I sat on the cold wooden bench outside Mr. Anderson’s office trying to control myself. I was shivering uncontrollably, not from the cold or because I was afraid of the punishment I was about to receive. I was shivering because I was so aroused at the thought of what I was about to do.
I certainly fit the profile of a troubled teen but I wasn’t one. I was the unwanted child of a teenage mother, who had worked as a nurse at the local orphanage, which I now referred to as the town’s “lost and found”. Only she knew who my father was. When news spread throughout the community of her unplanned pregnancy she made a public declaration that she would raise me take responsibility for her actions. As was expected, two days after my birth she left me in an office with a letter.
Granny, as she was affectionately known, was the senior doctor at the orphanage who adopted me as her own. Granny was the matriarch of our affluent farming community and now eighteen years later she was the director of the orphanage and worked as a secretary at St Augustine’s College, the prestigious private boarding school that I had attended. An unknown benefactor paid my school and boarding fees as soon as I was old enough to enroll. Everyone assumed the mysterious benefactor must be my father. He called himself Montgomery Burns much to our excitement, until we realized there was no record of the name and were later informed that “Montgomery Burns” was in fact the full name of Mr Burns of the TV show “The Simpson’s.”
I was startled when Granny stopped typing and spoke to me as if from within my own thoughts.
“You may go in now dear.” She said without looking up, obviously not pleased that I had been sent to Mr. Anderson for the second time in 6 weeks.
My legs did not seem to want to move, as I stood walked down the corridor to the door with the gold plaque that read “Principal”. I entered quietly. Mr. Anderson was sitting on the edge of his desk, his right leg crossed over the other, filing his thumbnail. It was not quite the whip-cracking, pistol-shooting, whore-fucking behavior the sheriff Anderson on my fantasies exhibited.
I didn’t know much about Mr. Anderson other than that he spoke with authority and commanded respect. I assumed he was in his mid thirties; he was too old to be my big brother and yet not quite old enough to be my father. He was a little taller than average with dark brown hair and the kind of muscles one earned only through an honest hard days work. He taught the boys carpentry and coached the school’s first team rugby side, which were ranked 3rd in the country. I always woke up early and stayed late into the afternoons, to watch him run around in his shorts, his hot breath like steam in the cold morning air. He must think I have a crush on one of the boys, and so too did some of the boys think I was there to watch them. I straightened those boys out by explaining simply that just because a stallion is a magnificent animal does not mean I want to ride one. In truth it was not a young stallion that I was after, but the more elusive, unpredictable old bull.
“Please sit,” Mr. Anderson commanded, glancing at me for the first time as he rounding his desk and sat down.
I did as I was told and sat on the edge of the bulbous brown leather couch. I pulled my pleated tweed skirt taught across the tops of my thighs and opened my legs just wide enough that if he cared to look he would see my cotton panties. I sat up straight and arched my back pressing my nipples against the flimsy white fabric of my school shirt. My shiny black hair was tied in a ponytail in accordance with the school’s dress code. I wanted to yank it free and toss it around before letting it tumble down to my breasts, like they do in shampoo ads on TV.
He started the speech that he had obviously prepared but I wasn’t listening. I instead watched him and tried to figure out where he was looking. As he rambled on about attitudes and responsibilities I noticed he was slowly leaning back further and further, almost slouching, which was unusual for a man as disciplined as Mr. Anderson. I spread my legs a little wider and almost immediately he sat up and changed his tone.
“You know why you’re here, and yet I don’t. You’re a beautiful, smart young lady…”
My heart skipped a beat and I felt the embarrassing heat rising in my cheeks as I blushed. I knew I was popular with the boys my age, that would do anything to squeeze a tit, but I’d never guessed that a man of Mr. Anderson’s stature and experience would consider me beautiful. He also right about me being smart. I was first in every class I’d ever been in all whilst captaining the 1st Hockey team since grade 10. I also dabble in gymnastic but just for fun, and to watch the boys blatantly gawk at my supple body. I pawn the medals I win for cash.
Mr. Anderson had stopped talking. I looked up at him in time to see his eyes glimmer with intent.
“You know what to do,” He said sternly.
“Yes sir” I replied almost too enthusiastically.
That was my cue. I was supposed to stand and place my hands flat on his desk where he would then slap my knuckles with his cane.
That however is not what I did. I took my punishment like one of the boys, not as an act of rebellion but because it was what I wanted, what I craved.
Since he hadn’t stopped me last time, I stood and walked around to the back of the couch while he snapped open the ornate ivory case that he kept his cane in.
I stood with my hips against the back of the couch, only this time, I hooked my thumbs into the delicate ribbon and lace waistband of my sheer baby blue cotton panties and slid them halfway down my thighs. I then bent forwards, flipped my skirt up over my arched back and with my head resting on the seat of the couch presented my toned, supple eighteen-year-old bottom to the sky. Mr. Anderson stood watching, mindlessly stroking his cane.
My mouth was open and my breathing was fast and heavy. My mind swirled with arousal and I imagined David Attenbourgh behind a pot plant in the corner of the room describing my behavior.
“This fertile young female is obviously in heat as she assumes a submissive posture and presents her genitalia in the hopes that the Alpha male will stuff her full of cock”
Maybe not that last part.
My whole body was trembling and I could feel the warmth in and around my pussy. I can only imagine the sight that greeted Mr. Anderson as he positioned himself to administer his first strike. I keep the soft back hairs of my bush neatly trimmed but had shaved my labia bald especially for the occasion.
Thwack!
I felt the sting instantly and my eyes began to water. Mr. Anderson wasn’t holding back
Thwack!
He timed his strokes with precision, so that just when the pain began to fade the next one hit.
Thwack!
I would have regretted my decision if the numb throbbing had not begun to kick in.
Thwack!
The pleasure was now starting to out weigh the pain as I felt the familiar aching build-up in my abdomen. All I needed was one more to send me over the edge.
Thwack!
It wasn’t immediate but it was coming, I was Cumming. By now my pussy was pouting and my wet pink flesh dribbled pussy juice like a ripe fruit. I wished I could reach back and rub my clit. My pussy squelched as it throbbed, my orgasm radiating through me in hot waves of pleasure. If I hadn’t been so aroused I might have been self-conscious about the milky secretions trickling out of my hole, running down my lips and dripping off my clit into my panties.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Anderson asked his voice softening.
A breathy “Yes” was all I could muster.