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Mrs. Cooke's Lesson

By: UBU



Here's the teacher -- Mrs. Cooke by name -- waiting with an anticipatory impatience. She's a magnificent specimen of Californian, tall, blond, tan, with strong features, wide shoulders, a slim waist and improbably large, rounded breasts, which bulge in a quite suggestive way against the white shirt under her black suit, which, however ostensibly businesslike in its cut, in fact manages with its short skirt and tight contours to suggest the ample yet athletic body within in a way that's inflamed the imagination (among other parts) of much of the male population of Palmer Academy, faculty and school boy alike, and, if truth be told, that of quite a few of the females as well.

An equally fine specimen of the coed, Miss Peach, sits next to her, wide eyed, twirling a glossy tendril of raven hair about her finger, startled out of her usual studied ennui by the somewhat disquieting sight of Mrs. Cooke as she paces with a controlled, restless energy, rather like a tiger in a cage directly before feeding time. Miss Peach's long, supple legs are crossed, the plaid uniform skirt that rides up her thighs perhaps an inch or two shorter than regulation, her shirt similarly unbuttoned several buttons lower than the Headmistress would find suitable. But there could be no complaints on the part of her fellow eighteen year old classmates at the expanses of pale skin thus exposed, flesh creamy and fresh, almost dewy with youth, the whole reflecting the palpable ripeness of her, the firmness, the sense of a tempting, luscious fruit just begging to be picked from the tree of innocence, and indeed, her breasts resemble twin grapefruits, perfectly matched, high, firmly in defiance of gravity, without the slightest need for the support of the bra that she's clearly dispensed with, judging from the bump of nipples punctuating the shirt's thin fabric and the round shadow of the rather large, oatmeal cookie sized aureoles visible beneath. The face of a lush lipped, slightly impudent madonna surmounts this breathtaking body, finishing the whole in a completely provocative fashion.

A delightful sight, surely, for whatever lucky person that these visions of womanhood await, and yet there's an unsettling tension in the air, and a few details, such as the wicked looking paddle within easy reach on Mrs. Cooke's desk, that would tend to trouble, and indeed the expected knock on the door seems hesitant and the male student who sidles in at Mrs. Cooke's command even more so, puzzled and wary, as if expecting something unpleasant but unsure as to its exact nature. This is Mr. Lamb, a new transfer student, rather nondescript compared to the outstanding pulchritude which confronts him, with unkempt brown hair and a wrinkled uniform, his only notable feature the pair of bright brown eyes that dart about the room perceptively. He takes in the expected sight of Mrs. Cooke, and with a slight start and an ever growing apprehension, that of Miss Peach as well.

All attention is on Mrs. Cooke, but she is silent for the moment, high forehead furrowed, continuing her stride to the end of the room before wheeling briskly to face him. "Thank you for joining us, Mr. Lamb," she says icily. "Please be seated." She indicates the chair next to her and he takes it with alacrity, already desperate to please her. Once again there's an ominous quiet as she takes a meditative, slow step, then pauses, standing in front of her desk, the young man on one side of her and the young lady on the other. "So, Mr. Lamb, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Say?" His lack of comprehension seems genuine.

"Am I to understand that you claim to have absolutely no idea as to why I have summoned you to my office?"

"No, really, ma'am, none at all..." He says confidently, but yet as his eyes pass over Miss Peach's languid form, he hesitates, his certainty wavering.

"Ah, the light dawns," says Mrs. Cooke with her usual acuity.

"No, honestly, I don't see how --" He can no longer withstand Mrs. Cooke's arctic blue eyes and once again looks to Miss Peach who, despite the evident gravity of the situation, favors him with a sly, superior smile. "I mean, I..."

"You mean you what?"

But the verbal skills that have served Mr. Lamb so well in the debating society desert him now, and he can only hang his head dumbly.

"Shall I spell it out for you?"

He lifts his head, nodding, eyes brimming -- but only the slightest harbinger, dear reader, of what is to come.

"Miss Peach has made a very serious accusation against you. Were you or were you not staring at her test paper today during the final exam?"

"Staring at her paper!"

"Come, Mr. Lamb, I myself noticed that your head seem constantly turned in her direction."

"Why would I look at her paper -- you know she's a much worse student than I am."

"Do you contradict me? Are you suggesting that Miss Peach and I are being untruthful?"

"No, no, not at all," he says quickly, knowing full well the perils of contradicting Mrs. Cooke. "I mean I wasn't staring at her paper, I was staring at her, her..." At the moment of stress he stutters, only being able to produce the vernacular. "...h..h.her tits!"

Miss Peach reflexively gathers the fabric at her décolletage, as if aware for the first time of the blatant display of her charms. "Well," she says sulkily. "He was staring." And, indeed, how could Mr. Lamb not have been, a healthy eighteen year old, when she leaned over, her two breasts lying on the desk like two succulent display fruit on a platter?

"Well, this certainly changes things." Mrs. Cooke laughs without mirth, turning now to chill Miss Peach with her prosecutorial gaze. "Are you aware that the accusation of cheating is a very grave one with a very grave penalty?"

Miss Peach's doe eyes dart to the paddle. "Yes, but, I thought--"

"And don't you think that it would be only fair for you to suffer the same punishment the person you falsely accused would have suffered?"

"Mrs. Cooke!" Miss Peach's face instantly screws into a tearful mask. "No! Please!"

Mrs. Cooke, however, is unmoved, deliberately putting her own chair between theirs, drawing off her suit coat and hanging it on the back, lifting the paddle and striking her palm experimentally, then sitting down, pulling the hem of her skirt up and to the side as that her bare, shapely thighs are exposed. "Come dear, come onto my lap. Blubbering won't do you any good."

Miss Peach spasmodically rises, her habitual hauteur dissolving in shuddering and sniffing as she slumps next to her stern teacher. "No, face the other side. We want Mr. Lamb to clearly see what's in store for him." Dutifully Miss Peach circles around, laying herself across Mrs. Cooke, the pale, pink curves of her posterior exposed as she draws back the brief skirt. "Will you be good enough, Mr. Lamb?" Mrs. Cooke asks, indicating Miss Peach's panties.

With trembling fingers he draws them down, this garment which can hardly be called panties, but rather a slight thong of ribbon and lace, down her long, lean legs to her ankles, where they remain as her tip toes touch the floor.

"Ready?" Mrs. Cooke inquires peremptorily, but as the only reply is a premature, half-choked sob, she commences regardless, the first sharp crack of paddle on white, downy flesh so loud as to startle Mr. Lamb and, you can be sure, Miss Peach even more.

He observes, horrified, shocked and, yes, stimulated as Mrs. Cooke's sleek, muscled arm slams the paddle percussively, time and again, from one quivering, quickly reddening cheek to the other, Miss Peach's convulsively kicking legs exposing occasional glimpses of further hidden mysteries. Her cries and pleading, which began at a high pitch, redouble as the merciless assault continues, finally dissolving into an incoherent sobbing which continues even after the paddle suspends its grim work..

"Now, now," Mrs. Cooke coos, laying down her fearsome implement and picking up some healing cream, tenderly spreading it over the afflicted areas, her dexterous hands sliding to massage Miss Peach's most intimate places, her finger disappearing in and out of her, the sobs gradually transforming to groans of a quite different kind. "That's better, isn't it? You may stand."

"Yes, Mrs. Cooke," Miss Peach whispers, smoothing her skirt and disheveled hair, trying to pull herself back into the composed and arrogant princess she'd been only minutes before, but with her flushed face and puffy eyes betraying her, utterly failing.

"I think we now know the perils of bearing false witness, do we not?"

"Yes, Mrs. Cooke." She bends to restore her thong, but is halted by the teacher's touch.

"No, dear, not yet. Go and stand in the corner. I don't think you'll be sitting for a while." Hobbled as she is by the lacy garment, Miss Peach minces to the intersection of the walls and buries her head between them.

"Well, Mr. Lamb, I hope you've enjoyed your little postponement." Mrs. Cooke turns to him and her flashing eyes quickly dispel his fleeting hopes of escaping the office unscathed. "But now it's your turn."

"Me? But I didn't cheat! She's the one who lied!"

"And she's suffered the consequences." She smiles evenly. "But I cannot allow our girls to be peeped at in the way you freely admit. And I will not tolerate your usage of such vulgar terms in reference to their anatomy. I'm afraid you will have to undergo the same punishment as Miss Peach. What's sauce for the goose as they say."

"No, you can't..." Mr. Lamb protests, but as if in thrall to an overwhelming fascination, comes toward her like a man irresistibly drawn to the edge of fatal precipice.

"Yes, I'm afraid I can, Mr. Lamb. You're new at Palmer but I'm sure you already understand that discipline is rather strictly maintained here. So let's get it over with, shall we?" Once again she gathers her skirt, revealing her magnetic, matchless matching thighs. "Pull down your pants and underwear and lay across my lap. "You can manage that, can't you?

"My pants!"

"Or do you need my help? As you've just witnessed a spanking here is always administered across the knee and to the bare bottom."

"No, I'll do it.," he says grumpily as he reflexively loosens his belt and shoves down his pants, his shorts falling with them, little considering how his libidinous excitement would now be made manifest to the world.

"Come, Lamb." Her trim thighs quiver slightly as she pats them invitingly. "Come to Mrs. Cooke."

Still he hesitates, gesturing vaguely at his bobbing, erect member. "But my..."

"Enough." Deftly she reaches up to grasp his shoulder and folds him across her, feet and hands touching the floor. "Take my word for it, for once in your life that's going to be the last thing on your mind," she says, but the press of her warm, elastic skin against him is so electric that he almost spends on the spot, and indeed, as Mrs. Cooke had prophesied, that embarrassment is only spared him by the shocking sting of the paddle's first blow. 

The pain is surprising and as soon as the surprise wears off there is more, all of his existence centered on the waves of it crashing on the cheeks of his ass. At first, given the presence of Miss Peach, who is now peering back at them over her shoulder, he is determined not to cry out and then simply not to cry, determinations inevitably drowned out by her regular, pitiless metronome, his tears dripping down to join Miss Peach's in puddles on the floor.

And just when he thinks he has always been and always will be in this round of agony the paddle ceases, but yet his body still clenches reflexively in time to the now departed rhythm. In place of the stinging swat comes the soothing touch of Mrs. Cooke's hand as she smooths the cooling salve over him until the burning is mostly gone, although the ache will last far longer.

"Stand up," she says huskily, and as he does so, tottering, still shaky. "Now that wasn't too bad, was it, for the first time? We're not monsters here you know."

At this point he would have agreed with any proposition she might have put forth, and he nods dazedly, wiping his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

As he does so her hands come to him and he feels them, still slick with ointment, as they grasp and caress his member, bringing him pleasure as expertly as they had given him pain. "At Palmer we believe in using the carrot as well as the stick.." His manhood, which had shriveled and retreated in the face of the paddles assault now eagerly springs out at her ministrations, even farther than before, and she pinches, tickles and teases him to the very edge of orgasm.

"Mrs. Cooke, I'm going to..." But even as his panicked voice begins, she's already released him.

"I know, dear, I know. I understand. You see we're people too." His penis bobs as she pushes it playfully. "As a matter of fact I'm rather wet myself at the moment."

"What?" His still glazed eyes meet hers, which are wide, preternaturally glistening.

"I -- am --" She punctuates each word with a flick of her middle finger, her fingernail bouncing off his rock hard cock with a now familiar mixture of pleasure and pain. "Excited -- too."

Rising, she gracefully shimmies out of her panties, undergarments far more substantial than Miss Peach's, an old school assemblage of embroidery and silk, her pubic hair similarly fuller than that young lady's fiercely denuded wisp, a proud dark blonde triangle at the base of her bikini tan line. "And now I'm going to teach you what to do about it." She sits on her desk, legs dangling. "Kneel here in front of me."

Mr. Lamb falls on his knees worshipfully, feeling the truest form of awe, that which incorporates fear, wonder and reverence, like those votaries of the not too distant past who prostrated themselves in front of capricious, pagan goddesses, those who demanded the greatest sacrifice yet also provided the most heavenly bliss. Her thighs, the very same thighs that were the cradle of his agony now part to reveal to him the tabernacle of pleasure, and Mrs. Cook's fingers tangle in his hair and draw him to her, guiding his lips to her sex. 

What a fine teacher Mrs. Cooke is, for this untutored boy, at present as close to that region as he's been since birth, who has barely even French kissed a girl, is, thanks to her subtle and firm guidance and a firm word or two, managing to give a great deal of pleasure to as experienced a voluptuary as writhes before him. "Yes, yes, yes," she moans, releasing herself from the responsibility of pedagogy long enough to surrender herself to peak after peak, clutching him to her, urging him to her ecstasy, then writhing, pushing him away. "Yes, that will do."

Mr. Lamb leans back on his heels, wiping his mouth, the painful press of his feet onto his buttocks souring the succor of the last few moments.

Her imperious manner returns as quickly as it had departed. "Now get up and get dressed. I believe you have study hall soon."

He still kneels there, gazing up at her with something very like adoration.

"Come now, Mr. Lamb, I'm sure you don't want to discover the penalty for tardiness. At least not today."

"No, ma'am," he jumps to his feet and roughly stows his still erect member in his pants, miraculously managing to avoid catching it in his zipper, buckling his belt as he heads for the door, meeting her cool blue eyes one last time. "And thank you ma'am." 

"The pleasure was mine, Mr. Lamb." Her head swivels away as Miss Peach begins to edge out behind him. "Not yet, my dear. I don't think we're quite finished." And as Mr. Lamb closes the door, walking away, leaving Mrs. Cooke and Mrs. Peach to amusements he can hardly imagine, both his gait and his member stiff, he finds himself to be a completely different person than he had been when he opened it.