Perpetual motion

Her hair was soft gold, her eyes deep brown, her skin toasted tan from summer vacation sun. Her teeth were perfect and glossy, her lips a natural rose. Matte black smears marked her cheeks: mascara deltas from twin rivers of hot tears. Her bottom, bare and framed by pulled-down panties in pale pink lace, was a motley of crimsons, still showing the placement of my last few handprints in fiery outline.

But the color that kept catching my eye was the bubblegum pink of the detention slips I held.

Kelsey stood, unheeding her half-nakedness, snuffling back sobs as she watched me shuffle through them one by one. In my long professional career I had only encountered three girls like her: so thoroughly dishonest, manipulative, sneaky, and uncaring that there seemed to be no way to redeem her. At seventeen years old she could look you in the eye and fake sincerity as well as the most accomplished grifter. Hence the sheaf of spanking orders, one from each of her fed-up teachers.

I signed one of the slips and handed it to Kelsey. “Give that to Mrs. Hartley,” I said. “To show that you have been punished for missing your exam. I will see you in here tomorrow, at the third period bell, for your next spanking.”

Kelsey tried to look unmoved, but a fresh surge of tears gave her away. I took a pad of detention slips from my desk and began to fill one out.

“What —” She had to stop and clear her throat. “What’s that for?”

I coninued to write. “You were absent from your fourth period History class today,” I replied. “Which is grounds for another disciplinary session: in my office, over my knee, bottom bared, and spanked thoroughly.” I tore the top slip off the pad, and added it to the stack of Kelsey’s pending ordeals.

“But— but—” she stammered. “Fourth period… that’s… that’s now! I mean, I, I, I only missed History because I was sent to your office instead!”

I allowed myself the smallest of unnoticeable smiles.

“Yes, that would normally be an excused absence. But in your case, Kelsey, the staff has decided not to grant that privilege.”

She stared, open mouthed, while that idea sunk in. I let my eyes drift to her cute little pussy, wondering if she had already traded access for some essential favors. That she knew the bargaining value of her body was not in doubt.

“But then,” she wailed, “I’ll always have another spanking coming because of the class I miss for being—” She broke off, hands rising to her flushed face.

“You do have free periods,” I said. “If a spanking happens to coincide with one of them, then you’ll reduce the queue by one.”

“But that’ll take months and —”

“Yes. It will. Several months of daily spankings. Of course, that assumes no more implausible excuses, sudden test-day illnesses, homework lost, disrespect to teachers, and so on. As the saying goes, if you find yourself in a hole, step one is to stop digging.”

I could almost see her riffling through her mental stack of ruses, looking for a way out. But there was none.

I went back to my desk, and busied myself while Kelsey slowly came to her senses, realized her embarrassing nudity, and bent to pull up her panties. She handled them quite gingerly as the lace slid across her burning buns.

In general, it pains me to spank our girls, and I do it only reluctantly. But, every now and then in a teacher’s career, one encounters a most exceptional student.

— Frenulum

Caution

Sorry, I haven't any indication of the source or author.

Number, Please

How it started is foggy: a dare, or a bet, or just challenging each other the way we do. But once upon a time we checked into a hotel room and I got spanked, counting up to the room number. Room 315, I think it was, with 315 hard smacks on my bare bottom.

Then somehow it turned into a tradition. “We always.” Whenever we took a vacation together, the trip began right after check-in with a room number spanking. It was the sort of ritual that a girl like me can love and anticipate and dread in that delightful, shiver-inducing, want but don't want mixture.

And since we travel on a budget, and that means lower floors closer to the noises of lobby, restaurant, and pool, it was always a good start to our private time. Just enough to remind me of who I am for him, of who we are together.

I thought about this while he checked in, my bottom cheeks clenching in anticipation and my panties growing more and more soaked, clinging to my heated pussy. I watched him talk to the desk clerk, saw her flirt with him a little bit, noticed his usual oblivion with a smile and a bit of pride. Then another woman joined them, a manager, and there was further talk. I was both in a hurry to get to our room — what number this time? — and more than content to postpone that moment indefinitely.

Finally, he came across the lobby to me. His face was a little hard to read.

“They didn’t have the room we reserved,” he said, as we crossed to the elevators. He pressed the up-button. “But the manager remembered that we come here pretty often, so she gave us a suite instead. No extra charge.”

The doors slid open. We entered the car and I held his arm with both hands.

“I imagine the view will be nice,” he said, and pushed the button for the twenty-eighth floor.

— Frenulum

RIP

Sir Terry Pratchett died today.

He was one of my favorite authors and greatest inspirations.

A reader once compared my writing to his, which is among the most treasured compliments I've had in my life.

More details from the BBC.

:o(


Addendum: see also this 2009 interview.

Good grief

From google:

Dear Blogger User,
This week, you received an email telling you about some changes we were making to the Blogger Content Policy. In that email, we announced a change to Blogger's porn policy stating that blogs that distributed sexually explicit images or graphic nudity would be made private.

We've received lots of feedback about making a policy change that impacts longstanding blogs and the negative impact on individuals who post sexually explicit content to express their identities.We appreciate the feedback. Instead of making this change, we will be maintaining our existing policies...

So apparently I trashed all the images here for nothing. And of course there's no option to revert the changes. As Charlie Brown would say: “Aaarrrgghhh.”

— Frenulum

Hide your sensitive eyes

I have been notified by Google that they will no longer allow sexually explicit images on blogger.com, and that blogs not in compliance (mine) will be blocked.

This explains why you now see

everywhere there used to be a beautiful photograph of people doing what loving people actually do in their normal healthy consensual adult relationships. (Or panties. I had lots of pictures of panties.)

May the precious little snowflakes at Google sleep peacefully now. As for me, I'm going to go watch some religious beheadings on youtube (a Google company).

— Frenulum

Hidden

Mary-Catherine, addressed variously as Mary-Cath, M-Cath, M.C., McCat, and other nicknames, was known by her peers as someone who would answer questions that could not safely be posed to adults. Sex questions. About boys and men: How big does it get? Do they really put it in your… you know? About pregnancy and what could be done without risking it. About mysteries: What does an orgasm feel like? Does the first time hurt a lot? Does swallowing semen make your face grow hair? About sinfulness: Am I still a virgin if we just do oral? Will I go to Hell if I touch myself?

Despite her reputation as especially well-informed, Mary-Catherine was not called a slag, or a slut, or a “ho.” A cynic might have said that she was not sufficiently smart, athletic, pretty, or fashionable to inspire spite, and was thus shielded from the usual intramural back-stabbing. A kinder interpreter would say that she was simply well-liked, and had good friends, and perhaps that she was too valuable a resource to offend.

Mary-Cath drove home after school one day, at the wheel of her Senior-year present. She arrived, as on every school day, at an empty house, with two hours to herself before her parents might arrive. She dropped her backpack on her bedroom floor, then kicked off her shoes before flopping onto her bed. She lay there for a few minutes, just relaxing, then grabbed her laptop from the floor, opened it, and quickly navigated to her well-hidden, private folder of photos.

She started the viewer in a familiar place: at a series of pictures taken at a recent overnight party. There had been ten girls there, all with cell-phone cameras, and all had shared their pictures around the group; Mary-Catherine had an abundance of images to browse through.

She used one hand on the keyboard: next… next… next. The other crept under her brief school skirt, into her plain white bikini panties, and down over her waiting, already moist pussy. She stroked her cleft with practiced ease.

Next… next. She frigged her quim, touching inside her lips, growing wetter as she viewed each picture. The series was a familiar one, and she knew where the climax of images would come; knew how to time her own arousal to peak at the same point.

There had been a point at the party when the girls were changing into nightwear — PJ pants and tank tops, most of them — and a pillow fight had broken out, distracting them in various states of undress, and propelling them into tangles of laughing, squealing, squirming bodies. There was Dianna in that skimpy pink tank, with her nipples bursting against the ribbed fabric. Mary-Cath's fingers probed and stroked, her pussy making slick, sticky sounds in the quiet bedroom. There was Lexi in bra and panties, bent almost double. The panties were taut over her ass and outlined her pussy from behind. There was a pile of four: Isabel, Kim, Maggie, and M.C. herself, bare legs entwined, heads on tummies and chests and thighs, hands wandering oh so innocently every which way. Tendrils of Kim's long hair were draped across Mary-Catherine's leg. She remembered how that felt.

With a moan she yanked her panties down her thighs. Then her hand was back, busy, stroking, rubbing, wet and slippery and urgent and effective, faster and faster as her breathing grew coarse and her face flushed.

Next.

Mary-Catherine, Lexi, Amanda. Maggie, Grace, and Emma. Piled together, in and out of clothes, an abundance of bare soft skin. Grace's pajama shorts loose at the leg, riding up, so high and open that her precious pussy was almost visible — oh, with just the slightest effort of imagination it could be made so — and Emma's top gaping, showing one little breast with its proud nipple, and… and… Lexi's hand right on Mary-Catherine's bottom, half on panties and half on skin… it had been so warm, felt so good, felt so —

Her orgasm shook her, and she cried out as the pleasure overwhelmed her modesty and restraint and… everything.

Much later, uniform replaced with sweats, books open for studying, Mary-Catherine took a minute to browse some favorite sex sites on the Internet. It was good to be informed about what boys did, and what boys thought about, and how boys felt. It was so important to keep up appearances with her girlfriends.

— Frenulum

Email

Someone posting anonymously yesterday asked me for some technical advice. Although I got a notification, the comment doesn’t appear on the blog. This is mysterious.

In any event, I would have had no good way to answer. Anonymous comments on posts are fine, but if you’re interested in opening a conversation, please use email. That way we won't distract all the other readers (billions of people!) with a chat on side topics.

See here for my address.

Thanks,

— Frenulum

Final grade

On the last Friday of the school year, I left early, about three-thirty. Nobody would mind. All of the serious academic work was done; next week would consist of special events, assemblies, parties on various excuses, and tearful farewells for the Senior girls.

As I walked home, I looked back on the year. All things considered, a good one. After twenty-six years in the classroom I didn’t have to fret about mechanics; the challenge and excitement came from the ever-changing collection of students with their individual styles, personalities, contributions, and needs.

The year had held only one disappointment: Maddie, a Senior, who had slid away from academics in the last semester. Not just in my class: all her teachers had commented. I was going to have to fail her, which would mean a delayed diploma, a serious hitch in her college plans, summer school — all sorts of heartache and disruption. Such a shame. I had tried to get through to her.

I took my jacket off as I walked, and enjoyed the sunshine. Winter had been long and frigid, and Spring was all the more welcome for it.

I was half way up my front walk when I noticed that the porch swing was moving. Curious, I mounted my front steps.

“Hi, Mr. Mills,” said a voice from the swing.

“Maddie, I’m surprised to see you here,” I replied. The object of my recent thoughts was lying on the swing, her head against one arm rest, stretched out along its length. She still wore her school clothes: a white cotton blouse, the official pleated plaid skirt at its quite unofficially abbreviated length, white ankle socks, and black flats. Between the skirt hem and socks was about a mile and a half of gorgeous bare legs, a sight to which years of teaching had not entirely inured me. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m gonna fail math, right?” she asked, voice low and lazy, not betraying any real concern. Before I could answer she continued, “Yeah, I am. Any way to fix that?”

I felt so bad for her. Smart, popular, beautiful, and out of options. But it was too late. “No, Maddie, I’m afraid not. There’s no time left for re-tests or extra credit. Grades are due on Tuesday.”

“Thought so,” she said. Her eyes searched my face, and I hope found concern and kindness.

She slid her near leg sideways toward me, so it fell off the side of the swing. She tucked her other foot toward her, raising her knee. Her kilt slid up her bare thigh as her legs parted. I found myself looking up between them at pale pink bikini panties stretched tautly over her pussy, the thin cotton curving inward in the center to outline her cleft.

Slowly, she reached down with one slim finger, and trailed her fingertip along that line. The cotton dampened, clinging even more tightly.

“So,” she said, eyes directly on mine. “The only question is: would you like me naked, or would fucking me in my uniform turn you on even more?”

— Frenulum

Change of season

Undecorating the tree always felt a little sad: the end of a season of parties and celebrations, months of grey winter ahead.

So they made it a little festive, with peppy music and fizzy wine to accompany the chore. They talked while they worked, danced a little, kissed when they bumped.

The last of the ornaments were stowed in their cartons, and only the garlands and lights remained. He pulled a long string of multi-colored beads off the tree, and looped them over her neck. “I should decorate you,” he announced with a smile.

He looped the beads around her twice, then pulled another string off the tree and wrapped them around her shoulders and torso. She twirled and giggled, happy with his hands on her body. Another strand followed, and another.

“I can’t move,” she laughed. “You’ve tied me up like a… a captive princess.”

A sly grin appeared on his face. “You can’t move?”

“Not a bit.”

He reached up under her skirt and pulled her panties down to her ankles, ignoring her squeal of mock outrage. Around the panties he wrapped a string of gold and silver stars. Hobbled, she let herself be pushed, hop by hop, to the couch, where with a final shove he tumbled her onto her back. He grabbed the stars and pulled, bending her double; if she struggled, the points bit gently through her panties. Her breathing deepened and her eyes grew wide. Playtime was changing.

He stroked her with his free hand from clit to asshole, spreading her glistening honey, and planned what he might do with his captive princess.

And then he told her, in explicit detail, what he had decided.

— Frenulum

On-the-job Training

“Any questions about the internship?”

“Um, what exactly would I be doing every day?”

“Like most jobs, it varies — whatever I need you to do, really. But for basics, I’ll have you at the front desk, greeting clients, handling the phone, and so on. People wait more patiently when there’s a pretty girl out front — that reminds me, I’ll spot you a clothing allowance to start off — figure most young ladies don’t have much of a professional wardrobe.”

“I’d be wearing —”

“Skirt and blouse or a dress, heels, something classy.”

“Oh. And —”

“So, some office stuff, copying and filing and that — it’s boring, but it’s gotta be done. A couple of downtown deliveries now and then, get you out of the place for a bit. I need a blow job every day after lunch. When clients —"”

“A… blow job?”

“Yeah, to relax, otherwise I get too hyper by the end of the day. Some people do yoga — never got into it. Shouldn’t be a problem, you’re, let’s see… gonna be a Senior next year, right?”

“Well, yes, but what do you mean by —”

“So that should be no problem. Yeah, so, I’ll have you sit in on client meetings, just to get a feel for what we do; you can ask questions after but just sit tight and listen while they’re here. After a few weeks, if you’re catching on, I’ll give you a couple of softball cases to work on your own. So it’s not just clerk stuff, you’ll be learning the business, too.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“So… you made a good impression here, I think you’ll work out. Interested in the job?”

“Yes! Yes, I am!”

“Good, good. That’s great, I look forward to having you. Well, there’s some paperwork, just get that taken care of out front. Then you can start the week after school?”

“Yes, that’s right. Oh, thank you!”

---

“C’mon, answer… c’mon!… Angie, it’s me… Hey, I need to ask… Yeah, it went great, they offered me the job!… Twelve an hour to start, and… Yeah, no kidding… And I could get a raise in July… Sure, but… Ange, listen a minute… Angie… No, just one intern, as far as I know… I can’t ask now, I’m in the parking lot… Ok, I will, but listen, Ange, I have to… Angela, would you let me… Thank you. I have to ask you a question. I figured you would know. Listen, um, Ange…

“What’s a blow job?”

— Frenulum

Field Hockey and Other Diversions

“Have you ever thought about the person who designed the sports skirt? Somebody sat down and drew a fantasy and made it compulsory uniform. I can never watch Wimbledon without thanking that man.”

— Colin Dexter, Last Seen Wearing

Ground rules

When the last bell rang, Kristi made her way to the Headmaster’s office, worked her way through two layers of guardians, and found herself in the office of the man himself. He looked up as she walked toward his desk with her pink slip offered.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the Headmaster said, rising to his feet. He towered over the petite schoolgirl.

“No, Sir. I’m new this year. I was at St. Odile before.” Kristi handed her pink slip carelessly to the Headmaster. Punishment was just part of school life, as far as Kristi was concerned: it had never really bothered her when the nuns had taken care of it, and it wasn’t going to start bothering her now, just because some man was in charge. Misbehavior was rewarding enough that the occasional sting on the bottom didn’t really matter.

As the Headmaster scanned the punishment order, Kristi slipped off her uniform blouse and her bra. She unbuttoned her kilt and pulled it off, and was bending over to step out of her panties when he looked up and spoke to her.

“It’s not necessary to disrobe completely, Miss,” he said gently.

“Oh!” Kristi straightened up quickly, her breasts bouncing invitingly. “At St. Odile, they made us —”

“All you need to do here is lift up your kilt and bend all the way over my desk. Then I will take your panties down. But for today, this will do.”

Kristi shrugged. She wasn’t self-conscious in the least; fully aware both that she was pretty and that her body had a valuable effect on others, she anticipated leniency from an entranced and distracted Headmaster. “Well, next time, then,” she said saucily, as if deterrence were not part of the aim of discipline. She bent, bare, exposed, and alluring, over the Headmaster’s desk.

“You use a strap?” she asked, seeing one lying on the blotter. “Mother Frances used a cane.” Her voice was almost scornful — a girl who could take the cane without a wince would certainly have no trouble in this soft-handed school.

The Headmaster pictured the Mother Superior, elderly and barely able to grip her rosary, tapping gently away at bare bottoms with a slender cane. He raised an eyebrow as he contemplated the nude schoolgirl stretched out before him. “A strap, yes,” he replied.

He went to the cupboard and selected a twin-tail double tawse, eighteen inches of heavy leather suppled by frequent use. He stood behind Kristi, eyes on her upturned buns and the tender pussy peeking out below them. His arm drew back.

Three strokes later, Kristi had lost her sassy impertenence, her insouciance, her composure, and her confidence. Six strokes later she had lost any semblence of self control. Her tearful cries sounded in the outer offices, where the staff gave each other satisfied nods.

“Welcome to my school,” the Headmaster said, and brought the strap down again.

— Frenulum

Tie-Mates

It wasn’t a policy. It grew naturally.

We discourage cliques and in-groups at the school, but a certain social hierarchy remains. I doubt such things can ever be eliminated. And one year, just by happenstance, four of the most popular girls — the queens of the realm, so to speak — wore their long hair in elaborate, careful braids.

It didn’t take long for others in their circle to emulate the practice, nor all that much longer for aspiring Juniors and Sophomores to notice that “all the cool girls” wore plaits and weaves and other detailed, painstaking styles, and to follow along.

They even formed pairs, each to do up the other’s hair in ever more elaborate ways. Tartlet couples primped each other before school every day, like 18th-century men-o’-war’s-men before the watch. Bobby pins became almost a form of currency.

Now, perhaps nine or ten years after this organic growth began, there’s not a lass in the student body who doesn’t sport a French braid, or Dutch, or an inverted one, or a chain or feather or fishtail or waterfall, or one of those elaborate styles where fine braids circle around the head and bind up other hair along the way. There’s nothing in the dress code about it. It’s just how to look here, to fit in. And fitting in is so vital to girls this age.

I had nothing to do with it — none of the faculty did — but I do highly approve.

During training, it makes a girl’s pretty little head so much easier to grip.

— Frenulum

Thanks to my girls’ high school insider TL, who introduced me to the notion of primping pairs of tartlets. That bit is not fictional.

Condensed

She took the golden box in her hands and knelt. There was no reason to kneel except that she was thinking of him, which was enough. Sometimes, when she saw him in public, her knees just started to bend, and she had to catch herself.

She opened the lid. She drew breath, concentrated, meditated, centered her thoughts.

“My lover,” she said, breathing into the box, starting with the simpler words. “My mate. My partner.” Each word drifted into the box; of course, it was not the breath, or the articulation, but the idea that settled down. The concepts began to blend as she added them.

“My best friend,” she added with heartfelt simplicity. “My sex.” Moisture grew in her pussy, and her nipples began to stiffen. “My belovèd. My soulmate. My equal. My perfect match. My mirror. My one.” Her words fell into the swirling mix of thoughts in the golden box, causing the blended ideas to spin and intertwine, each one coloring the others.

Her thighs glistened, and her voice, though soft, was deliberate and emphatic. “My lord,” she spoke. “Law. King. Liege. Center. Rule.” The turbulence of mingled ideas in the box was beautiful and entrancing. “Universe. Purpose. Reason. Everything.” Her quim flooded, nipples strained, body trembled. The pace of her words grew slower. “Teacher. Daddy. Authority. Guide. Fixer. Mentor. Trainer. Commander. My path. My life.“

The box was full to the edge, wisps of ideas starting to curl over the edges; she gently herded them back inside. She leaned closer, her lips almost touching the glowing storm of thoughts.

“Master,” she whispered. As the word flew into the box the mixture roiled and it was all she could do to keep it confined. “Owner,” she added, and quickly, with all her might, closed the lid on the burgeoning brilliance inside.

The pressure of meaning strove to burst the confines of the box. She held it closed with her hands and then, fearing her strength was not enough, sat on the box. Against her bare bottom it was fiercely hot, welcome, remindful.

After a time, the box cooled and the pressure against the lid faded. She rose, knelt again, and took up the box in her hands. Carefully, she opened it. She bent her head to the box, and inhaled the single thing it now contained.

She stood, and went to find him, so that she might speak his name.

“Sir.”

— Frenulum

From and for my belovèd.