Tantalizing Tales
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Tantalizing Tales

An Education ~ part I of IV

A close-up of a school tie and black school blazer. There is a Prefect badge pinned on the lapel of the blazer.

I enjoy our Sunday afternoons. We always cuddle up on the sofa for an hour or two and listen to Radio 4. Today there’s the usual drama, and an Open Book about a novel called “Climbing the Date Palm.” I haven’t read it, and I’m not really listening: there are dragons in it, and fairy tales for adults aren’t my cup of tea at all. I prefer historical romance.

I’m lying with my head in his lap, his fingers scrunching my hair. He misses when he could grab my ponytail and pull my head back while he bent me over the sofa, but a short bob is so much easier to manage.

It’s an entirely mundane Sunday until his hand leaves my head, reaches behind a cushion, and pulls out a little jewellery gift box.

That’s odd. We don’t do ad hoc gifts, and our wedding anniversary isn’t until next week. Is he feeling guilty about something?

Still, jewellery is jewellery, so I accept it graciously. It’s a cheap box, though. Plain white cardboard, no logo. If he’s apologising for something, it’s not infidelity. Maybe he forgot to put the recycling out?

I sit up and open the box, mentally preparing my excited face against expected disappointment. And I was right to prepare. It’s a brooch: a black enamel shield with ‘Perfect’ written on it in gold letters. Well, it’s not silver, but it is sweet. I’m about to show him a smile as sweet as his gift when I read those gold letters again.

They don’t say ‘Perfect’. They say ‘Prefect’.

Oh. So this is a roleplay thing. We usually discuss our little explorations beforehand; I don’t know if I’m entirely comfortable with roleplaying a child.

Maybe she’s eighteen? She could be eighteen, right? She’s a prefect after all. She’s eighteen, I’ve decided. Maybe seventeen, if I get comfortable with it. Christ, I should be comfortable with it, I was fucking at fifteen.

So, I’ll play along. I’ll be his good girl. I look up to offer him a more seductive smile and he’s pulling the cane out from behind the sofa.

Okay, I’ll be his bad girl. I kind of like the cane; it hurts but he always fucks me so hard afterwards.

I pin the badge on my blouse and wait for instructions. What I get is a Latin lesson.

He stands in front of me, flexing the cane. “Spectare. Present active indicative: specto, spectas, spectat, spectamus, spectatis, spectant.”

Woah! Roleplay is supposed to be sexy. Why the fuck did I marry a posh boy? I tune him out as he runs through imperfect, future, and perfect tenses.

I think he’s noticed I’m not paying attention, because he stops mid-conjugation and shouts, “Rowan! Translate: Quonam modo istum ferre possemus, si in hoc foro spectantibus vobis depugnasset?”*

That earns him a bemused look, and not just because it seems to be about possums.

He scowls at me. “It’s Cicero! You should know this!”

I know who Cicero is, but who the fuck is Rowan? Some girl he fancied at school, I guess. He never talks about the girls at his school, but he must have had crushes, maybe even girlfriends. Has he been nursing a secret crush all these years? That’s okay. Couples should have little secrets, to retain some mystery. Like, I’ve never told him how many cocks I sucked behind the school gym. He doesn’t need to know that.

Did this Rowan girl look like me? I bet she didn’t. I bet she was some willowy blonde with perky tits, a tight little arse, and plums in her mouth. I hate her.

Ha! I’m going to get her caned.

And fucked, though.

But caned, that’s the important part. Yeah. He can cane that Rowan bitch, then fuck me.

How does a goody-two-shoes prefect get caned? Perhaps she’s inappropriate with a teacher? I try undoing a couple of buttons.

“Rowan! I see what you’re up to, flaunting your body, teasing your classmates again.”

Hmm. That’s interesting. So Rowan was the school slut.

I wonder what earned her that title. Did she have a reputation with everyone, or was it just him who saw her that way? Maybe he wanted her but other boys had her. Older boys, probably. Boys who waited for her outside the school gates. Bad boys for the bad girl.

Did he fantasise about her, about punishing the bad girl because it wasn’t his plums in her mouth? Am I playing out his earliest domination fantasy? Oh, that’s hot!

Poor old Rowan, though. She had no idea what she was missing, and now she’s going to get caned for missing it.

I grin at Sir and casually hitch the front of my skirt up a couple of inches. He glares back and carries on with his lesson. But every time he looks at me I’ve got dirtier: undone another button, or pulled my skirt up a little more, or spread my legs a little wider.

Nothing I do gets a reaction.

I don’t know how slutty the real Rowan was, but this one is filthy. This one is getting so excited at the idea of being bent over Sir’s desk she’s rubbing herself through her navy blue knickers. I wish I’d worn white. I bet Rowan wore white knickers in his confused teenage fantasies. She would have been a pure, virginal slut, an innocent girl who needed his guiding hand to save her from herself and all those bad boys.

I don’t need a guiding hand. My hand knows its own way, and his hungry eyes watch as it pulls my knickers aside and one finger slides inside me. There’s a heat building that demands punishment. A little more provocation should do it. “Ew! Are you ogling me, sir? You are! You perv! Sir’s got a boner, Sir’s got a boner! Sir’s got — ”

My chanting is cut short by the sound of the cane slamming onto the dining table. “Rowan! Stop that immediately! Come to my desk!”

Yes! I’ve earned her a caning and me a solid dicking.

I stand and sashay over to the table. I wish I’d had some warning about this little game. I would have put pigtails in, and maybe bought some bubblegum to pop.

Damn, I’m getting too into this roleplay. I don’t even have a uniform.

And a moment’s thought tells me why I’ve only got a prefect’s badge: I’d look ridiculous in a school uniform. Even if I was still young enough to get away with it, I don’t think they make the sexy ones in my size. My husband still thinks I’m sexy, though, and that’s enough for me. It is.

“Stop stalling, Rowan, and bend over my desk.”

An angrier caning equals a harder fucking, so Rowan’s going to be a brat. Sorry, Rowan, but your arse has to suffer so my cunt can be happy. “You can’t cane me, sir. Corporal punishment is against the law.”

“This is an independent school, those laws don’t apply. I can do anything I like.”

“Yes you can, sir.” I wink and grab his bulge. “Anything you like.”

He slaps my hand away. “You’re just making it worse for yourself, you know. Such impertinence demands a bare bottom caning.”

I would certainly hope so. He likes seeing those welts more than I like getting them, and I want his cock in me before he punishes Rowan too hard.

When I stand in front of the table, he takes his phone out and puts it beside me. He’s playing a voice memo; male voices, wolf whistling and chanting, “Off, off, off!”

And the warmth becomes a serious ache. Those voices are supposed to be Rowan’s classmates, I guess, looking forward to seeing her arse. That sort of thing didn’t really happen at his school, surely? Girls caned on the bare backside in front of boys? I hope they charged the boy’s higher fees if it did. Most of the lads at my school would have given their lunch money to look at a girl’s bum. That’s how I could afford make up.

As I slide my knickers down and lift my skirt, he changes the memo. The same voices start making comments about me.

“What an arse!” “What a slut.”

“Dirty little bitch.”

“I’d fuck that.” “I wouldn’t touch it with yours, mate. I don’t know where it’s been.”

“I think Rowan wants your dick, sir.”

That last one wasn’t a random comment! That’s not some sound clip he found on the internet. He had to have recorded someone saying that. Who was it? Did he tell them about me, about what he’d use their words for?

He knows me too well; he knows what this is doing to me. When I bend over and shuffle my feet apart, my imaginary classmates get an eyeful of just how well he knows me: I am dripping wet. Between the humiliation and imaginary exposure, I’m so horny I’d let a whole sixth form fuck me. I mean, they wouldn’t want me, but skinny little Rowan, eighteen and innocent? They’d want her. He’d better cane me quick or the boys are going to see me wank, because I need something inside me. I’d rather his cock, or even his fingers, but I’ll settle for mine.

“Silence! Rowan, stand up. Get dressed. I’m not going to punish you in front of your class if they can’t behave. Return to your seat, I’ll deal with you after the lesson.”

He’s joking, surely? I look at him; he points at the sofa. He’s not joking. Rowan’s delicate arse is safe, but he isn’t going to fuck her either. Because she’s his precious virgin and he has to protect her? That would be fine for her, but I’m no virgin. I need him to fuck me, not protect me. Or maybe he didn’t think through the audience fantasy, and the voices have made him shy?

Whatever. Sir is going to regret this, because he’ll have a rock hard boner by the time the lesson ends. He’ll have to watch me touching myself until the bell goes.

He’d better not jizz in his pants.

Part Two

*“How could we bear this man, if he had fought the contest in this forum before your very eyes?”



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Marsha Adams

Autistic author of psychological smut and philosophical filth. Usually found hiding behind a book.