Full Disclosure

A continuation of The End is in Sight

All I wanted was my husband to spank me.

I thought a naughty schoolgirl costume might encourage him to do exactly that, but it turned out discipline isn’t his kink. Not administering it, anyway. He would like to see my cheeks blush, but he wants to watch while someone else makes it happen.

And to my surprise, I’m turned on by the idea of an eighty-two-year-old stranger beating my bottom.

So I’m waiting outside Charles’ study, all dressed up in my knee socks and plaid miniskirt, while my husband drinks brandy with his former headmaster, Mr Forster, and explains the situation to him.

Mister Forster is the definition of old-school. I assume he has a first name, but I don’t think even Charles knows what it is. I certainly don’t; he didn’t speak to me at all when he arrived. Women are, I believe, beneath his notice, unless their bottoms require his attention.

If I’m called into the study, I’ll address him as ‘sir’. Not only because that seems appropriate from an ex-schoolgirl to an ex-teacher, but because he looks like a retired major. It’s partly the pencil moustache — as precise and clipped as his vowels — and partly his military bearing. There’s no indication of age in his demeanour: he carries himself ramrod-straight, and he marched into the study with Charles trailing behind him like an eager batman.

I don’t know what to expect. Charles said unruly pupils were spanked at his school, and I assumed that meant by hand. That’s what I want, I think: a firm hand. I doubt I could cope with anything more painful. But while Mr Forster wasn’t carrying a cane, he does have a belt, and he might have a strap hidden in his tweed jacket.

Fortunately, Charles cracks open the door before I can panic about the possibilities. “You can come in now, darling.”

Mr Forster’s voice booms out from the study. “Pearson! I thought I had taught a future leader of men, not a jellyfish who can’t even command a girl half his age!”

I’m only sixteen years younger than my husband but I won’t correct Mr Forster, for all sorts of reasons not least of which is him throwing open the door and looming over me.

I expect him to shout, but he speaks surprisingly quietly. “It seems Pearson’s good behaviour while in my charge has left a gap in his education. He needs to understand how punishment happens. Follow me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Charles stands aside to let me pass. I don’t know if it’s fear or excitement making me tremble as I’m led into the study, but having my husband behind me alleviates one of those emotions.

Mr Forster’s next command intensifies the other. “Tuck the back of your skirt into your waistband, lower your pants, and bend over the desk.”

I comply, tugging my knickers down to my knees and letting them fall to my ankles. Charles assured me that the bare bottom spankings his old headmaster administered weren’t sexually motivated, but were all about discouraging delinquency with shame. That fits: when I bend over, what I’m showing to this stranger ought to be more than enough to shame me.

But I’m not ashamed. Any confusion between fear and excitement has vanished. However Mr Forster feels about it, this scenario is undeniably, intensely, frustratingly sexual to me. I’m effectively offering myself to an old man, knowing he’ll give me nothing except the wrong kinds of heat and tenderness in return.

I brace myself for the first blow, expecting an explosion of pain… but there is none. I know Mr Forster’s hand made a solid connection — I heard the crack, and I gasped as my body jolted forward — but it was a dull impact, almost a shove. This is not the spanking I imagined: his hand leaves a faint warmth, but no pain.

Of course, the spankings I’ve imagined Charles delivering were erotic. He’d tenderly stroke my bottom between blows, sometimes slipping a hand between my legs to check I didn’t enjoy my punishment too much, or abandoning the spanking altogether, so his tongue could make certain I did.

But Mr Forster’s spankings aren’t sexual. There’s no tender stroking between blows, because there isn’t any ‘between’. There’s only another blow, immediately following the first. And then another. And another. And they keep coming.

They’re all similarly robust smacks, with no hint of senescence behind them, and none hurt any more than the first. But they all land in the same spot, and each adds its own heat, stoking a fire on my tender skin. My gasps become whimpers as pleasant warmth builds into a searing pain. And they keep coming.

The growing fire won’t stay on my bottom. Flames begin to lick between my legs, just as I imagined Charles doing, and I melt under their heat. Discipline may not be sexual to Mr Forster, but it’s creating a burning desire in me that I’ll need Charles to quench as soon as his headmaster leaves.

And still the spanking doesn’t end. With every fresh blow my need grows: my whimpers become guttural moans, the burning pain of my raw skin eclipsed by the ache in my cunt. I don’t even care if Mr Forster leaves any more; he can watch while Charles fucks me. Hell, he can fuck me himself if that’s what it takes, because I need a cock in me.

The distant realisation that I’ve so completely abandoned myself to arousal that I want to be fucked by a stranger — a sadistic, misogynist dinosaur of a man— puts a crack in a dam I wasn’t aware I’d built. And the next crack of Mr Forster’s hand on my butt demolishes the wall of that dam, releasing a flood of shame.

I have no whimpers or moans left now, only howling tears as a roiling torrent of disgrace sweeps through me, uprooting my dignity and leaving it in a snotty puddle on the mahogany.

My disintegration must have been the goal of Mr Forster’s discipline, because the spanking finally ends. There are no more blows. I lie limply across the desk, my sobs slowly subsiding.

There seems to be something like compassion locked deep beneath the headmaster’s rigid exterior, because he waits until my tears have ended before he speaks. “There, all done. The proper price has been paid, and forgiveness earnt. Stand up, and pull your pants up. Not all the way! Leave your buttocks exposed; your spanking may be over, but your scarlet shame is not. Stand in the corner, facing the wall, and reflect on your behaviour while I complete your husband’s education.”

I comply, but I discover the wall is not a mirror. It can’t show me the error of my ways. The wall is a blank surface on which I can write the truth: shame is not water. Shame is fuel. My shame didn’t extinguish the fire in my cunt, it fed it.

Mr Forster has thoughtfully positioned me so that I’m free to embrace this revelation. With my back to him, I can surreptitiously rub my clit while I imagine him pinning me to the wall with his wrinkled hands and fucking me with overwhelming military power.

Mr Forster’s voice distracts me from my fantasy. “Observe your wife’s shame, Pearson, scorching its brand onto her character. She is learning an important lesson. She’ll be a changed woman, mark my words, and I shall leave you properly equipped to deal with any recidivism. Assume the position.”

There’s a second of silence before Charles responds. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You heard me, boy. Trousers down, and over the desk! If you’re going to administer punishment, you need to know how it feels.”

The rustling sounds I can hear might be reluctant undressing.

Whatever Charles is doing, it horrifies Mr Forster. “My god, you’re a deviant!”

I risk looking round. My husband is standing with his pants around his ankles, trying vainly to tug his shirt down over his erection.

I’d giggle at that sight, but the headmaster turns his attention to me, and I freeze under the icy blast of his wrath. “And you, you filthy girl! You’re fiddling with yourself. Another damn pervert! Are you even his wife, or some young whore he hired to play the part? You should be locked up, the pair of you. I am leaving, Pearson. Do not contact me again!”

He storms out of the study, and I barely manage to suppress my giggles until the front door slams behind him.

I hear snorting behind me. My husband is leaning on his desk, his shoulders shaking with stifled laughter. I plant a playful smack on his bare bottom. “Bad boy! It seems we both enjoyed my punishment.”

Charles draws himself up, turns to me, and imitates Mr Forster’s clipped speech. “You enjoyed your disgrace, you filthy pervert? Clearly I shall have to employ some other method of punishment, one more appropriate to a shameless whore. Assume the position! I mean to take what Pearson paid for, and I forbid you to enjoy it.”

I don’t suppose this punishment will improve my behaviour either, because I fully intend to disobey the last part of his command. “Yes, sir!”

I strip off my knickers and bend over the desk again. I definitely deserve a good, hard fuck, but I might need something more to make me really behave. Perhaps Mr Forster was right, and I should be locked up.