Ok here it is. Read the story. Add a comment and click on the image in the right side bar. Our story today is MISS MARTIN’S ACADEMY. A rather odd school for young ladies as our intrepid male will soon find out.
Miss Martin’s Academy
No one seemed to know what I was talking about. The ad had been vague about exactly where it was, so I was asking.
I’d stopped into this bar on the outskirts of Lelo, Mississippi. It was late August. August 29. Hot. Unbelievably hot. I had just about run out of funds. I’m ex-sergeant first class Sam Barlow. I’d mustered out of the Army three months ago and had been wandering aimlessly. All over. Midwest, Northeast, Appalacian states, but I was gravitating towards New Orleans. In Tupelo I’d seen this ad posted in the help wanted section of the paper–a private school was looking for a handyman. Miss Martin’s Academy. I figured I’d pick up some work for a while then hit the road again.
I was on foot going in the direction I thought was right, when I ran across an old black fellow. He looked strange in a way–thin, white hair–I almost didn’t see him there, but I sensed movement and looked. No one had been there before, but there he was–just standing by the side of the road.
“There is a school,” he said with a faraway look. “Miss Martin’s Academy. For the young ladies,” he added. “Go that way. Go on
out Lost Mill Road about 5 miles– there’s a big pin oak an’ a all weather county road off to the left. Follow that.”
Weird. I hadn’t asked him anything but he knew I was looking for a school. I did follow his directions and found, to my surprise, a large antebellum home with a wide veranda, white collonades—the works– at the end of a long gravel drive. All it needed was Rhett and Scarlett sipping mint julips on the porch. It looked deserted. All was silent, except for some muffled banging coming from an old shed on one side of the house. Maybe a loose board flapping in the wind. What the hell. I pushed open the door and went in. I called out a “hello”, hoping to attract someone’s attention.
I was about to turn around and leave when a very attractive woman appeared the hallway. And I do mean “appeared”– like one minute the hall was deserted, and then there she was. She had dark hair and a pretty face with small features and high cheekbones. She wore a white blouse that was tight across her full breasts, and a long grey skirt that flared out from a narrow waist. Very old fashioned I thought, but what did I know? Maybe it’s the latest thing. I put her at about 30, but she could have been younger. She was very attractive.
“Ah, I understand you need a handyman?”
She smiled and looked me over for a moment. “Yes, we do. I’m…Miss Martin. Please come with me.”
She looked kind of young to be a headmistress. I thought headmistresses were all stout, in their 50’s and had their hair wrapped in a tight bun. But, I followed her to a small office. She sat primly behind a desk and explained their needs. Yes, there were a number of small repair projects that were required before the next school year began. She had a few boarders attending summer classes–otherwise she was the only staff except for one other teacher and her cook.
She hired me on the spot. There was an outbuilding on the other side of the house from the shed with the banging board, a barn really, but the upstairs had a room that had been used as quarters for the former janitor. I moved in and got to work on a list of things to do.
The next day while I was repairing some back steps on the main house I had to stop to allow some girls, the few Summer students, I guessed, get by me to go outside. They were dressed in a sort of uniform I had seen only in old photos–long skirts, white blouses and straw boater hats. A nineteenth century throwback, I thought. There were five of them, all between 18 and 21 I guessed, and all very pretty. I couldn’t help but admire the maturing figures of these girls in the full bloom of youth. Such beauty could not be concealed, even under the antiquated clothing. For their part the girls blushed and giggled and appeared to give me the once-over.
Toward late afternoon I received a summons from Miss Martin. A pretty redhead in a long lacy kind of frock asked me to please come to the office.
Miss Martin was there with a girl seated in a chair in front of her desk. It looked like a student. I picked up on the conversation as I entered.
“…and as I told you, Celine, we do not tolerate such behaviour here. You will have to be punished.”
Miss Martin looked suitably stern and Celine merely hung her head. Then she noticed me.
“Ah, there you are, Sam. I need your help in a matter.”
“Sure,” I said.
“This student has committed an infraction of our code of behaviour that, unfortunately, calls for punishment.”
I looked at her quizzically, like, ‘what has that got to do with me?’
“I have sprained my wrist in…a fall, ah, and it hurts to move my right arm. I would like for you to administer the punishment in my stead.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. Punishment? What was she talking about? She must guessed from the look on my face that I was still confused.
“We have a strict code here and corporal punishment is employed,” she said primly. She let that sink in for a moment. “Celine has earned herself a good spanking, haven’t you Celine?” Celine blushed and lowered her head.
“A spanking? You want me…to, uh, spank this girl here?”
“That is correct, Sam. She needs to be properly chastised and I cannot do it myself. That is why I need your help.”
“But, she’s a grown woman almost and I…”
Miss Martin just put her hand up and interuppted my protest. “Mr Barlow, our students here understand and accept the consequences of bad behavior. Don’t you, Celine?” she said turning to the still blushing schoolgirl.
“Very well. And you know the penalty.”
Celine peeked at me and blushed. I was watching her reaction. She was petite with long chestnut colored hair, dainty features, but big green eyes. A real knockout. “Yes, Miss Martin.”
“Very well. We shall commence. Celine, prepare yourself.”
Then she addressed me.
“Mr Barlow, please pull that chair out from the wall and be seated.”
I did, not really knowing what to expect, but I was guessing that I was expected to put her across my knee, like a naughty child. That seemed odd for a girl of her age, and I was about to protest again when Celine rose quickly and before I could open my mouth, plopped herself face down over my lap. The skirt was thin and the feel of warm girl flesh nestling over my lap was instantly arousing. I was about to ask again if this was really proper, but Miss Martin spoke first.
“Now Mr Barlow, Celine has misbehaved and you must spank her soundly. You will continue until I tell you to stop. Are you ready?”
This was all happening so fast, I could hardly absorb it all, so I just dumbly nodded in agreement.
“Now, first raise her skirt in back.”
I finally found my tongue. “Now wait a minute, Miss Martin, isn’t this a little…”
She cut me off and said sharply, “You are in my employ, Mr Barlow. Celine knows what she deserves and this is the way we do things here. Do not question. Now, if you please, raise her skirt.”
Before I could react Celine herself grasped the hem of her skirt and lifted it displaying a very pert bottom clad in tight silk bloomers– I guessed they were called that–that clung to and outlined a behind that was definitely more womanly than I had expected.
“Proceed, Mr Barlow. Spank her naughty behind soundly.”
I mumbled something about being sorry I had to do this, but after all, a job is a job and you do what they tell you. I raised my hand and gave the girl what I thought was a firm smack. The sound was shockingly loud and it stung my palm so it must have stung little Celine who yelped. I looked at Miss Martin and she nodded. So I proceeded to administer the spanking in a steady rhythmic pattern, placing the swats alternately on the right then left cheeks and then some squarely across both cheeks to even it out. Celine cried and drummed her toes on the floor but did not otherwise attempt to evade punishment. I must have spanked steadily for about two minutes when Miss Martin said, “Wait. Pull down her drawers and give her twenty more good stingers, Mr Barlow.”
I gave Miss Martin a quiZzical look, but she just nodded, so with a sigh I slid down the pantaloons or bloomers or whatever. Celine really did have a cute little fanny, pert and round– and it was getting very red. I then readjusted Celine to get a good grip on her and laid on twenty more good solid swats making these a bit harder. Celine let out a “yeowch!” at each one. Clearly those hurt. The rounded globes wobbled when my palm struck so they must have been absorbing a lot of sting. Then Miss Martin told me to let her up and I did, gently lifting her to her feet. She regarded me with tearful eyes and rubbed her swollen rear end while Miss Martin said,
“You will now thank Mr Barlow for correcting you.”
In a halting voice Celine stammered, “Thank you for correcting me so thoroughly, sir. I did deserve it.”
Miss Martin dismissed the chastened schoolgirl and addressed me.
“Thank you Mr Barlow. I may have need of you assistance in the future. You may return to your duties.”
I stood up and turned abruptly, not wanting Miss Martin to see the rock hard erection that threatened to split my pants. Good God! I knew I shouldn’t feel this way, but paddling that little miss had resulted in total arousal. I was going to need a cold shower.
But later that evening, before I could even do that, I was surprised in my room out back by none other than little Celine herself. Was she even supposed to be here? I said, “Now look, er, Celine–I’m sorry about giving you that spanking, but I just work here and that was what your Miss Martin asked me to do.”
She didn’t say anything. She just started taking off her clothes. My jaw dropped. What the hell? When she was down to her drawers, she started removing mine. I was so flustered I didn’t even try and stop her. Instead I was looking out the window hoping no one could see in. But while I was doing that, she had dropped to her knees and had taken my swollen cock into her mouth. All I could do was moan. She got up, pushed me onto my bed and straddled me, inserting my prick into her slit which was so wet and slippery that I slid all the way in as she impaled herself. She rode me that way to one climax. But did she leave? No, she wanted it again, this time from the rear. Then on her back. We went on for hours, it seemed. After what seemed like forever she was finally spent. I nervously hustled her out. Good God, what if we’d been caught? And why had she practically raped me after I’d spanked her so hard?
A day or two later I was summoned again. This time I arrived at Miss Martin’s office to find a scolding in progress. She was addressing someone named Amelia, a tall blonde. Amelia was standing before her desk, hands clasped behind her while Miss Martin berated her.
“We do not permit the reading of books such as this…this trash! It is wholly unacceptable for young ladies.”
The book in question appeared to be laying on the desk. I could read the title upside down. It was “Lady Chatterly’s Lover”. Sort of old school for hot pornographic reading, but I guessed that they were kind of strict here. Still, I wondered, why so uptight about a book that by now was considered pretty tame?
This time I was asked to go outside and prepare a “rod”. I said I had no idea what she was talking about.
“It is a bundle of switches, Mr Barlow, about three feet long—6 or 7 supple switches, peeled of buds and shoots, of course. The willow by the barn will do.” She handed me a long ribbon. “Wrap the switches at the thick end in this and bring it back here. We will need it for Miss Amelia.”
As I left, the girl Amelia began pleading with Miss Martin who was having none of it. The last thing I heard was “face the wall with your nose in the corner and we will wait for Mr Barlow to return.”
I cut 6 green switches, about only a quarter inch thick. I mean I didn’t want to hurt the poor girl so I figured this would mollify Miss Martin. I peeled them smooth and tied the whole thing together with the ribbon. I see why they called it a rod. It was swishy and looked like it would sting pretty damn good.
When I got back Miss Martin commanded Amelia to come out of the corner, and to bend across her desk, face down. She drew up amelia’s long skirts revealing an attractive rear end clad in the same type of white bloomers worn by Celine. I awaited her command thinking she would have me apply the switches to the seat of Amelia’s bloomers but she surprised me by ordering Amelia to take them right down. Amelia protested but Miss Martin said, “Nonsense, Amelia, the birch rod, as you know is always applied to the bared posterior.”
I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was well aroused by the sight of Amelia loosening her bloomers and dragging them down to reveal her luscious bare bottom. It was fuller than Celine’s, but very shapely and stuck out prominently when she bent over.
“Mr Barlow, you are to give Amelia 12 hard strokes. Amelia, you are not to raise up or get out of position while Mr Barlow chastises you. You will then thank him for doing so. Do you understand me?”
Amelia managed to squeak “Yes, Miss Martin.” Miss Martin nodded to me and said, “You may begin.”
The birch made whooshing noise and contacted Amelia’s bottom with a sharp sound like ‘whick!’. I could see her rear cheeks ripple as it struck and she let out a cry. Red weals sprang up immediatly. I guessed it was hard enough, although I could have swung harder. Miss Martin nodded to me and I delivered stroke two. Amelia gave out a little yelp and wriggled her bottom. By the eighth or ninth stroke Amelia was whimpering and begging to be let off. Her bottom was bright red and her feet were drumming on the floor as she shifted from one foot rapidly to the other. I don’t know if that helped her, but it made her bottom jiggle which was giving me such a hard on that I was worried that Miss Martin might see. I gave her strokes ten, eleven and twelve more quickly and this had her almost standing up and coming off the desk. Miss martin let her up and she readjusted her bloomers and turned to face me. Tears were running down her pretty cheeks as she faced me and said, “Thank you for correcting me, Mr Barlow.”
That night as I tried to sleep there was a tap at my door. It was none other than Amelia who barged in, and like Celine before her, had her way with me before I could even react. I guess it sounds like I’m making excuses here, but both of these ladies were so determined and so brazen that I was unable to resist. Amelia at least explained that the spanking with the switches had made her hot, so hot that she was willing to risk another one just to be “rodded vigorously by a man to quench the burning desire in her loins”. That was how she put it.
And she wasn’t the last. Over the next several days I think I had them all. Penelope, a petite redhead got a spanking over my knee. Kate, a tall dark haired beauty got two dozen licks from me with a kind of split tailed strap. Elspeth, a honey haired busty blonde girl with a prominent derriere got the birch rod. And every time, that same night, I was ambushed by the same said girl and required to perform into the wee hours until she went away, satiated.
I was getting tired. This was wearing me out. Between the work and the disciplinary activities and being sexually jumped every night, my energy was being drained. And when I tried to fall asleep there was this infernal muffled mewling coming from that shed on the other side of the house. I decided to put a halt to it. One of these times I was going to get caught and there’d be hell to pay. I went to call on Miss Martin. I’d tell her, really, she had to handle this discipline thing herself.
She was seated at her desk in her office when I entered. I started to say, “Miss Martin, there is something we have to talk about, I can’t go on…” But she stopped me and said, “Will you close the door, Sam?” I said ok and shut the door.
She got up from her desk and walked around it. “Please sit down, Sam. I have something to say to you.” Oh, no, I was thinking. She knows. I’m getting fired. Their fathers are on the way. I’m done for.
But she said, “Sam, I’ve been thinking. You have been a big help to me with the discipline of the students.” And I said, “Yeah, and that’s what I need to talk to you about. You see,..”
But she stopped me again. “It’s partially my fault. I have failed to provide them with the proper guidance. So I resort to spankings and switchings to keep them on their behavior. I feel responsible.”She lowered her head, looking guilty.
I wondered where all this was going until she said, “I have to confess. I should have a spanking too. For failing them so wretchedly. It’s only right.” Before I could do anything she said, “Here. I want you to use your strong right arm. You must spank me very soundly so I will learn to be a better headmistress.” And as she said it she lowered herself across my lap and pulled up her skirt. Underneath she was bare. No panties of any kind. She said, “Spank me Sam. Spank my naughty bottom until it is as red as a sunset. Go on.”
Well, what could I do? I smacked her hard. I guess I was frustrated. She’d put me in this position and so maybe she did need a good tanning. So I smacked her behind pretty briskly while she gasped and wriggled. For several minutes smacks rang out in the otherwise silent office. Her bottom rippled as my palm struck it. And a very nice bottom it was—full, well rounded in shape, and now very red from absorbing quite a bit of steady spanking. It was really getting to be an angry red and I figured I’d stop. I let her up. She slumped to her knees and faced me, a look of pure lust in her eyes. She grabbed me and pulled my head down until our lips met, then she kissed me passionately. By now I was in full arousal, all my good intentions out the window. She tore off her clothes, then yanked down my pants to expose my throbbing cock which was now standing straight up.
Then she laid herself across the desk and said, “Now, Sam, now! Oh, put it in me.” I did and we copulated furiously until neither of us could stand it any more and were both driven to climax. But close to the end, my consciousness began to pick up sounds. They were coming from outside the office. Footsteps. Heavy thumps growing louder.
I was in the process of hastily arranging my pants when the door burst open and a woman, stout, in her 50’s, hair pulled back in a tight bun, barged into the room.
“What is going on around here?” She thundered. “Abigail Whitlow,” she screamed, pointing at the girl I’d just soundly fucked, “Explain yourself, miss.” At this point I felt I should interrupt and I said, “Ah, you see this is actually Miss Martin, who…”
“I’M MISS MARTIN, YOU DOLT!” She bellowed. Then she began to berate who I now guessed was this Abigail person. “And where is Mrs. Fenstermacker?” And I thought, who? It took a few seconds, but I’m really no dummy. So it was no surprise when Abigail pointed weakly toward the shed I’d seen. The one the thumping and mewling had come from. Good God. They’d locked her in the shed, and taken over the school. Holy crap.
Right about now seemed a good time to leave. So while Miss Martin was fully engaged in reaming out Abigail, I slipped out the door and hightailed it down the road. Then I got off the road and bushwacked it for a while, hoping my bearings would get me eventually to civilization again. I finally came out on a state road and managed to thumb a ride to Lelo.
Now I was still broke, but before I started hitching again, I had to satisfy my curiosity. So I went to the town library and asked to see the newspaper archive, thinking I might find something about Miss Martin’s Academy. The librarian, a kindly grandmother type asked me what I was looking for, so I told her.
“Well, there once was a finishing school for young ladies nearby by that name. Now it’s just a vacant field on power company land. Not many around here are old enough to remember it, though. It came to a tragic end. It was 1926, I think. It had been blisteringly hot that Summer and there was a fire. The students had played some sort of awful prank, the story goes. They had locked up an assistant administrator to the headmistress while she was away so they could have themselves a dandy time. But she came back and surprised them. There was a terrible row and a fire started in the main office and spread very quickly. No one survived except the handyman. A terrible tragedy.” She shook her head.
My head was swimming. It couldn’t be. I had not dreamt this. Then I chanced to see a newspaper. “Is this today’s?” I asked. She nodded. I looked at the date. August 29.
The Question is: Should Sam have left before things really got crazy?