1000 visits? Time for a story.

So, I've just checked my stats, and apparently I've passed 1000 views tonight! I know that's a pittance to those of you with established blogs but after less than 2 weeks I'm extremely excited! Yay, me! And yay all of you happy spanking fans out there.

So, in the spirit of a quick celebration I thought I'd post a little story, that reflects my own fantasy. If you could just picture me as Matthew then you'll see where I'm coming from. I hope. Anyway, this is the first of several Miss Robinson tales; if enough of you like it then I'll post the others.

I must acknowledge that the picture above is entirely inappropriate for the story below; I just really like it (I got it off Tumblr).

And now, for your kind attention, I present a schoolboy story of days gone by.

The School Mistress

Matthew was terrified of his new teacher Miss Robinson, even when he only saw her from behind his desk in the third row.

He was, at 11 years old, both the newest and the youngest boy in her class; previously he had been educated purely at home. Upon his mother's remarriage her new husband had insisted that he attend the local grammar school.

This was all very new to him; his mother was a gentle woman, and the tutors that she had hired were kind and attentive.

Miss Robinson, whose pacing at the front of the room reminded him of an irritated tiger prowling along the bars of it's cage (if only she were behind bars!) was a totally different proposition.

She wore a tight black skirt that fell half way down her shins, and below this were dark stockings that sank into stern black shoes. Above the skirt she wore a neat white blouse, with a raised collar that covered the back of her neck. Her throat, unadorned by jewelery, was long and sinuous. Her hair was dark and lifted into a tight bun, with not a single strand out of place.

All of her angles were sharp; whilst her skin was smooth and chalk-white it still seemed almost lizard like. Matthew somehow expected a forked tongue to flick out from between her pale thin lips as she hungrily surveyed her prey.

In her hands was a long thin yellow pointer that she whipped around, thrashing it on to her desk to demand silence should her charges make the slightest unauthorized noise.

Behind her as she stalked was her large wooden desk, and behind it her chair, to which she retreated for rest whenever the class were writing in their exercise books. Another wooden backed seat was placed to it's side; this she referred to as “my throne”.

She had just finished taking the attendance register which, for the first time, included Matthew. Placing the register on the desk behind her, and taking up her pointer once more, she faced the class.

“Matthew, please stand.” The new boy was taken aback by this, but still obeyed promptly, his face red with embarrassment at being singled out.

“Matthew is new here. Everyone, please welcome him to St Everett's” The class chorused a relatively enthusiastic hullo. “Yes, welcome Matthew. I hope that you take advantage of your time here. This really is an excellent school. And on that subject, could you please tell us a little about your previous school. After you sit that is.”

“Urm, please Miss, I didn't go to school before.”

“I see. And you therefore have no education?”

“No Miss. I was taught at home. By my mother and...”

“So your Mother is an expert in every subject, is she?”

“No Miss. She taught me reading and writing, but I was taught Mathematics, History, Geography, Latin and the Sciences by several tutors.”

“Oh, I see. What an industrious child you must be. And well spoken too. It seems that you have learned your lessons well. Ah, we will soon test that out.” Her eyes bore into Matthew, who felt somehow that he had insulted her by having gained knowledge without attending St Everett's.

“And, Matthew, I trust that your mother ensured you were well behaved whilst in the care of your tutors?”

“Yes Miss, she has always been keen to teach me respect for my elders.”

“Hmm. And when you did misbehave?”

“I was well behaved Miss.”

“Come Matthew, all boys misbehave. It is is their very nature. And that is why I have my throne.”

“No really Miss.”

“Really Matthew. Surely your mother found it necessary to spank your little bottom on occasion?”

“No Miss, Mother has never beaten me.”

“She did not? Well then, she allowed your tutors to spank you when necessary?”

“No Miss. I have never been spanked.”

“Well then, not spanked. But paddled? Caned? Slippered perhaps?”

“No Miss. I've never been beaten in any way. Mother is opposed to such punishments.” By this stage Matthew's face was as red as so much beetroot; indeed had he been an elderly gentleman a doctor would have been called. His voice had also risen to a quite inappropriate volume, and his breath came in ragged pants.

Miss Robinson leaned back, perching herself on the edge of her desk. She regarded Matthew with a cool, dry look; she did not, to him, appear to blink at all. Her stare was unnerving.

The class sat silent, enthralled by this exchange.

Miss Robinson placed the pointer onto the desk, to her right, and, placing her hands behind her, she leaned back further, her body now a straight diagonal line. She pursed her lips, and considered.

“Matthew, I do not think that I like your tone. You will, at all times, address me with respect, and at a much lower volume than you have chosen.”

Matthew did not trust his voice. He nodded at her comments.

“It is customary to answer me when I speak to you. Matthew. Do you understand.”

“Yes Miss.” He almost whispered his response.

“Well then, I'm afraid that I do not believe you have never been beaten. And I do not tolerate liars in my classroom.”

“But Miss, it's the truth!” Matthew's voice rose again, and he flew to his feet.

“Furthermore.” she continued “I do not approve of children who argue with me. That shows a lack of respect I cannot permit. Once more you have raised your voice, and I did not give you permission to stand.”

Matthew made to retake his seat, only to be halted by Miss Robinson's voice.

“Do not trouble to sit. I think perhaps I can find a better use for the lower portion of your body. Join me at my throne, won't you.”

This was clearly not an offer. Rather puzzled at how he had ended up here Matthew trudged reluctantly to the front of the room, head bowed and eyes tracing his footsteps on the floor.

He reached Miss Robinson's desk to find that his teacher was not there. Looking up he saw that she was seated in her throne to the left of her desk.

“Hurry Matthew. Over here!”

He walked across to where she sat; she was ramrod straight, her knees firmly together as they pushed against the material of her skirt. She had taken on an almost regal air, and suddenly Matthew though that he understood why she referred to this chair as a throne.

She waved a hand, indicating her lap. Matthew regarded it like an alien landscape; he was struggling to breath rather like the atmosphere had evaporated as well.

“Over my knee boy! I'm sure you know the position.”

Matthew shook his head; even he wasn't clear whether he was refusing her instruction , denying he understood her meaning or just failing to believe what has happening.

“Enough.” she snapped, and grasped his left arm. With a sharp tug she ruined his balance, and he tumbled across her lap, arms and legs flying at all angles.

He lay there, head to one side of her lap and legs to the other, his bottom protected only by short trousers positioned neatly within the orbit of her right hand. Miss Robinson placed her left hand onto the centre of his back, pinning him in place like a prized moth.

The material of her skirt was rough against his stomach where a button had popped open as he fell, and he felt a tingling in his buttocks.

“Right then Matthew, in this class badly behaved children are punished. We believe in firm discipline, promptly administered, in full view of all, in order that both you and your fellows can learn to follow the rules.” She was clearly in no hurry to begin his chastisement.

“For your information Matthew, you are now lying over my knee. And this...” her hand, palm flat and rigid, smacked against the centre of his seat. “Is a spanking.”

Her hand rose and fell again, as inexorable as the daily journey of the sun, varying it's target. She spanked his right buttock, his left buttock, the cleft of his bottom, his thighs as they thrust out from his shorts, and back again to each area of the inviting target.

Her arm was metronomic; like the postal service it was not stayed by wind, rain or snow.

At first the novelty of Matthew's situation prevented him feeling the spanking too keenly; after a few spanks though the force of each smack was magnified by it's predecessors, and he began to felt a certain warmth. This became an irritating sting, and then a genuine throbbing, and, finally, a scorching pain that forced him to cry out as tears cascaded down his face.

The spanking, and Miss Robinson was certainly expert enough to ensure it was a comprehensive one, lasted for no more than three minutes, during which the entire class studied and graded it. The general feeling amongst them was that it was a decent first effort, maybe a B- overall.

Having decided that she had made her point Miss Robinson returned Matthew to his feet.

“Come now Matthew, that wasn't a severe spanking. Just a warm up really, but now you have an idea what to expect if you are rude and disagreeable in my class again. Stop crying boy; I could have used the cane on you, you know. Wipe your face, sit down and let's get on with the lesson.”

Matthew puffed out a breath and felt nervously behind him. He expected that his bottom had expanded to a size far too great to sit back on his little wooden chair, and he was surprised that his shorts had not split wide open. Finding that he could still cover his behind with both hands he gave it several sharp rubs, which did actually seem to alleviate a little of the pain.

Turning he shuffled back to his desk, not daring to face his classmates after his embarrassment. To his surprise two or three of them gave his back a gentle sympathetic pat as he passed.

Reaching his seat he carefully lowered himself into it, rather expecting his flaming rear end to cause it to burst into flames upon contact. He sniffed, but could not smell any smoke.

At the front of the room Miss Robinson was once more pacing, poised and terrifying. Matthew stared at her face, and he felt sure there was now a little colour in her cheeks, and that her eyes sparkled.

Matthew sighed; he hoped that the rest of the day was less painful, as he shifted uneasily in his seat.