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Summer term ended last Saturday. Monday
was unusually peaceful. A couple more days of paperwork and
meetings, then it was up North to my father’s country seat. I
glanced at my diary expecting it to be clear. But there was one
appointment: Samantha Darnley. Under my diary was a thin brown file
with Bernard Darnley in large letters on the front. The school
secretary was very efficient, and Samantha’s son’s file had
miraculously appeared on my desk. Bernard would be a new
boy in September. Most of the file was about his father. He was
tipped to become the managing director of a Discount House in the
City in a few years. Only at the back was Samantha mentioned. There
was a fifteen-year-old picture of her as an Olympic swimmer and a
story of her disappointment at only winning bronze. She looked very
tall and slim in her bathing costume, with a rubber hat holding her
hair tight to her head, although she seemed a bit busty for a top
swimmer.
Consequently, I was rather surprised when
she walked through the door.
Now in her late thirties, she could only be described as
voluptuous. Her hair was free; it was thick, curly and golden brown.
But a tight skirt and top emphasised every curve. “Good afternoon,
Mr Thurston, I presume?”
“Certainly. Do take a
seat.” We sat each side of my desk, and she looked around.
“I wasn’t quite sure
what a housemaster’s study would be like. Darker with teak walls and
loads of books, I suppose.” We chatted about her son for a few
minutes, she was asking trivial questions which, frankly, could have
been answered over the phone. Then suddenly, she asked, “Is this
where you beat the boys?”
“Yes,” I answered with
a puzzled grin. “Why?
“My husband says that
six of the best would do me good.”
“Oh, why is that?
“He says that I am
flirtatious, unpunctual, and horribly untidy. Why does it matter if
you have servants to clear up after you? Any way he told me not to
come back without six angry red stripes across my bottom.”
I smiled. “I am sure
that we can oblige.” She looked shocked. Clearly, she expected me to
be horrified. “Are you sure six strokes will be enough?” She was
speechless for a moment. I broke the silence. “If that’s what your
husband wants, we had better get on with it.”
She mused for a moment.
“I thought the cane was for naughty boys.”
“It is used to instil
discipline into teenage boys. I don’t see why it cannot do the same
for a voluptuous, ill-disciplined thirty-year old.”
With that, I stood up and went over to the conference table and pulled
out two chairs; I moved them back-to-back and turned to face Samantha.
She stood up. “Want me to take off my skirt?”
“More than that. At your
age and looks, there is only one option.” She looked at me intently,
then suddenly broke into a knowing smile. “I want every stitch off.”
Slowly but surely every item came off revealing a firm, curvaceous, fit
body. “You look very fit?”
“I play tennis two or three
times a week. There are some really good-looking guys down the tennis
club! Perhaps that’s why my
husband thinks I am flirtatious.” She gave me a knowing look.
“Put your hands on your
head and feet apart,” I ordered when she was naked. The full breasts
raised up a bit, but clearly were straining under the weight. I brushed
my hand over her bottom; it was delightfully firm and well worthy of the
cane. Next, I ran the back of my hand between her legs; it was very wet
and made her body tremble.
“I hope you are a good
lover,” she asked with excitement in her voice.
“You will soon find out,
but first I am looking forward to thrashing that delectable bottom of
yours. Twelve hard strokes.”
I led her to the chairs, made her kneel on the
first and put her elbows on the far one. Now the apex of her fabulous
bottom was the highest point of her body. Her legs were well apart, and
I could see her getting wetter and wetter. I left her in that position
and went over to the gas fire to light it. I watched the elements slowly
begin to glow red, then went to the cupboard to collect the cane.
I looked at the full, firm, round, unblemished bottom. It was one of the
finest that I had even thrashed. I laid a hard stroke right across the
crest of her bottom and watched the angry red tram line appear. Samantha
gave a yelp then a sob. She gripped the far side of the chair so tight I
could see her fingers go white. Her body trembled for a few seconds and
between her legs became visibly wetter. The temptation to mount her
there and then was strong but I was going to finish the job in hand. The
second stroke landed an inch below the first and the second line rapidly
appeared. I was in absolutely no hurry; thrashing this lovely
lady was an exquisite pleasure. After each stroke, I allowed the
trembling of her buttocks to subside then judged the next stroke
carefully. By the end of the sixth stroke, she was crying openly. I
admired my handiwork then moved my hand between her legs. Her clitoris
was fully enlarged, and I stroked it gently. It took less than a minute
to make her body explode with pleasure; her juices exploded all over my
hand. But I kept stroking until her spasms had ebbed away completely.
“Stay there,” I ordered her and went to the bathroom to wash my hands.
Back by her again, I picked up the cane again. She was now in some type
of pool of ecstasy and each stroke seemed to take her to a higher level,
despite her tears. The tenth stroke finally caused her body to explode
in another massive orgasm. I had to hold her to stop her falling off the
chair. As soon as the trembling ceased, I applied the final two strokes.
Then I threw down the cane and stood her up. She threw her
arms around me and almost squeezed me to death. Tears flowed down her
cheeks, but she kissed me with an extraordinary passion. Her hips ground
over my member with almost immediate effect. I hardly remembered getting
undressed or did she strip me? Not long after we were on the sheep skin
rug, in front of the gas fire, making intense and animalistic love. I
lost track of her orgasms but was pretty sure that I had fired deep into
her at least twice.
Half an hour later, I lay on my back on the rug; she lay beside me, her
head cradled on my shoulder. She looked at me, “My God, what happened to
me? I have never experienced sex like it. I never knew women could have
that type of orgasm. You certainly proved you were a good lover.”
I turned my head and looked
at the large full breasts, with throbbing red nipples on top. “You have
a body worthy of such sex. Don’t complain.”
“I am not. I just cannot
believe what you have just done to me.” Despite that, she was soon
dressed, make-up back in place, skirt and jacket heaving under the
immaculate curves. The taxi was called, and she headed back to London to
show her striped bottom to her husband.
Two months later, Bernard arrived with both
his parents in tow. No mention was made of our tryst, not a wink of
recognition from her. It was as if it never happened and it never
happened again. We were as two ships in the night.
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