February 2018 – Intimate Invasions

The Keyhole

The outer door to the headmaster’s office occupies the end of the long dingy hallway on the top floor of the reformatory. I must note that, although “headmaster” is the name universally applied to the occupant, the term is something of a misnomer, since the student body he oversees are not so much students as inmates, and what they’re there to learn isn’t a curriculum of the classics but rather one of manual labor and frequent and severe correction.

This outer door is at the end of the hallway, as I have already said, but it is not so much the door that will occupy us as it is the unusually large keyhole in it. There is no need for me to offer up an exegesis on keyholes, as you will no doubt be acquainted with their essence, which is to say, an opening of whatever height and girth necessary to accommodate a key. However, any brief overview of this particular keyhole would have to focus on its size; large indeed the key it was made to fit, although that key has long since disappeared, and anyone so inclined could, without issue, enter past this door to the headmaster’s outer office. I note that so far as I know there is no one so inclined, and has not been since the headmaster long ago assumed his position overseeing the reformatory, and the girls it contains.

The keyhole, then, is a large one, in fact large enough to easily accommodate an eye looking through it. And the view so obtained is unusually sweeping, again because the keyhole is large. Peer in and you see to the extreme left the tall windows that allow light to fall into the outer office; to the extreme right the row of tarnished coathooks that are fixed to the dark and slightly discolored paneled wall. And, between these antipodal extremes, the door to the sanctus sanctorum, the inner office where the head (as the students call him in whispered words behind his back) tends to his papers, and to the bared bottoms of his charges when he has them bent over his desk or one of the specialized pieces of furniture he keeps in his office explicitly for the purpose of appropriate positioning for discipline.

Of course as large as the keyhole is the view through it of the goings-on in the inner office is not comprehensive. I can attest to this myself, for I’ve assayed the view, and it’s clearly incomplete. This concerns us to the extent that the events I am about to describe are only as complete as the view through this keyhole; on reflection, I am sure that the story will be … thorough enough, even with this limitation, but I leave it to you, dear reader, to be the final judge of that bold assertion of mine.

***

The events I am about to describe occur on a Friday afternoon, late in the day at the end of the week when the headmaster steps away from his papers and steps towards the wholesome application of painful learning to his girls. “His girls,” that’s what he calls them, and I have no doubt his heart is as firmly invested in their care as is his array of disciplinary tools.

Now,“care” is a word his girls would dispute, in fact they would argue that having to lift your skirt and stand next to the head as he sits on his chair and lectures is not care, nor is it care to then have your underpants slowly entered by his hand, tickling down past the waistband in back before stripping said underpants down to your knees.

Nor indeed is then being bent unceremoniously over his knees with your bare bottom up awaiting martyrdom. “Care?” No indeed, that would be the almost unanimous conclusion of the girls he tends to, by paperwork during the first four days of the week, and by his hand, or the strap or cane on Friday afternoons.

And of course sometimes by those things and other things besides, as I shall come to. Presently, but not just yet, for pacing is, after all, both an art and a virtue. Or so I am told.

So the view through the keyhole is ample but not comprehensive, I’ve already noted this but it bears repeating, for in an ideal world my story would be complete, but alas, given the limitations of the view the tale is similarly restricted.

Friday afternoon, late afternoon, with most of the “lessons” the girls undertake having finished, and a small subset of the head’s charges have mounted the stairs to the corridor under the eaves. A small number of inmates, neither too few nor too many, for the head likes his Friday afternoons spent as Goldilocks liked her porridge, not too many girls bared for the strap, nor too few, but rather just exactly the right number.

In this case five.

They go up the stairs, slowly, ploddingly, their hearts in their saddle shoes, their tummies aflutter, their dread collective and, I must say, easily sensed, even from afar.

They parade up, and the lucky man passing below as they ascend would enjoy the sight they present: white kneesocks, short plaid skirts, white blouses and, from the angle up the stairs, a clear view of five pairs of tight round buttocks in white underpants. Five pairs of cheeks waiting to be subjected to stringent chastisement, there in the inner room of the headmaster’s offices, with those underpants invariably pulled down before the corrections have concluded.

At this point a brief digression into chastisement is probably in order. Whether in a reformatory or in the marital bedroom or in a medical office where compliance with procedures is tanamount, throughout history women of all ages have had their behavior corrected by punishments to their bared backsides. “Flagellation” is the broad term, but I prefer “bare bottom discipline” as that latter phrasing evokes both the severity and the intimacy of the kind of correction I’m referencing.

Consider, for example, the marital bedroom where the wife has disobeyed some instruction and now stands in a corner with her skirt hiked up and her panties lowered to her knees. Corners are not, in general, fascinating, and the corner she occupies is equally unstimulating. You wouldn’t know that from the motions she makes, constant rocking, shifting, as if she were on a roller coaster rather than on a hardwood floor with her behind bared waiting for her husband to come in and pull his belt out through the loops of his pants and call her to come bend over the end of the bed.

Or cast your view to a medical office where a young lady has been undressed and re-clad in a hospital gown, hanging open in back to expose her behind to the humiliating procedures she is about to undergo, and that I shall come to later on.

She stands before the doctor, who is pointing to the apparatus she dreads; does he put her over his knee for it, or does he have her kneel on the examining table with her head down and her behind up in the air?

And if she disobeys, at what point has he had enough of her nonsense? At what point does his nurse hear his voice rise, hear the pleading and – soon enough – the sound of his well-seasoned hand exploding over and over again on her bare behind?

Now you should not think that chastisement is solely about the act; as any recipient of discipline can attest, it’s the mental state that surrounds the act(s) that has the most effect, although the red behind and the bruises and the pain of sitting for the next week should not, of course, be minimized.

As the head could tell you, different females have different reactions and different mindsets about discipline. Some resist as much as possible, and seem to derive satisfaction or, perhaps more aptly, catharsis, via being brought by force to compliance.

Others go relatively meekly to their fate and, when called across the masculine lap comply largely without complaint. There may be moans as the underpants are lowered, there may be soft cries of protest as the hand descends – and those cries may well become less soft as the behind reddens and, inevitably, the paddle and the strap replace that hand.

And then there are those who crave discipline, and who do everything they can to place themselves in the center of the maelstrom, who beg to have their behinds subjected to the most severe discipline.

I know whereof I speak for – and I apologize for this liberty of interjecting myself into my story – I have encountered at least a few examples of this type. One person came to me every month or so and, without communicating the desire to me in words, still made it clear that it was necessary for me to strip down her underpants and administer a very very thorough caning to her bared (and spread) cheeks.

Those sessions were quite an experience; her original perturbation on presenting herself diminished with each loud impact of the cane. And by the end her demeanor was that of a compliant lamb (or what I imagine a compliant lamb’s demeanor would be), pupils dilated, limbs relaxed, eager to thank me for her correction with her mouth and several other aspects of her anatomy (one of which I admit I particularly preferred as a just desert after correction).

But back to the five girls climbing the stairs.

And, at the top, pausing before dragging their feet down the corridor.

To the headmaster’s door at the end.

Which opens to admit them, and then closes.

But of course we can look through the keyhole to see most (but alas not all) of what occurs inside.

The first girl called by the headmaster is … call her Suzanne. Hardly the ringleader of the bunch, medium height and every bit of her petrified. This is not her first time in the head’s office on a Friday afternoon and, although she does her best to be good, it’s unlikely to be her last time here.

If you put your eye to the keyhole you can see them all in the outer room, and you can see the inner door open and the head gesture Suzanne inside. “And close that door behind you,” he adds, with some real bite in his voice.

The girl enters, closing the inner door behind her. We see the others huddling in fear and, like them, we strain our ears to hear what’s going on behind that door Suzanne just closed.

The sound of the headmaster lecturing and then of a zipper being undone gives all of us a good idea of what’s occurring.

But we might as well explore this in detail.

I’m told that’s one of my real talents. Attention to detail.

Girls come to the head’s office by way of a carefully elaborated process, one he’s spent years perfecting. Although it’s a reformatory, the girls have classes as well as manual labor that, as the charter of the place states, “reforms their spirits by way of good work.” And misbehavior in the classes is noted by the matrons and, for anything other than the most minor of infractions, results in consequences of one sort of another.

For the minor sins, girls are marched out into the hallway and spanked by two of the older women who tend to them. One to hold the girl bending and the other to administer the strap, either on the underpants or, more regularly, with the underpants down. The strappings are hard, but the punitive effect comes more through the humiliation of being taken to the hallway and overheard pleading and crying. This is a feature both the matrons and the head appreciate, and its something they maximize through as many rituals of correction as they can arrange.

I have always wondered how much these good women look at discipline as something they simply do as part of their duties, and whether any see it as something more, something they look forward to. I admit the act is tedious, the crying and pleading young lady led (or dragged) into the hall, skirt yanked up and white underpants pulled down while she cries and begs.

And then the strap across that bared behind, over and over in a rather tedious pattern of raise, swing down, and then raise and repeat. Until the buttocks range from pink to red and bruised, depending on the tastes of the lady wielding the strap.

I can’t project myself into the minds of these women, I will say for myself that there’s something intoxicating in having someone else under your control, a captive for whatever punishment you care to administer. Again I apologize to you for injecting my own life into this tale but I’m not unfamiliar with corporal correction, and I make no bones about enjoying giving it.

Unlike the head I’m a hands-on person, so I make sure to lightly touch the culprit on the shoulder or take her by the hand as I lead her to the place where she’ll be corrected. I don’t do this to be off-putting or to project lechery. Rather it’s a way of showing her that I care, and that what she’s about to get is all the worse for that caring, because the fact I’m administering the punishment is a sign of how much she’s erred, and how unhappy I am with her for doing so.

Once I’ve pulled out the chair – I don’t always punish with the girl over my lap, but it’s a favorite position of mine as it’s particularly intimate and exposing – I sit down and have the girl stand by me. I am inclined to put my hand on her behind over her skirt as I lecture, leaving it there for some prolonged period before I tip her over and move my hand to raise her skirt and, again after a pause to lecture, lower her panties.

And then I sit back and enjoy this view, the bare cheeks, still untouched, unblemished but soon to be oh so very marked. It’s a terrain I intend to explore, two hillocks that I’ll scorch, and, when I’m done scorching them, spread to inflict additional correction.

Which is to say, the kind of correction that occurs not on the cheeks, but rather between them. Deep between them where there’s a tight little orifice that the girl is ashamed to show, and that I intend to put to good use.

But only after those two cheeks are red. Very very red.

Back to Suzanne, and what we’re all hearing through that closed door. The headmaster is straightfoward in his approach, at least for a relatively good girl like Suzanne. He’ll usher her in and let her see him sitting behind his desk, whatever implement of correction he intends to use already out for her to stare at as he lists her crimes.

The traditional instrument is the reformatory paddle, wooden with holes drilled in it. It’s designed to impart a great deal of pain over a skirt; like me, the headmaster prefers to apply it to the bared buttocks instead.

So Suzanne almost certainly stood there with her stomach fluttering and her bowels tensing, listening to the headmaster scold her, the cheeks of her face red, the cheeks of her behind soon to be at least the same color.

The head’s inner office is relatively large, and I know that he likes to position the girl he’s about to correct in the spot that gets the strongest crossbreeze, so that her behind has additional goosebumps when he bares it for her.

I also know that he’s highly inclined to leave a window open when he’s conducting corrections, he claims it’s simply for fresh air, but I know it’s much more about letting the girls passing below his windows hear one of their number receiving punishment. Some girls are uniform in their cries, so much so that passersby can identify the girl and, from the volume of her moans and pleading, the instrument being applied. The miscreants try their best to keep quiet, but the head, like me, is unrelenting in the administration of correction “until there are loud sobs and tears of contrition” as we both put it.

From the sounds inside the inner office, I can tell Suzanne’s now draped over the head’s lap, and that he’s got his hand resting on her bare behind as he tells her what’s about to happen.

I know for myself that this is a particularly poignant moment, the tensed body of the culprit across your knee, shifting her body in fear, each motion she makes exposing her between her legs or between her cheeks, in many cases the girl already so lost in her own terror that she’s unaware of the enjoyable display she’s presenting.

This brings me to the subject of mirrors and drapes, or, in that latter case, the lack thereof.

First mirrors, of which I am an aficionado. To be specific I like to have at least two mirrors advantageously positioned when I discipline: one to give me a good view of the culprit’s face when she’s over my lap or otherwise arranged and presented; and then a second that ensures I have a complete view of all the charms between her legs, both frontward and rearward.

The head too likes mirrors, and so I know he feels Suzanne’s pleasant weight across his knees, and, when he looks in the mirror he’s set up to present her lower view, sees the pleasant sight of her skirt up and underpants down framing her bare cheeks, and, when he instructs her to spread her legs and get ready, the tight buttonhole between them, and the warm clam below.

And what about the girl, does she know what he sees? The answer, of course, is yes, both the head and I know this from the conversations we overhear between the girls when we spy on them through the peephole we’ve arranged in the punishment room in the basement where they’re taken when they’re due for a longer discipline session than can be arranged in the head’s offices. Or when they’re expected to make considerably more noise than is appropriately shared with the other girls.

Or when there’s a need for the tiled room with the appropriate plumbing to accommodate the punishments that are meted out for lying and other states of disobedience requiring the washing out of the girl’s sins that this additional basement room is set aside for. That room has not only a peephole but also a viewing area if there must needs be witnesses to the cleaning out of the culprit or culprits of their sins.

But again, I digress.

Both the head and I are believers in drapes, but this is not because we’re fond of long sheets of fabric blocking the sun or the view through the tall windows of the reformatory. Rather we both see them as a set piece for the little rituals that play out on Friday afternoons, something that adds to the psychological drama by creating the question in the mind of the girls about to enter the room: will he leave the drapes closed, or will he open them so that I’ll be seen receiving my punishments?

For you see that not all punishments should be given in private; in fact privacy is something earned, not automatically granted.

So the spankings in the hallways by the good ladies of the classrooms on the lower floors, those may occur outside of the view of the other girls, but even then the noise of the strap is clear, as are the noises the recipient makes as that strap is applied. And this is good for the students inside the classroom, let them hear what happens to the unruly and the disobedient among them.

In the head’s office there are different opportunities for privacy or the absence of that property. As I’ve already said, a window may be left open, in order that the culprit be clearly heard being corrected by the young ladies in the rooms and outdoor spaces below.

And the drapes may be closed in order that only the sounds are heard; or they may be opened at the outset or during the correction, in order that those in the classrooms directly across the way or those who climb the stairwells adjacent can see what’s going on.

Which is to say, a view of the head sitting on a straight-backed chair with the culprit draped across his knees, her behind bared and red, and his hand impacting over and over again on that bare posterior.

Or, if he’s decided something more than a hand spanking is due, the reformatory paddle descending with sickening force again and again as she screams and shifts, desperate to escape the impacts.

And then of course under certain circumstances and for certain culprits there’s the possibility of seeing the girl positioned kneeling head down and bottom up on the table kept for the purpose, with the head hanging an enema bag bulging with very soapy water above her head and in plain view for all to see.

For despite the presence of that tiled room below ground level, both the head and I are not averse to certain washings out of sins occurring in a more public venue.

Especially if it’s intended that the behind so cleaned is to be put to a good use afterwards.

I admit that some of the routines of the reformatory that I record in this document may strike you as extreme; and I am not in a position to claim I am a mere amanuensis of these events, an observer only and not an active participant.

But I make no apology for what goes on, nor will I disclaim my wholehearted embrace of what we who run this institution do behind its high walls.

My view is that we are there to help the occupants set their old ways aside; and it is also my view that this setting aside is not a natural tendency for the occupants, and that we must therefore incentivize their progression from sinners to … well, if not saints, at least sinners reformed.

It is also my view that no harm comes of the peepholes, for they allow us to monitor the girls the better to understand them. And as for the uses that they are put to after correction? Well, I have devoted myself to the reformation of my cares, is it not appropriate that I make certain uses of them as a reward for my devotion?

And frankly we are discrete about it, and ensure that no harm comes to the girls in regards to what we find enjoyable to do during and after discipline.

Consider the situation. And, since we’ve left Suzanne over the head’s lap, consider particularly what should happen with her when the spanking has concluded.

The girl lies there with her bottom blazing, her eyes wet with tears, and the windows open so that all can hear her distress. What should the head do in this situation? Lift her up and send her on her way with no further discussion?

Hardly. Or at least hardly if she’s done her best to be good while undergoing what she had to receive. So is it not an appropriate reward for the head to slip his hand down and engage her gently between her legs as she lies there with her red behind up? Rubbing gently as he reassures her that he truly believes she’s capable of better behavior, his clever fingers distracting her from the throbbing pain in her buttocks, her bottom tensing and shifting in an altogether different way as he gently arouses her, as he continues to control her, but now lasciviously rather than by punitive action.

How does this conclude, this first case study, the punishment of Suzanne? From the noises we and the other observers hear, it’s clear the head takes her to release, and, when he sends her on her way, it will be with a mixed set of sensations, throbbing both in back and in front. Mortified but also sated. Repentant, and perhaps more than a little eager to sin again in order to obtain not the throbbing cheeks but rather the throbbing release in front that the head’s also provided.

And so the door opens and Suzanne exits, skirt lowered but in disarray. The girl leaves the office, but from the way she walks we know her behind is blazing and, when we see her pass by in the corridor (for we are spying all this through the keyhole, as I’ve already said), we can see enough of her bare thighs to see the red marks on them.

And now the head’s calling for the next girl, Mary, and from the tone in his voice we already know that, whatever misery Suzanne’s suffered, what Mary’s about to receive is going to be be worse.

Much, much worse.

Before discussing Mary, I feel obliged to return to those rooms in the basement, the second being as I described, tiled, in order that certain particularized punishments may be effected there with minimum inconvenience to the disciplinarian.

These rooms are uniformly dreaded by the girls, and those who have been taken to them prefer to discuss what’s occurred there as little as they possibly can.

Even so, what occurs in these dark windowless rooms is well-known throughout the school, the first room being the place where the cane or birch are given; and the second where disciplinary enemas and enforced sodomy are practiced in the situations where they are demanded.

Again I expect that some readers will be shocked to hear of such practices; but, they are administered as required, and only after deliberation, and I posit that it’s far better that a truly unrepentant young lady be strapped down over the horse and caned with three dozen of the best strokes than it is that she carry on in her destructive ways.

And if her behavior under the cane is less than exemplary, is it truly reprehensible that she then be taken down from the horse and escorted to that second room, and there secured over the bench specially made to hold her appropriately presented for what’s about to come?

Speaking for myself, when I have a girl there I am solicitous of her condition as I prepare the soapy water at the large sink by her head; I am sensitive to her seeing every last step of what I’m doing, every last aspect of the apparatus I’m preparing.

Is this cruel? Or is it not appropriate that she know in advance what’s coming, rather than experience my spreading her crimsoned cheeks to insert the heavily lubricated nozzle as an unexpected event?

The nozzle is thick, I admit that, and it is also long, and I recognize she’s feeling it as I slowly slide its Vaselined length up her behind. But she’s not in this room to undergo this cleaning out because she’s behaved well, she’s there in that head down and behind up position feeling me insert the thick nozzle because she’s not good and she needs to be reminded of that in the invasive and embarrassing way that I’m about to practice.

And when the nozzle’s completely inside her, when I step back to admire the view of her cane-stripped cheeks lewdly spread with the nozzle inserted between and the hose rising to the bulging bag over her head, am I not entitled to enjoy my handiwork? Am I not entitled to enjoy the feeling of power that comes of taking the rubber hose in my hand, grasping the clamp and looking at her expression in the mirror I’ve set up in front of her – remember, I appreciate mirrors – in order that she and I can engage in a frank discussion as I make her wait for me to open the clamp and the soapy water to rush into her bowels as the first part of her cleaning out?

Or, when the bag has emptied and her behind is completely filled, I remove the nozzle and position myself behind her, telling her as I begin the insertion into her tight behind that I expect no leakage as she receives me, and that she’ll keep her behind clenched on me throughout or face another caning if a drop of water escapes.

But let’s return to Mary. The second girl is being called into the head’s office, and, from the fact the drapes are open wide and the window’s up, apparently in for a much longer session than what Suzanne experienced. And, unlike Suzanne, apparently Mary’s punishment will take place with the door to the inner office completely open, for the head’s told her not to close it after he calls her in.

So now we’ll see what we only heard before.

And to start, we see the head motioning the poor girl to the tall stool that stands near the windows, the stool that’s clearly not for sitting on, given the restraints it’s carrying and the fact that it’s bolted securely to the floor.

Opinions vary as to what balance should be struck between spontaneous correction and discipline which is both premeditated and, given the available time delay, well-supplemented with multiple implements and positioning devices.

The tall stool I’ve described is an example of where preparation can take one, which is not to say I reject this method of restraining a young woman while at the same time ensuring her backside is correctly presented to receive the strap or cane.

Even so, preparation is taxing to the mind; or perhaps I’m more of a free spirit than the headmaster, for I prefer a simple setting with a simple implement, one I’m likely to have with me regardless: my hand, for example, or my surprisingly heavy leather belt.

This credo has worked well for me over the years; for example one of my duties is to escort the girls to their various tasks around the grounds, both in the buildings surrounding the reformatory and out in the thick woods. And backtalk and disobedience are surprisingly common on these outings, and of course there’s an obvious answer to such behavior: bare bottom correction.

Now if I had to rely on the degree of preparation the head typically uses I’d never teach the girls the lessons they need to receive to reinforce the point that bad behavior isn’t tolerated. But I don’t, so if it’s a walk through the woods, I have no issue making the culprit bare herself for my hand or, better yet, a switch I make her cut from a bush close by, or, of course, my belt. No fuss, no muss, no hesitation, only shrieks of pain and the sound of the implement laid across the bared cheeks, and the pleasing (to me at least) red stripes across those cheeks that follow. As well as certain other acts of contrition that I sometimes expect.

My office is similarly devoid of the accoutrements of correction. For I have found that my large mahogany desk is more than adequate for most cases where a girl and I have need of what I like to call “a little chat.”

In fact there’s something particularly satisfying about making the young lady stand at the front of the desk facing its vast mahogany expanse, knees flat against the wood as I walk back and forth behind her lecturing her about her behavior and what’s about to happen. All she sees is the top of the desk, that large cold expanse she’s about to be told to bend across. And what I see is altogether a more interesting view: the kneesocks, the short skirt, the goosebumps on the glabrous thighs and, of course, the tops of those thighs and the two round mounds hiding under the skirt that drapes them.

So I pace and lecture, all the while enjoying the sight before me of the pert buttocks beneath the skirt, the buttocks I am about to bare and discipline. And what a panoply of possibilities this sight offers. Shall I make her hike up her skirt and drop her regulation underpants to her knees, or shall I do it for her? Shall I make her bend across the desk and reach back to bare herself, or shall I have her bare herself and then bend, so that I can get a complete view of her buttocks shifting and tensing as she lowers herself across the cold surface of the desk?

Shall I stop my pacing and yell for her to move her feet further apart to the two spots marked on the floor and, once she’s reluctantly complied, lift her skirt and yank down her panties for her? Giving her buttocks a good caress or two as I do so, and, when that white inadequately sized whisp of fabric is far enough down to expose her thighs (for the caning must include a good dose on the thighs) gently push her down onto the desk?

In that latter case I would of course take the opportunity to step back and admire the view now presented, for those two marks and the floor are carefully placed to ensure the culprit presents a good view to me (and other observers who may of necessity or invitation also be present for the event) – the tight little purse between the legs, and the even tighter little buttonhole between the lewdly spread cheeks.

A sight to behold indeed, one I have to say I savor, for it marks one of those high points in a session when my sense of control is at a high-watermark. The girl is completely under my control, I can do what I please with no consequence, at least not to me – for the culprit it’s of course a different situation altogether. She’s there in my office, prone across my desk, behind and parts North and South fully exposed to my eyes, she’s not allowed to move or to complain, only lie there and let the scolding sink in, trying to listen to me lecture and not think about what’s about to come.

As I’ve said before, I do like mirrors, so I had the reformatory’s handyman come in early in my tenure to bolt one to the wall I face. At the time I did it so I could see my own reflection and assess the state of my tie, but I quickly discovered that it’s also quite nicely placed so that, if I choose to sit once the culprit is stripped, bent and spread, I can look either in her tearful eyes or at the excessive exposure she’s presenting in the mirror behind her. Little effort on my part, and much intense shame for her.

So you see, I am a minimalist as far as furniture and implements go, and in this respect the head and I differ. Now I suppose he would argue that there is at least one area of correction where I am as apparatus-obsessed as he, and that one rather solid substantiation of that sits even as I write down in the tiled room in the basement, its well-worn and, in places, deeply scratched arms testament to my fondness for using it.

Well, fine, the head has a point there. But now’s not the time for me to discuss the enema chair in the tiled room; that will have to wait.

Let me return from that brief detour above to Mary and her approach to the tall stool; as I say, I’ll defer the description of the heavy oak chair that I designed and had installed in the tiled room many years ago to administer especially severe correction by washouts.

As you’ll recall, Mary has entered the head’s inner office, land eaving the door open as he’s instructed she now approaches the tall stool, arrives, and stands there struck dumb as he drags his chair back and crosses to her.

At least that’s what we can assume he’s done – as I said early on the keyhole is large but the view is not boundless, and the head’s seat behind his desk is outside of our view. But we can hear his chair drag back so he must be getting up. And after a short pause he comes into view, coming to a stop by Mary, his bulk casting a shadow over her, blocking the light that streams in from the windows and the opened drapes.

The voices are indistinct, but from the head’s tone and Mary’s flinching it’s clear he’s admonishing her, advising her that her behavior is unacceptable and that he has no recourse but to correct her. It’s obviously not something he’d choose to do, she’s brought this on herself, and she should just be glad that his hand is already sore and his arm tired from the visit Suzanne just had in his office.

It’s amazing how we learn to become expert at these soliloquies, and how there’s a common thread for any and all of them that, even so, is infinitely adaptable to the miscreant at hand. Or belt.

Perhaps this is because there are unifying principles to the other sex, men have their own failings of course, but women? Issues seem to be all too similar no matter the female culprit.

And of course here in the reformatory there are more objective criteria for bad behavior: failing to report for class or work, lack of personal tidiness, and then of course the deadly sin of impertinence to one’s elders, which, in addition to the crimsoning of the backside is usually punished by soap in the mouth and several quarts of soapy water up the backside. Thus the culprit is quite literally purged of her mouthiness.

Mary’s now bent over the stool and I see the headmaster’s secured the straps so that Mary’s as immobile as the stool. He’s raising her skirt now and – oh well, apparently she’s not wearing underpants at all, something that’s sure to incur the wrath of her chastiser and earn her an even more severe correction.

This leads me to another brief digression, in this case on the subject of female masochism. For what other possible reason could explain Mary’s showing up without knickers – sans culottes as the French put it? Was it oversight, that’s not something you’d forget about without noticing. Dirty laundry? Well, couldn’t possibly have been that dirty.

Some dalliance before reporting to the head’s quarters? That’s plausible, for I’ve certainly found over the years that many of the culprits I’m about to subject to corporal correction have debauched themselves in one way or another before they get their punishment. And that again brings up the subject of female masochism, which I find I can conveniently classify into masochism accompanied by sexual excitation and masochism per se, without any sexual component.

In regards to this bipartite schema, over the years I’ve had many ladies under my care for correction, both juvenile and mature recipients of my severe ministrations, and I’d estimate the lion’s share of them derived sexual pleasure from what they got. I know this because I’m a man of the world, and also because an aroused women is not hard to scent or, if the view presents itself, to validate by the telltale perfumed drops of arousal.

So for a good many corrections, I’ve known from the moment the culprit’s walked in the door that she’s been … well, “diddling” is as good an expression as any, and more euphonious than most. Diddling, and more often than not a very recent diddling by the telltales.

Perhaps in the bathroom, that visit to empty the bladder out of fear that it will empty of its own accord when correction occurs? The matrons have told me self-pleasuring is rampant among the students, and that they’ve caught more than a few of the girls rubbing themselves in the stalls, often with no concept at all of how much noise they’re making as they play, but, once caught, a good sense indeed of how much more noise they’re about to make.

And then there are the culprits who seem to become aroused during correction – I know you’ll find that surprising, but there it is, Cartesian duality in a way that I’m sure Descartes didn’t ponder, and that I never learned in school.

But when a girl’s bent across my desk and I’m sitting in my chair lecturing her and, at the same time looking at the mirror on the wall behind, I can see the moistness grow down below, and the longer I lecture and the more I describe what I’m about to do, the more that sheen on the private parts seems to spread. And even when the chastisement commences – for me always with a hand spanking given across my knees – I can smell the girl’s arousal and, should I choose to put my hand down between her legs to “steady her” I can directly confirm what my nose has already detected.

Finally, there’s the furtive self-abuse that occurs after the discipline is over, something that may be the most inexplicable behavior of all. The culprit’s ashamed and in some varying degree of misery, why at this moment is the desire to find pleasure by rubbing so strong? Is it some feature of the female body that makes this behavior so common? Is it how they’re raised?

I don’t know. I do know that my habit is to put all the girls in a group as they wait outside my office, and obviously this is the headmaster’s habit as well. And once I’m done with one girl I send her out and make her wait with her fellows while I “invite” the next culprit inside, my feeling being that the effect of those not yet dealt with on seeing those just disciplined is … wholesome and extremely stimulating of reformed behavior.

But more than once I’ve come out of the office to fetch the next culprit only to see one or more of the girls I’ve just dealt with pressing their thighs together, a squeezing and releasing that’s as indicative of what’s going on as is the second telltale: the hands firmly in the lap covered by a purse or sweater and clearly moving.

So Mary is without knickers, and she can only have done this by deliberation, knowing full well there will be additional consequences. Is she aroused by this? Or is it asexual masochism, the cold knowledge that she needs punishment, and that only by experiencing the ritual of correction and the humiliation and pain that it provides will she experience catharsis.

I have known more than a few students who fell into this category; and for the women beyond the first blush of youth the tendency is even more pronounced. No arousal for them – but still there’s release, not of the kind that woman desire in the bedroom, but rather the release that follows the experience of discipline, the emotional release that, for some, only punishment can spark.

You can read about this in various implausible stories, the girl who begs to be disciplined, who comes to the headmaster’s apartments late at night, strap in hands, tears in her eyes as she pleads with him to take down her panties and, once she’s bared, administer the strap until she’s sobbing, until her behind is fire red and she won’t sit for a week.

I have a … few … of those stories in my private library, they’re enjoyable, and, surprisingly, they have a grain of truth to them. Not that any young woman has woken me from my slumbers pleading for bare-bottom correction, but there have been more than a few that have done everything they can to earn a beating, a session with the cane in many cases, or, in a few cases a trip afterwards to both of the basement rooms.

Mary, without her underpants, bent over the stool, restrained, the headmaster flexing his thickest most painful cane, seems to fall into this intentional-submission-for-discipline category. She’s not enjoying herself that I can see. And judging from the shocked noises and moans of sympathy from the girls in the outer room, I doubt they feel she’s having a bangup time of it either.

The buttocks face towards them, and towards us. They’re moderately spread – the head’s not as keen on moving the feet to the chalk marks as am I – and they’re certainly giggling a great deal considering he’s still just flexing the cane and, I’d guess, lecturing Mary on what’s about to come.

He steps back, raises the cane for the first stroke, pauses to make the girl wait, then brings it down across her behind with a loud swish.

Mary screams, her head jerks up. No moistness between her legs that I can see, none of the other telltales of arousal, only misery and fear.

The headmaster raises the cane again, brings it down to add a second red stroke across the girl’s behind.

In a moment he’ll raise it up for the next stroke in what promises to be a most exemplary correction.

Most exemplary. And almost as severe as the ones I administer.

I’ll give it to the head, Mary’s caning has gone on for a rather long time, her cheeks are badly marked, but he’s only now put down the cane, leaving her sagging in the restraints. And, yes, as is his habit he’s gone to the outer room to point out to three girls he’d not yet “invited” in that their turns are coming.

Suzanne is still sitting forlornly (and gingerly) in the corner , her eyes on the floor as the head talks to the other three: Angela, Betty and Olivia. The head has a habit of pacing as he talks, and so he’s crossing into view and then out again as he lectures.

Mary remains bent throughout, her sobs fairly indistinct, the marks on her cheeks turning steadily to purple bruises. I think the thing on all our minds – the head’s included – is whether Mary has been adequately dealt with, or whether there’s more to come, either with her still over the stool, or otherwise positioned in the office. Or taken down belowstairs.

The headmaster is not a fan of the basement facilities, I’ve never been sure why. Perhaps he enjoys the more public aspects of discipline in his office, the window open, the drapes drawn back. The basement rooms are stark and windowless, no sounds escape, and the stairwell down is set back by the kitchen, well away from the paths the girls usually take through the first floor rooms.

Now, the head would argue that the salutary effects of a loud public correction are many – and in fact he has indeed argued this, many times, when we decamp to his or my apartments for a glass of Cognac and a fine cigar. “Why administer a caning in a hermetic environment” he tells me, “when the correction is so much more effective when the culprit receiving it knows there are listeners and watchers seeing her humbling?”

“And,” he usually adds, “the effects reverberate beyond the culprit and to her peers, nearby or down below where the screams are still heard. I don’t have time for them as it is, how many female behinds can I beat on a Friday afternoon? My arm aches by the end of an average session, with four or five of them in to go over my knees or strapped down for a caning … I have to nurse my arm all weekend so as to be prepared for the raft of paperwork I’ll have to fill out come Monday morning.”

And of course I feel for him, really I do, for who would envy him his unpleasant duties of a Friday afternoon?

It appears he’s decided Mary’s had enough after all, for hes undoing the straps that restrain her wrists and ankles, and releasing her to get up off the tall stool. Her behind is a sight to behold – there are livid stripes across it, now well-bruised. She has to be in significant pain, but as I said she brought the additional correction on herself my turning up knicker-less, so she must have wanted the correction at some level.

And as she’s led out of the inner office I do detect a change in her demeanor which fits that supposition – there’s a certain absence of tension that wasn’t there before, and her post-caning exhaustion … well, there’s something more there, some sense of release. Not all of them exhibit this, not by any means, but Mary, it seems clear to me that, as awful as what she just endured was for her, as humiliated as she was by it and as much as she’ll not sit or sleep comfortably for the next week, it was something that she somehow wanted and needed. And, having occurred, provided her the release she’s apparently craved.

The head seems to have selected Olivia as the next girl he’s going to deal with; while he’s lecturing I want to return for a moment to his complaint that what he has to do on Friday’s is, apparently, injurious to his joints.

At some level I agree with him, discipline can be painful both for the person administering the discipline as well as its unfortunate recipient. If I needs must bare a girl’s bottom and put her across my lap for a long hard hand spanking, I admit my hand may hurt at the end. And when I wield the cane, I accept that my shoulder may be sore after, even more so if I have to use the reformatory strap; but I accept these discomforts as the price I pay for the duties I must perform.

I should add that I’ve found various alternatives to conventional discipline that I use when the number of girls on the posted list of miscreants is long, I don’t consider them shortcuts in any way, just alternatives to what more conventional disciplinarians such as the head use to enforce order. Perhaps I’m more modern in my views, and willing to use methods that, although more up-to-date, are every bit as effective as the old standbys: hand, hairbrush, belt, birch or cane.

Technology has advanced, you see, and two forms of technology in particular, that of the fabrication of rubber on the one hand and of bakelite and modern polymers on the other. And both of these have made one of my preferred forms of correction far more easily practiced – I of course refer to the enforced infliction of soapy water up a girl’s behind, usually while she’s across my knees or bent over my desk with me lecturing her as I watch the bag empty out and, by the laws of transfer of matter, her bowels swell as they fill.

Now I accept there are some who argue that punishment enemas are … well, unusual. But I submit that the same touchpoints for correction that apply to a punishment on the behind – discomfort, exposure, intense mortification – are equally as apt when the punishment is up the bottom as on it.

Consider a basic washout across my knees. The culprit is made to raise her skirt and lower her underpants and stand and watch as I fill a bag to bulging and, at my whim, add more or less of a large dose of soap to the bag. The culprit is then made to watch as I hang the bag and sit down and pat my lap for her to come across it. She is kept there while I lecture, kept there wondering when she’ll here the loud SNAP of a rubber glove as I get ready to Vaseline her tight rear buttonhole in preparation for insertion of long thick nozzle; the obligatory “repositioning” of it by vigorous movements in and out of that tight orifice; and, ultimately, my telling her that my hand’s now on the clamp on the hose and I’m going to open it once she tells me that she deserves to receive every last drop of what’s in the bag over her.

Take one of the girls waiting to see the head, Betty. I’ve had to deal with her myself on more than a few occasions, not only by inflicting punishment across her bare bottomcheeks, but deep between them as well. Many have been the times when I’ve had her bent over, her cheeks crimson from a long paddling with the paddle with holes I find myself using almost exclusively with her.

The underpants are at half-mast and I can look down and see one of my hands spreading her hot cheeks wide apart, the other approaching, thick nozzle in hand, the Vaseline glistening on it, the penetration of her backside wholly at my whim, wholly outside her control.

Up against the tight pucker it goes, and I am sure I hear a deep intake of breath from the poor girl as I steadily push it in. Does she feel it going up inside her? I’m sure she does, as much as she’ll feel something else there later on, when she’s been bent over the sodomy stool.

And is any of this inappropriate? Would she be happier receiving a long caning? Would she be any less uncomfortable – hardly so. Would she be less embarrassed? Perhaps, but less embarrassment would be deleterious to her reformation and, unreformed, she’s more likely to sin again, so incurring another round of correction.

And so you see it’s by pure logic we can conclude she’s better off across my lap getting her bare behind paddled, and then made to receive several dosings of soapy water before I put her behind to a penance that it’s ideally formed to perform for me.

It’s logical and, as such, is the reason I do what I do, and the girls get what they have to have. The purging is effective, humiliating, and has no ill effects on my joints. As I said, technology has advanced in terms of the fabrication of rubber enema bags and hoses, as have the techniques for making large nozzles that, by their girth, will be snug going in and will stay in during the wait for the enema, the administration, and then the session across my lap while the soapy water does its work. And then quite possibly a period of standing in front of my desk with the nozzle still inserted writing on a portable blackboard I keep for such occasions “I deserve the punishment enema I am retaining” over and over again, as the soap works, the pressure builds in the girl’s backside and I enjoy the sight of the bare red buttocks before me with the nozzle protruding and the dangling hose dancing back and forth as she writes her lines.

I see the head’s got Olivia inside, in this case he’s had her close the door behind her, so we’re all left to wonder what she has in store.

I’ve had prior contact with this girl as well – truthfully I don’t think there’s a single one of them that I haven’t dealt with at one point or another. Perhaps not every last one, but for most a visit to the head or in my office at least once during their occupancy in the reformatory is a given. For the majority the experience is not a unitary one, and, for some of them, those visits seem to be more frequent than their time in classes or at work in the various parts of the reformatory devoted to their learning manual arts that they can employ upon release.

Olivia’s a girl who my experiences have taught me finds a perverse pleasure in correction, she’ll try to escape it, but, when it occurs, she invariably derives some sort of unwholesome release by the end. This is something I discovered the first time I had to correct her, I had her over my desk with her behind bared and, as I gave the strap (which I’m inclined to do for the girls new to the experience), I found she shifted herself to the corner as I blistered her, so that by the time I was laying it on at the peak of the correction (and, I might add, injuring my shoulder in the process), she’d gotten herself positioned so that she could grind herself down on the corner as I disciplined her.

I needn’t go into details for it to be fairly clear that the moans and cries she made throughout took on a different tone altogether once she’d repositioned herself, and it seemed to me the more I laid in with the strap the louder those cries grew. As a result I gave her far more than I’d otherwise have done, and continued the discipline until she shrieked particularly loudly and spasmed in what was immediately apparent was a release that had nothing to do with the strap.

After that I dealt with Olivia in a different way than what I gave the usual culprits. In fact it was because of her that I decided to adapt the then-vacant tiled room in the basement to the uses I now put it.

I hear the sounds of feminine distress, so we can safely assume Olivia is now receiving her due. Since the door to the inner office is closed there’s little more that I can report; while we wait in suspense to see what happens next I may as well go into detail about the tiled room, and the first time I took Olivia there.

I actually came to see the advantages of washouts by happenstance, and specifically when I happened to blunder into the nurse’s office while she was in the process of giving enemas to two of the students who’d been sent to receive her ministrations.

I don’t remember why I had to see the nurse, but given my usual duties, it was undoubtedly about something trivial, and I’m sure I wished I had something else to do as I knocked on her door and, hearing no reply, pushed it open without thinking.

And what I saw then gave me more than a little pause and, I will admit, more than a little pleasure. Two of the girls, both in open-backed gowns, one bent across the nurse’s lap with a nozzle in her behind, the other standing waiting for her turn.

I knew what an enema was of course, and I was vaguely aware that the girls were regularly stopped up by the foul food they were served in the refectory and therefore received them occasionally as a treatment. But knowing these things isn’t the same as seeing the treatment, two healthy young women in the crowded office, the one with her backside exposed through the opened gown, her cheeks spread around the thick green nozzle, squirming her legs as the nurse opened and closed the clamp on the hose connected to the nozzle, opened and closed the clamp on the hose that rose to the bulging bag over her head.

At first no one noticed me as I stood there transfixed. Everyone’s focus seemed to be on the same thing, that bared behind and the nozzle penetrating it. As the girl squirmed I could see the lubricant thickly smeared between her cheeks, and I could hear her faint moans and the periodic sound of the bag heaving as more of its contents poured down into the impaled backside.

The girl taking the washout saw me first, and her face turned red when she saw I was there enjoying the view. But the nurse is well known for her no-nonsense approach to the girls, and so the recipient of the soapy water had no choice but to keep quiet. Even so, I could see the look in her eyes, pleading with me not to be there to watch her humiliation.

Well, I’m a gentleman, so I turned my attention to the other girl, standing waiting her turn, also wearing a gown, her behind hidden from view. She’d seen me by then, and her face was, if anything, even redder, because she knew I’d see the entire procedure she was awaiting, from its start to its ultimate conclusion. She knew I’d see the first girl be told to get up and stand while she went across the nurse’s knees. She knew I’d see the nurse spread her cheeks and push in the nozzle descending from the second bag hanging there, and she knew I’d wonder if her behind would be as tight on me as it clearly was on the nozzle.

And, once she’d been penetrated, she knew I’d enjoy watching her being made to wait, the nurse inspecting her watch, her eyes on the first girl, standing there squirming, the cramps in her belly growing worse with each minute. She knew I’d enjoy the sight of her over the nurse’s lap, her behind impaled on the nozzle, lying there having to wait until the first girl had retained long enough, and the nurse opened the clamp to begin her own washing out.

Now I eventually left the nurse’s office with a tentpole in my pants (I’m human after all!) and an idea in my mind: why not employ the humiliating and invasive procedure I’d just witnessed as an actual discipline, either instead of the usual form of corporal punishment, or as an additive to a standard bare-bottom correction.

As it turned out, I had occasion to put this idea into practice just a few days later; and, despite the improbability, with the first of the two girls I’d seen in the nurse’s office.

I won’t use her name – this was long enough ago that I don’t remember it, although I suppose I should. But it was a Friday, and I had my own parade of incorrigibles to deal with … and there, to my surprise, she stood, the last of the day, late to my office and already in serious trouble.

I don’t remember all of her crimes, but mouthiness was one of them, and as I read that fact on the note she’d been made to carry with her, I suddenly realized that there could be no more perfect a correction for that especial sin than the purging out of her body as a metaphor for purging out the backtalk she’d exhibited.

She stood there in my office, submissively waiting what I’m sure she thought she’d get, a session over my lap and a sore behind by the time I was done. And to let her hold to that idea, I admit I paced around her, lecturing, pretending to some sort of controlled fury, but instead enjoying the view of her pert buttocks underneath her too-short skirt.

Then I took her by the arm and, to her astonishment, told her we were going downstairs to see the nurse. I’m sure she wanted to ask why, but given my position and her predicament she wisely kept quiet.

Down the stairs we went, the girl leading with me after, then through the hallway to the nurse’s office where I made the girl knock and, when the nurse responded, open the door and go in while I followed.

The nurse was probably as surprised to see us there as the girl was to be back in front of the woman who, only a few days before, had subjected her to the most abject embarrassment. I left both of them with no time to question our presence: “We’re here to wash the mouthiness out of this girl,” I announced, “and I intend that washing out to take place by an unusual route, which is to say a good couple of large dosings of soapy water up her backside.” I patted the girl on her behind as I said this in order to make clear the portion of her I intended to focus on.

And so those washings out transpired. I had to get the nurse to help me for the first, in fact I let her do most of the work, watching as she undressed the girl behind a screen and, after putting her into a gown, brought her out and told her to get over my lap. I’m sure she felt the unevenness that my arousal created, but she kept quiet as the nurse got a new bag out of a cabinet, filled it to bulging from the sink and then added in several packets of soap.

I watched in fascination as she attached the nozzle – I’d later learn that there are several different types, some larger, some smaller, some inflatable to ensure compliance during retention – and then coated it with a liberal amount of Vaseline, handed it to me and politely asked if I’d like to spread the girl’s cheeks to put the nozzle in, whether she should help or whether the girl should reach back and spread them herself.

Given my inexperience, I let the nurse do the deed, and, once the target entry was well-exposed, I put the head of the nozzle at the little opening and, after the nurse had inspected the job I’d done and given the go-ahead, firmly pushed it in.

I told the girl what was about to happen, and that she ought be glad it was only a good couple of washings out, a light sentence when what she deserved was a severe spanking. I don’t think she was convinced she’d gotten lucky, and I took the way she squeezed her buttocks tight on the nozzle in terrified anticipation as a pretty certain sign of this mental state.

But I lectured and I made her wait until I thought she was sufficiently terrified, and then without warning I opened the clamp and let the soapy water rush down the tube and up her backside.

And I enjoyed the sudden cry she emitted as the purge started, and how she tightened her pert cheeks in a completely pointless attempt to stop the water from going in.

By the time I was done with the girl I’d given three enemas and not just two. You might be inclined to attribute this to irrational exuberance on my part, but I’d told her from the outset she was going to take two full bags of soapy water and retain each to my satisfaction, without leaking. I thought this would be a simple thing for her to accomplish but, as I soon discovered, I had overestimated her in this regard.

I had to give her a third washout, by which time the nurse had left to tend to duties elsewhere in the building, leaving me alone with the bare-bottomed girl over my lap, her cheeks still spread around the thick nozzle inserted in her most private part. She cried, she squirmed, she pleaded with me to let her go rid herself of the purge, but I held firm. Yes, I admit I enjoyed the view, but I like to think myself a moralist first and foremost, and in order to keep to the moral highground I had no choice but to keep her there, pinned down, her belly rumbling as the soapy water did its work.

So I incorporated enemas into the corrections I administered. At first my knowledge was nonexistent, I used too little water or too much, hung the bag too low or too high, kept the culprit retaining for too short a time or too long (with unfortunate consequences), in short made every mistake that could be made as I learned this rather specialized trade. But practice makes perfect, and the behavior of the girls and the system in the reformatory for dealing with their behavior made practice absurdly easy to come by. And soon I came to discover than “an enema” was a misnomer, there’s a whole universe of different methods and equipment. And, most importantly, different ways of putting those pieces together to create various degrees of punishment for the recipient.

To put on my scholar’s cravat for a moment, consider that the purging of a girl’s behind may be done for three reasons: for correction; for preparation for the use of the tight and for some agreeable rear entryway of the female body; and, for woman’s ease as well as correction or man’s pleasure.

For correction, the goal is intense mortification combined with a calibrated degree of discomfort. Calibration achieved by the amount of soap in the bag, or by addition of glycerine, lemon juice or other agent that intensifies the cramping that should accompany any punishment enema. Calibration achieved by the volume of liquid in the bag; or the number of enemas given; or the thickness of the nozzle; or the retention time. Or the denial of privacy for the expulsions, when those are finally allowed the miscreant.

For preparation, the goal is the cleansing of the backside before its use, and this goal need not be punitive. But at the same time the amorous use of a girl’s behind often occurs in a punitive context, and, this being the case, the enemas (more than one being necessary before sodomy) might as well be uncomfortable as well as cleansing.

And then there’s the matter of feminine regularity or, in the instant case, lack thereof, which is of course the generally accepted rationale for the washing out of the behind, and which, overall, doesn’t really interest me and which I leave to the nurse to deal with.

Olivia’s still in the head’s inner chambers, but I don’t hear any sounds to indicate her discipline still’s in progress; one never knows, of course, some modes of correction are quieter than others. Still a good long time’s passed since she went in, and the headmaster, despite his claims to severity, usually loses interest by this point.

While we’re waiting to see what happens, I might as well talk more about my own methods of correction, which fundamentally break down into corporal punishment across the bare buttocks; corporal punishment by administration of various fluids up into the little portal between the bare buttocks; and, finally, the culprit’s thanking me for taking the time and effort to give her discipline by spreading her hot sore bare buttocks apart for me to enter deep between them. “Bare buttocks” seem to be the common theme … between you and me, I wouldn’t have a girl presented any other way.

That last thought prompts me to talk about the discipline the girls sometime receive at night when they have to be extracted from their dormitory and marched to punishment. There are a good number of girls here – I lose count of the exact number – so there are a number of floors that accommodate their sleeping quarters, generally 6 to 12 girls to a room. At the end of each corridor there’s also a room set aside for purposes not related to sleeping; or, to put it another way, although there’s a bed in each of these rooms, few of the girls who are brought in to occupy those beds get any sleep.

For you see those rooms are set aside for correction, and specifically for correction that needs must be imposed shortly after sentencing. Or to put it another way, when the girls are bedding down, there are many occasions where I or some other staff member will come in and take one of them out and down the hall to the room at the end, in order that they get what’s been postponed during the day but, emphatically, not forgotten.

There’s a certain poignancy in walking into a room full of sleeping girls and waking the one who’s about to be taken to the room at the end of the corridor. Frankly the culprit’s usually not asleep – something I’ve found even what I’ve not finished my regular work until the early hours and only come in after, say, 2 am. I suppose anticipation of what’s coming is a strong antidote to slumber.

When the girl’s fetched, she’s expected to get up and come with me directly down the hall to the little room. I usually have the culprit walk in front of me, it’s more tension-provoking for her, but then again it’s a more pleasant view for me. The cheeks jiggle underneath the pajama pants, and I know the girl wants to reach back and feel them, at present unblemished, soon to be crimson.

So we walk to the room, the two of us (unless of course there’s more than one of them I have to deal with, something that does happen, albeit infrequently). And there in front of us is the bed – well, “bed” is probably a better description since it’s a more adaptable piece of furniture than a usual bed.

For example, it may be that I’ll want the girl face-down on it, laid out flat, hands and feet restrained, in order that I can leave her like that to wait while I attend to other matters.

Or I may decide that I needs must raise the bed up under her hips once she’s tied down, thereby elevating her backside. I am always indecisive at this point about taking down the pajamas, but I do admit I like coming back in the room after an hour or so to find the bared behind presented to me, goosebumps on the unmarked flesh from the breeze that invariably circulates through every one of these little rooms.
Or perhaps I’ll make the girl drop her pajamas and bare herself while I rearrange the components of the bed to the shape of a spanking bench, which the girl then goes over with her behind well up so that I can give her the cane on the delicate curve where her buttocks meet her thighs. This is a posture that presents her buttocks and her charms between and below to my investigation, and to the application of a large helping of Vaseline between the cheeks as preparation for one or more other disciplinary measures.

And I can’t help but enjoy the sight when I return to the room to see those yet-unmarked cheeks spread, the thick coating of greasy lubricant between them, the dark little hole awaiting the rectal strap, one or more of the thick nozzles kept in the room, or, ultimately, my stiffened manhood deep in her tensing backside.

Well, rereading what I just wrote I must say my dedication to the discipline of females is quite evident. Should I apologize for this? I think I addressed the issue before, but to reassert my strong opinion in the matter, these girls are here in a “reformatory” – that’s the word it says on the gates – and consequently the mission of the place – my mission in the place – is to ensure they’re reformed.

And “reformed” isn’t a word that’s used to describe some gentle process of molding; metal is “reformed” by heating to red liquidity and then compressed, hammered, quenched, reheated and so on until it assumes its final useful shape. So too with the girls here, they come into our halls in some base state of unrealized potential, and it’s only by vigorous shaping by the headmaster and myself that they exit after a number of years reshaped to a pleasing and useful form.

Some of that shaping takes place in their classes, where they learn various skills they’ll use when they’re released back into the larger world. Some shaping takes place when they’re out in the fields or in the workshops experiencing the wholesome effects that accrue from labor.

And some of that shaping takes place in the hallways where they get the strap from the matrons; in the headmaster’s office or in mine, where they receive real discipline; in the rooms on each floor where they’re taken at night for further discipline or discipline of a different kind.

And of course down in the basement to the room where the birch and other forms of severe correction are applied, usually with witnesses; and then the tiled room, where the enema chair sits waiting to receive the bared beaten bottom as it’s positioned over the opening in the chair where the nozzle sits, and the culprit struggles to prevent herself from sinking down onto it.

Olivia’s done, the door’s just been opened and the poor girl is coming out, the headmaster helping her along. Apparently it was quite the correction, I’m sorry to have missed seeing what happened, but from the sounds coming through the door I don’t really have much doubt about what took place.

So that’s Suzanne and Mary and Olivia dealt with; Only Betty and Angela are left. They’re sitting where I can see them, and they’re obviously terrified. The anticipation will do that, but, really, they ought recognize it’s now fairly late in the afternoon, and the head’s stamina is on the wane. Hard as it is for the girls to understand, discipline takes significant effort on the part of the disciplinarian, and there’s only so much a man – no matter how fit – can give before he becomes wearied of the task.
I know these last two miscreant altogether too well, for both are in need of severe and frequent correction. In fact it was these two that were the first and second of the girls to be taken to the basement to sit on the enema chair I’d just had installed.

I guess I might as well describe that particular masterpiece of furniture now.

I think I’ve said this, but enemas are by their very nature punitive. Yes, they can be given purely for cleansing, in a gentle environment lit by candles, with soft music playing and dimmed lighting and touches and caresses and gentleness all around. That’s all very sweet and even romantic. And not how I give them. For me they’re always embedded in a disciplinary setting. Always. Without exception.

Now I do admit I’ve given them more than once during coitus, the girl settled down on my organ, the nozzle inserted in her behind, my hand on the clamp as I move her up and down. I enjoy looking in her eyes as I release the soapy water, let it surge up her behind and, as I see the distress in her eyes, clamp the hose in order that I can make her wait in growing discomfort for me to open it up again.

I find this extremely arousing, particularly because I control the girl’s body more thoroughly than could be imagined, control that’s only greater if, for example, I refrain from release and, after positioning her bending over a stool or other convenient support, sodomize her while strictly enjoining her against leaking even one drop of the soapy water surging in her bowels, on penalty of a good dose of the cane followed by an additional dosing from the refilled bag.

Again, there it is, that built into the enjoyment I take is the complete and utter control I exert over the recipient of my ministrations. She’s had her behind impaled by me, at my whim, she’s had no choice in the nozzle I choose to use – small, large, inflatable – nor the lubricant, be it greasy Vaseline that will remain long after to remind her of what happened, or something that stings her bottomhole.

If I choose I can have her mount me and ride while I control the clamp, or reach around to move the nozzle in her backside to sodomize her as she rides. If I choose I can put plain water in the bag or, if so inclined, very soapy water, and I can similarly decide to make her watch as I choose, or I can forbid her from watching and consequently heighten her dread at what’s to come.

And if I choose to have her ride, how long will I let that last? Will I fill her backside and then let the pressure and sting of the soapy water build, her shifting and tensing only making my pleasure greater? Will I permit her to go when I see pure desperation in her eyes, or will I only chide her for her lack of control and admonish her that she’s only making me decide to lengthen her retention? Will I use a large nozzle so that I can feel its pressure on my cock, feel it’s presence in her backside tightening her in front for me, feel the delicious additional tightenings from the pressure of the water and the motion of the nozzle in her behind?

Over the years I’ve explored every aspect of control that washouts and other forms of discipline can bring, and, ultimately, I let my creativity run wild, with the enema chair as a result.

I don’t think I had any particular moment of inspiration; if I wanted to be puckish about it, I’d say it wasn’t an enema bag falling on my head that fired my creative engines.
Instead it was the accumulation of years of observations of the girls under correction, how they responded, what terrified and what enticed. And what stood out to me at that moment of epiphany (if there was one) was simple: discipline is most effective when there’s dread and when the culprit’s lack of control is most highlighted.

And so the chair. A simple idea, really, a reasonably usual chair apart from being heavy and with thick arms, with adjustments to allow them to be moved further apart or closer together. A seat, unusual in that it’s open in the center, like that a girl must avail herself of when she uses the toilet. And, to get into the mechanism of the corrective apparatus, the seat isn’t simply open, it can be raised or lowered, or, at the depression of a lever that’s positioned so the culprit can watch as it happens, the seat can be suddenly dropped altogether, leaving the miscreant positioned bare-bottomed over the instrument of penetration.

That has a ring to it, doesn’t it, “instrument of penetration,” it’s quite euphonious and I’m pleased to have it so. But what is this instrument? A nozzle of course, a somewhat flexible nozzle that’s positioned upright underneath the girl’s tight rear opening. A series of interchangeable nozzles, actually, of different length and girth, with differing degrees of ridges, the point of course being that the girl’s bottom can be made to experience a carefully selected degree of pseudo-sodomy.

And every one of these nozzles is hollow and, at its base where it’s attached to the mechanism that holds it upright under the girl’s rectum, it’s solidly connected to a hose that rises up to an enema bag over the girl’s head, where of course it’s plainly visible to her, as well as to the audience that sometimes witnesses a session on the chair.

Perhaps that’s getting too abstract, so permit me to describe a correction on the chair. The girl is informed early in the day that she’s going to be getting that punishment, sometimes this information is conveyed in person, more often than not it’s posted on a board by the refectory where discipline sessions are detailed.

At the appointed time the girl is collected, usually taken out of class, since a session below stairs is generally a long one, and it makes no sense to start later than 4 pm. She’s then taken to the nurse’s office where she’s inspected to be sure that there are no issues that would necessitate a delay in correction; without being indelicate I’ll say only that these issues are related to female needs that occur on a regular monthly basis.

The culprit is then shaved, between her legs and, more importantly, between her cheeks. This is a lengthy process, for she needs must be scrupulously devoid of hair, particularly around her bottomhole. The nurse is exacting, I don’t usually witness these preparations but, if I’m in a particularly whimsical mood I’ll stand and watch as the preparations occur.

Once done, the girl is put into an open-backed gown and underpants that can be dropped in back. There’s no particular reason for either garment to be used, other than the sense of exposure that ensues from being so inadequately clothed.

And then we descend to the basement rooms, she and I, down the stairs to the heavy oak door that leads to the two rooms. I have her in front of me, I have her open the door and go in, there to be confronted with the tall stool and the birching horse. And the door to the second room, which is placed so that it will be seen by the girl during the correction across her bare cheeks, the correction that precedes the chastisement she’ll soon receive between them.

I needn’t go into detail about what takes place in the first room, suffice it to say that the culprit’s restrained, the gown is opened wide in back and the underpants are lowered to bare the rear cheeks to whatever I choose to apply to them.

In this room what gets applied is the strap, or cane or birch, and, whatever the implement, the application is long and extremely severe. The culprit’s behind is a sight to behold by the time I’m done applying correction, and more than once I’ve heard gasps from the onlookers – as I said earlier, there are often witnesses to these severe chastisements – not, I might add, that those gasps have in any way stopped me applying as many strokes as allotted to the miscreant tied down over the tall stool or the birching horse.

After the events in the first room, the culprit is left to ponder her fate for a period before being taken to the next room to be seated on the enema chair. Sometimes I stay to watch her – there’s a desk there for my use or that of the headmaster under such circumstances. Sometimes I talk to the onlookers and altogether ignore the culprit, although in those situations I find it appropriate to apply salted fat to the girl’s hindquarters before talking to the others in the room.

In some cases I give the girl a figging while keeping her tied down, if, of course, I haven’t inserted the peeled piece of ginger into her behind before giving her the cane or birch. The ginger causes an intense burning sensation in that most sensitive of orifices, something that’s easy enough to conclude based on the squirming and moaning of the culprit as the ginger does its work.

Whatever the events, after some period has passed I remove the restraints, get the girl up, let her get up her drawers as best she can, and take her by the arm and into the adjoining tiled room.

The enema chair is positioned in front of several rows of seats, I’ve thought about putting it on some sort of swivel to allow the audience to be given alternate views of the culprit’s experience both from the front and the back. However, as I’ve remarked numerous times now as you’ll no doubt recall, I’m inordinately fond of mirrors, and so I’ve had those positioned to show whatever view’s most revealing.

The culprit is led to the chair in a thoroughly deliberated manner; I like to make this experience a real ceremony, one replete with the culprit standing in front of her viewers and apologizing to them and describing – in detail – what’s already happened to her and what’s about to happen.

Part of this is likely having her turn and show her beaten behind, perhaps bending to spread her cheeks to show the orifice that’s about to be disciplined. In all cases her face is as red as her bottom when it’s time for her to be taken to the chair.

And so I lead her there, make her pull down her underpants, and have her sit down on the seat – currently in its raised position – and put her arms down on the armrests so that I can fasten the restraints over them to secure them down.

Then it’s time to select the nozzle, or have her select it, then have her watch as I lubricate it, using a particularly thick coating of Vaseline, and attach it to the base of the chair, underneath her bottomhole.

Which will soon be feeling the nozzle’s unpleasant intrusion.

Now as I said, the enema chair has a seat with an open center, and the culprit’s positioned over the nozzle mounted on the base of the chair, below the seat.

When I decide it’s time, I’ll pull the lever that lets the seat drop. At that point the girl will sink down onto the nozzle and, once it’s all the way up her behind, her weight on the nozzle’s support will open the hose and let the soapy water flow.

But. Because the girl’s arms are down on the armrests, she can push down and, by doing so, keep herself up off the nozzle.

But only for a short time, and that’s where the mesmerizing aspects of the performance begin. For you see, no matter how strong the girl, no matter how athletic, at some point her arms are going to get tired, at some point she’s going to lose the battle to keep herself up off the nozzle. And so at some point we can watch in the mirror as the buttocks sink down and the nozzle pushes itself up between them, we can watch as more and more of the nozzle is swallowed up into the girl’s behind, and that behind sinks lower and lower to its inevitable contact with the base of the nozzle and the opening of the hose to let the enema begin.

It’s a kind of dance, one that seems to leave viewers transfixed. The seat drops with a thud, the girl begins to sink down, pulls herself up with her arms and struggles to hold that position. Every time her arms weaken she drops a bit, the nozzle goes further in and, on feeling it, she jerks herself up again, the nozzle now withdrawing a short distance. In and out the nozzle goes, each entry and exit punctuated by the sound of the thickly Vaselined orifice being penetrated.

It’s a dance, an ongoing one of self-sodomy and an ever-closer approach to the inevitable, the girl sweating and moaning, the bag hanging ominously, swinging back and forth slightly there in the dimness of the tiled room, the soapy water surging back and forth, waiting to be released to push up into the girl’s entrails.

It’s a dance that the girl does solo, or, if it’s a duet, it’s with the enema chair as her partner, and not one of her choosing. And unthinking partner – an unrelenting partner, one that doesn’t understand moans, or cries for mercy.

As I’ve said, it’s a dance that’s disturbing, but at the same time mesmerizing to behold.

One that I’ve yet to leave early, or for that matter any of the audience members either.

And what of Betty and Angela? The hour’s grown late, and through the keyhole I can see the head in his inner office reaching for the phone on his desk.

I know him too well, he’s reaching for the phone because he’s tired, and doesn’t want to deal with the two remaining culprits.

He’s reaching for the phone to call the one person who’s authorized to act in his stead. And so I must conclude this document and take my eye from the keyhole in order to walk briskly back to my own office, where my secretary will tell me that the head has needs of my services.

I think I’ll take the last two girls down to the basement.

Perhaps when I’m done I’ll write and tell you, dear reader, what transpired.

If I feel the desire to do so of course.

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Corrective Humiliation

She lies forward over the sodomy stool, feeling its hard surface beneath her, listening to him at her rear, preparing her behind for chastisement. Behind her, methodically opening the flaps of the humiliation gown he’s made her put on, exposing the seat of her pantied bottom to the mirrored walls of the punishment room.

She looks straight ahead as he opens the gown to reveal her behind, her red strapped cheeks clenched tight underneath the sheer white punishment panties he’s exposed. She looks at the mirror in front of her, wondering who’s behind it, looking out at her. Who can see her there in that humiliating posture; already disgraced, with the greatest part of the mortification still to come.

He has the humiliation gown completely opened now, and he pauses to admire the view. Then tells her in a loud voice to reach back and pull her panties down below her buttocks. And then, after she’s done so, after she’s felt him strip her panties off entirely, to move her hands up to spread her cheeks and reveal everything between them.

She complies, knowing that the watchers behind the mirrored wall that faces her backside are enjoying the scene, enjoying her humiliation as she bends forward, her gown opened, her behind displayed. That’s why he’s invited them there, for their enjoyment and her shame. Corrective humiliation, he always calls it; and its effects on her are so drastic that she shudders even when all he does is say the words.

She bends forward, staring at the glass in front of her, at the watchers she presumes are behind it. She’ll never know who they are, how many have come – if indeed there are any there at all. But it doesn’t matter; even if the viewing areas behind the four mirrored walls of punishment room she’s in are empty, her mind tells her that they’re full.

Her mind tells her she’s being watched, and her senses conspire with that conclusion. Her ears prick whenever he stands still for a moment, seeking to hear the hear the telltale sounds of the people behind the two-way mirrors that circle the room. The sound of a throat being cleared? Of a sigh of pleasure as her behind is revealed, the humiliation gown opened, the punishment panties pulled down and off, allowing her to separate her legs wider, spread her cheeks further, present herself with her rectum completely exposed?

Or is it a faint cluck of disapproval at the fact that she’s been allowed to wear panties at all.

She keeps her face tilted up to the mirrored wall in front of her, her eyes towards the glass as she’s been taught, trying not to close them as she puts her hands back to her underpants, drawing them down to expose herself to the people behind the mirror at her rear. Keeps her eyes fixed forward as she feels him removing the panties, as she feels him spreading her legs further, exposing everything between them to the unseen eyes behind the glass.

He had her change into the punishment panties early – earlier than usual – and so it’s a relief to get them down finally, for the thick coating of Vicks he smeared in the seat before having her step into them has stung her strapped behind for several hours.

Vicks in the seat of her panties, stinging her behind. In traditional English correction, salted fat was applied across the red scorched bottomcheeks of a schoolgirl in the final stages of punishment in the headmaster’s study. Salted fat, to make the bottom burn; salted fat, after the strapping, while the girl sobbed over the stool. Salted fat on a strapped schoolgirl bottom, before the sodomy that, from the accounts she’s read, were a regular part of the pedagogical punishments of those long-gone times. Salted fat rubbed into the schoolgirl’s scorched bottom to further increase the sting before her rounded cheeks were spread, her tight anus Vaselined and then penetrated. The headmaster behind her thrusting forward, driving the culprit towards the opened window before her with each entry of the rigid organ into her bowels, with each entry between her martyred cheeks.

Driving the poor girl forward towards the opened window, inching forward with each penetration of her bared behind until, finally, she comes to rest with her face at the sill, her nose pressed to the glass, seeing the freedom outside as her behind is repeatedly impaled by her chastiser’s Vaselined cock.

The girl’s nose to the window, much as her nose is near the mirrored walls of the room. Her eyes to the glass, near the eyes on the other side, looking in.

She’s no schoolgirl, but, like those unfortunate young women of that earlier place and time, early that morning she too had her posterior bared for application of the punishment strap.

Woke that morning with a start, hearing his voice, the cold calmness of it, and all that portended. Woke, dressed, and glumly followed him into his study, where he led her to the old wooden school desk he kept there, made her look at it and endure his lecture as he stripped her panties down. And then, as she pleaded with him, bent her forward over the hard wood, her behind up, her panties neatly arranged below her buttocks to leave her sex and anus bared to his view while he got the strap, while he applied it.

And then, when her kicks and cries and pleas for mercy told her chastiser she could bear no more, she waited like that, buttocks raised and spread. Waited for the application of requisite unguent to the seat of her punishment panties and, inevitably, her strap-scorched flesh. Times change, she thinks, but whether Vicks or salt applied to a punished posterior, the effects are much the same.

As she pulls the punishment panties down, she feels the sudden relief of the cold air of the room blowing across her behind, the relief of the sudden absence of the Vicks in the seat of the underpants against chastised flesh. She knows her bottom glows bright red and shiny before the eyes of the watchers; still, she’ll take the mortification of having it exposed to the pain that the panties brings.

And so she lies there, over the stool, her behind bared, the panties down to her knees, her humiliation gown spread open. Waiting, knowing what’s coming next, anticipating it as much as she despises the feelings that the anticipation bring.

He begins the lecture, idly playing with the lace trim on the gown, with the dainty ties in back that she sewed by hand. The gown was her idea, a feminine variation of the plain hospital jonny he once favored; but she had found too late that the lace trim and other delicate adornments only made the basic function of the gown all the more apparent. Humiliation, pure and simply, the humiliation of having to show your behind, of being unable to conceal it. Of wearing a garment designed solely for exposure and accessibility; purposes that no amount of lace or dainty decoration can alter or abate.

He lectures, and the watchers – if they’re there – stare at her behind through the opened gown, at her white cheeks, at the deep crevice between them, at the occasional glimpses of her fear-clenched rectum that her motions over the stool reveal.

His voice rises and falls, but she can’t focus on what he’s saying; she’s too caught up in the humiliation of being observed. Too caught up in the idea of the eyes on her – caught up in it even though the reality of the watchers is unclear.

She’s imagining herself in their position, anonymous behind the mirrors, witnessing her punishment. She imagines staring at the face first, the culprit’s face – her face. Leaning forward to the glass to stare into the eyes, the pupils dilated, the cheeks shot through with shame. Viewing the behind, the cheeks forced apart by the position over the stool, the anus visible, the pussy beneath all too shamefully exposed. She would masturbate if she were watching; are they doing that now?

Consumed with this thought, she wishes her hands were free to rub herself, but he’s told her not to move them. Still, she is able to shift her hips slightly, feeling the hard surface of the stool rubbing her sex as she does so. No substitute for her hands, but the best she can do in the circumstances.

She hopes he doesn’t notice her motions; the penalty for masturbation during correction is a thick coating of Vicks between her legs during the session, and a bare-bottom paddling over his lap every night for the next week.

Holding a ginger suppository high in her bowels as the paddle crimsons her buttocks.

He’s done with the preliminaries now, and its time for the spanking. The first spanking, she corrects herself, the one she’ll get with her bowels empty. The second, of course, will be longer, stretching from the moment he opens the clamp on the enema bag up to the point 10 or 15 minutes later when he finally allows her to sit on the potty chair to expel. The third, during sodomy; the fourth, immediately afterwards, although, once he’s spent, the discipline is usually half-hearted.

She tries not to think about the spankings, and especially about the potty chair and the humiliation she’ll endure when he seats her on it. Her bared red bottom all too visible to the audience, its most menial functions on display for their pleasure and her mortification.

His cock, presented to her mouth as her bottom performs. That though, at least, is almost comforting.

He’s picked up a second strap from the table to his side, longer than the one he’d used in the morning; the instrument of the reformatory, heavy leather that will leave bands of pain across her already burning behind. It descends down without warning, a loud report as it meets the white flesh of her bared buttocks, and the eyes behind mirrors judge the severity of the instrument from the sudden stiffening of the culprit over the stool.

It’s a very Victorian correction: the reformatory strap; an errant young lady over a discipline stool; a strict older man administering the full correction to her exposed behind. In that situation, of course, the watchers would have been other teachers, there to witness the culprit receiving her comeuppance. Or, equally as likely, other students, waiting to undergo the same treatment, knees knocking as they stand watching, skirts pinned up, knickers drawn down, contemplating their own fates. Two or three other girls, perhaps, two or three more bottoms to be dealt with. Two or three more pairs of bare white cheeks waiting for the application of the strap across them, for the insertion of the Vaselined nozzle between them when the Headmaster washes out their spanked behinds.

And, that night, three or four tearful penitents bent over the ends of adjacent beds in their dorm room with their pajamas lowered, for the forced and forceful application of the headmaster’s stiff cock between their red cheeks and into their greased virginal bowels. One by one, as they squirm and cry and plead for mercy, promising, one after another, to be good. The kicking legs and futile promises ending only with the loud injection of sperm deep into each girl’s red tensing posterior.

Put to bed like that, pajamas down, each behind still Vaselined, each behind full of sperm. She knows this will be her fate, sperm in her backside to conclude the session, sperm in backside when she’s led from the room, still in the humiliation gown.

Sperm, deep in backside when she’s taken home and put to bed. Waiting for him to come in and lie with her, rub her, give her release.

Sperm in her backside, after the spankings, after the enemas, after the potty chair. She’s excited by this thought. Knows she’s wet between her legs, knows she’s aroused, despite the pain the strapping brings her.

Or perhaps aroused because of it.

The discipline that evening is longer than usual.