11 May 2021

10 May 2021

In all my years as a sullen, mood-swingy, hormonal, pubescent I had never had to visit the Headmaster's Office so I didn't know whether to be excited or anxious. But I'm a perky, pokie, positive, post-pubescent in search of adventures and not someone who looks gift horses in their mouths. Besides I'm a consumer adult now, so I sashayed my way along the school corridors in my absolutely stunning, conspicuous adult, school uniform, a vision of jiggly breasticules, swaying buttocks, glinting tushy jewellery and sodden cuntedness. 

As I said, I'd never been to the Headmaster's Office before and I'd imagined something grander, maybe with wood panelling and chandeliers and a mahogany desk and a chaise longue covered in velveteen throws and stacked high with cushions and perhaps with an owl on a perch or portraits that talked and suchlike. So it was really disappointing to discover that it looked just like every other room in the school with its peeling grey/green institutional paintwork and grime smeared windows. It sucked. And the suckiest thing of all the suckiest things in that room was Ms Harridan, with her skanky cardigan, milk-curdling face, and her 'hamster cage after you haven't cleaned it out for two weeks' breath. So I was really pleased when Headmaster Crotchety invited me into his private office. 

Which was just as sucky as the other room but let's not go through all that again. But none of it was as sucky as Headmaster Crotchety who not only didn't offer me a seat but just went on and on about uniforms and standards and bitch-whores and nubile teen temptresses and enlarged members and Mr Carpenter wanking in the staff loos as if I hadn't had to stand and listen to Miss Crossface say exactly the same things. Rather than listening, I was busy trying to push the remote control, vibrating, princess plug out of my tushy before sucking it back in again which was much more fun than listening to all those spewy, boring words. 

Yet he just kept talking; words, words and yet more words; government pilot, horny harlot, victorian values, legal lolita, decorum and discipline, over-sexed strumpet, corporal punishment, bubble-headed bimbo, staff room now, prick-teaser, public humiliation, and the more he talked the more my twitchy fingers absent-mindedly stroked through my sodden-cuntedness. Blabbedy-blab-blab, stroke, swirl, caress, blabbedy-blab-blab, flick, dip, thrust, and pretty soon all I could really hear was the yummy squelching of my sodden-cuntedness. So it was a bit of a shock when Headmaster Crotchety's wrinkled, hairy, man-hand slapped hard against my gorgeously, squidgy, rounded, botty-cheek. 

What the actual fuck? And again on my other, perfectly innocent, cheek of wiggle-flesh. And then he pushed me out of the room, hand smacking at my exposed buttocks, driving me before him, a firm whack at each step, tremors rippling through my arse to my thighs and the twinging, throbbing, heated, shower nozzle hidden between them. 

Now I may have mastered and mistressed the twin arts of standing up and walking in five-inch, spiky-spiked, killer heels, but even for a perky, pokie, sodden-cunted, teen-angel with stinging-bee lips, wiggling and hippy-swaying whilst having your tushy swatted at every step was a challenge. And before you could say 'inevitable punishment scene of delinquent teenager approaching', I found myself being pushed through a door and into a packed staff room. And who would of guessed the school had that many staff? 

The next thing I knew I was bent at the waist, face down, over a large table and my pleated, flicky, micro mini-skirt would have been pulled up around my waist if it wasn't there already, and my panties would have been down around my ankles though fortunately, I wasn't wearing any, and my swollen, engorged, nublets of pleasure were rubbing themselves across the rough wooden surface, and I was thinking that Mr Carpenter wouldn't have been happy with the sanding finish on it, but then I remembered I was a girl and girls did Domestic Science and weren't allowed in the mad, bad, crazy, dangerous world of Woodworking. 

And all around me was a hubbub of loud, shouty voices and some of the teachers had their cocks out of their trousers and were giving them a bit of manual handling, and some of them had their skirting around their waists and their panties around their knees and their thrusty fingers buried in their sopping snatches, and some of the readers at home had taken advantage of this brief pause to give their genitalia some necessary attentive strokes.

Yet still it was all yak, yak, yak. Someone wanted to know whether they got to 'gangbang the silly slut' and someone else thought that maybe 'the silly slut would look better cum coated' and someone else wondered whether 'the silly slut took it in all her fuckholes' and someone else wondered whether 'the silly slut was an anal virgin and maybe we should all dump our loads in her arse' and one of the womeny teachers wondered whether 'the silly slut was an experienced rug muncher or did she need training', and throughout Headmaster Crotchety kept going on and on about this was a spanking storyline and that was all, and that everyone would have a turn and could use whatever implements they wanted and that nice Ms Honeychild the Creative Studies teacher would 'go first just to warm the silly slut up'. 

At which point all the readers put their todgers and twats away to save them for another day. 

As they yakked I was busy wondering who the silly slut might be as I rubbed my gorgeous, pleasuredomes of squidgyness across the rough wooden surface, my pert pokies sensitive to every grainy imperfection and my sodden-cuntedness giving pleasing squirts of pleasure at every arboreal caress. So it came as a complete shock when a firm palm swatted my yummily displayed and wiggling botty, and not just once but again and again and again. And then there was more than one palm, and possibly a slipper, and definitely a ruler, and certainly a switch and a cane and a paddle all paddly-paddling my squirmy, reddening, stinging arse-cheeks of cheekiness. 

With each spanky swat, my hips bashed against the table and my super-sensitive swollen sucklets rubbed themselves into a frenzy on the tabletop. Before I knew it my sodden-cuntedness was squirting like an untended garden hose, my thighs were drenched and my ankles splattered and I was in serious danger of ruining my fantabulous new, shiny, patent, school shoes. And before I knew it my cunty-cunniness was having yet another of its unrequired organisms and all the teachers started shouting about how 'the silly slut was a silly slut', so I figured she must have done something really clever. 

Anyway, it was a really long afternoon that went on forever, and now both my tushy of enticement and my teatlets of bliss are all stingy and hurty and red and engorged, and I can't sit down and even the fine, near-sheer, fabric of my school blouse rubs awfully, so I don't know how I'm ever going to get to sleep. 

Nighty night.