A Graduation

By Klayton Frost

Copyright © Klayton Frost

 

The right of Klayton Frost to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights and Patents Act 1988.

 

All rights reserved.

 

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

 

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

 

A Graduation

(Prologue)

 

Whenever I spoke to my friends back at home about St Martinas University, I was always met with a mixture of shock and wonder. I would tell them about the wood-panelled rooms and the long corridors hung with paintings. I'd tell them about the tall, imposing stone buildings and the formal arrangements of the dorms and the common rooms. And I'd tell them about the strict discipline at the college - one of the last in England to still use the cane.

"I hear they do it in front of the whole school," said Janie, my old friend from home, during one phone call. "And that you have to strip naked."

"They don't strip anyone naked," I said. "Only down to underwear. But yeah, for the big things it is in front of the whole school. It's a deterrent. To make sure people don't misbehave."

"Have you seen anyone being... you know...punished?"

"Of course," I said. "It's a regular occurrence here. Once every few months at least." I heard Janie gasp in shock, and felt a kind of smug pleasure at how blasé I sounded about it all. I was well and truly part of the school now. I was used to the ways of St Martinas, and I couldn't be happier about it.

What I didn't tell Janie - or anyone, in fact - was this: I had been caned. And I had loved it.

The very first time I saw a girl being punished I had known at once that it was something I wanted. It lit some fire inside of me, some thirst that I simply had to quench. And so I set out to deliberately get myself into trouble.

It wasn't a natural course of action for a straight A student like me. And things didn't exactly go as they planned. In the end I had to beg Anderson (the Disciplinary Officer at St Martinas) to cane me. It was mortifying, but I'm glad I did. Right there in his office he tied me down and whipped me with a cane until I was raw and crying. It was beautiful. I felt emotions that I've never thought I would experience in my life.

When it was over, I begged Anderson to fuck me. I wanted him inside me more than I'd ever wanted anything in the world before. He had punished me. He owned me. And yet he refused. "Earn it," he said, and threw me out of his office.

 

A Graduation

 

The day after he punished me was delicious and agonising. I slept lying on my front, and in the morning when I woke and pulled on my clothes I winced as they moved against the tender welts that marked my backside. Anderson's marks, left by him on my skin like tattoos. Every time I sat down - every time I even shifted in my seat during class - the pain reminded me of him.

I couldn't concentrate. All day long my mind drifted. As I sat in English Literature I found myself idly inspecting my wrist and remembering the way it had felt when he strapped me down to the bench. The memory was so vivid - sound and smell and feeling all wrapped up in one. My face grew hot as I remembered, and I felt a slow tingling begin in my belly.

"Focus," I whispered, and pinched my arm to distract myself.

But as the day wore on, distracting myself became a more and more impossible task. I was horny and desperate and restless. Lying on my front in bed the night before I had resisted the urge to masturbate, wanting to save myself, keep myself for him. But now I needed release. If I wasn't able to get myself off soon I felt that I would go crazy.

"I'm just going up to the dorm," I said to my friend Nancy as we left English and set off towards our History lesson. "Tell Mr Wickes I'm not feeling well."

"Oh, you okay?" said Nancy, obviously concerned.

I shrugged. "Yeah. Fine. Just got cramps. Tell him I'm sorry. I just can't concentrate. I might go to the nurse."

Nancy nodded earnestly, convinced by my story, and I headed off towards the dorm. I felt vaguely surreal - I'd never skipped lesson in the middle of the day before, and certainly not to touch myself. Such things I'd always kept for after hours when the lights were out. The privacy of night was where they belonged. But waiting for night to come wasn't an option. I was desperate.

Fortunately I made it to the dorm without incident. I was pleased to see that the cleaner had already been in. There was a fresh pine smell in the air and the beds were immaculate. That meant I wouldn't be disturbed. Quickly, I stripped off my clothes and pulled on my pyjamas, then got into bed. It felt strange being there in the middle of the day, with bright light shining through the gap in the curtains. But nice too. It was so quiet.

I lay on my front. That felt good. I lay on my front and imagined Anderson standing over me, cane in hand, ready to punish me again. I imagined that I was waiting for the first strike to fall, bound and gagged and helpless. One hand crept down between my legs. The other I reached back and slipped into the waistband of my pyjamas. I could feel the welts across my bottom, the roughness of the skin as if it had been grazed.

Deliberately, delightedly, I squeezed my backside, digging my fingers into the tender flesh. A shudder of pain rolled through me. Sweet, tired pain. A memory of something sharper. I squeezed until it the pain mounted and I gasped into my pillow. My other hand slipped into the cleft between my legs and found the sweet place there where each movement brought a frisson of pleasure.

It was exquisite. I brought myself to the very edge of coming and then dug my fingers into my backside and let the pain carry me higher. Three or four times I did this before at last I tipped over the edge. My muscles went into spasm and I bit down on the pillow to keep myself from crying out. I rocked my hips against the bed, against my hand. Tears sprung to my eyes and my breath halted in my throat. I thought of Anderson. The bench. The sting of that first lash. I came.

Weak in the aftermath of such a sweeping climax, I curled into a ball, hugging my pillow. I could feel my entire body trembling, every muscle exhausted as though I'd just sprinted a mile. Before I knew it I was asleep, exhausted and satisfied.

The next day, Anderson sent for me. At St Martinas each student has their own pigeonhole in the corridor off the main hall. Our names are printed underneath our slot in tiny, neat silver lettering, and any letters or parcels addressed to us end up there. Internal mail is dealt with that way as well, and everyone checks their box at least once a day.

I never usually received anything very exciting. Letters from home were rare, and it was much more common to find an updated timetable, or a marked piece of work in my pigeonhole. That was why I wasn't terribly excited when I picked up the small manila envelope: I recognised it as school stationary. What set my heart beating was the handwriting on the envelope. It was Anderson's. I'd recognise it anywhere.

Stashing the envelope in my bag I made my way to my next class. It was History, and I made a point of sitting right at the back so I wouldn't be disturbed. As everyone else opened up their textbooks, I slipped the letter from my bag into my notes, and then quietly slit it open while the teacher was talking.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, with only a few sparse words written on it:

 

You may be of assistance to me tonight. My office. Six o' clock. Anderson.

 

It was strange, but just those few hastily-scribbled words were enough to set my heart racing. I could feel a pulse beating in my sex, feel the heat there. I felt like I was suddenly hypersensitive to everything. Subtly I shifted against my seat, reawakening the pain in my backside. I gripped the edge of my desk, struggling to control myself. Not here. I would wait. At six o' clock tonight I would see him again. Maybe even be punished by him again. Maybe more...

Waiting out the day was impossible, torturous. I tried to lose myself in studying, but every few minutes my mind would drift back to Anderson and his office and the torture or the ecstasy that awaited me there. It seemed as though I'd never be able to last all the way until the evening.

Somehow though, I did. At five thirty I changed into fresh clothes and checked myself in the mirror. I wanted to be as close to perfect as I could possibly be for him. I had chosen a short black skirt and a loose blouse on top - feminine and yet (my mind raced) easily removed. I touched up my makeup, tidied my hair and then set off for his office.

I arrived a few minutes early, and waited in the corridor, determined to obey his instructions to the letter. At exactly six, I raised a trembling hand, took a long, slow, deep breath and knocked on his door. The last time I did so it had been only a few minutes until I found myself bound securely to a wooden bench, being thrashed soundly with a cane. A shiver ran up my spine.

"Enter," called Anderson.

I did so, shutting the door behind me. At the sight of the punishment bench in the middle of the office my heart leapt and started racing like a rabbit's. Anderson sat at ease behind his desk, finishing some paperwork. He was as calm and inscrutable and handsome as ever. With barely a glance in my direction he gestured for me to come closer.

"Listen carefully - I'll only say this once. You are to strip down to your underwear, and then kneel in the corner facing the wall, with your hands on the back of your head. Do you understand?"

I blinked. The instructions had been delivered so rapidly and matter-of-factly that they caught me off guard. For a moment I felt like asking why he wasn't directing me to the bench in the middle of the room, but I caught myself.

"Yes, sir," I said.

I set about removing my clothes. Part of me couldn't stop myself glancing over to Anderson to see if he was watching, but he appeared oblivious to my emerging nakedness. I folded my blouse and skirt and put them neatly on the corner of the desk, then dropped to my knees in the corner and put my hands behind my head. The floor was hard and I felt vulnerable with my back to the room, unable to see a single thing that was going on behind me.

For long minutes I knelt there, unmoving, uncertain what was about to happen. When, finally, there came a tentative knock at the door I almost jumped out of my skin. I was so tense, my heart beating hard and regular in my chest.

"Enter," called Anderson to whoever it was outside the door. I heard the office door open and shut.

"Ms Huskins told me to come--" a girl's voice began, but was swiftly cut off.

"I know why you're here," said Anderson. "And so do you."

"Please, sir, I said I was sorry. I was only talking."

"Enough." The girl fell silent, and Anderson's chair scraped back. I heard his footsteps as he moved around to the other side of the desk. "You'll take ten strokes as your punishment. Each word you speak from now on will mean an extra two. You understand."

I didn't hear anything in response. The girl must have nodded her understanding instead.

"Over the bench," said Anderson curtly.

A few moments later there was a soft touch on the back of my shoulder. I risked a glance up to see Anderson standing above me. He gestured for me to rise, and as if on strings I floated up to my feet. He leaned close, and whispered in my ear. The closeness of him made my knees weak.

"Tie her down," he breathed into my ear.

So this was what he meant when he asked for my assistance, I realised. And this was how he planned on testing me. I was to be his assistant. Well, if that was the case, then I was determined to do a good job of it, to please him as much as I possibly could.

I turned and went to the girl on the bench. She lay over it, fully-clothed in her uniform, her legs sheathed in dark tights. She was skinny, her face hidden beneath a mop of mousy hair. I recognised her in a kind of vague way; St Martinas was a small enough school that I knew most students there to look at. I kept my eyes down, and knelt beside her leg. My hands felt big and clumsy as I reached for the straps, threaded the leather through the buckle and pulled it tight. I felt a frisson of excitement, and tingles spread through my own leg, as though I was the one being secured in place.

As I moved to her other leg, I was reminded once again of the strength of the leather restraints, their mercilessness. The way they tightened against her flesh was beautiful and darkly exciting. I moved up to her arms. At this end of the bench I was close to her head, and I could hear her shuddery breathing, could see that she was chewing nervously on her lip. I thought of those moments that had preceded my whipping. They had seemed the longest of my life...

The final strap went all the way over her back. I secured it tightly, the black leather creasing into the smooth white of her uniform. When it was in place I stepped back and returned to my corner, where I stood with hands by my side, ready to do as I was told by Anderson. He didn't look at me, but instead rose from the edge of his desk where he had been perched and strode across the room to pick a cane from the rack by the door.

The last time I had watched a punishment be carried out, it had been at a distance, in a hall full of fellow students. Now, here in his office, there was only the three of us, and I was so close to the girl being punished that I could have taken one step forward and touched her. I watched, heart in my mouth, as Anderson lifted up the tail of her school skirt and draped it over her back, exposing her backside. I could make out the shape of her panties beneath the dark material of her tights. I hear a soft whimper - of dread or fear perhaps - escape her lips.

Anderson placed the cane against her backside, and I saw the slightest of tremors run through her at the mere touch of it. I wondered if she had been caned before - if she knew the pain she was about to endure. Certainly she had seen other people being caned, had heard their screams and seen them struggling to escape the bonds that held them there.

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The End

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