Mr. Henry 2 / for 'D'
A light was still on in the front room of the home where Mr. Henry lived. It was a small, two-bedroom home on the outer lot of a suburban area. You gave a light knock on the door, and Mr. Henry answered.
“D! Good to see you. I thought you might take me up on the invitation. Please come in.”
It felt strange stepping into your teacher’s home. The front room was rather spartan, except for a couple of large bookcases. What did you expect in an English teacher’s house?
“Thank you for the invitation.” You smiled, then made a simple query. “I don’t even know your first name…”
“You can call me Mr. Henry.” He responded. “That’s worked well so far, hasn’t it? Now tell, me, D, just why are you here? Why did you take me up on the invitation?”
Teachers were so good at asking questions that made you nervous. This was no exception.
“You said I’d been naughty, Mr. Henry.” You whispered. “And that I might deserve to be disciplined.”
“I see. Perhaps you should move that chair in the corner to the middle of the living room.” Mr. Henry ordered.
You obeyed.
Mr. Henry sat on the chair, and you moved to his side, ready to lay down on his lap.
“No, D, the other way.” Mr. Henry corrected.
That’s right - you’d forgotten he was left handed.
The first few spanks were firm, but pleasant. You were being tested and evaluated. Just like a teacher would do. The next several spanks were harder, and still on the outside of your pants. As the spanks gained intensity, you were also falling slowly into that comfortable space where you knew you were no longer in control - and that was just fine. It was evident Mr. Henry knew just how hard to hit, where to hit, and how long to pause between strokes.
“D, I think it’s time for you to drop those trousers.” Mr. Henry said, in that same ‘teacher’ voice you had respected, even feared, and never forgotten.
You stood, and undid your belt.
“Just down to the knees, D. Then, back over.”
You laid back down over Mr. Henry’s lap. The next swats had more sting to them, landing on your panties. You could feel your breathing deepen. You could also feel a stiffening in Mr. Henry’s pants.
“Naughty girl. Naughty, teasing D…”. Mr. Henry began to taunt. “Bad girls get spanked. Masturbating, dirty bad girls.” The spanks increased in intensity, and the pauses between each strike became longer.
Mr. Henry’s hand stopped, and remained on your ass after a particularly hard strike. The touch was soft and welcome, and your rear felt warm to the touch. The hand slid down between your butt cheeks, and a finger rubbed your cleft. Just the right amount of pressure. You couldn’t help but moan.
“D!” Mr. Henry snapped. “What am I to do with a girl like you? Perhaps this discipline isn’t strict enough! Fetch the hairbrush over by the lamp.”
You stood, and your pants dropped to your ankles. You hadn’t been given permission to pull them up, so you shuffled over to the table and picked up the hairbrush. You hobbled back and handed the brush to Mr. Henry.
“I want you to bend, and grab your ankles, D.”
You bent, reached as far down your legs as you could, and then felt your panties being pulled down. The room felt cool.
The slap of the hairbrush had a completely different sound and feel. The brush itself was made of some sort of hardwood, and had a heavy feel to it even when you picked it up. It even felt sexy. This was not a brush used for combing hair. It was being used to redden your ass. You were trying to control your reactions, but you felt a tear roll out of your eye.
You felt a finger begin to rub your pussy.
And it felt amazing.
“D, tell me that you deserve this.”
“Mr. Henry, I deserve this.”
“Ask for more swats on your naughty rear, please.”
“Please, may I have more swats on my naughty rear, Mr. Henry.”
The intensity of the strokes rose from ‘naughty’ girl to ‘bad’ girl.
But Mr. Henry wasn’t done.
“D, If you wish to remove your clothes, I will reward you with a caning.”
You stood slowly, and felt a little light-headed. You undid the buttons on your blouse, opened, and removed it. You slipped out of your shoes and lifted your legs out of the pants, which now laid like a puddle below you. Panties next. Your eyes were glued on your former English teacher, watching his response. He had a thin smile that was pleasant, but cryptic. The bra was next. You’d always been a little self-conscious about exposing your chest, but it felt as though you didn’t have a choice. You stood proudly, as though you were offering your tits.
“Into the bedroom for your caning, D.” Mr. Henry said. “Far end of the hall. You will enter, and place two of the pillows on the bed under your belly to raise your rump for the cane.”
Totally naked now, you walked barefoot down the hall past a study to the bedroom. A small lamp on a nightstand provided enough light to see the room was clean and simple, with only a full-sized bed. Still plenty big enough to lay down on, and be caned.
Mr. Henry reached behind the door and pulled out a thin cane as you readied yourself on the bed, fluffing up the pillows and putting them underneath your hip bones.
“D”. Mr. Henry began. “I believe you should receive 20 punishment strokes of the cane. Do you have anything to say?”
You turned your head slightly to see Mr. Henry rolling up his sleeve. “No, Sir’.
There’s a direction, speed, and strength used in impact play that cruises a comfortable distance from ‘anger’. It’s hard to explain. A stroke given in love may be even harsher than a prison strapping, but it is given in such a loving spirit that it is received with honor and gratitude.
Each stroke of the cane left a stripe, a straight ‘railroad track’ welt, and a feeling of shock that is best breathed in, and processed. Mr. Henry was leaving plenty of time in between each stroke to let you fully feel them, and bask in them. After the tenth stroke, you felt the familiar hand reach underneath and rub gently.
“Nicely trimmed, D.” Mr. Henry began. “You have a very pretty pussy.”
A finger entered, and slid in easily. You felt a little embarrassed just how wet you’d gotten. Then, a second finger. One of the fingers rode up to your clit, and simply applied gentle pressure. Rubbing it would have almost been too much.
“Slutty girl.” Mr. Henry whispered. “You will be allowed to rub yourself for the remaining ten strokes if you wish.”
“Thank you, Mr. Henry.” Your hand slid down to your crotch. Your fingers would help to ease the pain of the final, and hardest strokes.
“D! Good to see you. I thought you might take me up on the invitation. Please come in.”
It felt strange stepping into your teacher’s home. The front room was rather spartan, except for a couple of large bookcases. What did you expect in an English teacher’s house?
“Thank you for the invitation.” You smiled, then made a simple query. “I don’t even know your first name…”
“You can call me Mr. Henry.” He responded. “That’s worked well so far, hasn’t it? Now tell, me, D, just why are you here? Why did you take me up on the invitation?”
Teachers were so good at asking questions that made you nervous. This was no exception.
“You said I’d been naughty, Mr. Henry.” You whispered. “And that I might deserve to be disciplined.”
“I see. Perhaps you should move that chair in the corner to the middle of the living room.” Mr. Henry ordered.
You obeyed.
Mr. Henry sat on the chair, and you moved to his side, ready to lay down on his lap.
“No, D, the other way.” Mr. Henry corrected.
That’s right - you’d forgotten he was left handed.
The first few spanks were firm, but pleasant. You were being tested and evaluated. Just like a teacher would do. The next several spanks were harder, and still on the outside of your pants. As the spanks gained intensity, you were also falling slowly into that comfortable space where you knew you were no longer in control - and that was just fine. It was evident Mr. Henry knew just how hard to hit, where to hit, and how long to pause between strokes.
“D, I think it’s time for you to drop those trousers.” Mr. Henry said, in that same ‘teacher’ voice you had respected, even feared, and never forgotten.
You stood, and undid your belt.
“Just down to the knees, D. Then, back over.”
You laid back down over Mr. Henry’s lap. The next swats had more sting to them, landing on your panties. You could feel your breathing deepen. You could also feel a stiffening in Mr. Henry’s pants.
“Naughty girl. Naughty, teasing D…”. Mr. Henry began to taunt. “Bad girls get spanked. Masturbating, dirty bad girls.” The spanks increased in intensity, and the pauses between each strike became longer.
Mr. Henry’s hand stopped, and remained on your ass after a particularly hard strike. The touch was soft and welcome, and your rear felt warm to the touch. The hand slid down between your butt cheeks, and a finger rubbed your cleft. Just the right amount of pressure. You couldn’t help but moan.
“D!” Mr. Henry snapped. “What am I to do with a girl like you? Perhaps this discipline isn’t strict enough! Fetch the hairbrush over by the lamp.”
You stood, and your pants dropped to your ankles. You hadn’t been given permission to pull them up, so you shuffled over to the table and picked up the hairbrush. You hobbled back and handed the brush to Mr. Henry.
“I want you to bend, and grab your ankles, D.”
You bent, reached as far down your legs as you could, and then felt your panties being pulled down. The room felt cool.
The slap of the hairbrush had a completely different sound and feel. The brush itself was made of some sort of hardwood, and had a heavy feel to it even when you picked it up. It even felt sexy. This was not a brush used for combing hair. It was being used to redden your ass. You were trying to control your reactions, but you felt a tear roll out of your eye.
You felt a finger begin to rub your pussy.
And it felt amazing.
“D, tell me that you deserve this.”
“Mr. Henry, I deserve this.”
“Ask for more swats on your naughty rear, please.”
“Please, may I have more swats on my naughty rear, Mr. Henry.”
The intensity of the strokes rose from ‘naughty’ girl to ‘bad’ girl.
But Mr. Henry wasn’t done.
“D, If you wish to remove your clothes, I will reward you with a caning.”
You stood slowly, and felt a little light-headed. You undid the buttons on your blouse, opened, and removed it. You slipped out of your shoes and lifted your legs out of the pants, which now laid like a puddle below you. Panties next. Your eyes were glued on your former English teacher, watching his response. He had a thin smile that was pleasant, but cryptic. The bra was next. You’d always been a little self-conscious about exposing your chest, but it felt as though you didn’t have a choice. You stood proudly, as though you were offering your tits.
“Into the bedroom for your caning, D.” Mr. Henry said. “Far end of the hall. You will enter, and place two of the pillows on the bed under your belly to raise your rump for the cane.”
Totally naked now, you walked barefoot down the hall past a study to the bedroom. A small lamp on a nightstand provided enough light to see the room was clean and simple, with only a full-sized bed. Still plenty big enough to lay down on, and be caned.
Mr. Henry reached behind the door and pulled out a thin cane as you readied yourself on the bed, fluffing up the pillows and putting them underneath your hip bones.
“D”. Mr. Henry began. “I believe you should receive 20 punishment strokes of the cane. Do you have anything to say?”
You turned your head slightly to see Mr. Henry rolling up his sleeve. “No, Sir’.
There’s a direction, speed, and strength used in impact play that cruises a comfortable distance from ‘anger’. It’s hard to explain. A stroke given in love may be even harsher than a prison strapping, but it is given in such a loving spirit that it is received with honor and gratitude.
Each stroke of the cane left a stripe, a straight ‘railroad track’ welt, and a feeling of shock that is best breathed in, and processed. Mr. Henry was leaving plenty of time in between each stroke to let you fully feel them, and bask in them. After the tenth stroke, you felt the familiar hand reach underneath and rub gently.
“Nicely trimmed, D.” Mr. Henry began. “You have a very pretty pussy.”
A finger entered, and slid in easily. You felt a little embarrassed just how wet you’d gotten. Then, a second finger. One of the fingers rode up to your clit, and simply applied gentle pressure. Rubbing it would have almost been too much.
“Slutty girl.” Mr. Henry whispered. “You will be allowed to rub yourself for the remaining ten strokes if you wish.”
“Thank you, Mr. Henry.” Your hand slid down to your crotch. Your fingers would help to ease the pain of the final, and hardest strokes.
16 days ago
