Miss Jones

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1995-2009 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

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Miss Jones

(*****, Fm/mF, Severe, nc caning)

A beautiful teacher helps a shy boy become a man. (Approximately 6,184 words. Originally published 2006-01.)

I was one of the quiet ones. I sat in the middle, along one side. Never in the front where I'd be noticed, and not at the back, where the troublemakers tried to hide. I was in Forgottenland, the aisle no one noticed. I did my work, mostly B's, with the occasional A or C depending on my interest. I rarely spoke and never volunteered. I just wanted to be invisible.

It worked well until my fifteenth year. Girls were my secret passion. No one knew, of course. I was careful. I kept my head down and I certainly didn't let anyone see me looking. But I looked. I looked all the time.

That was the year I first met Miss Jones. She was my American Lit teacher. At first when I met her I wasn't impressed. After all, she was _old_. Twenty-four. She was of medium height, slender, with a pretty face. Lots of nice white teeth, very straight. Her eyes were bright bluish-green, and they sparkled when she smiled, which was often. Her lips were small and thin and very cute. She wore her blonde hair tied up in back and pulled away from her face. She wore pantsuits, slacks with a jacket, or long formal skirts -- very professional career-woman clothing. I didn't really notice much, though I knew she was pretty.

What intrigued me were skimpy cheerleader skirts, tight jeans, or the infamous girls who wore tight tees with no bra. Compared to that, Miss Jones didn't have a chance. Or so I thought.

As the school year progressed, I fell in love. The cheerleaders, I discovered, as well as most of the sluts in the school, were airheads, bags of wind with no brains at all. All they talked about were clothes and makeup and boys. They wouldn't give me the time of day. Miss Jones, on the other hand, read poetry and novels and philosophy. When she talked about Thoreau, you got the impression she had known him personally. When we read Camus, she didn't just pretend to understand -- she actually understood. I was in awe.

That was my downfall. I began to want to be noticed, to catch her attention, to impress her. My essays were twice the required length, and when we read _The Stranger_ I went and read everything else Camus wrote. I even participated in class, raising my hand and answering a question or two, rewarded by her beaming smile with those twinkling eyes. I often stayed after the bell rang to ask her a question or two, usually a challenging one to show her my intelligence.

Foolish boy I was. Once noticed, you cannot remain hidden. Exposed in one area, I was visible in others as well. Miss Jones knew me as a good student, one eager to learn, with a bright mind capable of understanding complex thought. But that also meant she knew I was in the room, that I existed.

The day the water balloon was handed to me by Eric, I took it like an idiot, staring at it, wondering what it was. I mean, I knew what it was, but what was I doing with it? It was only for a fraction of a second, but that was more than enough time for the other balloon to explode into the blackboard where Miss Jones was writing, soaking her and erasing the text.

I was standing, trying to give the balloon back to Eric, when she turned. I looked up, terrified. Her eyes met mine and I saw shock and anger there. She knew me, all right. I tried to explain, to give the balloon back, but there was no explaining, especially after several uninflated balloons were found in my bookbag. I was toast.

But Miss Jones was merciful. Rather than send me to the Head for a thrashing, she asked me to visit her after school. I knew she would cane me -- there was no other possibility -- but she'd do it herself and spare me the indigity of the Headmaster notifying my parents.

I was terrified. The thought of being caned frightened me immobile. I sat at lunch, unable to eat, unable to think, my stomach churning at the thought of the nightmare situation I'd gotten myself into. I remembered seeing the faces of boys who'd been caned, big tough boys, seniors even, their eyes red from crying, their walk stiff.

Those boys always laughed it off later, but their voices were overloud, the laughter forced. In the lockers at gym a boy showed his stripes with pride, and he was much admired if the welts were deep purple, the sign of a "tight" caning.

I lived in fear of the rod. I'd never been corporally punished in my life. The whole idea frightened me beyond reason. I avoided all pain. Even the annual flu shot had me weak in the knees.

A caning was supposed to be taken bravely, with obedience, and without vocalization or protest. Only wimps couldn't stay in position for their cuts. This was the unwritten code; I didn't dare fail or I'd be the laughingstock of the school. Somehow I'd have to face my punishment stoically and take it like a man.

The balance of the day passed like an uncomfortable bowel movement. My stomach clenched all afternoon, aching horribly, and everyone I passed I thought knew my plight and was mocking me. If someone glanced at me it was of course to laugh; if I was ignored, it was because they were laughing at me behind my back. In the end, when the final bell rang, I was almost grateful, because at least now my doom would be over.

As students of all ages raced passed me, laughing and talking, eager to escape the restrictive confines of the cement structure, I alone made my way inward, toward the school, toward a classroom, toward my death. I watched the others go never realizing what a privilege it was to leave. How many times had I departed these grounds without a thought? But not today. Today I remained behind. There was business to conduct.

I wasted as much time as I dared. I spoke with a teacher about an upcoming assignment, I took the long way to my locker where I put my books away, keeping only those I needed for homework that night. I went to the restroom -- twice! But finally, there was no more time to delay. I couldn't put it off any longer or I'd be even worse trouble. Though I feared Miss Jones' cane, I'd much rather be punished by her than by the Headmaster.

As I approached Miss Jones' classroom, my heart began thump loudly. My breathing became hampered. My mouth was dry. My legs didn't seem to want to work. For a full minute I stood outside her door, afraid to knock. I thought of running away, not just from school, but from home. I could leave everything, find my way to Philadelphia where my cousin lived. He was older and had his own apartment. I'd always looked up to him. Surely he'd let me stay. I could clean and cook meals. I could get a job, save some money, finish school by correspondence.

The door suddenly opened and there she stood. Miss Jones. She was taller than me by several inches, but in my current circumstance I felt tiny and she towered over me. Her expression was one of annoyance, her eyes blazing. She wore a tight navy blue dress that showed off her slender figure wonderfully. Her breasts were even with my eyes and for some bizarre reason they seemed like weapons, ready to poke out my eyes. I couldn't stare at them, I didn't dare look at her face, so I stared at the floor in shame.

"There you are. I was just about to go to the Headmaster to report you missing!"

Somehow I was inside. The door closed behind us with a finality that sent a shiver down my back. I looked up and there, on her desk, was the long brown cane. It was old and warped, no longer straight. It looked hard and cruel, unforgiving. The sight of it, so real and no longer an imagined demon, broke something in me. Suddenly I wilted.

"Oh please, Miss Jones!" I literally fell to my knees in terror, my hands folded together in a plea for mercy. My eyes watered with tears. The detailed, rational explanation I'd so carefully elaborated and practiced all afternoon vanished from my head and all I could do was kneel there, sobbing and begging.

In retrospect, that was clearly a mistake. Instead of softening her heart my cowardice angered her. Her eyes flashed sparks at me, her lip curling into a scowl of distaste.

"Get up, you naughty boy!" she growled. "Get up right now! I am going to cane you, and cane you _hard_. You shall feel it, I promise you. I will teach you to throw water balloons in class. After today you will wince whenever you _see_ a water balloon. You will remember this thrashing for the rest of your life!"

I don't remember much of what happened next. Somehow I was in position, bent across her desk for a thrashing. I was already weeping -- I couldn't stop myself -- when I felt her hands on my pants. I froze, unable to stop her, as she undid my belt. My jeans slid down leaving only underwear to protect my tender bottom.

"Buck up, boy!" she cried, and I felt the hard rod tapping my butt. "Shut off that faucet and take your licking like a man. Come on now. Lean forward, legs straight, bottom high. That's better."

The cane rubbed my buttocks, brushed along the back of my thighs. I trembled, terrified. My ass felt horribly exposed, only a thin layer of white cotton brief protecting my bare skin from the sight of the woman. My penis was in as horribly a confused state as the rest of me: near nudity in front of a beautiful woman gave me a raging hard-on, but the prospect of a painful caning made me shrink miserably.

"Listen to me. You will _not_ get up. Do you understand? You will stay in position and take your caning until I've finished with you. If you rise up, try to block blows with your hands, or anything else, I'll give you extras. And stop blubbering! I don't like noisy boys, so you take this thrashing _silently_, do you hear me? No yelling and crying and carrying on like a baby. You're fifteen and that's plenty old enough to take a thrashing in a dignified manner like an adult."

I was stunned by these requirements, for I knew, I just knew I couldn't meet them. I'd been haunted all afternoon by the mystery of how many strokes I could expect: surely six would be enough? It was a first offense, after all. Maybe eight if she was particularly upset? But it had never occurred to me I might earn _extra_ for not taking my caning bravely!

Oh Lord, I thought, six might become eight, or eight ten or twelve! Horrors!

"Bend right over, keep that bottom good and tight. That's right, arch your back and thrust the buttocks upward. Good. Now stay like that, just like that."

There was a moment of silence and I sensed the woman was no longer near me. I didn't dare turn around, though I was tempted. What was happening? What was--

There was a ripping sound like fabric tearing and a searing pain assaulted my butt. Distantly I heard the rifle crack echoing around the room.

"AHHHHHH!" I was on my feet, my hands clutching my bottoms, and I howled like a wolf at midnight. I didn't say anything coherent, I just screamed. I leaped up and down, from foot to foot. My jeans were abandoned. Tears poured from my bulging eyes and I rubbed my scorched bottom furiously, flabbergasted at the amount of pain from just one stroke.

"Hey! What did I just tell you? Are you deaf, boy? Get back over that desk! Right now!"

The tip of the long rod tapped none-to-gently at the back of my legs, urging me back into position the way a shepard might guide a sheep.

"I'm sorry, Miss," I panted. "I tried to stay down but I... I've never felt anything like that in my life!"

"Hurt, did it?"

"Oh yes, Miss. Horribly!"

She smiled at me the way a mother smiles at a silly but amusing thing a child says. "That was nothing. I wasn't even swinging hard. A real stroke hurts ten times worse."

"You can't be serious!"

"Of course I am. I had worse thrashings when I was eight. Now get back over that desk and thrust out your bottom. I'm not going to count that one, and if you don't hurry, we'll be here all night."

I wanted to know, but I didn't want to know. But I had to know. "Miss Jones, please, how... how m-m-many?"

"For throwing a water balloon in my class? I ought to give you a dozen of the best!"

My knees faltered and I nearly hit the ground. I grabbed at the desk and managed to hold myself up. "You can't be serious, Miss Jones. I can't take twelve, not like that. I can't!"

Her pretty face frowned thoughtfully, and she sighed. "All right. This is obviously your first caning, so we'll make it eight. You'll take eight properly and that's all you'll receive. But no more of this jumping around stuff. Stay in position and keep that mouth shut. We'll start with this one. Come on, back in position."

My buttocks were tingling fiercely, but the pain was a fine line across the cheeks now. Before it had felt like she's slashed open a vein. Bending over stretched the injured flesh and it hurt, but I did it anyway, scarcely daring to believe this was happening to me. Dolefully I presented my hurt bottom for more pain.

There was a swish and a thud and agony flooded through me. I couldn't believe how much it hurt. Before I knew it I was dancing around the room again, my hands furiously rubbing my bottom.

"Enough! Now stop that! I'm not counting that and you've just earned an extra for disobedience. Get back in position _now_! We've got nine strokes to go!"

Sobbing, I tried to comply, I really did. But the cane was horrible. I'd never felt such furious fire. I'd heard guys describe the blows of the cane as "cuts" and I now realized how accurate that term described the sensation. Every stroke felt like a cut. I _had_ to feel my bottom cheeks to convince myself I wasn't bleeding. It was horrible.

I found myself in a corner, huddling, trying to keep my bottom as far from that rod as I could. "Please, Miss, please," I moaned.

Miss Jones was genuinely angry. I couldn't bear look at her. She was furious.

"Get out here this instant!" she roared, slashing the cane through the air. I whimpered but didn't move. "I cannot believe you. Here I go out of my way to be decent to you, to handle this matter myself, not in front of class but after school, in private, and not send you to the Headmaster where he'd surely skin you bare! And what thanks do I get? You won't even accept your punishment like a man! You run and hide.

"Well that's it! If you wanted a thrashing from the Headmaster, you're going to get one. I'm going to go fetch him and he'll hold you down while I thrash you soundly, and when I'm finished it will be his turn. And you can bet he'll _start_ with a dozen of the best!"

The woman turned toward the door and I stood up, trembling. "No wait, please!"

"What is it?" She looked at me coldly, her eyes showing completely disdain.

"Miss, please. You don't know how much that thing hurts!"

Suddenly she was right in front of me. She looked so feminine and smelled so feminine that I was tremendously intimidated. I couldn't hardly look at her, my eyes darting everywhere.

"Look at me. LOOK at me!" Fingers of iron gripped my chin and forced my jaw in her direction. My eyes flickered but finally settled on hers. I stared, terrified.

"You think I don't know how much the cane hurts?" she said softly. "I had a strict father. I was first caned when I was eight years old. Four strokes, and I thought I'd die. By the time I was your age I could take a dozen without blinking. The school I attended was a strict religious institution with rules that make this place look like a paradise.

"Of course I know how much it hurts. I can imagine the kiss of the rod right now, with hardly any effort. I know how it bites and stings, how the pain seems to eat right through you, how you are positive you can't endure another stroke. But of course you do. You do because you have to, because it's punishment, and you're supposed to find it unbearable.

"That's what makes the cane such an effective means of discipline, boy. It hurts abominably, but you must accept it willingly. I could simply bind you to a chair and beat you, but what would you learn from that? Nothing, not a damn thing! No, the learning comes from accepting the pain, from _willing_ yourself through it. It hurts more than you can stand, but you do stand it, and through that process you learn. That's how you become an adult."

I sobbed, "I can't Miss, I can't. It hurts so bad. I can't stay still, no one could."

"Don't be ridiculous, lad! Every child I've thrashed since I came to this school has managed to stay in position. All except for you. Do you think your bottom's more sensitive than anyone else's?"

"I don't know, Miss."

"Is your bottom more sensitive than mine, a woman?"

I stared at her in bewilderment. She was confusing me. A woman's bottom was something sexy and forbidden and exciting. Imagining Miss Jones' being caned was unimaginable. Of course, she did have a fine bum and bent over for a caning, she'd be breathtakingly gorgeous....

"Come on, is it?"

I was supposed to answer her? My eyes went to the floor as I blushed furiously. "I wouldn't know, Miss."

"Oh come on, I'm a lady, a female, the weaker sex, right? I'm frail and helpless, right? I couldn't take one stroke of that cane let alone six, right?"

I shook my head, confused. Her sarcasm mocked me, but I couldn't help how I felt. That cane was awful -- she just didn't remember. "You--you haven't been caned in a long time," I blurted. "You don't remember how much it hurts."

"Oh really? How about we place a little wager on that?"

"Miss Jones?"

"I'll wager I can take six strokes of this cane and I won't make a sound or rise up."

I stared at her in astonishment. She was holding out the cane to me, daring me.

"Come on. Six as hard as you can make them. I won't make a sound."

"Miss, you're joking."

"I'm completely serious. You give me six. If I get up or make a sound, I'll let you off your caning."

My heart leaped in excitement. The idea of beating my teacher appealed to me, but the promise of escape of my punishment sent my heart soaring. I was free! I'd escaped my horrible fate!

"Let me understand this. I cane you six times. If you make a sound or get out of position, my punishment is over. No caning."

"That's correct."

"And you won't report me to the Headmaster or try to punish me tomorrow?"

"Of course not. A deal's a deal."

"What happens if you don't make a sound or get out of position."

"Ah. Well, then I get to thrash you double. Eighteen beauties across your bare bottom."

"What? You're crazy!"

"That's the offer. If you're so sure you can make me cry, then what do you have to lose?"

I paused, lost in thought. It was a tempting proposal. I knew how badly the cane stung. There was no way she'd endure it, surely. But if she did... shit, I couldn't take _eighteen_ strokes!

"Wait. You're much older than me," I said slowly. "That's not fair. You can handle pain better than me. I'm only fifteen."

She smiled. "That's a valid point. All right. We'll make it ten strokes, same deal."

"And you're wearing a dress. I've only got my underwear on. The caning should be on underwear."

Miss Jones glared at me. "I am not undressing for you, little horny boy. No way. The deal stands, take it or leave it."

Damn it, I'd been hoping! But I pressed my luck. "Then it's twelve strokes. Ten on panties or twelve over your dress."

She hesitated. "Fine. A dozen then. If you can't make me yelp or get out of position with twelve strokes, than I get to thrash your _bare_ bottom eighteen times."

Slowly I nodded, my mouth dry. I was feverishly excited. There was a sexual tension to this whole scenario, though I wasn't quite sure what it was. It wasn't like I was going to see Miss Jones naked or anything (and I sure hoped she wouldn't get to see me naked), but for some odd reason the prospect of lashing my beautiful teacher's bum with her cane turned me on something fierce!

I picked up the cane. It was long, much too tall to use as a walking stick. It came up to the level of my breast. It was thicker than I'd realized; it had seemed so frightfully whippy when Miss Jones was swinging it. I bent it and found it flexed easily. The wood was hard but bendy. No wonder it hurt so badly.

"Over the desk," I said, my mind spinning a little as I watched her obey. Her lithe form spread across the desk easily. She wore high heels which propped her buttocks up high. Bent at the waist, she placed her arms and chin on the desk. Her ass was easily the highest point of her body. The skin-tight dress clung to her figure revealing a wonderfully full and round bottom. I lined up the cane with the middle of her bum.

Taking back the rod, I stepped away and took several practice swishes. It felt good. I swung harder, and then harder still. Ouch. This woman's butt was going to sting!

I stepped forward and lined up the strike again. Then I pulled back and delivered what I thought was a solid blow. It struck hard across her seat, impacting with a dull "splat." Take that Miss Jones, I thought gleefully.

But to my disappointment, there was no reaction at all from the teacher. She didn't move a muscle. Her buttocks remained just as pert and perfectly formed as before, and she certainly didn't make a sound.

"Would you like me to count?" she said dryly. "That was one."

Angered by her nonchalance, I really let her have it with the second blow. This one was at least twice as hard. It landed a little lower, in the plumpest portion of her rear cheeks. The crack of the cane as it snapped across her haunches was deafeningly loud, like a firecracker in a barrel. I half-expected her to rise up with a yelp, her hands grabbing her ass in agony.

But no. She merely said, "That was two." Her voice didn't even have a tremor of suppressed emotion in it. Suddenly my belly twisted and I began to worry. Could I have made a terrible mistake?

Then rage overtook me. Of course not. I had a ten strokes to go and if I couldn't make her squeal with ten strokes, I deserved to lose. Not that that was going to happen, of course. There was no way she'd take ten more like the last one. She was bluffing.

I laced into her with a cracker, really low, across the tops of her thighs. It was a scorcher, stingingly my own hands with the force of the blow. But Miss Jones' buttocks merely shifted from side to side and I heard her say, "That was three."

It was a poker voice: it told me nothing. Enraged, I whacked the cane down three times in a row, each blow harder than the previous. I saw her stiffen as the blows rained down one after the other, three hard cuts in less than three seconds. After a brief pause, her neutral voice came back. "That was four, five, and six."

She was faking it. She had to be. No one could take such agony so calmly. I could _feel_ how much every stroke hurt. The welts raised had to be furious, livid red and purple things. How could she stand it? I'd given her six -- half the dose -- and she was still smiling. I had to do something.

"You're cheating," I said.

"What?"

"I don't know how you're doing it, but somehow you're cheating. Maybe you've got Novocaine injected into your butt. You're all numb."

"Don't be absurd."

"But it's not having any effect. I hit you as hard as I can and you aren't even in pain."

"On the contrary, young man, I'm in absolute agony. My bum is roasting. You've put on some decent lines there. Those last three were most impressive: very tight."

"But--but you don't look like you're hurting."

"That's because I'm willing myself to remain calm and in position. It's not easy, but it's doable."

I wasn't convinced. "Maybe you've got on leather panties or something. Or some padding."

Miss Jones sighed. "May I rise up for a moment?"

I shrugged. "Yeah."

"If I show you my bottom will that convince you I'm not faking anything?"

I stared. I didn't even have to nod. She carefully began lifting her dress. When she got it up to her waist, I realized why she hadn't wanted to be caned over her panties -- she wasn't wearing any underwear!

As the dress went up, first I saw the glorious pale flesh of thighs, twin columns of flawless, buttery skin. Her thighs swelled up to two amazing orbs of round buttock, the cheeks a thousand times better than my imagination had envisioned. The cheeks were full and round, the crevice between the two mounds deep and dark. The flesh itself was pale and smooth, except across the middle and lower portions where a series of crimson weals each about the thickness of a human finger spanned both cheeks. On the right side several of the welts were turning bluish, something I knew from locker room experience was an indication of a most severe strike. Already each weal was raised, the angry flesh looking intensely sore.

I stared at the mass of empurpled flesh with my jaw hung open. "Oh my God," I breathed. I was in awe, both of Miss Jones' most perfect behind, and the incredible welting covering the fair cheeks. "Did I just do that?"

"Most certainly," said the woman, primly replacing her dress. It was tight and took her a few moments, but soon she was as before. "As I said, you did a fine job. You may not know how to take a caning, but you are a quick learner when it comes to delivering one." She looked at me over one shoulder. "Shall we continue? I believe there are six more to go?"

Suddenly I was nervous and frightened. "Uh, Miss, perhaps this wasn't such a good idea--"

"If you'd prefer, I can begin your eighteen right now."

My mouth was void of moisture. I stammered, "N-no-no, I d-didn't mean that. I mean... look, why I don't I take the nine strokes you were going to give me and we'll call it even."

Miss Jones stared at me, her bluish-green eyes mesmerizing me. "And what do I get out of that deal? I endure six frightful cuts for what? Nothing. No, if you want to stop, we shall, but I shall give you eighteen strokes not nine."

"Miss Jones, please! It's not fair: you... you don't hurt at all when I hit you."

"On the contrary lad, I hurt every bit as much as you, but I don't show it. Now come on. Six more, with feeling. Let's finish up so I can thrash your bare bum."

I took up the cane with dread now. I felt a depression on me. There was no way I could break her: she was immune to pain. I would deliver six more cuts and she'd win and then I'd be faced with eighteen... eighteen! strokes of the cane. I didn't know how I'd bear it.

Anger coursed through me and I resolved that I wouldn't give up without a fight. I'd make her pay for those eighteen, make her pay dearly. Gripping the cane with all my strength I delivered the hardest cut yet. I delivered it low, right at the base of her bottom, where it's the plumpest, and I saw her back quiver slightly. Her buns shifted from side to side and I knew I'd hurt her a bit.

"Feel that one?" I asked.

"Yes, I did," she said with a deep sigh.

"Aren't you supposed to count?"

"Oh! Yes, of course. That was uh, seven."

I'd rattled her. With more confidence, I delivered the eighth right in the same place. There was no overt reaction, but I was learning to see the more subtle signs of pain. She froze, then slowly thawed, her buttocks shifting slightly. That had to be an indication of intense agony, I thought.

"That was eight."

I gave her a third cut in a row in the same place. Her head moved this time, shaking from side to side. She didn't make a sound and she didn't get up, but I knew she was hurting.

I was astonished at her bravery. How could she be so calm? It made me feel ashamed. I'd taken one stroke and I was sobbing like a baby. This woman had endured more than me and was still holding out well.

"That was nine."

Her voice was slightly uneven this time, perhaps a sign of tension. She was having to work at this now, and that gave me hope.

As I prepared for the next blow, she did something that surprised me.

"Do you have to go so damn low?" she muttered bitterly under her breath.

Realizing that striking low and in the same area was the key, I struck again in the same place, right into the crease between buttock and thigh. Miss Jones shifted her bottom this time. I thought I'd heard a slight gasp, but it was so faint I couldn't be sure. Her buttocks rolled as she quivered, agonized pain flowing through her body. But still she stayed down and still she didn't cry out. I was impressed.

"That was ten." Her voice was wavery.

Another strike in the same place. She froze, her body cringing, her buttocks trembling frantically. She remained like that for a long moment before she thawed and began to writhe, waving her agonized bum back and forth.

"That was eleven."

She tried to be calm, but her voice broke, the "eleven" coming out high-pitched and squeaky. I knew I had her. I could hear the tears in her voice. One more cut and she'd break, I just knew it!

I lined up the cane, aiming for that same tender spot at the base of her bottom. It was then I saw something that made me falter. Miss Jones' dress was dark blue, but across her bottom, right where I'd been caning, the material was a slightly darker shade. It was almost as if the lines I'd painted were visible through the dress! But as I studied the oddity I realized with shock that it wasn't the weal, exactly, for the darker area was only on the right side. No, it was a dark fluid oozing from the wound and staining her dress. My heart quivered when I realized what that meant: I'd drawn blood. Not much, perhaps, a little. I felt horrible. I felt cruel and worthless. Suddenly I felt like I deserved the thrashing Miss Jones had promised me.

Without taking time to think about it lest I change my mind, I swung the cane across the neglected middle of her rump. It was still a sound strike, the rod impacting the flesh with all the force I could muster, but it was a merciful blow, for I hadn't taken advantage of the dreadful weal across her lower orbs.

For a moment there was silence. Miss Jones wiggled her bottom a little, as though checking to see if it was still operational, then she said with a sigh, "That was twelve."

When she stood she blinked at me in puzzlement. I looked at the floor, glumly handing her the cane. I was terrified. My palms were sweaty. Then she lifted my head and kissed me on the lips, very gently.

"You'll be fine," she said. "Now take off your underpants."

I obeyed in a daze, still stunned by the kiss. To say I didn't feel the first few strokes of my beating would be a lie -- but they felt like they were happening to a distant part of me. Slowly the pain brought me back to reality, but by then I knew I could endure it. I'd watched Miss Jones endure the impossible, so why couldn't I?

She caned me hard. Not mercilessly, not the way I beat her, but soundly. It hurt. It hurt badly. I writhed, I wept, and I prayed for it to be over. But I did not run away. I did not scream and make a fuss. I held my position and gritted my teeth and endured. It was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do in my life. It took all my willpower. I used my guilt for the way I'd hurt Miss Jones, telling myself I deserved this pain, deserved far worse in fact, and forced myself to hold on.

Stroke after stroke came. It lasted forever. I lost count after the first six or so. I kept hoping each stroke would be the last though I knew there were many more to go. The pain built up and up. Miss Jones lashed all over my bottom, welting it thoroughly, but not being as cruel as I was and focusing on one single area. She did give me a few overlapping blows and the pain was mind-blowing. It made me sick to my stomach. I couldn't believe I'd done that to her. How in hell did she stand it?

She cut me low, right in the crease, an extremely hard flick that left a red hot glowing weal. I gritted my teeth and screamed inside, but kept my mouth shut. A reddish-purple haze drifted over my eyes. I opened them.

Miss Jones was congratulating me. "Well taken," she said. "Well taken."

I'd never have thought two such simple words would have meant so much. Without even thinking I fell into her arms weeping, not over the pain, but over the experience.

"I'm sorry," I moaned.

She laughed. "What about?"

"I hurt you, I hurt your bottom terribly."

"It will heal."

I shook my head. "You're bleeding, I drew blood."

"Oh really? That doesn't surprise me. You were... most effective. It surprised me. I was half-counting on the fact that you were so inexperienced your strokes wouldn't be very effective. That's why I agreed to the dozen. Serves me right."

"You aren't mad at me?"

"Mad? Of course not. It was a fair deal. You got yours, and I got mine. I suppose I'm a little too proud of my ability to take a thrashing without emotion, so you could argue that I got what I deserved. And you... you learned something, didn't you?"

"Oh yes Miss Jones."

"See? So it worked out for both of us."

I began to get dressed. It was a shock, but I'd completely forgotten I was standing there talking to my teacher half-naked! My buttocks were extremely sore, the pain pulsing along with my blood flow. When I palmed my butt I could feel thick weals crisscrossing the cheeks. But instead of feeling bad, I felt good. The marks represented something, something big. I'd come in a boy, but come out a man.

At the door I paused. "Miss Jones?"

"Yes?"

"That last stroke. I... If I'd given it low, would you have broken?"

She smiled a Mona Lisa smile at me, mysterious and sexy. "I guess we'll never know, will we?"

The End

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