Girl on the Net

“You’ll stand in the corner until we’re done here,” he tells me. His voice is flat – almost a monotone – and it’s doubly hard to assess how angry he is because I don’t really know this man well. That’s the thrill of it, really: not knowing how he’ll react. He is a borderline stranger, and I deliberately riled him up in front of everyone. And now I’m standing in the corner with my nose pressed against the wall, my skirt hiked up around my waist like a naughty schoolgirl, and a good long wait while I anticipate what he might do. My heart beats in my throat and with my face hidden like this, I grin.

This blog post involves school role play – albeit very unrealistic school role play – including corporal punishment. If that’s not your thing look away now.

Everyone in this room is over 18, but technically this is ‘school.’ And it’s not really ‘school role play’ in the realistic sense: we don’t have actual lessons or neat handwriting or proper uniforms. What we’re wearing was cobbled together from vaguely school-looking things we found in the back of our work wardrobes. I’m wearing a white shirt sheer enough that if I’d ever worn it to real school it would have guaranteed detention. Others are wearing ties they found in charity shops or black leather skirts they’ve only worn to fetish clubs. We’re sitting on comfy sofas in a living room, and although someone managed to get hold of what look like old exercise books, we’re scribbling on them as we lean on an oak coffee table.

There aren’t any desks, but there’s a whiteboard. Hurried shopping lists have been scrubbed away and now ‘teacher’ is writing parodies of lessons in wipe-clean marker pen. To punish those of us who are naughty – and we’re naturally competing to see who can be the naughtiest – in the corner of the living room there’s a pile of canes and floggers and tawses.

In the other corner, there’s me.

It’s school, sort of. But realistic it ain’t. This school role play is more like an amateur dramatics group retelling of ‘school’, with a script that’s been written over six bottles of wine on a horny afternoon in the pub.

The teacher – for that’s who he is – is a very tall man. A friend of one of my fellow ‘students’ chosen for the fact that he’s naturally dominant and at least twenty years older than we are: we do make efforts towards realism, even though the results are hit and miss. Thanks to the fact that I was late this morning, the first time I met this ‘teacher’ was when everyone was already in character. I’d run through to the kitchen mumbling ‘sorrysorrysorry’ while he was taking registration, then once I’d squeezed myself into a short black business skirt, a sheer blouse and a tie I’d rescued from my ska punk days at Uni, I meekly tiptoed back into the room and took a seat next to another ‘student’ on the sofa.

And now… now I was in trouble. I can’t remember what the final straw was that made him bark “YOU! STAND UP! Get in the corner – NOW!” but I’m sure it was good. From the second I’d struggled into my uniform I’d embraced every aspect of the naughty schoolgirl. When I was really at school, before I hit my twenties and just play-acted it for sexy fun, I’d never have dreamed of talking back to a teacher. I was the good girl who handed my homework in, got A*s, and would have bitten her tongue off rather than give a wrong answer. ‘Detention’ was a word that filled me with genuine dread.

Now, though, it was all a game. And the aim of the game seemed to be to piss off the teacher as much as possible so he’d take you to the front of the class for a beating.

I watched as first one ‘student’ and then the other was singled out of our giggling misbehaviour and made to touch their toes in front of the class. I watched two of my good friends get thrashed and – better – I got to hear ‘teacher’ actually call it ‘thrashing’, the way he would have if this were a scene I’d hunted for on a spanking porn site, or conjured in my own pervy head.

But apparently I needed more than a thrashing. Maybe I’d giggled more loudly than my peers, or perhaps I’d said something even ruder to the teacher than they did. Perhaps it was just the fact that I looked up at this distant, cold-seeming guy with big round eyes that simply begged him to do something to put me in my place.

I don’t know what I did – I can’t remember. But something I did prompted him to bark:

“YOU! STAND UP! Get in the corner – NOW!”

And at this point I get flustered, because this isn’t quite what I’d expected – I’d expected the beating to come immediately. I flush a little bit as I stand and move over to the corner of the room, tugging my skirt down because it suddenly seems too short now I’m here in front of everyone.

“Pull it up,” he tells me. “And put your face right up against the wall. Don’t let your nose move from that spot. You’ll stand in the corner until we’re done here.”

And that’s what brought me to this point: standing in the corner of the room with my skirt hitched up to the waistband to display my white cotton knickers, my nose pressed against the wall and my pulse thudding hard in my crotch, eagerly awaiting my proper ‘punishment.’

Of course that’s all I can think of now: the punishment. It’s a deliberate, cheap, simple trick to get me horny and it has worked exactly as well as he knew it would. I have nothing to stare at but the wall, nothing to hear but his sharp voice chastising other students and wrapping up the lesson, and nothing to think about but the exact moment when the first stroke of the cane – or flogger or tawse or crop – will land on my trembling flesh.

This guy’s good. He’s a genius. Because as I’m waiting waiting WAITING for the thrashing I’ve been angling for, he alludes to it with the other students and draws out the lesson to keep me in squirming torture for longer.

“I’ll deal with her after the class,” he tells the others. And as the lesson continues, every second of it feels tailored to me. Each time he threatens another student with a thrashing, I feel it’s directed at me. When he calls on someone to give an answer and she gets it wrong, he tells her to hold out her hand and he lashes at it with a leather tawse: each stroke sounds like it’s for me. I twitch in sympathetic response to the crack of the strap falling on her palm, and I count them in my head.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

I shift from foot to foot, not daring to ask when it’s my turn. I shift my weight from foot to foot, never taking my nose away from the spot on the wall where he’s placed me. Somewhere in the room a mobile phone goes off, and we giggle at the interruption before the teacher barks at us to be quiet.

“RIGHT, lesson over!” he announces abruptly. “All of you – OUT.”

Dutifully, my twenty-five and thirty-year-old friends gather schoolbooks and pens and exercise books filled with absurd makework, and they file out of the room into the kitchen. They’ll be able to hear what’s happening from there, and in the kitchen they’ll break character and sip cider and wine while they gleefully listen to me getting thrashed.

When the door closes it’s just me and the teacher. He stands, silently, for what seems like forever.

I count off the seconds in my head: one. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Anticipating that each second of silence now will mean one cane stripe later, I shudder.

To me it feels like he’s building my terror: holding back so that I can conjure most of the fear inside my head. That’s the efficient way to punish someone – let them do the work themselves. Like making them braid the tails on a flogger that they’ll be beaten with, or insisting they carve their name laboriously onto a wooden paddle with which they’ll later get spanked. He lets me build the terror in my head so that when it comes time to punish me all he has to do is wield the whip.

When he approaches me I’m ready to feel the biting sting of his hand, or the tawse, or the cane. But instead he shouts.

“WHO ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU ARE YOUNG LADY?!”

The unexpected fury comes on all of a sudden, and by the end of the sentence he’s standing right next to me – face twisted and angry as he spits red rage into my ear. I physically cringe away from him, at the same time as my body responds far too eagerly: I can feel my cunt twitch and the telltale gush of fluid into my knickers.

He pauses for a tiny moment – the way he barked so angrily took me by surprise, and he wants to give me a chance to opt out and use my safe word.

I do not.

“If you EVER disrupt my class like that again I will thrash you until you can’t sit down for a week DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”

I nod eagerly, and he grabs me by the wrist, dragging me across the room so he can bend me over the arm of the sofa. Everything’s happening so fast – much more quickly than the calm, measured beatings that he gave out to my fellow students.

I feel like a lucky girl. The long anticipation followed by a hurricane of rage is much closer tailored to what I like than the steady cracks of a regimented beating: one, two, three, four, five, six. He picks up the strap and lashes at me with passion and energy – playing well the part of a man who’s so angry he can’t hold back. He uses one hand to rip down my knickers, rather than ordering me to lower them slowly as the others have been told to. Swinging his arm and beating stripes into me as I bite my lip to stop from yelping.

The time it took for this to come makes it all the sweeter now it’s here, and I have to try not to smile as he beats me, because I don’t want to ruin the game.

When he’s done and I’m red and sore and happy he dismisses me with a curt “Good girl.”

I wonder how this man knows me so well.

And I hope that next time he will punish me with his cock.

This post is available as audio. Click ‘listen here’ at the start of the post, or check out the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud.