tagBDSMA Course of Instruction

A Course of Instruction


Terri lays flat on her front; hands stretched forward, stomach clear of the bed and bottom upthrust. Hips arched, supported solely by her knees, feet lifted, high heels vertically pointed. A hard position to keep, yet perfectly presented for punishment -- although the exact nature of her chastisement is as yet a mystery.

This will be the final session, the third time she has dutifully followed his directions. And waited, how long? Five minutes, perhaps 10, time seems elastic during their encounters. Part of her psyche wishes he'd begin - please get on with it - another wants to postpone the inevitably painful reckoning as long as possible.

He initially puts her on the dining table, but the unforgiving wooden top is too hard. "If you want me to keep still it has to be a softer surface," she pleads, not without trepidation. The first time she's ever questioned an instruction. Considering the matter for a moment he concedes. "Pity though, the elevated height displays your bottom so beautifully," he observes, leading her to the bedroom.

And so she waits, sans panties, tautly suspendered stockings framing her delectably curved derriere; further emphasised by a narrower waist than most modern girls manage. A flimsy cotton dress is bunched round her middle; dark hair tumbles across her shoulders. It's early evening - natural light fills the room - she feels a cool draft across her naked haunches. Hears the low murmur of traffic on the road below, and his approaching footsteps.

There have been two previous appointments, each following a similar ritual. He is unfailingly polite, confident and controlling. Her initial instructions arrive by letter, each delivery eagerly anticipated. Hand-written with a fountain pen, delivered to her home in an anonymous envelope. Ink makes the heart beat faster, a surge of adrenalin as she clumsily opens the billet doux. Pulse rate accelerating she reads his simple, unambiguous instructions.

"Dear Terri... sincerely Mr Jones." RSVP, a phone number, an old-fashioned answering machine. His familiar voice: "please leave a message."

"I, I, um, got your letter. Yes, I mean I will, be there that is, um, on Saturday. Promise. Bye."

His hard-to-find mews house is situated in a select area of the City. Unfamiliar terrain, not an area she's visited before; Terri nervously checks the street map, daren't be late.

Always the same ensemble, she follows every detail of his copperplate script commands. A knee-length, 1950s style dress. French chic, dark blue, his choice, posted to her home. Exactly the right size - she'd never vouchsafed her measurements; how could he know?

The same perfume -- Chanel No 5 -- "lucky girl", says the saleswoman in the posh department store when Mr Jones pays. Black lingerie, black stockings, and black shoes; she'd blushed as he'd exchanged knowing looks with the shop assistant while paying for these too.

Regardless of weather she wears a raincoat on top of her outfit on the way to his apartment. Notices men ogling her stocking seams as she stands on the metro. On the ride there a man offers her a seat. She sits carefully, crosses her legs but feel the dress ride up, displaying her stocking tops. Puts her knees together, tugs at her dress hem; but it's safer to stand, even if the unaccustomed heel height makes her wobble a little with the motion of the train.

Three visits, three different positions, always six strokes.

"You can call a halt at any time, Terri."

"I know. Thank you, Mr Jones"

The first time he bids her kneel up on the seat of a dining chair, lift and hold up her skirt. Observes the matching lace bra, panties and suspender belt. Gives an approving nod and a chaste kiss on the cheek. "Good girl."

No further conversation. Mr Jones pulls her knickers down, shows her the paddle. Places his hand on her lower belly to steady her, fingers tantalisingly close to her shaven sex. Brings the leather spanker down hard, half a dozen times. Pauses between each impact to let the fiery smart suffuse her skin. The whole of Terri's bottom burns.

Afterwards he briefly kisses her, runs his hands over her breasts, touches the erect nipples. Terri wishes he'd free them, put his mouth to her tits, but there is no further touching. "Stay here for five minutes, don't rub, I'll know," Mr Jones orders brusquely - she doesn't doubt it, "let yourself out." Her bottom throbs all the way home. She aches with frustration, passion unrequited.

"This visit will be more challenging," he warns the second time, sending a cold shiver of anticipation through her body.

He sits Terri in an easy chair, hands grasping each arm.

Unlike previously she can clearly see Mr Jones, knows when next stroke will fall. He lifts her dress. At his instruction Terri spreads her legs, humiliated by the wide-open pose despite being permitted to retain her skimpy panties.

Slowly, deliberately Mr Jones strikes her pale inner thighs with a thin leather tawse, three times on each. The split ends double the pain and leave livid red marks. It really, really hurts. She blinks back tears, but sits obediently throughout the ordeal.

Afterwards Mr Jones is momentarily sympathetic, lifts her chin and kisses her. His hand on her leg, just above the knee, slides up the nylon, slips between her thighs. Gently rubs her sex through sodden panties. He knows I'm wet, can feel my arousal, thinks Terri. Eases a finger under the elastic, an involuntary moan escapes her lips as he teases her labia. He finger-fucks her, "come for me."

The orgasm takes over and Terri, quivering from head to toe, climaxes. Her chastised legs smart all the way home, the marks on her thighs stay visible for days. She masturbates furiously all week, reliving the moment.

The third visit. Terri knows what she hopes for, but daren't give voice to her desires.

"This time I'm going to birch you, says Mr Jones." His tone is matter of fact, might as well be discussing the weather. He swishes the fearsome implement - a dozen light whippy rods bound with leather at one end - through the air.

"I can take it." she replies, emboldened with a new found confidence as the denouement approaches.

"You will take it." Mr Jones confirms authoritatively, raising his arm and delivering the first stroke, right across her full, rounded bottom, making her gasp and jerk involuntarily. The birch rods are long, and spread fully across both cheeks, a series of sharp stings that rapidly build to a fiery intensity.

A second stroke, its burning impact triggers a surge of adrenalin as her arousal inexorably builds. She wails, and in response he brings the birch down with greater force. Terri's arse is burning, the punishment everything she's dreamt of these past weeks. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and attempts to compose herself. Her backside blazes, stoking an unbridled lust, flooding her with contradictory emotions: she wants it to stop yet needs more; has to have more.

Again he pauses; allows the thin red strokes covering her buttocks to fade to a dull red as she writhes from side to side in an ecstasy of submission. Again the birch punishes her posterior with an all-encompassing fire making Terri cry out loud, lost to the surrounding world, focused only on the pain of her whipping.

"Please," she moans, but the word has scarcely escaped her lips before the rods fall again. The effect is like a hundred canes lashed across her buttocks all at the same time. Struggling to say in position, thighs clenching, heels kicking futility, she grips the table edge and somehow lifts her chastised bottom to meet the final stroke.

Mr Jones raises the birch one last time, waits a seemingly interminable 20 seconds then lays it forcefully across both ruby red globes. Terri howls, hands pressed to her bottom, frantically rubbing the scalded cheeks.

"Your punishment is complete," announces Mr Jones. Methodically he removes his jacket, hangs it neatly on the chair. Takes off his shoes and socks before removing his trousers and boxers, the man has class.

Kneels astride her, stockings rubbing sensuously against his thighs. Firmly opens her legs a fraction, exposing the pouting sex. No foreplay, no lube, but Terri's more than ready for him. Slowly he sinks his cock into the warmth of her welcoming cunt.

She receives it ecstatically, clenches her vaginal muscles and holds him tight. He laughs, slaps her poor beaten bum, making her yelp in anguish. "Relax," Mr Jones orders. Slowly withdraws his cock almost completely, until the tip is barely within her slit. Dignity surrendered Terri begs for its return. "Fuck me, you bastard."

Mr Jones slams the full length back in one determined thrust, right up to the hilt. Again and again, harder and harder, making Terri's arse bounce lewdly on the mattress with each thrust. Leans forward, hands grasping hers; pushing her body flat, holding her supine, face down on the bed, burning arse cheeks pressed against his abdomen.

"Don't stop," she shouts, pushing back lasciviously against his relentless penetration. The hardness and size of his erection fills her completely as Mr Jones seizes her hips and pounds, faster and deeper. The mixture of pain and pleasure is all encompassing; triggering an overwhelming orgasm more intense than anything Terri has ever felt.

Rapturous waves numb the still present pain pervading her glorious backside, deep red and patterned by the rods of the birch. A glorious fulfillment, her most intimate fantasy made real. Another fierce wave of pleasure floods her loins and Terri comes again.

M Jones kisses each bottom cheek softly, feels the radiant heat, helps Terri solicitously to her feet and holds her as she teeters on the edge of collapse, shaking with emotion and exhaustion.

"Expect a letter after the summer break," he whispers, "three more sessions in the autumn. You've performed superbly, outshone my expectations - and possibly yours. Time to move on to the advanced level, you've graduated to a dozen strokes." His finger traces the crease of her bottom, "Such a pretty little rosebud. Such pert breasts, so many possibilities, if your pussy is naughty I'll punish that too."

"Whatever you decide," she replies dreamily.

1700 words

Laurel Aspen

May -- 2018

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heartMichelStrict, Loki_Darksong and 1 other people favorited this story! 

by Anonymous

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by FASfan05/05/18

Very nice indeed!

I always enjoy a good CP story and this was an excellent CP story. Well done, LaurelAspen -- five stars and a favourite.

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