"But it was only a little thing about verb aspect, Sir!" I said, giving him the green light for the cane.
"You mistake my meaning, Miss Tilton. Your punishment has nothing to do with the verb and everything to do with your attitude. You are now to receive six of the best for talking back to a master."
"Glug." Six of the best. Such a stupid little phrase, and yet so powerful, through constant, eternal repetition.
"And. . ." he paused, dramatically, and I thought again of the other possibilities. "You will of course have to be examined beforehand to ensure that your chastisement will have its intended effect."
Yes. Yes. He was thinking of Aphrodizzia, and the whole scene flooded back into my memory. Her name was Claudia; she was German; that silly headmaster character who worked despite his basic silliness arraigned her on charges of wearing a racy bathing suit (so stupid, but whatever), after he had taken pictures of her on the beach; he made her confess to masturbating (oh my gosh that's just like me); then he gagged her with that other girl's panties while he caned her; but that was after he had fucked her little pussy and then her little bottom, telling her that it was the speculum, and the thermometer, that he was using to test her readiness for punishment.
(Having actually experienced anal, now, I knew that the terrible schoolmaster just sticking the "thermometer" in there was unrealistic, to say the least, but my fourteen-year-old self was sure that if a master [of any kind] wanted to put his penis in your bottom, it would go into your bottom just as easily as the real thermometers that made me feel funny in a lovely way I knew I wasn't supposed to feel funny, and then you would, at last, feel the way you were supposed to feel: mastered, taken, possessed, submissive, etc., and your bottom would finally know what it was for.)
"Did I not specify that your underwear was to be down, Miss Tilton?"
"You did, Sir."
"Well, that's another stroke, then, as apparently I have to do it for you." He flipped up the back of my kilt, with his left hand, and grasped the waistband of my panties with his right. He gave them an angry tug downward, then with both hands pulled them down to mid-thigh.
"I see you are experienced enough with schoolroom discipline to have spread your legs properly, Miss Tilton. That's helpful, at least, because it will facilitate my examination of the area to be chastised." At those words, my Latin-master placed his hand on the area to which he had made reference, making me gasp.
"I find, Miss Tilton, even at the most cursory inspection, that all is not as it should be here."
"There seems to be a good deal of moisture in this area, in particular."
"Ah! Um, I am. . . sorry, Sir. Oh, no, Sir, please!" My Latin-master had begun shamelessly to finger me.
"No, Miss Tilton. I'm afraid this is absolutely necessary. We simply cannot permit you to be caned in this state. What I am doing, now, unorthodox as it is, is our only recourse." What he was doing now was fucking me. My Latin-master was fucking me over his desk. Emily Tilton was getting a fucking in school, the way I had used to imagine it, with the other girls outside wondering what was going on, and Emily Tilton trying so hard to be silent, but forced by the sheer power of her teacher's cock to make little stifled sounds that the girls outside could almost certainly hear. Emily was a very, very bad girl, because her teacher's cock was fucking her, right there in the schoolroom, over the desk.
(If you like this ongoing narrative, I hope you'll start at the beginning, with the Companion, Volume 1! Buy it here!)