Suzanne’s lesson

Suzanne’s lesson.


“What is it this time Suzanne?”

“Smoking in the toilets, Sir.” She stood in front of his desk, one hip thrust forward, deliberately provocatively.

Mr. French sighed in resignation of an on-going and unfathomable problem. It seemed that he and this particular young lady were having these chastisement meetings rather more frequently than he would like.

“Adopt the position.”

Suzanne was a problem, a constant problem. At Saint Agnes School for girls, she was the misfit. Her fifteen year old head carried knowledge that was, by far, much too knowing for her years. She had a natural beauty, cherry red lips and blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes that looked as if they were coated with mascara. Her body had already filled out to a womanly form, and, being an asset, was flaunted at every opportunity. It didn’t take a clairvoyant to know that her future would be in an industry that took full advantage of her looks and figure. It wasn’t a huge step to visualise that, with her intelligence and guile, she would be heading the venture.

The uniform at Saint Agnes’s was quite strict, a cotton blouse with a breast pocket on the left, the school logo and motto embroidered on it. A green on green, wrap-over tartan kilt, complete with traditional pin and thin leather belt, threaded through hoops at the waist, knee high white cotton socks and black, flat pumps. The kilt was supposed to finish at the knee, but Suzanne’s never seemed to reach that far. Hers was nothing short of a mini-skirt and her blouse, instead of being the chaste garment that it was supposed to be, always seemed stretched, the buttons barely clinging on to the buttonhole and always threatening to fly apart, exposing her bra clad breasts beneath.

Suzanne carried the brand, “Trouble”, or “Oh god, not her again?” amongst the staff. Whatever disturbances going on, it was a certainty that Suzanne would be somewhere near the bottom of it. She had a natural tendency to leadership, but her gift for mischief more often lead to a fellow student bearing the brunt of the fall out.

Mr. French’s attention returned to the wayward student in front of him.

“I told you to adopt the position.”

He waited, with ruler in hand, for her to offer her palm for the usual three smacks administered as punishment for her transgressions. Instead, Suzanne lent forward, bending at the waist and then, planted her hands on her knees before slowly sliding her hands down her legs until she grasped her ankles. Her kilt rose at the back, it was no accident that her ass cheeks were fully displayed, her white cotton briefs covering her cleft in a tight vee-shape.

He was immediately angry at her deliberate disrespect and lunged forward, swinging the boxwood ruler until it met flesh with a resounding slap. Suzanne squealed, flinched, but maintained her position, hands gripping ankles and her ass in the air, with a vivid red weal rising on her pink skin.

Irrationally, the sight inflamed Mr. French even more; his next strike was very much harder, carrying his weight behind it. This time, Suzanne yelled aloud and uncoiled to stand, gripping her ass as if it were on fire. He was satisfied with the result and the tears in her eyes, his anger passed as suddenly as it had sprung up.

“Sit down.” He growled at her and was pleased at how gingerly she managed to sit on the seat in front of his desk.

“What am I going to do with you eh?” He sat on the opposite side of his desk, exasperated and realising the futility of beating this incorrigible girl.

Suzanne saw he opening.

“I can think of one or two things.” The unsaid was more than obvious, translated in her enigmatic smile, even though tears trickled down her cheeks. “Why is it, do you think, I am so regularly here to be punished?” Her smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “It isn’t that I like being smacked with your… ruler.” She turned in her seat, uncrossing her legs so that he would be able to see her panties in the gap her short kilt would allow. Her smile widened as she watched as his eyes dropped to her snatch. She knew she had him at her mercy.

Mr. French knew he was in trouble. He had struck a pupil in an unseemly place, the welt on her ass would prove testament to his guilt. He had struck in anger rather than chastisement, further guilt and now, his eyes were beholding a possibility that was very much further than he was allowed to go.