Bethany's Troll

Charlene's eyes light up. "Ohhh. Well. And not hard?"

Seeing that Charlene is now disposed to accept summary punishment and go home, Hunter explains the course he proposes to follow.

"No, not hard. If you're unhappy about anything, just say, and we can remain in detention," he began, "but I will need you to pull your knickers down to your knees and lie across my lap."

"Why do you want me to pull my knickers down?" challenged Charlene

"Don't interrupt Charlene, be patient, listen and I will explain. There are protocols to be followed. This is a formal correction and there are Health and Safety regulations to be followed. I want you to pull down your knickers so I can see your backside; I must avoid raising welts and bruises, and you'll find it hurts least if my hand strikes on the peaks of your buttocks. Unless I can see your buttocks I can't guarantee that; do you understand?"

"Not really, but if you say so." she replies.

"When you're laid over my knee I'll raise your skirt so I can see what I'm doing," he elaborated, "We'll then pause for a few minutes to give you time to think, and to tell me those things you know about and which I don't, that warrant your punishment, then I'll administer your smacks. The number will depend on what you've told me. Are you happy with that?"

"I suppose so; and I'll get the money."

"Yes."

Bethany imagines Charlene's apprehension, and excitement, as she pulls her knickers down to her knees and shuffles forward to lie across Hunter's lap.

Hunter sits on the edge of his chair and spreads his legs.

"Lay forward, over my left knee."

She kneels into the wedge between his legs the arches herself over his knee. Promptly Hunter hooks his right leg over her legs and his right hand over her hips, and pulls her firmly into his lap, securely capturing her with her left thigh pressed hard against his crotch. She lays, face down to the floor, with her back rising to her buttocks, thrust dome like, into the air, her plump thighs descending to her legs, which are securely pinioned between Hunter's legs.

Bethany imagines Charlene's feelings as her skirt is raised, then dropped down her back to fall across her shoulders, exposing her naked buttocks to Hunter's close scrutiny. She imagines the trepidation as she lies, blindly facing the floor, feeling Hunters breath on her raised rump as his chest heaves. She can picture Hunter's eyes brighten with delight as his lascivious gaze explores Charlene's shiny, brown, bulging buttocks in detail, before reaching with his right hand to stroke them lovingly. Her buttocks tense at his touch. This would be the first time his hand had made non-violent contact with intimate feminine flesh since his wife left.

"Why?

Why are you stroking my bum?"

"It's not easy to inflict corporal punishment. It's against my better nature. I need to nerve myself, like a golfer addressing the ball before he strikes. Do you find it unpleasant?

"Noooo; I suppose not."

"Now, what are these misdeeds I should know about?" Hunter prompts.

"Don't know yet," says Charlene.

"It would be best to get it all off your chest now then begin again with a clean sheet."

Charlene continues to slump in silence.

"Very well, I can't wait all evening, I'll have to exercise judgement, and hope for both our sakes that I've judged you about right."

He begins to rain down measured blows on Charlene's arse alternating between cheeks making them, in turn, bounce with a noisy crack. The room echoes with, what sounds like a jumping jack exploding. With each strike she tenses momentarily causing her thigh to rub up and down against his crotch.

He has decided to deliver ten strokes to each cheek, but as he approaches the total of twenty he revises his opinion, and decides that in the circumstances, twenty on each cheek would be more appropriate.

With the girl refusing to "'fess up" it's a difficult call. As he approaches forty strokes, the girl is bucking and grunting under his hand. The rhythmic churning of her left thigh against his excited crotch causes him to ejaculate. With his over stressed libido discharged, his head clears; he changes his mind again, now regretting his harshness. He stops.

As calm returns, he realises that he is breathing heavily from the effort of inflicting punishment. With alarm he realises Charlene is draped motionless across him, seemingly sobbing, her right arm clutched under her abdomen as if rubbing away a pain below her waist.

"All done, you can get up now," he tells her apologetically, but she continues to slump there.

"Are you alright Charlene?" he asks in panic.

"Yes, yes," she breathes, remaining motionless in his lap, "But we can't finish yet, I've just remembered some things you should know about, very bad things."

"Put your pens and pencils down and close you papers," the examiner called, compelling Bethany to push her intriguing imaginings to the back of her mind. What had started as idle speculation was now becoming an intrusive obsession. Her genitals had taken an interest and seemed to squirm in nagging reminder, eager to hear the next sequence in her fictional history.

No wonder Hunter was looking at Charlene in that way, thought Bethany, like Devon, confusing her fantasy with reality. Mrs Cooper was right about Charlene, she wouldn't be the least dismayed if Hunter took an interest in her backside. All he need do is flash a fancy new mobile phone in front of her eyes and she would throw herself over his lap. Buttocks like that would dance crazily under his hand before she felt any pain, and she would lay there texting.

Bethany reflected that her own little bubble butt was a different matter. Of course, corporal punishment was outlawed long before she started school so she had no first hand experience to draw on. Anyway, she was always impeccably behaved; there was no reason for anyone to lay a finger on her behind. Hunter would probably not be interested in her compact backside. He had always appeared to Bethany to be scrupulously fair, and she was sure he would reserve his little indulgence only for the reprobates.

Secretly, from time to time she thought she would like to be the naughty girl, parading in tight jeans, swaying her hips, inviting the boys. Perhaps, that thought alone was naughty - naughty enough to deserve Hunter's reproving hand.

A trip to the loo made things worse rather. Though briskly rubbing her clitoris brought short term comfort, like scratching an itch, in fear that she might cry out she dared not bring herself to orgasm. In the longer run this half measure simply heightened her arousal, and the voice of her genitals calling her to attend them grew stronger. On top of that, as she left the ladies toilet Hunter was walking down the corridor towards her. He looked straight at her, and she felt he knew exactly what she had been doing. She did feel a little thrill at his knowing she was a naughty girl, a sexual being, but mostly she felt the embarrassment of exposure. As he drew level with her, his face broke into a smile of polite acknowledgement, and he hurried on up the corridor. The surge of hormones this caused went straight to her genitals, and she returned to her classroom hot and distracted.

The first thing she did was look at the clock. Forty minutes to the end of the school day, ten minutes to the bus, thirty minutes on the bus, ten minutes to home. By 4.20 pm she could be in her bedroom masturbating, provided there were no delays. Her work deteriorated. Each time she lost concentration visions of Charlene's buttocks bouncing under Hunter's hand intruded. She kept looking at the clock. At one point, she thought it had stopped, but the second hand was still moving. Was it really only a minute since she had last checked?

Bethany's physical discomfort increased, and she paced aimlessly, much to the puzzlement of the lecturer. As the 3.30 pm bell rang, she flew out of the classroom, before the swiftest student, and, anxious not to miss the first available bus, walked so fast to the stop that she almost broke into a run. A ten-minute delay would have been unbearable. Once on the bus, she planned. She did not usually masturbate on her apartment's balcony, though it was an ideal place. She enjoyed the fresh air and open aspect, but her window was overlooked, albeit at a distance, by high rises.

On a few occasions, in the summer holiday, she had dared to sit there with a book in her hand, and, wearing sunglasses, with legs akimbo, masturbate while scouring the distant towers for prying eyes. She looked for motion at windows, people on balconies, or workers servicing the building. It may have been wishful thinking, but, on one occasion, she fancied she saw a group of men in hard hats stop and look towards her. She continued to masturbate, closing her eyes and bringing herself to orgasm in their full view, though when she opened her eyes the men were gone. The fantasy had, however, served its purpose well. Since getting this job at St Onan's College of Tertiary Education, where, amongst other things, she was expected to be a role model for students, she had decided against any further adventure in front of her balcony.

Tonight was different. She decided that the urgency was so great that there was no time for her usual preparations. She must use her first available facility, and that was the balcony chair. She would enter the house and run up the stairs calling an excuse to her mother, whom she did not want to follow her up. She would drop the bedroom door latch quietly, just in case, step quickly out of her knickers, and straight into the chair.

The bus was old, and the hard seat vibrating against the base of her spine excited her genitals even more. High school pupils got on, and the loud voices of the defaulters, who sat at the back, though younger than the college students, carried brazen boasts of outrageous sexual acts. Things Bethany had never done, but which she suspected Charlene would casually enjoy. She felt a hunger to try these things also. When she arrived on her doorstep she was perspiring, and her crotch was damp. She fumbled the keys in the door, and her heart pounded with anticipation.

As the door opened, her mother appeared before her and she croaked her prepared excuse because her chest was now tight. She fled up the stairs and, as each step carried her nearer, her genitals called louder. Into room - throw bag on bed - kick off shoes - gently let down the latch. Then Bethany pulled at her damp knickers, which today of all days snagged on her legs and had to be ripped free. She flopped into her chair and prepared to see her raging Troll launching himself towards her from behind her closed eyes. As soon as her splayed legs permitted, she buried her clitoris beneath her right hand.

This was how she had come to enjoy an orgasm so intense that she had sent three copious jets almost over the balcony rail. She had impressed herself, and she would have impressed any onlooker from the high rises who happened to be looking her way at the right moment.

With her calm and well being restored, she dried her legs, pulled on a fresh pair of knickers and went down to exchange news of her day with her mother.

Chapter 4.

Domestic Palliation.

After dinner with her parents Bethany returned to her room, pulled her curtains, undressed, and stood naked before her mirrored wardrobe door. Standing 5ft 3in and somewhat slender in build, she looked long, lean and nicely proportioned, but her body was that of a rather younger girl. Turning, she pointed her backside at the mirror.

Her buttocks were round and taut, apples rather than pears, but compact, and peaking in line with her shoulder blades. There was no shelf above her buttocks, and no generous flare to her hips. It was a functional and sensible Ford Mondeo of an arse compared to Charlene's, well upholstered and ostentatious Bentley. Just as well, she thought, that she was not in an arse wagging contest with Charlene. Let Hunter admire Charlene's butt. Spanking was not her thing. She would employ her own Troll, though, she reflected, Hunter could fit that bill.

He could, effortlessly, make rumbustious girls submit to his will.

"yes," - "no,"- "may I?"- "Would you like...?".

They queued up to take his orders and he sent them away happy. She could imagine that his mistress, if he took one, would live to obey him and think herself the luckiest girl in the world. She could see him usurp her will and reduce her to his toy, and could easily picture his face, contorted with lust as he enjoyed her. In fact, to her discomfort, she already found it difficult to imagine her Troll without him bearing some of Hunter's characteristics.

When she took her shower, which she combined with her evening masturbation, she turned her portable radio to full volume so her father's electric shaver could not be heard. After she bathed, she turned the power shower to full, and the temperature of the water to maximum. Sitting in the bath, she switched on her father's razor and inserted it deep into her vagina, where it throbbed vigorously against her cervix. Then, lying back under the hot torrent, she applied the tip of her electric toothbrush to her clitoris using one hand, and, with the other, plucked at her nipples.

Ready, she conjured up her Troll. He quickly appeared, but now wore a tweed jacket, and cavalry twills from which his huge erection strained at her, like a savage dog reined back only with difficulty by its master. The beast proved the stronger. As the leaping penis plunged into her she clenched her thighs, squeezing the walls of her vagina against the buzzing shaver. When she approached climax she pinched and pulled her clitoral hood, extruding her clitoris. Turning the toothbrush, she played the bristles lightly over the engorged seat of her sexual being, igniting her orgasm. Stiffening, she hung there trembling for a few ecstatic seconds, before flopping back, exhausted with the effort of containing her explosive climax.

Two minutes repose under the hot shower and she was ready for a couple of hours of TV before bed.

Later, when she lay contentedly in bed waiting for sleep to come, she reflected that her fantasy life had changed. Her Troll now appeared in Harris Tweed, cavalry twill and brogues. The other thing was most curious.

Her mother had asked her to return something to her parents' wardrobe. When she opened it, a pair of her father's best shoes caught her eye. They were brogues. She had seen them many times, but on this occasion, they excited her. As she stared at them, her hand moved unconsciously to her groin, and she gently rubbed her pussy. She thought it strange that she should find men's' shoes so exciting. Bethany had masturbated with a shoe before, one of a pair of expensive ladies' designer shoes, but that was when she was drunk, in a hotel, and there was nothing more suitable immediately to hand. But, masturbating over a pair of men's' brogues -- that she thought weird.

Chapter 5.

Timely Affiliation.

Next morning, after assembly, Mrs Cooper introduced Bethany to Hunter.

"This is Bethany; she will be assisting in your double period, today. Have you met already?"

"Only bumped into one another in the corridor," replied Hunter, and turning to Bethany, "Yesterday, from the look of guilt on your face I thought you'd been caught smoking in the loo."

Bethany blushed, sure that Hunter knew what she had been up to.

Seeing her face redden, Mrs Cooper remarked, "Oh. Do you smoke?"

"No, I don't, I really don't know why you should think I looked guilty," replied a now flustered, uncomfortable, red, and really rather guilty looking Bethany.

The two experienced lecturers looked intently at her, then knowingly at one another.

Hunter ended the hiatus. "Well, I look forward to having you at my lecture this afternoon," he said, "I hope we'll have an opportunity to get to know one another better then, but I have a lecture now."

Turning, he strode away, his heels clicking, and even after he turned the corridor Bethany listened for his purposeful stride until it faded away.

The conversation became confidential and personal.

"Exactly how old are you now?" asked Mrs Cooper, curiously.

"Twenty four, last June."

"And, do you have a steady boyfriend?"

"No, not yet."

"You're a very pretty girl, not met the right boy yet?"

"I'm not looking yet; I want to get my career off the ground first."

"I understand," said Mrs Cooper, who as well as being the biology lecturer, or perhaps because she was, also held the human relations and pastoral care brief.

"You're a typical young professional woman; have you thought how you will manage your biological and professional development so there is no conflict?"

"What do you mean?"

"We have two brains. The new brain of intellect and language which governs our behaviour, and the old brain inherited from our ancestors which governs our instincts, hormones and bodily functions. The young ,professional woman is a product of your new brain, but your old brain makes demands, and unless you feed it, it will turn on your new brain. If there's conflict, your life will be very difficult."

"I don't follow," responded Bethany.

"I'm from the breakthrough generation. The first generation of women who thought we could have it all; a job, a career, financial autonomy and so on, the new brain generation if you like. My mother was old brain; she had no advice to pass on to me. My generation learned a lot of lessons. Would you like the benefit of my experience?"

"Of course."

"You passed puberty seven, eight, nine years ago, and you've been fighting your old brain ever since. Every hour of every day it nags you to get a man and fill yourself with semen."

Bethany eyes opened wide and her jaw fell on hearing Mrs Cooper's words. Mrs Cooper dipped her forehead and lowered her tone, "May I speak frankly with you?"

"Oh, I was surprised to hear it put in those words, that's all, but I do know what you mean," said Bethany recovering herself, "How does a girl cope with it?"

"If I had my time all over again, and the technology we have today was available, I'd invest in a quality vibrator, and use it to feed my old brain regularly. Give your monster three good meals a day. Keep it content so it's not tempted to snack between meals, then my new brain could control my life. I wouldn't be sneaking off to the loo in the middle of the day, or wandering around in a daze. When you get your next pay cheque remember that; it will be a much better investment than a new pair of shoes."

Bethany reddened again, embarrassingly aware that Mrs Cooper's words had been carefully chosen, and were precisely on point. Other staff had noted her behaviour and diagnosed the cause.

"I'll give it serious consideration," she said

Mrs Cooper gave her motherly smile and they went their ways.

That afternoon, Bethany made sure she arrived in Hunter's room early, but he was already there, marking up the whiteboard. He was welcoming and brisk.

"This is a fresher class, they'll be fine when I'm looking at them, but you'll need to keep an eye on them when my back's turned. Confiscate any drugs, weapons or mobile phones you see, and, unless they have permission to move ...make sure they stay in their seats. Now, can you distribute a copy of each of these to each seat, then we can start promptly."

He pointed to several piles of sheet paper. As soon as that was done, the bell rang, and, seconds later, students flooded int. First, the girls, who greeted Hunter and settled into the front rows. Then the flood slowed, and the boys started to enter, the class now filling from the back. The flow slowed to a trickle as Hunter began his lesson. As each group of the rear guard entered, he simply called out, "Stand there," and lined them along the wall. When he had developed the point he was making, he turned to the boys.