(We're continuing from here. You may remember that Charles, as my Latin-master, was using an unorthodox method to ensure that I didn't take too much pleasure in the caning he was about to give me: the method was of course to fuck me, over his desk.)
As he fucked me, he took me back into my high-school fantasies: being kept after class by Mr. White; being told my work was inadequate (ha! my work was never, ever inadequate): that I could either let Mr. White tell my parents, or submit to being disciplined right there in his classroom. . . disciplined how? By old-fashioned methods, of course, "With your panties down, Miss Tilton: that is the only way I have ever found to be entirely satisfactory."
The door to Mr. White's room locked; Miss Tilton over Mr. White's desk; Mr. White unable to help himself, at the sight of Miss Tilton's youthful quim; Miss Tilton unable to resist her wanton nature; the girls outside hearing the shameful cries of a Latin student being mastered by her Latin-master.
Charles abruptly pulled out.
"Alright, Miss Tilton. I think the only thing for it is to involve your pudendum posterius, as well as your pudendus anterior. Translate, please."
"Rearward thing to be ashamed of and forward thing to be ashamed of, Sir."
"Very good, Miss Tilton. The moisture being produced your pudendus anterior--that is to say, cunnus tuus--is so copious that simply applying stimulation there until you reach a climax will be insufficient. What's required is a specific sort of climax--one that involves also your pudendum posterius, called by some, your ring--that is, your anus."
(Writing this, I feel the need to make clear that the way Charles pronounced "your anus" didn't sound a bit like "Uranus," so there was no danger of a fit of the giggles at that point, really.)
"Oh, Sir. No, please. Not my anus, please! I promise I'll be good!"
"Yes, Miss Tilton. Your pudendum posterius, which I will tell you, since it appears you are going to be my puella natis--that is to say, my ass-girl--this year, and you will thus have to learn such things, I prefer to call your flos natis. Translate, please."
"Flower of my bottom, Sir." My mind wandered off in the direction, both hot and terrible, of wondering whether Charles really chose an ass-girl each year, and fucked her every afternoon after AP Latin, and then came home to me. How did he pick her? Did he have try-outs in the Fall? Or did he decide that one girl was simply the one whose ass he was going to deflower, and then continue to use over the course of the year, until it was time to bid her farewell, and wait for another ass-girl in the new school year?
"Indeed. Thus, I will now introduce into that little flower a device specifically intended to humiliate you, Miss Tilton, and to force you to a kind of climax that gives you a clear idea of what sort of girl you are, and prepares you to receive the cane and to learn from its painful visitation upon your bottom."
"Learn what, Sir?"
"That you are that very special kind of pupil I call an ass-girl, and that if an ass-girl should happen to have an opinion about a Latin verb, she expresses that opinion respectfully, or suffers the consequences."
"Yes, Sir. I'm very sorry, Sir." (You don't really want me to put "arrgh" and "augh" and "ahhhh" in there, do you? Just remember that he was taking me anally at the time. It's not a quiet thing.)
The device, of course, was his cock, and as I was forced to an anal orgasm, my Latin-master exclaimed, "Are you going to argue the preterite with me again, young lady? Do young ladies who take it in the ass argue verbs with their Latin-masters?"
And all I could say was, "No, Sir, please. Please, Sir, no."
"Young ladies who take it in the ass learn the hard way to respect their masters, don't they?"
To say I responded "Yes, Sir" does no justice at all to the sounds I was actually making, but I did manage to respond in the affirmative, I believe, even as my Latin-master accomplished his aim of compelling me to give evidence, in the form of an orgasm, that I was, now and forever, an ass-girl.
He finished, too, with one of his manly, inarticulate shouts, and it was time for me to be caned.
If this were a third-person narrative, I'd be able to say something like "Mr. Smith positioned Emily Tilton just as he wished, then ordered her to count out the strokes of the cane. Her anguished cries were most pleasing to his ears as he meted out her condign chastisement, and the sensuous writhing of her bottom-cheeks, which the girl was helpless to control, excited him just as he liked to be excited when he was caning a naughty schoolgirl."
That's certainly the way I tried to imagine it as Charles whacked me six times with that fucking cane, but with only intermittent success. I will say that I went into it with the intention of playing the defiant "I, aristocratic Emily Tilton, know my Latin verbs better than this humbly-born schoolteacher [really, if such things matter to you, Charles has six Mayflower ancestors and I only have one] does, and I'll be damned if I let him conquer me," but the anal orgasm had already conquered me. All I could to was hang onto the opposite side of the desk and make sounds that I later verified Charles found highly satisfactory.
What a paradox. I don't think I've met anyone who actually enjoys being caned. But the thing is, the submissive thing is, I want to be caned by Charles, if Charles wants to cane me. And after the caning is over, and I've counted the six, I really feel like I've become something more than I was before--not just because Charles liked doing it, and because, as a true Dominant, he understands what my submission means and loves me for it, but because I have journeyed close, explored closer, to who I actually am.
(If you like this mode of narrative, buy the Companion to EXPLORATIONS, which is chock-full of it!)