Subject: EMMA AT SCHOOL Episode 23 by Rosewood (REPOST)
From: nobody@REPLAY.COM (Anonymous)
Date: 2 Jan 1997 00:31:32 +0100

Emma at School 23

End of the interlude

This tale has spent too long, much too long, away from the seventeenth century towers of Katherine Parr School for Girls. We shall now make our way back there, pausing to make only a few observations which will surprise no one, but may satisfy those who like to feel that nothing has been omitted in the telling of a story.

Margaret, firmly chastened on that first day, went on to spend the next ten days under Mr Dinwell's supervision. Undoubtedly, as anyone glancing at the next section of her diary would be able to tell, this short period would supply ample material for a substantial for a documentary account of its own, or perhaps a short film. Needless to say, the tutor's generous spirit in wishing to satisfy his student's desire for guidance remained undimmed and, had he found the task of punishing Margaret onerous and unpleasant, he would no doubt have continued to ensure that misbehaviour or slackness on her part was challenged in an appropriate way, appropriate ways unwaveringly involving the baring of Margaret's behind, and the very vigorous application thereupon of hand, paddle, ruler, hairbrush, strap or cane.

It must be confessed, however, that Mr Dinwell did not find it so. In fact, from that first afternoon, he found considerable pleasure to be inherent in the execution of his duties. In particular, the feel between his fingers of the soft cotton of the girl's panties as he slid them to her ankles, and the sight revealed by this action, whether that be her pale, rounded bottom cheeks or her downy pubic area, he found delightful. So much so, in fact, that Mr Dinwell did his utmost to prolong and elevate these sections of his dealing with Margaret. He insisted, for example, on Margaret being fully dressed at all times (except when she was actually being punished) even though he had virtually no visitors, simply so that each punishment would include a full undressing. He also, within a few days, began to require Margaret to take up positions which involved her displaying her sex to him. He would order her to sit with her legs spread wide apart for ages, or to cuddle him when she was nude. He would stroke her bottom after spankings and his fingers would gradually move closer and closer to her pussy, yet he never yielded to the temptation to allow his touch to become more explicitly sexual. It was Margaret who brought herself to orgasm after most spankings as soon as she was alone. In this way, the central bond of giver and receiver of punishment, of bare-bottom spankings and canings, never lost its primary place in their intimacy.

To close this brief examination in the life of the eldest Sharpe child, the reader will find reprinted here a letter received a week after Margaret's first spanking from Mr Dinwell by the girl's best friend - a fellow student whose tutor, however, was not Mr Dinwell but who did take lectures with him - and the friend's reply. The events that followed you will have to imagine.

"Dear Samantha,

I hope this letter doesn't mark the end of our friendship. It's the second weird letter I've had to write in a week - as you will hear in a moment. Before I begin, I want to remind you of an event that you may have tried to forget about. However, I was a good deal more sober than you when it happened and I hope you will trust my memory and understand why I chose to write this letter to you rather than to anyone else.

It was right back in the first term when we first met. There was a party - I'm sure you must remember, but I'll remind you anyway. It was in David's room in hall and it was really packed - and you got incredibly drunk. I remember you saying you weren't allowed to drink at home, so I guess it wasn't surprising. Anyhow, the upshot of it was that at three in the morning I had to drag you away (literally - as you couldn't really stand on your own) and back to your room. Thank God we all lived in the same hall! If you recall, having got all the way to your room, you couldn't find your key and had no idea where you'd put it, so then I had to half carry you all the way back to my room so you could sleep there.

Are you remembering now? Do you remember me scolding you for getting drunk - warning you of the kind of things that happen to girls in halls of residence who lose control. Of boys, their wandering hands and dodgy morals?

Do you remember me asking how your dad used to prevent you from drinking? 'What would he have done,' I demanded, 'if he had found you in the state you're in now?'

'I don't know,' you slurred back. 'I'd probably have been grounded for a week.'

'Huh!,' I exclaimed dismissively. 'Is that all? No wonder you have no self-control!'

'Why?' You looked up at me with your blue eyes, all big and round - looking like a five year old and asked what my 'daddy' would have done to me. You used that word - 'daddy'. I remember thinking that I hadn't ever used it outside my home, and realising how naive you were.

I remember moving my face right up to yours and asking, 'Do you really want to know?'

You whispered 'yes' back. There was an electric charge in the air. Did you feel it too?

'I will tell you,' I said, 'and then I think you should agree to accept the same punishment from me.'

You must have known what was coming... didn't you. But you said yes anyway.

'Promise?' I pushed you.

'I promise,' you declared firmly.

'Well,' I told you, 'he would take me up to his room - or possibly into the sitting room - and stand me in front of him while he lectured me about drinking. Then he would ask me if I should be punished. I would say I should and he would tell me to lift up my skirt or dress to my waist. Then he would pull my panties down - right down to my ankles - and tell me to bend over his knee.'

I could see that you were breathing more quickly now and whispered in your ear, 'Can you guess what happened next?'

'Did...' you stammered. 'Did your daddy spank... your bare bottom.'

I just nodded and watched you eyes widen still further. Then I said, 'He would spank me over and over with his hand until I begged him to stop. Then he would spank me some more until I was in too much pain to scream and I was just crying my eyes out. Only then would he stop. And then he'd make me stand in the corner with my skirt up and my panties down for about ten minutes.'

I thought I saw a tear in your eye as you said quietly, 'I don't think I can stand in the corner.'

'I'm prepared to make some concession in that area,' I said quietly. 'I do want you to stand in front of me now though.'

I helped you to your feet. You were wobbly, but you had a determined expression on your face and when I told you to lift your dress, you did as you were told with a kind of pride.

'Have you ever been spanked before?' I asked, gazing at the rather beautiful silk panties you were wearing.

You shook your head. 'Mummy and daddy didn't believe in it,' you said. 'Sometimes I wished they had - my friends who got spanked didn't have to miss days out and stuff like I did.'

I reached out then for your panties and it was then that you dropped your skirt. You know, it was what you said next that - how can I explain? Your next comment almost meant completely the opposite to what it appeared to.

'Margaret, this is too embarrassing. Please, can't you spank me with my panties on?'

'Certainly not!' I snapped with a stern face. 'And I'm going to give you an additional punishment for your disobedience. Now, lift up that skirt!' A little more slowly this time you exposed your pretty panties to me and this time you didn't move a muscle as my hands (shaking a little, I admit) moved towards you and then took hold of the flimsy covering.

I guess you must know that I've spanked other people - but I've never pulled anyone's panties down that slowly. I remember watching as each individual hair sprung free from its prison - and I remember (I wonder if you'll accept this), I remember the faint feeling and smell of dampness in your knickers as I eased them down your thighs and finally let them drop to your ankles.

I left you standing there half-naked in front of me for quite a while, didn't I? Before telling you to bend over my knee for your spanking. You performed that last act with such poise - and contrition even. Were you actually ashamed of yourself for being drunk. Did you really see your spanking as a punishment and not just as a game?

I had to put a hanky in your mouth - remember that? You screeched loudly at the very first slap - and that wasn't even hard! But once I'd gagged you, it was OK. I gave you a good sound spanking too, didn't I? I guess if you've never been spanked you don't know, but my bed was certainly wet with tears.

You know, that isn't really how my dad would have punished me. If my dad had ever found me drunk (which, thank God, he didn't) I would have had to take off all my clothes and I'd have got the cane in front of the whole family. I guess I didn't think you'd go for that - plus I didn't have a cane at college.

The spanking seemed to do the trick though. By the end you were just a heap of tears - and you dissolved even more when I reminded you about your extra punishment for disobedience.

I was dying to strip you completely and spank that pretty bottom of yours with a ruler or something, but something made me relent. 'I'll give you that punishment first thing in the morning,' I said sternly. 'I think it's time we both went to bed now.'

I have to admit this - even if it makes it less likely for you to agree to what I'm going to ask you later - but lying there in bed with you afterwards, both of us covered only by a T-shirt and you crying into my chest over your sore behind, I felt so turned on. Spanking you really had got me hot and, though I do like boys, I really had to hold myself back from sliding my hand between your legs.

You were asleep in seconds, of course. Not me - I spent ages thinking about what your punishment in the morning should be. And then, of course, when the morning came there was no punishment.

We woke up sober (and a little hungover) and both acted as if nothing had happened. I wasn't sure whether you remembered it at all - or maybe thought it was a dream - you seemed so... normal.

And we've never discussed it since, have we? We've had all those intimate discussions about boys and what we do (or would like to do) with them, but we've never, ever talked about that night.

Until now. You see, I'm in a very strange situation and I wanted... well let me explain - briefly.

I got terrible results last term and daddy (I'm using it now!) was really upset. Now this is kind of embarrassing, but just because I'm an adult doesn't mean I don't get punished any more. I got a really hard caning - right on my bare bottom in front of my brother AND sister AND my sister's friend, Emma. But that wasn't the end of it. Daddy made me write to Mr Dinwell (he's my tutor remember) and apologise and....

It's now nearly half an hour since I wrote the last sentence because I can't work out how to write this down. I've already written it in my diary - but to write to another person.... Please, Sam, remember what good friends we are - please keep all this private!

I wrote to Mr Dinwell asking him to punish me next term if I wasn't working hard enough. And yes, you're right, we're talking about spanking - or a hairbrush, or paddle, or cane or whatever... and on the bare bum too. Daddy made me come all the way back to college to give it to him. Can you imagine what it was like standing in front of him while he read that letter? And can you guess the result?

Well, let me give you a clue. I'm now lying face down on Mr Dinwell's bed (I'm not allowed to call him Eric any more) with my knickers round my ankles and my skirt up round my waist and my bottom bright red (and stinging like hell!) and my own hairbrush sitting next to me.

In the week that I've been here I've been spanked with his hand (many, many times), a ruler, a table tennis bat, my hairbrush, a wooden spoon, several slippers and a variety of paddles. I've been strapped with Mr Dinwell's belt and a genuine Scottish tawse. And, no fewer than four times, I've had my bottom bared for the cane. In fact, right here on Mr Dinwell's bedside table is a photograph of him caning me - so that I'm reminded of my position whenever I'm in here. There's a similar photo in my bedroom.

Now, originally I was only going to stay for a short while, but Mr Dinwell and my dad have decided that I should spend the whole holiday here to catch up on my work and get settled into the new regime.

And... Mr Dinwell has told me that I should invite a friend to come and stay. It's really beautiful here - near the beach with lovely countryside - and you wouldn't be expected to do any more work than you do at home. You'd be free to do as you wished when I'm working and the rest of the time we can go out together. Mr Dinwell wants whoever comes to act as a companion AND a sort of watchdog, reporting to him if I'm breaking any of the rules.

There are loads of rules for me, which I wrote and agreed with Mr Dinwell. Every time I break one, I get punished according to this agreement. You, of course, wouldn't have to stick to these rules because they're all to do with my work and everything.

BUT... Mr Dinwell said you'd still have to decide with him what rules would apply to you and agree what the punishments would be for breaking them. And, as if you haven't already guessed, the punishments will be spankings. All on the bare bottom.

Now do you see why I decided to write to you. I know we've both talked about how fanciable Mr Dinwell is, but that's not the reason. In some ways (though not in all) being spanked by someone you fancy is just extra humiliating. No, it's because of that night at the start of the year. I don't mean that you'll want to be spanked - I just mean that I feel that maybe I can explain the situation to you whereas I couldn't to anyone else.

If you feel disgusted by the whole thing, just tear this letter up. But I hope you do accept that the night I talked about really did happen. Please write anyway, whatever you decide. And please still be my friend.

All my love,



ps I'm just looking at that photo - the one of my caning - and it reminds me of something. If you want to make a good impression, let me give you an underwear tip. Mr Dinwell really likes white lace lingerie: in the photo I'm wearing a basque and suspenders, and stockings with a gorgeous flowery pattern. It's hard to tell which panties I'm wearing as they're gathered in a bunch just above my stocking tops. You can just see the cane approaching my bare bottom and there are three red stripes across my cheeks already. My tears are big enough to see too: Mr Dinwell is serious about discipline!"

"Dearest Margaret,

I can't think of anything that would stop me being your friend. I really do love you and I hope our friendship will last through whatever hurdles life throws up.

This is my third attempt to reply to your letter - I've really found it very hard to get anything down on paper - and I guess that explains why I've never said anything about 'that night' - although I'm not so sure why you haven't!

I know I was drunk and that probably explains why my memory of events is murky - although I know that what you say happened, did happen. Reading through your account (and I'm glad I now do have some details - even if they're second hand) I'm pretty amazed that I took part in such an event, even though I was drunk. Inviting someone to spank you (which I apparently almost did) doesn't sound like the kind of thing I would usually do.

But, of course, I was with you and at the time I was besotted with you. I don't mean sexually (although... no, later), but I did think you were wonderful: exciting, extrovert, sexual, open... all the things I wasn't. Somehow your spanking story fitted in with that (although you're right - if you'd described a caning instead I probably would have reacted differently). It seemed kind of exotic and, yes, erotic too and when I found myself agreeing (only implicitly of course) to be spanked I felt so... alive! (What a cliche - but that is the right word!)

Of course, if you'd stopped when I dropped my skirt - or agreed to spank me through my panties - that would have spoilt it. But your firmness was so gripping, I had to just put myself in your hands. God, when you pulled my knickers down I thought I would explode. I was certainly wet later so I guess I might have been then - I just remember feeling like I was discovering a darker side to sexuality that I'd never really dreamt of. Being over your knee - that total handover of control - I kind of wish I'd been sober, except that of course I'd never have gone through with it. Luckily for me, I guess, I don't really remember the pain - although I remember that I was in pain. Maybe that's typical. There is one thing I do remember though - very well.

I remember waking up (with my hand between my legs by the way) and seeing you standing by the bed, and waiting for you to command me to prepare in some way for my 'additional punishment'. I'm not at all sure how I would have reacted. After all I was sober now. I guess you would have had to be quite insistent to get me to obey, and I can see why you didn't try it... but Mags, how I wanted you to! I wanted to taste the thrill of hearing those words when I was sober: 'lift up your skirt', or 'pull down your panties' or 'bend over my knee'. But you never said any of them and of course I couldn't say anything about it. The same as I couldn't all this time since, until now.

Margaret, listen. Ever since that night, nearly every fantasy I have has been about being spanked. By boys, by tutors (including, of course, Mr Dinwell) and - often, Mags, very often by you. I've never told anyone about this until now. I'd never have dreamt of suggesting it to a boyfriend, even though I think one was probably into it. I always thought it was just going to remain a fantasy forever....

Until I got your letter. I'm going to come. I can't believe it, but I am. I've told mum that Mr Dinwell's doing a kind of summer school (so please tell your dad that) and that's it - too late to go back 'cos I AM posting this letter today.

Phone me and tell me what to bring. I'm so excited, nervous, terrified... and guilty too. I can't imagine what it's like to be spanked by a man - or to be caned! Do you think Mr Dinwell will cane me too? I don't know if I can take it! Does he pull your panties to your knees? Or you ankles? Or right off? Sometimes in bed I imagine him stripping us both and spanking us together with our legs open as we kneel on his bed with our faces pressed into the mattress. Will he put me over his knee? Or make me touch my toes? Or both?

Oh God, Margaret, phone me soon so I don't change my mind. Don't let me change my mind.

Oh yes, and I guess I'll have to expect that 'additional punishment' you owe me when I arrive.

Love (physically shaking)


xxxxx (are these kisses or smacks)"

Back at the Sharpes' house, life went on pretty much as usual. That is to say that Emma and Deborah, sometimes hanging out with Hugh, sometimes on their own, had a wonderful time together in the beautiful countryside and old town.

Of course here, as in Mr Dinwell's residence, there was plentiful discipline. Much of that received by Emma came from her lover, who we know loved to spank her, some too was provided by the brother - neither of these two being overly concerned with having any justifiable reason for demanding her submission. Mr Sharpe too had cause to chastise Emma further to her introduction to his hand and hairbrush on her first full day at the house. On one occasion, the three children each received a sound slippering, in front of the others, in the front room. Considerably more embarrassing (and painful) for our heroine, was the strapping that she had to take on the final evening of the girls' holiday.

The misdemeanour which led to this chastisement was a particularly public one as Mr Sharpe was entertaining that evening and there were a dozen or so people there in addition to herself and the family, none of whom Emma knew. Emma was not, it must be added, intending to get into trouble for any reason. Nor was she tricked or induced to it by Deborah or Hugh. In fact, the first they knew of Emma's downfall was when she was led into the sitting room by the ear, Mr Sharpe speaking sternly to her about "consequences".

"I'm very sorry, ladies and gentlemen," he said in his calm voice, "But I have had a nasty shock!"

Still holding a tearful Emma by the ear, he emptied the contents of a cardboard box he was carrying onto the floor. It was obvious to Hugh and Deborah what the magazines were, though less easy to guess from where Emma had managed to procure such a stock of pornographic material. There were mutterings of disapproval from the collected guests.

"Of course, I'll have to inform your father of this incident," Mr Sharpe warned sternly. "And insist that he comes to pick me up straight away." Deborah thought that, if Emma had been able to move more freely, she might have thrown herself at Mr Sharpe's feet. Her captor's "ear-hold" however made that impossible.

"No!" she screeched. "Please don't tell my dad, please!"

Mr Sharpe reacted with the speed of someone used to dealing with the misbehaviour of children, and one with an understanding of their ways. "Very well, you may be dealt with here if you wish," Mr Sharpe said aloud, watching Emma's mouth begin to turn towards a smile. "But I shall deal with you severely. And in public."

"Please...." Emma began, but her appeal met with deaf ears.

"I am still happy to ring your parents," Mr Sharpe reminded her.

"No! Please...." Mr Sharpe decided to accept this as consent for her punishment and sent Deborah to fetch the strap. In the meantime, he pulled a chair into the middle of the room and then guided Emma towards it. For the first time now, looking around the room, Emma noticed that not all the guests were adults and that, among the younger members of her audience, were no less than three teenage boys who were clearly enjoying the scene immensely. Emma made the mistake of pointing them out to Mr Sharpe and asking for their removal.

"Certainly not!" he retorted. "You're prepared to shame me by bringing this filth into my house; well, I'm prepared to shame you by strapping your bare bottom in front of a few boys."

There. It had been said. Of course there had never been any real doubt in her mind, she had never seen Deborah's father give out a spanking without first requiring panties to come down, but she had thought... maybe... in front of all these people....

"In fact," Mr Sharpe's warning tone cut into her thoughts, "Billy, why don't you come here?"

Billy was a seventeen year old boy, well-built and attractive. In other circumstances Emma would have been pleased to meet him, but not in these. "Now Emma, let me warn you that any further resistance from you is going to result in a doubling of your beating. Billy is a friend of Deborah's and has often seen her take a strapping. Please, Billy, prepare Emma for me will you?"

Though mortified, Emma held her tongue and, having followed the boy's instruction to kneel on the chair. She allowed him to push her head gently down until he was able to guide her hands to the very bottom of the chair legs which he told her to grasp.

Emma heard a whisper in her ear, "Poor little Emma," the voice was not exactly menacing, but it did betray an obvious satisfaction in her predicament. "Your cute little bottom is going to feel the sting of the strap in a minute. Ouch!"

Emma felt the boy's hands moving up to take hold of her dress and lift it up and over her back to expose her panties, then his mouth was at her ear again.

"Deborah's told me so much about you," he continued, "especially when I've got her over my knee. She's even promised me a taste of your virgin pussy if I come to school to see her, so I shouldn't get too flustered about today."

As he finished, his lips brushed her ear lobe ever so gently and the kiss sent a frisson though her whole body, not failing to increase the sensation in her already warm pussy as she imagined his tongue invading her. The daydream was partly banished then by the simultaneous arrival of Deborah with her father's strap, and pulling of her panties, by Billy, down to her thighs. It was fully expunged soon afterwards.

The guests were crowded around her now, and Mr Sharpe indulged in no further preliminaries. He raised the strap high.

CRACK! "Yeooww!"

This was the most severe punishment Emma had suffered at her host's hands and, she discovered, that his many years of practice had made Mr Sharpe a formidable employer of the leather strap. He flogged her again.

THWACK! "Noooooo! Please, it hurts too much!" Emma yelled, knowing that this in no way added to her chances of release, but able to keep the pitiful words inside her.

Over and over again, Emma's bare cheeks danced to the strap's insistent beat, Mr Sharpe changing the target area on each stroke to work down from the flesh of her bottom to her thighs and back up again, determined to leave an impression, on both senses of the word, upon his daughter's best friend.

She was, he thought as her continued his work, a delightful child: pretty, kind, generally helpful and extremely lively (this last feature leading her often into the kind of scrapes after which he had found it necessary to discipline her). He knew nothing of Emma's school experience previous to Katherine Parr, but guessed rightly, that her upbringing had until then been devoid of the strict regime which her parents had sensibly introduced of late, and which he was very content to supplement.

Yet he also recognised (Emma had ceased her struggling and pleading now and was merely weeping copiously and occasionally crying out in pain as Mr Sharpe moved towards the end of the second dozen strokes) that the girl's good character had been developed precisely through the kind of stern discipline he had always used upon his daughters, and in a very short space of time. She would grow up to be a lovely young woman, he thought.

Having reached the twenty fifth stroke, Mr Sharpe slowed the pace of Emma's strapping to ensure that the lesson was properly learned, delivering no more than one stroke every half minute and, as intended, causing Emma's mind to leap to the hope of an ending each time before the heavy leather denied her release with another fearful explosion across her naked rump. Thirty four, thirty five, Mr Sharpe counted in his head, leaving over a minute then before raising the strap one last time, higher than ever.

CRRRACKK!! "Arrrrghhhh!"

Emma dissolved into a pathetic and constant moaning which Mr Sharpe only silenced with the threat of a further blow. She continued to snuffle but, realising that her ordeal was at an end, managed to stop bawling.

"You can stay there for the rest of the party," Mr Sharpe told her, "as a reminder. I'd also like to see you in my room briefly at bedtime."

Emma was pleased about that. Although she knew that, in all likelihood that would mean a further spanking, at least she would be able to apologise properly to this man whose kind face and strong spanking arm she had grown to love and respect.

"Did you think this evening's punishment uncalled for?" he asked the girl when they were alone together.

"No, I deserved my punishment, although it was terribly embarrassing being strapped on the bare bottom with all those people there."

"Good," he laughed. "I wanted it to be embarrassing. Aren't you usually embarrassed when you're spanked on the bare, anyway?"

"Well, not so much if it's daddy..." she began.

"What about me?"

"Well, a bit I suppose. But...."

Mr Sharpe could feel the pressure of his growing erection and knew that it would be ethical to close the interview, but he could not.

"But what?" he asked gently, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Well, it's like... when someone punishes you, you feel very, kind of, loved. Like they care about you and... and if they punish you in ways that are embarrassing..."

"For example?"

Emma blushed. "You know, pulling down your panties, or making you take off your clothes.... well, it sort of makes that feeling even stronger." Emma couldn't explain to this man that such punishments raised a turbulent fire between her legs, as well as her behind. She couldn't tell him about the wetness now growing in her pussy, even though she longed to slip her hands between her thighs and relieve the mounting tension.

"Well," Mr Sharpe said only subconsciously registering Emma's tongue running over her lips and moistening them seductively, an action which Emma too could claim ignorance of. "I think you know why I asked you to come and see me?"

"I hope," Emma said, "that you wanted to give me a chance to apologise properly for bringing those dirty magazines into your house. I guess that... I guess that you're also going to spank me again."

"Yes, yes it's true that I think another final spanking would do you good," Mr Sharpe admitted. "And an apology would be welcome."

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I know you had to punish me severely and... and I agree that I should be spanked some more now."

"Good." Mr Sharpe looked at the fifteen year old in front of him, her young breasts swelling hotly with her shortening breath through her night shirt. "This will be your last spanking from me. On this visit anyway. I'd like you to tell me what I should do to make those mixed feelings of embarrassment and being cared for as strong as possible. How should I start?"

"Well," Emma began after a few moments' pause. "You should take my clothes off. I mean... all my clothes. And it..."


"Well, sometimes your hands touch me by mistake when you're doing that and... well, that makes the feelings stronger."

"Touch you where?"

"Er...," Emma felt the blood rushing to her face, but she couldn't stop. "Well, anywhere... like, sometimes when you... when you pull down my panties...."

Emma stopped, knowing that she'd said enough, and closed her eyes as Mr Sharpe's hands approached her. His hands moved over her nightie, brushing her breasts briefly and making her gasp, before taking hold of the hem of it and slowly lifting it up over her body and off.

"Shut you eyes," Mr Sharpe told her.

When she'd done that, he moved his face close to her exposed nipples and breathed warm, wet air over each one. Emma shuddered, feeling her teats hardening under the attention, and then allowing herself to be pushed back down onto the back while Mr Sharpe's breathing moved over her tummy and then onwards, blowing ripples across the silky surface of her light blue panties.

"Keep your eyes closed while I take your panties off," Emma was told, glad to be able to do so as it enabled her to react less guiltily to the erotic feelings that this process always produced in her.

"Ooooh!" Emma gasped as two fingers traced a path up the inside of each thigh, the girl spreading her legs wide apart as the two exploring hands moved towards her panties.

Mr Sharpe didn't then pull her panties straight down though. Emma felt his gentle fingers moving across her sex, only a fine layer of silk between his finger tips and her moist pussy lips.

Only when Emma's deep breathing had grown considerably more intense did Mr Sharpe finally begin to pull gently at the girls final remaining piece of clothing. His cock was now stiff as a starched steel rod within his trousers and he licked his lips as Emma's sweet young cunt slowly came into view, her slightly parted lips glistening enticingly. Down and down came the panties, all the way to her ankles and off, Mr Sharpe's eyes holding still on the pink gash between Emma's thighs, and Emma's thoughts on very much the same place.

Suddenly, Emma felt herself being hoisted up into the air and turned over. Almost before she knew where she was, her mouth opened to frame a loud shriek of pain as Mr Sharpe's hand began to fall on her bare bottom. She was back in the old, comforting position - over a man's knee.

Twenty four hours later, Emma and Deborah were back at school, tucked up in bed (separately). Emma had slept fitfully that last night at her friend's house, plagued by fantasies of Mr Sharpe. He had sent her straight to bed after spanking her soundly, despite the knowledge that he could have gone a lot further with her had he chosen to.