Student Gets a Lesson in Lashing

Suzanne, just past her thirtieth year, blended effortlessly with her students, looking more like one of them than their teacher. With a trim, youthful figure, a cascade of coppery hair, and bright green eyes framed by striking red glasses, she had an air of spirited charm.

She taught English and German at the grammar school and dabbled in psychology from time to time. That day, a damp and foggy Tuesday with rain drumming relentlessly, she had one final German lesson to get through before she could indulge in a long-desired treat: the boots she’d been eyeing for the past fortnight. She had finally made up her mind to treat herself. The boots were an audacious shade of red, boasting an eight-inch heel and a three-inch platform.

Her boyfriend had dubbed them “the shoes of a good slut.”

As she entered the classroom, juggling a textbook and the book she’d just used, and balancing a long, resealable ceramic cup of strong, sweet coffee, she slipped on the wet floor. She cast a rueful glance at her watch—she was late.

When she finally pushed open the classroom door, she was met with an unexpected hush. The students were already seated, their eyes wide with a mix of eagerness and mischief, occasionally glinting with smirks. Despite their unspoken rebellion, Suzanne offered a habitual wave of her free hand, as though they were merely about to settle in.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, her attention drawn to the front row where James Fletcher and William Collins, the school’s notorious troublemakers, sat. She had hoped to catch them in the act of their latest mischief—whether it was their antics with a shoe tied to a mirror or their previous escapades tweaking the nipples of women’s pictures in the school magazine.

If she taught physics, she’d swear there was a special gravity in the classroom. All eyes seemed to swivel towards the back corner, next to the large map of Europe. It was as if they were silently urging her to look, but she wasn’t about to fall for their little ruse.

The teacher picked up Mein Name sei Gantenbein, eased the bookmark slightly from page 12, and began reading with her characteristic flair.

“Ein Mann hat eine Erfahrung gemacht, jetzt sucht er die Geschichte dazu – man kann nicht leben mit einer Erfahrung, die ohne Geschichte bleibt, scheint es, und manchmal stellte ich mir vor, ein anderer habe genau die Geschichte meiner Erfahrung…”

She tried to ignore the increasing murmur of giggles and chatter that swept through the room—much louder and more audacious than usual. The snickers and sly remarks continued unabated, but it wasn’t until a particularly desperate snicker made her set the book down that she finally took notice.

“Professor, please…”

Reluctantly, her gaze fell upon the corner she had been avoiding. For a moment, she couldn’t quite comprehend what she was seeing. It was so surreal, so astonishingly unreal.

There, tied to a long, narrow heating rod, was a boy’s body.

Naked boy’s body.

She took a few swift steps towards the scene, despite knowing full well that the students were mocking her. The teacher began mentally preparing her reprimand, but as she reached a vantage point with a clearer view, words utterly failed her.

There, indeed, was a skinny student bound and struggling.

The student’s body trembled visibly. A familiar face was barely seeable, marred by the sight of their bare back and behind, which bore three bright red stripes from a whip laid across the bench beside them.

In a daze, she advanced a few more steps. The classroom erupted into disarray.

Laughter filled the air, interspersed with jeers and malicious comments directed at her and the unfortunate student subjected to such humiliating treatment. The noise was overwhelming, and her disbelief quickly turned to fury. A deep, burning desire for justice surged within her—a need to avenge the poor boy and to punish those responsible for such cruelty.

The cacophony in the classroom grew unbearable. In a desperate bid to regain control and command attention, she seized the whip and prepared to swing it with force.

That’s when the teacher noticed something.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the motionless lad, bound and bearing a posterior that resembled a puff pastry, a right mess of pimples if you ask me. What she initially took for the poor victim turned out to be sporting a most inappropriate admiration—a stonking erection, no less.

Her gaze lingered on the sight, trying to make sense of that swollen member that seemed to have a mind of its own.

As she peered into the face of the young rogue, his lips moving as if to speak, all she could muster was bafflement. Amidst the chaos, his words were lost on her, drowned out by the deafening clamour of her own wrath. In that heated moment, the lad’s pleas were like whispers in a gale, unheard and unheeded.

Only much later, within the solitude of her abode, a glass of unfamiliar vodka clutched in her hand, did the message crystallise in her memory. It dawned on her that from those quivering lips against her crimson visage, he had begged, “Please untie me.” At that instant, however, rationality had vacated the premises. A whip, firm in her grip, arced through the air not towards the edge of the bench but squarely at the lad’s bare arse.

The teacher gave him a solid whack.

The classroom suddenly went silent.

The student screamed in pain.

Her knees buckled under the weight of the moment. As she swayed, teetering precariously, she barely managed to grab hold of the bench to steady herself, her balance completely gone. Without that support, she would have surely toppled over.

Initially, a notion struck her—that she had perhaps lost control of her bladder. A sudden dampness enveloped her nether regions, yet no telltale trickle coursed down her inner thighs. Her knickers, saturated as they were, bore witness to a truth she vehemently denied—that a wave of lust had washed over her, uninvited and unwelcome in her mind.

Still clutching the reed in her hand, she readied herself for the next strike. The very atmosphere in the classroom shifted, a hush falling over the assembled onlookers in astonishment.

“She’s really giving it to him, isn’t she?” a voice whispered.

“Good Lord, she’s about to lay into him proper,” remarked another.

Amid the throng, Natanel, now unmistakably identified as the exposed, trapped pupil, arched his back in response. The sound escaping his lips held a duality—a mixture of agony and, intriguingly, a hint of pleasure.

A potent longing seized her in that moment. The urge to shed her undergarments overwhelmed her senses. Clad in those utterly sodden, snug light blue cotton panties, she harboured a wicked intent—to press that drenched fabric against the audacious visage of a boy daring enough to endure her lashes in such a bare state.

“He wouldn’t dream of it,” came a girl’s voice, immediately followed by a fresh burst of giggles.

“Shall we call the principal?” suggested another voice, dripping with snide fear.

“So he could give him a hard time too?” erupted a geyser of laughter.

Suzanne spun around to her students, convinced they were laughing directly at her, mocking her moment of weakness.

“Du hast eine F!” she shouted. “Eine F!”

Pointing emphatically, the whip clenched tightly in her grasp, she bellowed at the dissenters in the room, asserting their dire academic fate with resolute conviction.

With an audible thud, she collapsed into a nearby chair, her gaze drifting to a distant corner where Nathaniel Oswald’s bare back still gleamed in the dim light. Fleetingly, a notion flitted through her mind—to task one of the diligent pupils with untying him, a fleeting gesture of mercy.

Yet, that would mean acknowledging his presence. It would mean facing the fact that she stood mere strides away, wielding the unyielding cane that had struck his exposed butthole so mercilessly.

“Everyone open the book to page 12. Fletcher, start reading.”

For a moment, the room was speechless. The students, buzzing with excitement, peered around the corner to see if what they had thought was there was still there. They exchanged frantic glances, torn between the chaotic scene and their resolute teacher.

Then, a muffled student’s voice broke the tension.

“Mein Vater hat an diesem Tag schlecht geschlafen, und sobald er die Küche betrat, war klar, dass etwas nicht stimmte…”

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