The Schoolgirl’s Cup Of Tea

The young woman sits at the table in the hotel room holding the cup of tea, trying her dutiful best to keep her hand from shaking and any of the precious liquid in the cup from spilling.

For this is not an ordinary young lady, nor an ordinary cup of tea, and there are serious consequences to be had should any of the contents of the cup she holds fall to the expanse of white linen covering the table at which she sits.


The man across the table from her watches her calmly as she sits holding up the cup, hearing the ticking of the clock on the wall behind them as she sits there, working hard not to move, her fingers squeezed unnaturally tight on the white porcelain.

She’s such a pretty thing, he thinks, long hair, fine features, fresh healthy face. Pretty looking and prettily presented, as she’s dressed in the white blouse and checkered skirt of a schoolgirl half her age, her legs attractively encased in kneesocks, with girlish Mary Janes enclosing her feet.

Although he can’t see them now, he’s sure her legs are trembling, and that her feet are moving from side to side as she struggles to keep herself still, struggles against the needs that are building in her body as she sits there, holding the cup aloft for him to see.

As she sits there trying to control herself, trying her best to be a good girl for him.

And he wonders how long her goodness can last, given the circumstances.


When they first talked she’d had no experience, only the years of desire that make the need to learn unceasing and unbearable. No experience whatsoever, and at first she was unsure if she could submit to everything he told her she’d receive, that she’d have to have if he was to tutor her. But with talking came a receptiveness that surprised her, perhaps because she couldn’t imagine becoming so comfortable with real events that she’d never experienced but only heard about from him, as the talked on the phone about them.

And he’d made her listen, only his voice at first, for she found herself mute at what he described; and then, as time passed, he’d had her participate, repeating the words and then phrases that he dictated, “I need to be spanked, I’ve been a naughty girl,” and, “I know you have to sodomize me as further punishment for my misdeeds.” And with each repetition she found herself pulled further into the images he’d painted for her, found it easier and easier to visualize herself going over his lap, feeling her panties being pulled down, feeling him do to her the things he’d only talked to her about over the phone.

And now here they sat, in person across the table from one another, with her holding up the cup of tea to his inspection. Trying her best not to let her hand tremble, trying her hardest not to let any of the tea slop out of the cup. Watching his smiling face and his hard eyes as he scrutinizes the cup, looking to see whether any of the tea has spilled.


He’d promised to start by spanking her, the way a headmaster of the Victorian age would a schoolgirl called from the classroom to his study. He’d told her he’d make her come to the room dressed in a school skirt and white blouse, kneesocks and the appropriate shoes. That he’d treat her as a naughty pupil, and that, after he’d scolded her he’d proceed to a more physical chastisement, with her bare bottomed up across his lap. Feeling the flat of his hand across her juvenile cheeks, and then, after time spent with her nose in the corner, back over his lap for a long session with a school paddle.

He’d promised her those things, and then he’d talked her through the events he’d described, made her repeat what he’d said, made her listen as he detailed how he’d enjoy pinning up her skirt in back, how he’d look forward to pulling down her plain white knickers once she was bent across his knees. Made her listen as he told her how he’d make her wait as he slid a finger slowly down the waistband in back, tickling her down the crack between her cheeks as he made her wait for him to yank her underpants down, made her wait for him to bare her behind to his eyes and, soon enough, to his hand and then the paddle.

And now, as she sits at the linen-covered table in the hotel room, holding up the cup to his gaze, she feels the after-effects of that discipline, feels the red hot fire of her nether cheeks, feels how hard it is for her to sit on her spanked behind. And is grateful for the occasional gust of cold air across her bottom, still bared, skirt still pinned up, air gusting across her backside as she sits holding up the cup, trying to keep her hand steady, trying not to let anything spill.


“You’ll get spanked, but that’s not all you’ll get,” he’s said, “for we have to clean out your schoolgirl bottom properly before we bend you over the sodomy stool to feel the thick masculine gristle fed slowly up your bowels.” And, having introduced her to the principal of a washed-out behind, he’d driven the thought home as, night after night, he’d described to her in excruciating detail how he’d give her the enemas that would prepare her virgin ass for the sodomy he intended to impose on it.

Over and over he’d described the sequence of events, having to stand in the corner and wait, or, if he chose, having to bend over a stool or lie face down on a bed in a similar period of unbearable anticipation. Not being able to see what he was doing, but her imagination working overtime even so to connect the noises he made to the events she was sure must be unfolding. “The sound of water running in the bathroom,” he’d told her, “and you with your nose in the corner wondering if I’m only washing my hands or if it’s the sound of the enema bag being filled to overflowing.” He’d repeated those words to her so many times that she’d gotten to the point of visualizing a filled enema bag every time she’d washed her own hands, a Pavlovian response he’d created in her, and only one of many such reflexes he’d built up inside her over the months he’d talked to her about their meeting.


She’d never had an enema — never had anything in her behind — but, with his words, the thoughts of her backside being cleaned and taken came to obsess her. What does it feel like, she’s wondered, the finger heavily coated with Vaseline, the moment when the nozzle is presented, the moment before it’s pushed in? What does it feel like to have to lie there impaled like that, trying not to squirm if he chooses to move the nozzle before the enema is administered?

How does it feel when he snaps open the clamp and the water begins to flow? Will it be warm water? Will it be cold? Will it be soapy? Will she be able to take it like a good girl, or will she squirm and cry and tense her buttocks on the nozzle to stop the water from going in? And, will that make the slightest bit of difference?

She knows the answer to that last question — no, it won’t matter, not the slightest bit at all. However much she tries to stop the enema going in, she has no choice in the matter, and no ability to resist what he chooses to do with her behind.

For some strange reason, she finds that complete loss of control to be incredibly comforting. Whatever happens, whatever he chooses to do, her job is simply to be a good girl and submit to it.

Her hand is visibly trembling now as she tries to keep the cup still, tries to maintain calm in her trembling body. Tries to fight the urges that are beginning to overwhelm her.


“There will be an obedience test,” he tells her, but he won’t tell her exactly what form that test will take, only that he’ll expect her to do her best to pass it. “It might be a circle in the middle of the room that I’ll expect you to stand in and not leave, whatever I might do,” he says, his voice calm over the phone as she shivers thinking about what he’s describing. “Or it might be my instruction to keep your hands gripping the rungs of the sodomy stool and not let go no matter what happens, no matter if I plunge my Vaselined finger into your bared behind, or if I strap you until you cry, or if I choose to spread your cheeks to insert a large nozzle and then administer a soapy punishment enema.”

“I expect you to be obedient, I expect you to submit. Not the kind of submission that comes of actual restraints; no, the submission that’s more profound, the kind that comes from your desire to please, and to be pleasing. The kind that comes from within rather than being something I impose. I expect you to submit, but I won’t tell you what form the test will take, only that there will be one.”

His voice trails off into silence each time he talks about the obedience test, gently trailing off so she can think about what he’s said. And then, to drive the point home, he makes her masturbate while he describes her loss of control and the intimate humiliation he’ll have her experience.


She sits at the table holding up the cup, her hand now trembling violently, the Irish Breakfast tea in the cup sloshing back and forth, drops beginning to rain over the rim as she holds up the cup to his forgiving eyes.

He looks into the mirror he’s set up behind her, sees her bare behind positioned on the bedpan he’s set on the chair, sees her cheeks spread, sees the marks of the strap across the reddened buttocks, knows that, when he gets her up, there will be a round circle on her bottom to mark the mouth of the bedpan she’s been sitting on.

He looks at her hand shaking, knows that the punishment enema she’s retaining is causing cramps that she can’t fight much longer. He smiles at her, inviting her to choose between spilling the contents of the cup of fine white china and voiding the contents of her bowels as she sits in front of him.

He sits there, inviting her to pass the test by loosening her bowels in front of him. He sits, waiting for her to choose the path he’s set her on, waiting to hear her bottom misbehave, the sacrifice that will allow her hand to steady.

All of her pride and self lost in that delicious release he’s helping her to experience. And the cup of tea mostly complete.

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