The Chair
by M J Sellars
This is a fantasy tale told by a newly appointed Headmistress. It dates back to the sixties, when CP was commonplace in schools.
Though perhaps The Chair was not commonplace.
It had been a catastrophic failure. This exclusive girls’ school had never had a male on the staff before, let alone a male Head, and when he turned out to be a wimp with no sense of discipline, the school quickly went downhill. Upper-crust parents won’t accept lack of control in a school, and the pressure to be decisive resulted in swift action by the Governors. Hence my appointment. The Governors made it absolutely clear to me that corporal punishment was the rock on which discipline depended, and delegated one of their number to instruct me further.
This determined woman spent two hours with me, and the upshot was that I was advised to see the Deputy Head, Miss Masterson, who knew all about the punishment systems. I lost no time.
I studied the punishment books first. To my surprise there were two of them. One for the pupils and one for the staff. The first told me that corporal punishment had been non-existent for the two years the man had been Head. The girls had received few punishments at all, mostly “reprimands” from the Head. I turned to the Staff Punishment Book. Here again, for the last two years there were only two entries, both reprimands for junior members of staff. Further back, though, under the previous Headmistress, I was amazed to find frequent entries. Staff had been punished for the slightest sloppiness, punishments varying from extra duties (very common) to fines and suspensions. The puzzling entries, though, were records of ‘The Chair.’ Looking at these entries again, I was shocked to see the name Masterson several times as the one punished, each entry resulting in ‘The Chair.’ Her name also appeared in the ‘punished by’ column quite often. No wonder I had been advised to consult the Deputy Head. There was no doubt about it; she was the one who knew all about The Chair. I sent for her.
We had a long talk, discussing every aspect of school life. Eventually I got round to the big issue. I asked her to explain The Chair.
‘Well, Headmistress, in this school it’s a traditional method of punishment for staff members. Corporal Punishment. While the pupils are caned on their bottoms, because it is the least painful part of the body, the staff require something stronger. Something that will leave a lasting impression on them. Something painful and shameful.’
I realised my jaw had dropped open, and hurriedly shut my mouth. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘On what part of the body is this punishment inflicted?’
‘On the inside of the thighs, Headmistress.’
I was more than somewhat shocked, but I managed to carry on. ‘Well now,’ I said. ‘It is a principle of mine that I shall never inflict a punishment that I have not experienced myself. I was caned often enough in my own schooldays, so I have no problem with punishing the pupils. But this concept of whipping the thighs is new to me. It leaves me with no option but to ask you, Miss Masterson, to demonstrate the technique on myself. It’s clear from the Punishment Book that you know all about it, both as giver and receiver of punishment. And, by the way, when you have shown me how it’s done, I may need someone to practice on.’
‘You mean now, Headmistress?’
My Deputy said nothing further, but turned away and did some furniture removing. I had barely noticed it before, but in the corner of my study stood a large armchair. She dragged the Chair (yes, I was now thinking of the Chair as needing a capital C, just as it was always written in the Punishment Book) to the centre of the room. ‘I shall treat you, then, as if you were a junior member of staff who is guilty of some misdemeanour.’
I nodded my agreement.
Miss Masterson gestured to the Chair. It had been covered in a non-absorbent material like vinyl. Otherwise it was a perfectly ordinary Chair. It was wide, with low padded arms also covered in vinyl. ‘Take off your skirt, and sit down.’ I was shocked. I’d had no inkling that I would have to disrobe. I took off the skirt and folded it carefully, laying it over my big desk. Somehow, my knickers, which were very brief and lacy, seemed out of place in that school environment. ‘Now shoes and stockings, please.’ I removed the shoes and rolled down my stockings. I had no intention of laddering them, and did it slowly and carefully. She took them from me and put them on the desk. ‘Now please lift your bottom from the Chair.’ I gripped the chair arms and lifted myself a couple of inches. Miss Masterson knelt beside me and reached to my waist. She grasped the knickers and dragged them over my hips. Now I was really shocked. My mouth was dry and my heart beat like a hammer. As she guided the knickers down my legs, which she did with infinite gentleness, the atmosphere was electric. Was it my imagination, or did the fingers brush my thighs on the way? She held first one foot and then the other as she drew the knickers from my feet. She left me for a moment as she disposed of the knickers. I sat bolt upright, naked from the waist down, feeling very strange. I was unused to disrobing in front of another woman, especially one who was still fully dressed. The changing rooms after hockey, yes. Perfectly natural. We would all undress together. What spooked me here was the formality of the situation; the way one of us stripped while the other, still fully dressed, looked on. Not to mention feeling knickers being drawn down my thighs!
Miss Masterson had picked up a pair of leather gloves, which she proceeded to draw on.
I sensed her standing close at my shoulder. ‘Spread your legs apart! As wide as you can!’ I turned to look at her. Her expressionless face left me in no doubt she meant what she said. Puzzled but excited, I did as she asked. She moved to my right side and bent over the arm of the Chair. She grasped the inside of my thigh with her left hand, half way between knee and crotch. Then without warning, her right hand struck me hard. She struck me on the inside of the thigh, very close to the knee. It certainly stung, but it was the unexpectedness that shocked me so. Very quickly she struck me again. And again. She gave me no chance to recover my poise, and I think I cried out after the third slap, more with surprise and unpreparedness than with the pain. Several more slaps rained down on my poor thighs, and I realised she was working her way along the thigh, away from the knee. Soon she had to move her left hand further towards my crotch to leave room for the slaps. I was looking down, watching with horror my milk-white skin turning pink over a larger and larger length of thigh. Soon she had to remind me to spread my legs further apart. I had without thinking slowly brought them closer. It was a natural reaction. I spread them as she asked, not without mental difficulty. A dozen more slaps, and I had to use all my willpower to keep my legs apart. Every nerve in my body was urging me to clamp them together.
After what must have been at least thirty slaps Miss Masterson paused, giving me much-needed relief. She had worked two thirds of the way along my thigh, and the area she had covered was a bright pink and was burning hot. It stung like mad. I reminded myself that I had to endure any punishment that was used in the school, and that I must, yes, absolutely must see it out.
She walked round the Chair. She was taking off the tailored jacket. She was very smart in a spotless white blouse and medium length black skirt. When she leaned over me, grasping my knee with her left hand, I noticed her breasts were braced high, very prominent under her blouse. I would not normally notice this on another woman, but the way she was leaning over me brought her bust close in front of my eyes. When she began to smack me afresh, I kept my eyes on her breasts. Having something to concentrate on helped keep my mind off the pain. Each time her hand struck me, a shiver, a shockwave travelled across her body, and despite the tight lifting bra, her breasts quivered spectacularly.
I had not experienced sexual attraction to a woman since my schooldays, but I was now observing Miss M as a highly attractive woman, and the intimacy was definitely charged with a sexual electricity.
The smacking restarted next to my knee and travelled with infinite slowness along my thigh. Soon my left thigh was burning as hotly and as painfully as the other. I was counting this time. Three dozen slaps. She stopped for a rest, rubbing her hands together. I realised she must be in considerable pain herself. I had smacked girls myself, and the hands are not made for this task. At least, not if the punishment is severe. She had covered two thirds of my thigh, and I wondered what was coming next.
She had for the moment finished with my left leg. Lifting her skirt just enough, she stood astride my right knee, gripping it with her legs. She bent forward and grasped the outside of my thigh with one hand, and started to slap with the other. She was aiming for the inside of the thigh, starting where she had left off. There was a five-inch length of untouched white skin from the still-smarting area of pink to my pelvis. This five inches she was now attacking. A dozen smacks, and her hand had worked to within a hairsbreadth of my labia. She had to warn me twice to move my other leg out of the way, and I forced myself to comply. I watched with horror as my thigh was reddened right up to the folds of labia. I fancied that she actually touched it with her last slap. It was a temporary relief when she straightened up and stepped away from my leg. But of course she was immediately at work on my other side. She stood at my side, facing inwards. She hooked her left leg over mine, trapping it against the front of her right leg. She bent forward and pushed my other leg away. She kept one hand on that leg, holding the knee so that I was stretched wide open. Then she was able to start smacking my other thigh.
Once again I was terrified as she came closer and closer to my fanny. I wondered how it would feel if she struck it directly. The pain was considerable, but it was the exposure of my labia which exercised my mind.
The twelfth and last slap landed very close. Miss Masterson paused, her hand still covering the area she had just smacked. My skin was hot just there from the slap, but I did not mind the contact, which I felt was a sympathetic rather than a sexual approach. I realised, though, that although the slap had not touched my fanny, the side of her hand was now definitely in contact with my labia.
I should have pushed it away, but now that the punishment was over I was becoming aware of a definite thrill from her contact. Besides, I had come to admire Miss Masterson. During the long punishment I had been watching her, and admiring her strength and determination. It was only later that I realised my feelings were partly affection, partly sexual attraction. I had not experienced this with another female since my schooldays.
I allowed her hand to linger. She had released my other leg, and I was no longer compelled to keep my legs stretched wide apart. So I closed them. The lingering hand was trapped between my legs, and I squeezed. The result was more pressure on my labia, and a huge sexual urge came over me. I closed my eyes and let it build up.
I would have come to orgasm had not Miss Masterson spoken to me. ‘I haven’t finished yet. There are still a dozen strokes with the ferula.’
I slowly opened my eyes and found her looking me hard in the face. I threw off my sexual trance and stared back at her. Another dozen! I must have taken six dozen hand-spanks already, and she had not broken me. I knew that, painful as her slaps were, I could accept another dozen, and, painful as they may be, they would only make me randy. ‘Do your worst!’ I said, and released her hand. She went away, out of sight behind me. I heard her rummaging in a cupboard. When she returned she was holding something unfamiliar in her hand. It looked like a leather strap. It was remarkably small, though, only about nine inches long, and seemed to be no great threat. One end was narrower, and could be grasped as a handle. What I had not understood was that it was a very thick and heavy piece of leather, and was to prove a most formidable piece of equipment.
Miss Masterson pulled my legs apart again, and stepped between them. ‘I need more room to swing the ferula. You must place one foot on the Chair arm.’ She picked up my right ankle, and I allowed her to place my right foot high on the arm. She knelt between my legs. Holding my right ankle on the arm with one hand, her hip prevented my other leg closing, and I was being held wider open than ever. It was difficult sitting upright, and so I leant back in the Chair, watching my tormentor prepare to complete the punishment. I saw how open and exposed my fanny was. I watched Miss Masterson raise the strap above her shoulder and bring it down with all her strength. She struck me at mid thigh.
I had no idea that such pain could exist. It was an explosion of pain. It lifted me from my chair, and I instinctively grasped the damaged place with both hands. I had shrieked at the first impact, and now I was sobbing.
Miss Masterson was most determined. ‘If you prevent me delivering the next stroke by using your hands, you will regret it, I assure you. If you don’t take your hands away this instant, I shall resume this punishment tomorrow. Then I shall send for two other staff members. They will hold your wrists above your head for the remainder of the punishment. And I shall start the dozen all over again.’ I was aghast. I could never allow other staff members to be present. But she expected me to remove my hands and allow her to resume this impossible ordeal. I didn’t see how I could possibly manage. I clasped my hands behind my head, and willed myself not to bring them away, however much the temptation. I entwined my fingers in my hair so thoroughly that, I reasoned, I would be unable to remove them even in my anguished state. The dreadful instrument smashed down again inside my thigh. I shut my eyes and gave several choking sobs. My eyes were wet with tears and I was ashamed to be behaving like a tearful schoolgirl. Another stroke. I was squeezing now with my legs, desperately trying to bring them together. But the way Miss Masterson had positioned herself between my legs and holding on to the ankle still perched on the Chair arm, made it impossible for me to close myself up. I had never known such agony. The fifth and sixth strokes landed dangerously near my cringing genitals. I tried to retreat into the Chair, but she followed me, still swinging the ferula.
I hoped there might be brief respite after six strokes. Alas, there was little pause, and the next stroke landed on my other leg. Now she was standing, lashing down from above her left shoulder, back-handing across her body. The leather struck the mid point of the left thigh. She was still holding me open, my right foot still being held on the Chair arm. It was awful. I became frantic as the ferula struck closer and closer to my fanny. I swear the last one did actually hit the puffy outer lips. By this time I was beyond caring, so high was the pain level. I was sobbing continuously, sobbing and shrieking. It was fortunate there was nobody else in the building.
I felt the pressure on my legs slacken. I could now lift my right foot from the arm and bring my legs together. Or almost together, for they were so tender that the least pressure would have added to my agony. I lay panting. After a while I opened my eyes and saw Miss Masterson regarding me with a concerned expression on her face. ‘You did well,’ she said. ‘Few women can go through that without their hands being secured. I normally have two senior staff members standing by in the next room.’ I wasn’t surprised to hear it. It had taken all my will power to keep my fingers entwined in my hair for those last strokes of the ferula.
I asked if she had to be held when she was being punished.
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘Every time. I’ve never had the courage to keep my hands clear. The Head used to bring people in to hold me. It was very hard to be on show like that in front of women who were junior to myself. But it was very good for discipline. They knew that if I was punished for slackness, they would never get away with anything themselves.’ She bustled about, putting the ferula in the top drawer in my desk. ‘We’ll keep it there where its handy. No doubt it will be needed before long. And when the staff find out you keep it handy, it will sharpen their minds wonderfully.’
In my own schooldays I had always observed that after a severe caning (and they were all severe), my emotions were immediately affected. Within seconds of standing up a surge of affection would always come over me. I wanted to thank the person who had so recently been hurting me so dreadfully. I wanted to hug her, and it would have been wonderful to have been hugged in return, and to have heard comforting and loving words. It had often happened so, but only in my imagination, afterwards, after bedtime. Orgasms were never as sweet as on those so special occasions. Today, those same feelings were already present and I was beginning to yearn for the masterful Masterson to show some affection for me.
Miss Masterson was taking something out of her handbag. ‘Now, my dear, I think I can help soothe those legs of yours. ‘Let me spread this on your wounds.’ She smiled sympathetically, and knelt between my legs. I trusted her, and allowed her access, even though it meant spreading my legs wide apart again. By now this seemed almost a natural posture for me. She had in her hands a jar from which she took some cream and spread it gently onto the burning parts of my legs. The coolness was wonderful, and I immediately felt a benefit. The sting was less, and I loved the gentle stroking of her hands. She saw me looking at her and smiled.
Miss Masterson, with gentle circling motion, started at the knee and worked her way along my thighs, as she had done with the smacking and the strap. This was altogether preferable. She used a hand on each of my thighs, and before long she had covered the whole length. The affected area, now bright red and turning black in places, extended right up to my labia. I did not want her to stop. I put my hands on hers, and made sure they didn’t stop. Realising my intention, she pulled her hands away for a moment and took more cream from the jar. The cream felt as wonderful on my labia as it had on the sore parts of my thighs. More so. Vastly more so. Both her hands were still circling, and did not stop at the labia. They were soon inside me and working wonders. I leant forward and she opened her mouth for my kiss.
We slept together that night. The last thing she said before the light went out was, ‘And in a day or two, Headmistress, I expect it will be my turn in the Chair.’
I did not contradict her.
