A girl fantasises

by Old Tom

She’d always found spanking exciting; in the primary school playground, playing ‘schools’ or ‘mothers and fathers’ it was exciting. Later at secondary when an American girl introduced ‘birthday spankings’ she felt tingly at the thought; later still when a boyfriend gave her a few quick smacks to her bottom she felt tingly in all sorts of places.

Spanking was a real turn on for her, sadly, mainly fantasy. Fantasy in spades – barrows full, lorry loads – a menu of fantasies that she selected nightly for her entertainment. Nightly? No, sometimes in the day too – lost in her own world.

She fed her fantasies with some real experience; bent over the end of her bed, she spanked herself with hairbrush, bath brush, boot horn – spanked until she even managed to bruise her own bottom which was a thrill in itself. So her nightly fantasy often included a little self spanking to add realism to her powerful imagination – fantasies she shared only with the friendly dark.

She began to feel the need to share with others and joined a spanking chat room. Such a thrill to talk – such tingles everywhere.

Well, share your favourite fantasy, came the responses.

So she shared.

He is very tall and stern, but pleasant, and has to help me a lot. I am always getting into a mess with money or other things and he helps me. Finally he tells me I have not done as he told me. I must be punished; I agree. He leads me into a cosy room – wood panelling on the wall, fireplace, big comfortable chairs and sofas. It is a lovely room for relaxing, but I am not to relax.

On a shelf in an alcove there is a cane. He picks it up and I know I am to be thrashed and I deserve it. He has been so kind and I have failed him. I want to be good for him – co-operate, take my punishment. I am frightened of course, but so want to be good for him. He tells me to remove my dress, which I do, and stand shyly in my underwear. Now my knickers and tights come off and then I must bend over the arm of the sofa. My face buried in the cushions I await my punishment.

The cane sears across my bottom. He does not spare me; each stroke makes me cry out and my tears flow, but I keep my bottom raised for him to punish, to thrash my silliness from me. Finally it is done. My bottom throbs and smarts with the caning, but he is so kind. He is now gentle with me. He wipes my tears and soothes me. I know now what I must do. I tell him that he has been like a husband to me, helping me and punishing me when needed. Now he has rights over my body.

We kiss and he removes my bra before taking me onto the sofa where he makes love to me passionately. I cry out my pleasure just as I cried out my pain.

When the comments came she was horrified – hurt.

Oh that old cliché; thought we’d get something interesting, and, That’s everywhere; you probably copied that one.

It was her cherished fantasy and now rubbished. She withdrew from the chat room but all savour was gone from her menu. She felt lost without her fantasies to keep her warm – became quiet, depressed even.

Her sister noticed and rang her, making a pretext out of choosing a school for her eleven year old son. She asked: “Can you come along and give me a second opinion?” She went for want of something better to do.

The main part of the school was an old priory building, now grade two listed, and impressive – many original features. The receptionist ushered them into the Headmaster. She was stunned. He was so like her fantasy man – tall and good looking, authoritative – a man to command. He shook her hand and tingles ran through her. He kept hold of her hand for longer than needed – seemed intent on her. She wanted to faint – felt young and small, inadequate – wanted him to pick her up and carry her off, but recovered.

He showed them around, seemingly more attentive to her than to her sister, who was after all the mother, but her sister was amused by the obvious frisson that flowed between them. On the way around he apologised if they were kept waiting. “My private secretary resigned suddenly. Her mother is in need of care and she sees that as her duty. Very commendable of course, but confusion now reigns here from time to time.”

Her heart leapt in yet another cliché. “But I am a secretary. I would love to work here …” Avoided saying … for you, but it was close.

He was tall and his look was downward but intent. “I’ll make sure you get the application form before you go.”

Now her fantasy is reborn, cliché or not. It is strong – fierce even – but fed now with detail. No shadowy figure of a man, but him; tall with his curly rich hair, little flecks of grey at the sides, intense blue eyes. A man with natural authority, but enhanced by his role; a headmaster. A man with the power to punish, to chastise. Her fantasy room is now much better – fits well into the old building which houses the school. She turns out the light, snuggles down beneath her duvet and she is there.

The room is warm and cosy; two pictures of early owners above the fireplace, the lighting discreet and warm, not cold. Comfy leather chair by the fire – worn but speaking of evenings with poetry and whisky, novels and brandy. A sofa, old but rich – that too speaks of comfort, good company, relaxed music. They sing together with the wooden panelling of being at ease with quality. But she knows in her fantasy, her cliché, that before this room can comfort her she must suffer.

She stands before him wearing a dress. He likes her to wear a dress even for work. He is demanding, but that is so sexy, isn’t it? He is gentle but firm.

“This isn’t good enough, is it? Too many mistakes; too many muddles. I don’t think you’d deny you haven’t performed at your best.”

“I am so sorry. I’ve let you down time and again, and you have been so patient with me. Please believe me, I am sorry.”

“I am patient because I believe in you – know you are capable of more, but I must punish you. It will help you to improve. You do know that, don’t you?”

A quivering of her chin, her eyes moistening. She nods, not confident of speech. “Please, I want you to punish me. I deserve it, I know.”

He turns and walks past the table in the middle of the room – past the sofa. Is he going to pull the bell rope or go to the cupboard in the alcove? It is the bell. He pulls and a faintly distant jangling can be heard. He returns saying nothing.

The caretaker is on duty until late in the evening, an old soldier who says little but sees much.

“I wonder if you would be so good so good as to bring me a cane from my office.”

“Yes, sir,” he snaps, and she quivers with both the fear of the cane and the embarrassment that he knows.

He returns with cane and hands it over. She can’t look at him, but only at the rug on the floor, her face red at his knowledge.

As the door closes the headmaster resumes. “Please remove your dress.”

She wants to submit to him; longs to do it, but her fingers tremble as they unzip the dress, and shrugging it from her shoulders, allow it to slip to the floor. She bends at the knee, ladylike, to pick it up and lay it on the table in the centre. Hopes he approves of her slim figure, her sexy bra and knickers, her hold up stockings. Quivers again as she sees he does.

“Please remove the knickers and then lie over the end of the sofa with your head on its seat.”

She removes them, and with another ladylike bend of the knees they join her dress. She longs to remove her bra as well – to be naked before him, but he does not command it and she does what he tells her.

The material of the sofa feels rough against her soft skin. Her head burrows down into the soft cushions of the seat. It has a curious smell of lavender and late nights about it. She quivers constantly, fearful of her punishment but longing for it – a glorious submission.

He rests his cane on her bottom; against the warmth of her delicate skin it feels cold and hard. The searing heat of the first stroke takes her by surprise. She had heard nothing. She cries out and cries some more as he lands five more strokes in quick succession. Her bottom throbs and burns after the six, but it is just a start.

“Those were for the muddles you have got into. Do you think that fair?”

She wipes the moisture from her eyes and speaks, her voice shaky. “Yes, so very fair. I deserve more, I know.” A fleeting thought crosses her brain as to whether the caretaker is outside listening. She must face him every day and it will be torment, but she has no time for dwelling on it for the cane swishes again.

The cane is male in its coldness, its hardness. Her bottom is feminine in its softness and warmth. She wants the cane to punish her and pushes herself back into position to receive each stroke. He swishes another six strokes in quick succession and her cries become louder, shriller with each stroke.

“Those were for the muddles. Have I punished you fairly?”

“Oh, yes,” she sobs, her bottom now a fiery torment.

“These last will be as a lesson for the future. Are you ready?”

She moves back in position, for her caning has driven her upwards and almost over onto the sofa, such is the pain. She awaits his cane – waits with desire to submit while yet hating the throbbing and burning that are now her bottom. The cane swishes again in another sextet; her voice sings an accompaniment, shrill and not musical.

It is over and he lifts her, dries her eyes and comforts her. She longs for greater submission, and warm against his body, she kisses him tentatively. Soon there is nothing tentative about their kisses. They are passionate and hot. Her bra is removed, and yes, at last he lifts her – bodily lifts her – such a joy of submission for her – and lays her on the sofa.

He mounts her. It is everything she wants. All becomes faster, fiercer. The sofa creaks with the force of their passion until finally they both cry out together.

Her cry of ecstasy became reality in her darkened bedroom. She was exhausted, hot – sweaty even, but satisfied at the rich return of her fantasy. Then the realisation came in. This is only fantasy. Her bottom is unmarked, unpunished. She has not made love to him. She does not even work for him.

She cried in anguish to the friendly dark. “I don’t want to be in a cliché anymore; I want it to be real. How do I make it real?”

The friendly dark smiled but did not reply. There was no need; she knew what she must do.

The End