Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
But as I stood there, the throbbing pain in my backside a constant reminder of my humiliation, I couldn’t help but remember Anne’s words about her time at New Modesty college.
“The first few weeks were hell,” she had confided in a hushed tone. “I thought I’d never get used to it. But slowly, day by day, it became… normal. The discipline, the structure… it started to make a weird kind of sense.”
I had been enraged at the time, unable to imagine ever accepting such a system—barely able to keep chewing my sandwich, with the pain in my paddled ass and the humiliation of everyone in the room remembering what had befallen me over the chair. I reached for the tube with trembling fingers, wondering if despite my resolution to challenge the system I was taking the first step down that same path.
Trying not to think too deeply about what I was doing, I squeezed a dollop of the cool cream onto my fingertips. The medicinal scent filled my nostrils as I hesitated, my hand hovering just above my tender flesh.
Taking a deep breath, I began to apply the cream, wincing at the initial contact. As I gently massaged it into my bruised skin, I couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of relief. The cooling sensation was immediate, soothing the angry welts left by the paddle.
My fingers moved in small circles, carefully covering every inch of my punished bottom. As I worked, I found myself remembering more of what Anne had told me about her experiences at New Modesty college.
“The first time I was paddled,” she had said, her eyes distant with the memory, “I thought I’d die from the shame of it. But by the third or fourth time… there was something almost cathartic about it. Like all the stress and pressure just melted away with each stroke.”
I shook my head, trying to dispel the memory. That wasn’t me. That was insane. I wasn’t going to find anything ‘cathartic’ about being beaten like a disobedient schoolgirl.
And yet… as my fingers continued their gentle ministrations, I felt the involuntary heat begin to build between my thighs. I tried to focus solely on the medical nature of what I was doing—just applying a soothing balm to injured flesh. But as my hands moved over the tender curves of my bottom, I couldn’t help but remember again the feeling of being bent over the chair, exposed and vulnerable. This time the memory sent a jolt of electricity straight to my pussy.
My breath caught in my throat as I felt myself growing slick with arousal. This was wrong. So wrong. I was supposed to be outraged, disgusted by what had happened to me. Instead, my traitorous body was yet again responding with unmistakable desire. I had told myself after giving in, in the bathroom at work, that it wouldn’t happen again. Not twelve hours later, here I was, needing more.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will away the ache between my legs. But closing my eyes only made it worse, allowing vivid images to dance across my mind’s eye—the stern set of Sharon’s mouth as she wielded the paddle, the feeling of cool air on my bared flesh, the excruciating anticipation before each stroke fell.
A soft whimper escaped my lips as I felt my inner muscles clench with desire. My fingers, still slick with arnica cream, drifted lower almost of their own accord. I jerked my hand away as if burned when I realized where it was headed.
No. This isn’t me. I don’t want… this.
Even as I forced my brain to articulate the words—to hang them like a billboard behind my eyelids—I knew they were a lie. My body screamed for release, every nerve ending alight with desperate arousal. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white as I fought against the urge to touch my pussy.
It was no use. The combination of the lingering sting from the paddling, the soothing coolness of the cream, and the molten heat of my arousal proved too potent to resist. With a choked sob of mingled shame and lust, I gave in.
My right hand flew between my thighs, fingers finding my swollen clit with unerring accuracy. At the same time, my left hand returned to my tender bottom, gently kneading the bruised flesh. The double stimulation sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through me.
I worked myself toward climax with frantic urgency, unbidden images flashing through my mind. This time it wasn’t Sharon wielding the paddle. Instead, I saw a faceless man, tall and powerfully built. In my fantasy, Sharon stood to the side, that horrid smirk on her face as she turned me over to this stranger for further ‘correction.’
“Please,” I heard myself beg in the fantasy, even as my fingers moved faster in reality. “I’ll be good. I promise.”