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Are You The One?

Glenn was in the middle of ticking off received homework assignments at hist desk, when he was distracted by a lovely young voice.

“Are you the one who likes hurting girls?” she asked.

Unable to remember even the ball park of the name she left off on, he resigned himself to starting afresh. However, now liberated from the task of counting this particular stack any further, he slowly lay the stack down while turning his head slowly to one side in order to drink in what stood before him. She must have been a junior, maybe 20 or 21 years old, clearly over the awkwardness of the teen years and having added some sophistication, some subtle complexity to her face.

The look on Glenn’s face must have been amusing, because she smiled. She smiled the way that beautiful women smile in order to communicate, “That’s cute and I’m a little flattered. But don’t get your hopes up buddy-row”.

She looked briefly from one side to the other, presumably to see if anyone might be watching or close enough to hear.

“My name is Susan Mangum. I overheard some other girls talking and they said that one of the English Lit professors was kind of into ‘hurting girls’,” Susan said. Glenn almost expected her to make air quotes around the phrase “hurting girls”, but she didn’t. This spoke well of her.

Glenn looked from side to side as well, not only for the reasons that Susan did, but was also expecting a hidden camera somewhere watching and recording this.

She cocked her head slightly to one side as if to reassure him that she meant him no harm. She was just curious.

He smiled slightly and nodded.

“I thought so,” Susan said.

“What made you think so?” Glenn asked.

“It’s in the way you flex your pointer in class, the way an old schoolmaster might flex his cane before using it on a girl’s bottom,” she explained. “It’s in the way you stare deeply into our eyes when you’re scolding us about late assignments or our too literal interpretations of literature. It’s in the way I’ve seen you transfixed in rapt attention as another girl bent over to retrieve those most useful of books from the lowest shelves.”

“Oh!” Glenn said, going a little pale, but still slightly grinning.

“Don’t worry,” she went on to say, “I’m not going to try suing you. I just want you to want to hurt me.”

“You want to be hurt?” glenn asked incredulously.

Susan nodded but then paused, “Wait … you do spank or cane or whip girls, right? Nothing too weird?” she asked.

“Yes I do,” he said, taking off his jacket. As he rolled up his sleeves, he said, “Bend over my desk and grasp the other side with both hands.”

She did just as she was instructed except for one thing. She breached protocol by pulling up her skirt first before bending. Her wide hips and curvaceous buttocks made a wonderful target for what would surely be an inevitable belting. Bending over the desk now, she must have realized she was going to get it and get it hard and severe…

About Quai Franklin

Singer/songwriter, spanko/kinkster, fiction writer, philosopher, and discussion provocateur. I publish and broadcast independent voices you want to hear.

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This entry was posted on 2013/05/01 by in corporal punishment, erotica, short_story, spanking.

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