Today's excerpt picks up from the end of part 3, when Curt received his first adult spanking. If you need to refresh your memory, here are part 1, part 2 and part 3. When you're ready, read on:
Curt lay on his stomach, a towel with ice wrapped in it placed atop his burning bottom. That spanking had been the most painful and humiliating episode in his life. His swollen bottom throbbed with heat. How could he have let this happen? And then he knew. He had brought it on himself. He’d been foolish, driven by an adolescent lust. And now he would pay. So Curt knew it wasn’t over. She’d told him as much. Other people’s fantasies. She’d referred to him as her “co-star.”
She left him alone for two weeks, and he was beginning to think it was over, that she’d changed her mind. It allowed him to speculate. In fact, once his skin had returned to normal and the redness had faded to a faint pink, the whole episode took on erotic overtones in his memory.
Once he saw a car pull up into her driveway and a well dressed woman, about the same age as Ms. Whitehall got out. She could be a real estate agent, he thought. But she was there for hours and he knew the lady was no real estate agent. His mind conjured up all sorts of things, and the idea of getting himself off was suddenly appealing.
Two weeks later he received the summons. “Be here at 8 o’clock. Back door. Wear nice slacks, a white shirt and a tie” was all it said. He dutifully presented himself at the back door at the appointed hour dressed as she had ordered.
Ms. Whitehall ushered him in. Curt noticed her unusual attire. She wore a 50’s style pencil thin skirt that came down to mid-calf and a white blouse with ruffles. A pair of glasses hung from a chain around her neck making her look like a librarian or a schoolteacher.
“Come with me, Curt,” she said and led the way to the den. A desk stood next to a wall and in back of it there was stand-alone blackboard. In front of it she had placed a school student desk, so the set was a schoolroom. “A friend of mine has requested a certain type of scene. His fantasy revolves around an authentic schoolroom paddling.”
Curt froze. His buttocks clenched up. Memories of Mrs. Harlowe came flooding back.
“Now, I’ve written out some dialog. Let’s run through it a time or two before we turn on the cameras, shall we?”
Curt couldn’t refuse. He was trapped. So he memorized the dialog which was just what one would expect in such a situation. Then he activated the cameras and they began. It was a simple scene in which he, a student, was called to account for bad behavior in class.
“Well, Bradley,” said Robin Whitehall. “You know talking and giggling in class is disruptive, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” That was, in fact, the substance of most of his lines. He was ‘Bradley’ in this scene.
“Well, I have a cure for that young man,” she said, and proceeded to pull from the desk a standard-sized school paddle. It was fully eighteen inches long and five inches wide. She hefted it and said, “Come to the front of the class, please.”
Curt rose on shaky legs and came around his desk to stand in front of her desk looking contrite.
“I think ten swats with my paddle will improve your behavior. Bend over the desk, young man. Elbows and forearms flat, buttocks well out.”
TEN? Good grief, that was a lot, even with his pants on. He hadn’t thought to wear multiple layers of underwear because he had no idea what was going to happen. He bent over and stuck his butt out.
“Do not get up or move out of position, do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You will count each one and say ‘thank you, ma’am.’”
Whack! The first swat was a blast that made his teeth rattle. It was every bit as bad as that time with Mrs. Harlowe.
“Ah…one. Thank you, ma’am.”
Whack! Another bone jarring swat flattened his fanny.
“T-two. Thank you, ma’am.” Yeow! It really burned.
The swats were given out at intervals of about ten to fifteen seconds. Each solid whack with that full sized paddle burned his hind end like a blowtorch. After five she issued a dread command.
“Now take your pants and underpants down, Bradley.”
He obeyed, baring his bottom to receive the next five swats. He feared these would be much worse. He was right. By the sixth swat tears had started to form and he willed himself not to burst out bawling. As it was, his count was interspersed with much yelping and pleading. He did not stay in position and it actually took a dozen swats to get what Robin Whitehall deemed usable material. Afterwards he had to sit on his burning butt and edit the scene as she directed.
“Your little boy pleading and squealing was actually a nice touch,” she said. “It looks very authentic. And that’s what I want. Authentic. I think my friend will be very pleased.”
Does Curt have a film career in his future? If you are curious about what happens next, or if you'd enjoy more F/m tales like this one, you can order Ladies in Charge from Rollin's blog. You'll see the book and a link in his sidebar.
Posts
