joined by the wind section, in the form of Lady Effington’s vigorous and unrestrained howling. Score it for clarinets in altissimo. She went from feigned dutiful boredom to full, desperate, regretful, shocked engagement faster than her 918 Spyder could get from zero to a hundred. I am quite inured to girlish howling, thanks to my long tenure, and smacked away without slackening.

Her elegant butt-cheeks quickly passed from creamy to blushing pink, the skin exploding with one red-rimmed handprint after another. I gave every bit of the playing field my full attention, covering her derrière from crown to crescent, lingering with agonizing insistence on her tender sit-spots. Her hair came unpinned and tossed about, her body wriggled, her arms flailed, and her feet kicked in a fury of helplessness as I forged a blazing trail of hot, heavy spanks across her pampered skin.

Lady Effington’s initial wails drifted gradually into steady sobbing. I could practically hear the teardrops come. I am never indifferent to the plight of a girl across my lap, but caring does not equate to leniency, as any of the tartlets could have testified. Her ass glowed rosy, then deepened to crimson, but I spanked on methodically and purposefully, until she was blotchy, tender, and fiery-hot all over, buns and thighs alike.

Finally, I had had enough, a point my visitor had passed quite a while earlier.

“There,” I said, stilling my hand, and letting it rest on her flaming ass. “That, as you can tell for yourself, is a spanking, in conformance with school tradition, and perfectly suited to a young lady who would rather cheat, and encourage cheaters, than study.” I lifted my hand, and sat back to give her room. “You may get up and get dressed.”

Slowly, achingly, with every move of her legs a fresh source of agony, Lady Effington levered herself up off of my lap. She seemed indifferent to her exposure as she pulled her lovely panties back up into place, wincing as they slid over her aching ass, but turned her back to me as she put her skirt back on.

While she dressed, I examined the leg of my trousers. Her ladyship’s imperial quim had responded to the fierce spanking by discharging a veritable flood of girl-cream — of the finest quality, I had no doubt. The pin-striped wool of my suit was quite soaked and rather wrinkled.

She spent an extra moment facing away from me, recovering her breathing and a fragment of her earlier composure. I saw her pat some disheveled hair into place. But when she finally turned to face me, it was clear she hadn’t realized how ill-suited her mascara and eye liner were to a protracted face-down sob-fest. Her eyes were messy, smudged with black, and her cheeks marked with sooty tear-tracks.

“You’ve quite —” she began, but her voice was hoarse from crying and she had to regroup. “You’ve quite made your point,” she conceded. “I can see that my god-daughter was exaggerating her distress.” Without much success, Lady Effington tried to re-arrange her features into their standard configuration of superiority. “Any gel should be able to shrug off a little scrap of a spanking like that.”

I kept my smile quite inward-facing. I had hardly dispensed a “little” spanking — I never do — but I understood her need to appear unmoved by its severity. I understood as well her need to leave my office and find privacy as soon as possible: the soggy trousers told me all I needed to know on that much more personal front.

“That seems quite settled, then,” Lady Effington was saying. I waited for the inevitable follow-up, wondering how she would word it, and watched the expected blush slowly bloom in her face. “I should make certain, strictly for Emily’s sake of course, that there are no lasting or shall I say deleterious long term effects. And I suppose there is the question of repeated exposure, should she misbehave again.”

“Heaven forbid,” I said, keeping the grin out of my voice.

“Indeed. Well then, there’s nothing to do but to pay you another call to follow up. Shall we say this coming Friday?”

“By all means, Lady Effington,” I replied helpfully.

She considered briefly. “To… avoid disrupting the school day,” she said, hitting on a plausible explanation, “I should arrive when the school is rather empty. What time —”

“Everyone but me is usually gone by four o’clock on a Friday,” I offered.

She smiled graciously, granting me the favor of anticipating her next visit. “I shall see you on Friday next at four PM, then,” she pronounced. “To make certain that a second spanking is not too severe a punishment.”

I showed her to the door of my office, all charm. “Of course, Lady Effington. I look forward to providing any further… assistance you may require.” After a few formalities, she was gone, and while I was in the outer office I told my secretary that she was free to leave for the day.

Back in my office, I sank into my leather chair, letting the smile bloom on my face for the first time. Her ladyship would be back, not only for more spanking, but — I had seen her evaluating my office couch — to pursue the natural consequences of her submissive arousal. I was looking very much forward to our next meeting. And should the lady find my spankings to be “little scraps,” merely amusing trifles, I had an arsenal of instruments in my cupboard that could escalate the procedings to levels no student ever discovered.

I sat, lost in imaginings, for some time, before my office door cracked open and a face peeked round the edge.

“Mr. Birch?” asked Emily Virgule-Bracket.

“Come in.” I sat up straight.

She crossed the office with brisk steps, her little tartan kilt swirling pleasingly around her fine long legs. “Here’s my essay on academic dishonesty,” she said, holding out a rumpled bit of notepaper.

I glanced at it, then looked up at the smiling schoolgirl with a stern expression. “You were to write four pages, Emily. This is not even a page… and plucked straight from Wikipedia, unless I miss my guess.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed. “Is it not what you wanted? Did I do a bad job? Was I lazy and… unrepentant and terribly naughty?” She could barely disguise either her smile or the way she shifted her weight, pressing and rubbing her thighs together.

“You know what I told you yesterday, Miss,” I said, rising to my feet and giving her my strictest look.

“Yes, Sir.” Even before I could say another word she was unfastening her skirt.

“Full kit this time, Emily,” I ordered. She blushed as she began tugging at the buttons of her uniform blouse. “And you can wait for me with your face in that corner, hands on your head.”

Minutes later, I contemplated the situation.

Senior girl Emily Virgule-Bracket: birthday-naked but for panties pulled down to her knees, cornered in my office in the classic Pose of Dread, awaiting her quite deliberately sought second-ever spanking. Could she have enjoyed the first one more than I realized? Had she spent the night with eager fingers under her nightie, dreaming of being bare and exposed and spanked again over her strict Headmaster’s knee? There was no doubt about the deliberate planning behind her failed assignment.

And god-mother Lady Effington: returning on Friday to be alone with me for another sound spanking and… whatever after-care her excited, dripping pussy might require. There was no doubt at all about her intentions.

I sat there, staring at Emily’s magnificent and sexy little bottom, bare and creamy, round and inviting, and I considered the future. I do not care for the word “devious” — it has too much of a Snidely Whiplash aura to it. But my thoughts were definitely… full of complex and fascinating possibilities.

Then I called Emily over, keeping a discrete eye on the alluring dance of her bare breasts as she came to me. I settled her securely over my knee. And I made sure that her sweet little virgin pussy was pressed smack against her god-mother’s wet spot.

Life offers intersections. The fascinating question is always: which way next?

Smack!

Author’s notes on Upper Class:

This started out as Flash Fiction, then grew a little too long and was destined for a blog post, then grew a little longer and wound up here… where it’s too short :-)

But it should reassure people that I'm still alive, if nothing else.

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Upper Class

by Frenulum

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