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The Last Sashay

By: mDyne



Chapter 1. Mr. Punire

"Good to see you again Mr. Punire. Has it been two years already?"

"Two years less a day, according to my calendar. Schools I always do Fridays, and for an old customer like you, always the Friday before spring break."

"Still doing a lot of traveling?"

"Not so much any more; there aren't too many places where I can learn something truly new, or instruct someone truly deserving. I was in Saudi Arabia two months ago. I did a stint at a harem inherited by a young man whose father recently died. The father was an old friend, and had the right attitude, and raised his son well; the son follows in his dad's footsteps. I'm honored that the old man had the son call me for training. There are so many brutes out there he might have wound up with if his father hadn't left instructions; not many young men appreciate the artistry of The Form anymore."

"Were you able to learn as well as teach?"

"I did. The older Saudi was an artist in his own right; always working on new tools, techniques, and psychology; he was a very thoughtful and careful man. He knew how to use the hammer if he had to, he could castigate fiercely, but always in measured doses. I've never known him to get carried away, or do permanent damage, and others have told me the same. I learned more than a few things from him over the years, and the son showed me his father's last improvements."

"And they both learned from you, I'm sure."

"So, Mr. Hartley, what have you got for me to participate in today?"

"Take over really; you'll do a far better job than I ever could, and teach the little tart a lesson she'll never forget... and give the boys a good thrill at the same time."

"The little tart? That's not the kind of language I'm used to from you Mr. Hartley."

"Quite right, I'm getting carried away, and I do like the girl really a lot. She's a good girl, she's among the highest grade-earners in the school; very smart, and precocious, which is what got her into trouble. I'm almost sorry to have to punish her."

"But?"

"But she's a couple of months away from leaving my tutelage, she's never had a serious whipping in the four years I've known her, and she's growing up too fast. She's smart, pretty, and just come into her own if you know what I mean."

"Just discovered her influence so to speak?"

"Just discovered what to do with men, putting it bluntly, I mean not really what to do, I'm quite certain of that, but she's an incurable flirt and tease. I saw her lift the side of her skirt to her hip, and show herself to a group of boys in the hallway. She didn't show herself all the way, but she made it clear she had no panties on."

"A flirt and a tease, maybe, but incurable, of that we shall see; but why 'the little tart?'"

"When I caught her at it, and threatened her with suspension, she was completely unrepentant; she mocked me in front of a crowd of her friends, she mimicked my voice, and when I told her she was an inch away from getting a licking she called me a dirty old man, and told me she knew where I really wanted to lick her, and then she turned around and raised her skirt and showed me her buttocks. Quite nice they were too, full and round, and with very womanly thighs framing that dark grotto down below, but she kept her legs closed - she seems to want to reserve that view for another day."

"That day may be fast approaching. You say we're set for ten o'clock."

"Ten o'clock, yes, I've scheduled an all school assembly though the kids don't yet know for what purpose."

"Keep them guessing. And do we have Miss..."

"Camille. Camille Yvette Dupree."

"French clearly."

"French father, Scottish Irish mother, and a grandfather from the Orient I believe. As beautiful a mutt as I've ever seen - I do love the mixing of the races."

"And do we have this real beauty in detention yet?"

"No, she has no idea what's waiting for her."

"None of them do when I come around. Shall we pick her up now?"

"The youngsters are just arriving, yes, I'd say this would be a good time, but it may prove difficult. I don't think she'll go willingly."

"I have my two assistants, they're very experienced. Let's let her get situated; then we'll have them drag her out of her first class. She'll have no idea who they are. It will certainly get her attention."

"Everyone's attention no doubt."



Chapter 2. Camille

Camille was in her twelfth grade of schooling, had just turned eighteen, and was readying to go off to college. She was a bit of a late bloomer, and her budding sexuality had only recently burst forth into full grace. Perhaps because she was late, compared to a lot of the other girls, she'd let it get the best of her. She was a good girl, as the headmaster had noted, in most respects, but the force of her new found feelings overwhelmed her senses, and her sense. Everything felt so lusciously liquid she thought, and she went through the school day spending more than a little time crossing her legs and squeezing them tight about her swelling pudenda, and bounced her steps so her new found curves would bounce along with them, and stretching those lovely curves out toward every man and boy who wanted a look, which was all of them.

In class she was merciless. He skirts were demure, just high enough to show a little skin above her pretty knees, but she always helped her hem ride up her legs, perhaps with a little scratch between her thighs, pretending all the time not to notice the effect it was having on her male teachers.

But though she was out of control in these small ways, she was a nice person, at least most of the time: gregarious, friendly, and usually kind, except when she wanted to play the bitch as she did with Mr. Hartley; and her smile which she displayed so unselfconsciously would melt the heart of any man.

Yes, on some level Mr. Hartley was sorry to have to punish this fine and lovely girl, especially as severely as he knew she was going to be, but he was a stickler for the rules, and mooning and mimicking and mocking the headmaster was an offense that could not be let slide.

Too bad Camille he thought, but you brought this on yourself, and then he thought how delicious it would be to see what Mr. Punire would do to her. He didn't know the details; in these matters, Mr. Punire was not given to premature disclosure, in fact if you asked him he'd say he didn't know himself what he was going to do; but he was a man of much experience and imagination. Never would he inflict punishment on any girl if she didn't deserve it, according to the rules, though Mr. Hartley might if he thought he could get away with it. In Camille's case however, the punishment that fit the crime was far beyond that allowed by the class of Mr. Hartley's license.

Mr. Punire, if not Mr. Hartley, was a by the book disciplinarian, but they both were men, and what they were allowed, no, rather, commanded to do by law, and the rules and regulations set down by the state and the district board of school supervisors, neither would shy away from. They enjoyed their work, this part of it in particular, the disciplining of young girls. Mr. Hartley was reasonably good at it, but Mr. Punire was a master.

Camille sat in math class, in the first row, her skirt just a few inches above her knees at the moment, but one hand rested firmly in her lap, and she moved it every time her Mr. B her math teacher looked her way. She was moderately aroused, and blissfully unaware of the fate awaiting her.



Chapter 3. The Assistants

Mr. Punire walked to the door of the headmaster's office and called in his two assistants. Mr. Hartley didn't like the look of them; he knew Camille wouldn't either. Mr. Punire didn't introduce the men; they were tools of his trade, not persons to be dignified. The men didn't care about recognition anyway; they were sullen and brutish, though not unintelligent, and Mr. Punierre knew sadistic; they were only there to enjoy the debasement of whatever unlucky female fell into their clutches, and to make a living doing so. Mr. Hartley wondered why Mr. Punire used such men, it seemed unlike him; it seemed as if these men might not be able to be controlled, and he knew Mr. Punire was not one to give up control. Mr. Hartley wondered if he had made a mistake handing his cute little Camille over to these monsters.

"They'll be alright," Mr. Punire said, reading the headmasters thoughts. "They've been with me a long time."

Turning to his men Mr. Punire said, "Set my equipment up in the lower level room I showed you when we came in, then come back here." Mr. Punire turned to the headmaster. "I took the liberty of showing them the facilities; I assumed it would be the same as last time."

"Quite alright; you know your way around, and you know you're always welcome. While we wait I'll make some tea."

"I would appreciate that."

Mr. Punire and the headmaster drank tea and discussed their mutual interests, and Mr. Punire looked over Camille's school and medical records. He believed it was critical, for the physical and psychological well being of the girls and women that came within his dominion, to learn all he could about them. He asked specific questions of the headmaster, and obtained what information he needed to conduct the business at hand, and they signed the necessary papers as required by law.

"Shall we go downstairs," Mr. Punier asked?

"Yes, by all means."

Mr. Punire and Mr. Hartley proceeded downstairs to the room that was being set up for Camille's preparation for punishment, and subsequent to it, her recovery. Upon arriving the headmaster began to examine, with interest, the equipment and supplies that the assistants had arranged in accordance with Mr. Punire's standards.

"I see some changes," Mr. Hartley commented.

"The technology of discipline advances with everything else. There are some marvelous new materials. You may note one of them in the hold-downs: strap material is now made of silicone, and can be tailored to a large range of strength, stretch, and dimension, and it has a very smooth surface. The trend today is away from force and brutality, and toward maximizing control and minimizing injury. I've been on all the committees, I'm continuously working with the manufacturers, and I've been instrumental in moving in this direction for a long time. Now I seem to have the support I need, primarily from the younger men, who agree with me, and we've finally wrested power from the old guard."

"Many a woman and girl will be thankful for your efforts."

Mr. Punire gave a snort. "I don't think they'll ever be thankful for what I do, though if they're going to be punished anyway, they'd be well advised to hope for the protections of my methods, but I'm not in the business to make their treatment any less painful."

"Mr. Coletnik is right with you in that regard."

"Yes, you stick with him. He's one of my supporters in committee, my counterpart on the boy's side. You won't find a better man for dealing with young males. For the girls of course, you like to do it yourself."

"Well, yes, except in a case like Camille, where she needs a serious correction, more than what I'm authorized to administer; and frankly, with her my heart just isn't in it."

"I understand, I've had my favorites too, and it is hard to do one's duty in cases like these."

"It is," said Mr. Mr. Hartley, truly regretting needing to do what needed to be done to Camille, except for the licentious thrill he'd get from hearing her screams and begging, and seeing her writing under the lash which he was fully looking forward to. If only I could fuck her afterward, he thought wistfully. Oh well, life is full of regrets.

Rico and Sadici were standing waiting for instructions. Mr. Punire turned to them and said, "Room 237, Camille Dupree. Face the class, first row just to the left of the teacher's desk, first seat." He showed them a picture of Camille that he'd borrowed from Camille's school file. "Show the teacher the pass. Get her."



Chapter 4. Camille Is Taken

Camille was tapping her cheek with the end of a pencil, concentrating hard, working out a problem using the law of cosines, and she'd become unaware of what she was doing with her other hand, which had worked its way between her legs. As she furrowed her brow, and worried her lip, she was also clenching her thighs and rhythmically pressing her fingers firmly into her vulva. This time it was just a nervous habit, not an intentional tease, and though she was not conscious of what she was doing it was not lost on Mr. Seever, her teacher of advanced algebra. Just as she came to realize the method needed to solve the day's pop quiz, Rico and Sadici opened the door to the classroom and walked in.

Neither of Mr. Punierre's assistants looked at Camille, they didn't want to warn her that she was going to be the object of their attention, but as Rico, the more senior of the two, and the one in charge, showed Mr. Seever the transportation pass, Sadici positioned himself not far from Camille in her seat.

"What's this," Mr. Seever asked, his tone of voice indicating his annoyance at this interruption by strangers?

The whole class stopped what they were doing; Camille too had frozen, though her hand still gripped herself firmly.

"We have a transportation pass," Rico said.

A transportation pass was a provision of disciplinary regulation, and was required of any person transporting a student for punishment. In past times many a student had gone on the run upon being singled out for discipline, and occasionally one got hurt in the process, and lawsuits had been problematic. A person transporting a student for punishment had to be trained and certified, and the transportation pass documented that the headmaster took responsibility, and that he certified that those carrying this license met requirements. 'We have a transportation pass' were the magic words that indicated someone was going to get it, and get it good, and excitement built. Who was it going to be? Usually the headmaster himself, Mr. Hartley came to transport any student who was being sought under a transportation pass; who were these scary looking men?

Mr. Seever looked up and at Camille, her mouth opened, and her eyes grew wide with dread. She'd had no thought at all that it might be her, she'd never been punished except once as a freshman, and that had been but a reprimand and a warning, and warranted a mild couple of swats with a paddle; more embarrassing than painful, but enough that she'd headed the warning ever since... until last week that is. Oh no, she thought. Oh no, it can't be me, please don't let it be me... but even as she said it to herself she knew it was her they'd come for; and who were they? She turned wildly in fright looking for a way out.

If it had been Mr. Hartley, perhaps she wouldn't have lost her head, and would have gone reluctantly but willingly; but it was absolutely unimaginable, not a possibility within her ken, that she'd be forcibly taken and handled under a transportation pass by the likes of these, these two, big, unknown... unknown... she was searching wildly through her vocabulary for the right word... gorillas is what she finally came up with. They're horrible. Let me out of here she thought, and she turned to run.

Being taken to one like Mr. Punire, by men like his assistants, was an experience that a girl might have but once in a lifetime. There were few repeaters, but the likes of the assistants did this every day; Camille had no more chance than a mouse under the paws of a cat, and Sadici turned before she'd taken even her first step and grabbed her upper arm with his left hand, and ran his fingers into her head of hair and clenched his fist to a hank in an unbreakable grip.

"Ow, your hurting me," Camille shrieked, but Sadici paid no attention, and with his dual fisted clench pulled her from her desk into the aisle, and up to the front of the room, where Rico similarly grabbed her other arm with one hand, and got a good grip on her clothing with his other.

It's critical in the early stages of a transportation to get hold of a student and get her away from people, furniture, implements she could grab, anything she might use to hurt someone, or on which she might hurt herself. Many a girl in a frantic effort to escape will bang into furniture, or trip and fall, and bruise herself, and Mr. Punire would be furiously angry if a girl were bruised because of incompetence in initial stage control, and Rico and Sadici knew very well not to be the cause of Mr. Punire's anger.

The second step in transportation control was to distance one's self from the victim, which is what the assistants thought of the girls as, though Mr. Punire would never use a term like that. Girls kicked, or bit, and though the assistants were hardened to their task, and wore protective cups, there was plenty of chance for injury if they were not quick. In a well-practiced move Rico and Sadici simultaneously changed their grips to Camille's wrists, and each of them slid a looped strap over one of her hands, and they pulled the loops tight. The straps were attached to their own wrists as well, and they now separated, pulling Camille's arms out straight so she was strung taught between them, with her arms raised; they were far enough from her so she couldn't kick. Rico loved this stage, the first moments of abduction when all the fear, entrapment, and subjugation first came to fore, and a girl was stretched tight between them wriggling and thrashing and crying, with her breasts thrust out high and taught.


Camille did start to cry, and plead, not with Rico and Sadici which she instinctively knew would be futile, but with Mr. Seever, thrusting her body toward him, subconsciously offering herself to him, begging him not to let them take her. "Please Mr. Seever," she wailed, "please, I want to go home," she said, reverting from the woman she thought she'd finally become, to the child still within her.

Mr. Seever could do nothing, it was out of his hands, and to interfere with transportation would cost him his job, and likely his career. "I'm sorry," he mouthed, and he really was, though only a little. It didn't escape him that Camille being taken probably had everything to do with the ten o'clock assembly, and that he might finally get to see her the way he'd for so many months fantasized seeing her, which was in a state of at least partial undress, and the less partial the better. He suddenly got a furious erection, and quickly sat behind his desk and adjusted himself, though Rico caught him at it and they gave each other a knowing smile.

Sadici picked up Camille's purse and backpack, and Rico and Sadici half marched, half dragged Camille out of class stretched between them, her crying and still beseeching Mr. Seever even as they turned the corner and pulled her down the hall.



Chapter 5. The Victim is Delivered

They could have taken the elevator, but they liked the stairs. They dragged her into the stairwell and to the landing down one flight; then they had their fun. It was strictly illegal for a transporter to molest a girl in his charge, but it was the only time a transporter would have a girl solely under his control, and it was one of the perks to which a blind eye was usually turned; even Mr. Punire was willing, within strictly set limits, to allow it.

Rico and Sadici shed the loops from around their wrists, Sadici put his hand over Camille's mouth, and both men attacked her. They reached under her skirt, grabbing and squeezed her vulva, squeezing gently and stimulating her, then hard and hurting, always remaining aware that bruising would not be tolerated. They never stayed too long in any one spot so as not to desensitize her skin, and they were not allowed to penetrate her, nor even go within her panties. What they were allowed to do was tickle, poke, stroke, grab, even slap and pinch within limits, kiss, lick; anything to make her howl and shriek, and jerk trying to escape the relentless swarm of the manhandling they inflicted on the poor girl. They got her crying again, this time good and hard in pleading sobs, interspersed with tortured squeals: they had searched and found her to be terribly ticklish under her arms, when having fingers dug into her sides, into the front of her legs just above her knees, being poked in the ribs, and scratched along the sides of her breasts.


The Last Sashay



They took their pound of flesh for as long as they dared, then let her go, gave her a rest, then gave her a quick once over all again. Their fun finally over they left Camille alone, squatting and curled into a ball in the corner, crying and begging them to not hurt her any more. They stood over her, intimidating and threatening, while she sobbed in grief. Sadici laughed. "Poor little girl," he said. "You think you have it bad right now? You have no idea what you're in for."

"Let's go," Rico said, and they reattached themselves to her and brought her down to their boss.

Camille was a mess when they brought her in. Her shirt was out of her skirt, her skirt was turned part way around, her bra was off her breasts, her face was streaked with makeup and tears, and she was still sobbing quietly though once they'd brought her out of the stairwell she'd tried to pull herself together, at least a little bit. She knew she would soon be under the protection of Mr. Hartley, and whatever punishment he was going to inflict on her at least it wouldn't involve the type of degradation she'd just experienced at the hands of these out of control sadists. At least Mr. Hartley is fair she thought.

Mr. Hartley was shocked when he saw her; once again he was sorry he'd let Mr. Punire have so much control without oversight, and Mr. Punire when he saw Camille was not pleased either; he gave Rico and Sadici a stern and disapproving look, he let them know they'd gone too far. Feeling up was one thing, that they were allowed, but torture, however mild, was not. They doubted they'd get a chance alone with Camille again, but they knew that Mr. Punire needed their participation and would not be able to exclude them.

"Are you alright Camille," Mr. Hartley asked?

"Camille!" Mr. Punire stated in a booming and commanding voice before she could answer, startling her and grabbing her attention as he intended. "Mr. Hartley is no longer in charge. You have broken serious rules, and the headmaster, according to the laws and regulations of the state and school district, has given to me the authority to administer your punishment. As such you will address me, not Mr. Hartley, and you will inquire, request, entreat, beg, and otherwise communicate with me and me alone unless I give you permission. Is that understood?"

"What are you going to do to me," Camille said, hyperventilating, frightened, and with a squeak?

"Untie her," Mr. Punire said to his assistants. "And sit outside until I call you."

"Yes sir," each said in turn, and they released her from their grips.

Mr. Punire waited for Rico and Sadici to leave; he was quite disgusted with them. He was angry with them not only because of the liberties they had taken, but also because their behavior disrupted the clear path he had set for Camille's handling. By his ethics she was now entitled to some reprieve, not a lot, but something, and though he didn't mind diminishing the treatment she would receive for her transgressions, he didn't like having his plans derailed.

"It's okay child," he said to Camille. "You'll be alright now. Straighten yourself. You can go to the bathroom," he pointed to the bathroom door in the corner of the large room and he handed her her purse. "Wash up, fix your makeup, you're a very pretty girl. When you come out I'll ask you some questions, and I'll tell you what's going to happen."

Mr. Punire and Mr. Hartley shook their heads, and Mr. Hartley made more tea which they sat and drank as Camille went to gather herself, to the extent she could. Camille stayed in the bathroom as long as she dared, and when she came out her clothes were in order, and she had washed and fixed her makeup and she did look very pretty.

Mr. Punire told her to sit, and poured her a cup of tea. "You're going to be punished," he said. It's going to hurt, and there is no way you can avoid it and nothing you can do about it."

"Camille looked at Mr. Hartley."

"He can't help you Camille. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," she said in a small voice.

"Yes Mr. Punire, or yes sir," Mr. Punire instructed. "You must always address me politely, and with respect, and if you do, and if you do everything I say, I will treat you politely and with respect and you will get through this with a minimum of difficulty and discomfort."

"Yes Mr. Punire," she said, "I understand."

"Are you wearing your panties today?"

"Yes sir. I won't do that anymore," meaning she wouldn't be going around half naked as she had the day she'd shown herself to Mr. Hartley.

"Good girl. Yes, that would be wise."

"Are you menstruating," he asked?

A small sob escaped her throat, and she looked down, and said, again in her small voice, "No sir."

Mr. Punire could see that Camille was not wearing panty hose, had on white sox and low healed shoes that would be easy to remove, and that her hair was neatly in a ponytail. All that would make it easier on him, and on her. He could see she was wearing a bra, which he would want removed, but that could wait.

"I'm going to whip you."

"Oh no," she said whimpering, "please don't do that Mr. Punire. Please, I beg you, I won't be, I won't be, I won't be..." She was trying to say she won't be bad any more, that she'd be a good girl from now on, but the thought of being whipped was just too much to bear and she couldn't get out the words.

Mr. Punire put his hand on her shoulder as she began to cry again. She'd seen whippings, of some of the boys, and of one girl, administered in these most serious cases in public by another strange man, and the contorted and unbelievably horrifying reaction by the victims to the violence of the lash. To imagine herself in their places... it was beyond comprehension, except she knew that she soon would be. She remembered watching Suzy get it, sixteen hard strokes, and Suzy's wild writhing, her display of everything between her legs not caring that she spread herself wide open and everyone could see way up inside; Suzy not giving a damn about any of that, it was obvious all she cared about was relieving the pain and getting through it. Camille remembered how she had gone home that night and masturbated wildly, and continuously, coming a million times it seemed, remembering Suzy and her display. Shit she thought, it will be every girl and boy in school jerking off to me tonight.

"It's okay," Mr. Punire continued in a calm and reassuring voice. You'll get through it all right, and I swear to you no harm will come of it. I've been doing this a long time, and I know how it should be done right. You'll be very sore for a day or two, that's why we do it on a Friday. You'll feel pretty much normal in a week or so."

"Where are you going to hit me?"

"I have not decided that yet, but wherever it is, I'll do no harm."

"Is there anything I can do so you'll make it easier on me?"

"If you cooperate, and do everything I tell you, willingly and without complaining, I'll make it as easy on you as I can."

"Thank you Mr. Punire."

"I'm going to prepare you now, and then take you to the assembly."

"Oh, please, does it have to be in public? Can't we do it here? Please Mr. Punier?"

"It will be done in public, in front of your peers; that's the proscribed punishment for what you've done, to make an example of you, and it can't be helped."

Camille was scared to death, she could barely breathe, and Mr. Punire reassurance was scarce comfort, but she took from it what she could; she'd reached the point where she was resigned to her fate.

Mr. Punire was quite taken with Camille; she was startlingly cute, and sexy in a young girl way, and she was polite, well mannered, and intelligent. Really quite a nice girl, and quite unlike most of those he had run up against. He also tired of the interference of his assistants, and tired of the interference of Mr. Hartley who was clearly relishing Mr. Punire's control of Camille, and near drooling to see her stripped naked and handled. Mr. Punire relished all that himself, he was well aware of his feelings as they melded with his professional work, and he was well aware that he didn't want to share Camille, who was too precious, as he thought of her, to be mistreated. Mr. Hartley was not going to like it, but Mr. Punire had the authority, and he decided Mr. Hartley would have to go. He knew his decision was partly objective, and partly a rationalization, but to what degree each he didn't give a damn. "You can leave now," he said to Mr. Hartley. Get your assembly settled and wait for me there."

"I'd like to stay for awhile; then I'll get things ready upstairs, if you don't mind."

"I do mind," Mr. Punire said quite bluntly. "I have work to do and I want to do it alone. Leave me be!"

Mr. Hartley was furious, jealous, and frustrated. He considered never using Mr. Punire's services in the future, getting someone else instead, someone more malleable, but he knew that would not be to his advantage. There were procedures other than the simple public whipping of a girl that he needed an accredited expert for, specifically the demonstration and selection of new equipment which occurred every other year as mandated by the board of disciplinary authority. At these the headmaster could not be excluded, and at these Mr. Punire had not even a near equal. Mr. Hartley was angry, but swallowed his pride and decided to take what he could from the assembly and carry on from there. He left in a huff, which was not lost on Camille who was secretly pleased. She didn't like Mr. Hartley; Mr. Punire she was growing to respect, and was even beginning to think was pretty nice.

"Come child. Lie over here and I'll undress you."

At the words undress you Camille realized she was still aroused. She'd been masturbating herself in math without being fully aware of it, then Rico and Sadici had molested her, and though they'd been rough and sadistic they also touched every inch of her body and stimulated her as much as they could. Now being ordered to lie down, and the thought of Mr. Punire undressing her brought a hot flash to her young twat and a rapid increase in her flow of slippery secretion.



Chapter 6. Camille's Preparation

Mr. Punire laid Camille, face down, on a padded table covered with white terry cloth that wrapped around its sides and fastened underneath. The table was narrow so that Mr. Punire would be able to reach all of her without walking around, it was low so he could bend over and lean his weight on Camille to hold her still if necessary, and it was bent in the middle so her buttocks would be raised and presented for his necessities.

"Up you go," Mr. Punire said; he helped Camille slide up and over so her buttocks were positioned as he wanted them. He placed her face within a round padded cushion, and adjusted it so it supported her chin and forehead but allowed her to breathe. Bent over, Camille's skirt had ridden up her thighs, and though that's all that was showing, her legs were relaxed and parted suggestively; she made quite a delicious sight he thought. Her thought was that lying this way was really quite comfortable.

Mr. Punire took a set of silicone straps attached to the underside of the table near Camille's shoulders, and he drew then up and over her, crossing them in an X between her shoulder blades, and attaching them to fasteners on either side of her neck and pulling tight. He fastened her wrists as well. Camille's shoulders and upper back, and her hands were now strapped to the table; her upper body and arms immobilized.

"You don't have to tie me," she said. "I'll cooperate."

He didn't answer, but he lifted her head and brushed hair from in front of her face, and placed her back into the pillow, then unceremoniously Mr. Punire slid his hands under her skirt, slipped his fingers into the waistband of her panties, and pulled them down her legs and off her feet. It gave her a jolt, a sharply sexual thrill; no man had ever done that before, bared her between her legs. She had her skirt on, but felt naked and vulnerable, especially fastened as she was. Her legs momentarily closed, but that wasn't what she wanted and she opened them again and adjusted her pubic mound so it was pressing comfortably onto the padded surface on which she lay. Oh God I'm horny, she thought. She lifted her head and watched him fold her panties neatly and place them on a table near her purse.

Mr. Punire went about his business with the efficiency and precision that comes from the familiarity of a task frequently performed. From Camille's hips on down, the table supporting her legs could be folded away, and Mr. Punire did so, and her legs followed the table down until her feet touched the floor; then he removed her skirt. This is embarrassing she thought, and then she realized what she must look like, aroused, and she knew he wouldn't fail to notice. She imagined the view of herself from the rear, her vulva swollen with longing; her clitoris, probably still hidden inside its little red riding hood, her pet name for its sheath, peaking its way between her lips. Likewise she could picture her little labia peaking out, and if he spread her legs he'd see the glisten of wetness. She knew she wasn't fully aroused, but she knew she looked a sight, and fully expected he would enjoy it.

He bent each leg at the hip and gently guided each knee outward, positioning it so it curved below and around a smooth peg, and then he raised each foot and placed it on a support fastened at the ankle. He adjusted the tilt of the table slightly, lowering her head. Camille was now effectively positioned as if she were on hands and knees, with her buttocks raised, and her legs spread enough so that she wasn't displayed vulgarly, but neither could she hide her feminine charms, nor prevent Mr. Punire's hands from examining her as he wished. She was fastened: shoulders, hands and feet; and though she could move her knees, and spread her legs if she wished, the pegs behind her knees extended outward so she would not be able to dismount them.

He unfolded a lightweight blanket and shook it out, and covered Camille, as it was cool in the room, and he wanted her to be comfortable so she would relax. He pushed the blanket between her legs, she involuntarily pulled away, but he held the cup of his hand against her while he pushed down gently on her sacrum until she lowered and fit herself to his palm and fingers. He rewarded her with a stimulating squeeze; "good girl," he said.

He went to the head of the table. Camille raised her head - she couldn't lift more than that from her restraints. I'm going to give you an enema he said.

"No," she protested. "No, don't, I don't need that. I don't have to go."

"You said you'd cooperate. No complaining. I advise you to keep that in mind."

"Yes Mr. Punire, I'm sorry Mr. Punire sir, but please, I've never had an enema before."

"Well you're going to have one now."

"Oh shit," Camille lamented out loud, she just couldn't help herself.

"Shit is the operative word, and once you start receiving your punishment you may not be able to hold it in. It really makes a mess; very embarrassing."

"Not compared to being whipped in front of the whole school I wouldn't say."

"Embarrassing for me, and it's not going to happen, and if you relax it won't hurt, at least not much" he said with a chuckle.

"Ohh," she moaned in distress. "Why ever did I think to dis' old Mr. Hartley?"

She watched Mr. Punire as he prepared her enema. He took a plastic bag filled with solution, and opened a plug on one end and poured a vial of a second liquid into it and shook it well, and then hung it on a hook on a pole with wheels, the kind nurses used to hold an IV drip. He attached a valve and tube to the bottom of the bag, and attached the enema probe to the end of the tube. He held it up where she could see it, and he waggled it back and forth in front of her with a cock of his head, raised eyebrow, and a knowing smile.

"Ohh," she moaned again. "Please go easy."

"That's 'Please go easy Mr. Punire sir.'"

"Yes Mr. Punire sir. I'm sorry Mr. Punire sir. Please Mr. Punire sir."

"Mr. Punire walked to Camille's rear and removed the blanket. She tried to turn to watch him but her head couldn't turn that far, but she heard him open a package of lubricant, and she certainly felt when he spread it on her anus, with a gentle but insistent rubbing, and a poking in with the tip of his finger. Her anus was so sensitive, his finger so demanding, she tried to pull away again but he wrapped his left arm around her hips and held her while he lubricate. He took quite a long time she thought, long enough that she realized he was playing with her, and the sensations of his finger painting the slippery goo all over and into her sensitive tissue, and the fact that he wasn't hurting her, at least not yet, caused her anxiety to fade and she became quite further aroused. Mr. Punire was completely aware of what he was doing, and the extent of the effect it was having on cute little Camille, and when he was satisfied with her progress he picked up the enema nozzle and in one smooth movement slipped it into her and all the way up.

"Ahhh," she squealed, "ahhh, ahhh it hurts," though he knew it didn't really hurt. He knew it was only the unfamiliar feeling of having a foreign object inserted in her rectum, and the fear that it might really hurt that scared her, and he gave it a further poke up, and a good movement side to side to wring another satisfying squeal from poor little Camille.

"Easy girl," he said. "Breathe deeply, relax, nice and easy," and he reached up under her shirt and unhooked her bra, and pulled the bra straps to the side, and proceeded to stroke his warm hands up and down her back, occasionally stroking along the sides of her breasts and down to her waist. And then he pushed the probe up in her quick and hard and painfully to remind her this was not going to be all pleasure, and who was in control.

He liked to do it in quarters, and when he thought she was ready he opened the nozzle and watched the bag as he let in twenty-five percent of his solution. Camille started squirming, back arching upward, pelvis forward, back arching down, pelvis back, trying futilely within the confines of her bound feet, shoulders and knees to shed the feeling of her bowels flooding with the liquid Mr. Punire was metering into her. He loved her motions, the lewd quasi-fucking of the beast in her tail, and her hyperventilated panting and squeals of distress.

"Easy girl," he said again, stroking and calming her, "good girl, my nice good girl, you're doing well, just try to relax."

"I can't, I can't," she asserted.

"Talk to me Camille, tell me about yourself. Where do you come from?"

"From Vancouver," she managed to blurt out. "I was brought up in Vancouver."

"One of your grandparents was Chinese perhaps? Mr. Hartley mentioned an Asian grandparent."

"Malaysian, my grandfather was Malaysian. Oh can you take it out, please Mr. Punire?"

"Ahh, Malaysia. Yes, I've been there; certified with the cane in Malaysia, place of the world's greatest experts of that particular form. And his wife, your grandmother?"

"Scottish Irish."

"On your mother's side?"

"Yes, my mother's."

"She must have been a beautiful woman. I can see her in you."

"I don't like this. You're putting too much in me... Mr. Punire sir" she quickly added."

He grabbed the end of the nozzle protruding from Camille's anus and gave it a shove. "No, no," she said. " Please don't do that."

Mr. Punire opened the nozzle and started another twenty-five percent.

"Ohhh," Camille groaned. "I've got to go."

"You'll just have to hold it," he said as he shut the nozzle at the halfway point. "I'm sure it's not that bad yet."

"It is. It is... Mr. Punire," she questioned?"

"Yes dear."

"What's your real name?"




The Last Sashay



This took him aback. In all his long career no girl he'd had as a subject ever asked him that, and that question alone, more than anything else that happened that day earned Camille some credit, which would not be applied now, but would help her, though she'd never realize it, during the real punishment that would happen later.

"What makes you say that," he asked?

"In French, punir means punish. Punire sounds like the Italian version. I doubt you were christened with a name like that. Are you Italian Mr. Punire?"

She had not only realized that Punire was not his given name, but she guessed his nation of origin as well; he liked Camille more and more as time went on. "I can not say my dear. My profession requires me to stay silent on these matters, but thank you for asking." He opened the nozzle again and let in the next twenty-five percent

"Ohh ahhh ahhh," she moaned in a delightful trilling utterance that began at her vocal cords but was modulated by the top of her throat. She was breathing hard now, in obvious distress, but she managed to blurt out: "It's what we girls do... find out about people we like." She would have given him a flirtatious wink if she could have faced him, but he caught the sarcasm anyway. He let in the last twenty-five percent and immediately started to release her.

"Oww," she screamed, "Owwww, I've got to go, quick, let me up."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk Mr. Punire tongued, and shook his head indicating his disappointment that Camille had forgotten the 'Mr. Punire' honorific, but Camille was way past caring, or even noticing. All she wanted was get to the toilet before she emptied her bowels all over everything.

"You may go now," he said, and Camille, bent over double, holding her abdomen with her hands, and squeezing her buttocks closed with her well toned glutei, and clenching her anus shut with her pelvic floor muscles, she moved as fast as she could toward the bathroom, though not quickly at all. It was a slow race, the cramps were terrible, and she needed to get to the toilet before her muscles gave out, but any quick movement and the pain of the cramps would make her lose it all. Mr. Punire chuckled at the site of her; she gave him a nasty look, but he forgave her.



Chapter 7. Final Prep

Sadici had wrapped a liner around the toilet seat and extended it down into the bowl, it was a good thing; Camille made quite a mess, which was expected. She'd gone into the bathroom at a ten of nine, and Mr. Punire gave her plenty of time to let the wash out, and to sit in private and collect herself. "Don't rush," he said to her through the closed door. "Take your time, let it all out. You have twenty minutes to eliminate and clean yourself."

Camille sat on the toilet and after the initial deluge, several follow on surges, and some minor aftershocks, she started to feel pretty much okay. At least her cramps were gone, and the burning of her anus had subsided, but she was in no mood to stand up and get on with what would follow. She observed her surroundings, the strange equipment and supplies that were evident, and a canvas bag with a hinged opening and leather handles. She wiped herself as best she could, and in a squat hobbled a couple of steps to the bag, opened it, and looked inside. She found a plethora of strange implements, and a well-worn book entitled "Procedures of The Form, Rules and Regulations," dated the current year. With nothing else to do but again face Mr. Punire, she took the book and hobbled back to the toilet and sat with it. She was a fast reader, and found it quite interesting, and appreciated that its purpose was not only, not even primarily, to specify the means of inflicting pain and humiliation, but to provide regulation, limitations, and protections. It specified what could and could not be done, based on the years of experience and specific accreditations of the punisher; and on the age, gender, subjective and objective measures of sexual maturity, degree of offense, procedural venue, and a host of other factors relating to the punishment recipient, as well as the facilities, including medical, that were available on site.

It was a complex set of rules, fascinating reading, and she had just finished the section on the transfer of responsibility, which she summarized in her mind:

If the subject is over eighteen, she's initially considered responsible for her own safety and welfare.

At the time that a punishment is declared by an authority, in my case Mr. Hartley, he's responsible for my safety and welfare. He must make sure that in everything relating to my punishment, unless he transfers authority to someone else, that I'm not abused or injured.

If responsibility is to be transferred, a transportation pass must be issued, signed by the Mr. Hartley and whoever I'm transferred to, which is Mr. Punire, and the transfer pass must have on it the date and time the transfer is signed. Responsibility then goes to Mr. Punire.

At the time the punishment is complete, and Mr. Punire is ready to certify that I'm in good condition, which is defined in a whole complicated addendum to the rules, and I don't like the sound of it, Mr. Punire must sign the release section of the transportation pass and then Mr. Hartley gets back responsibility.

Mr. Hartley must then sign the pass to get rid of me, otherwise if I stub my toenail he could get in trouble.

Remembering Suzy's severe whipping, Camille could appreciated that the line of authority was strictly controlled, and the party responsible for any mishaps was clearly spelled out.

Camille was about to go on to the all-important rules governing the punishment itself when she heard Mr. Punire waking her way. She had just enough time to replace the book, shut the bag, and place herself back on the toilet before he came in.

"Get up," he said. "I told you to clean yourself. What are you doing?

"I'm sorry Mr. Punire. I was feeling sorry for myself; I guess I spaced out."

"That's not the cooperation I expect from you. Get up," he said, and he grabbed hold of her upper arm and lifted her off the toilet, pulling her around to look at her back side. He pulled her roughly to the shower stall, and backed her in. She still had her shirt and bra on; he pulled her shirt forcefully up to her armpits. He bent her over and turned her sideways and placed her upper body just outside the shower, and told her to hold onto the grab bar. A hose with a sprayer was attached to the shower nozzle and Mr. Punire adjusted the water temperature and began to wash Camille's lower half. He used a bucket of soapy water and a natural sponge to wash from her crotch up the crack of her buttocks, and then down her legs. After she was clean he rinsed the sponge, soaped it good, and pushed it up between her legs. Camille was oh so sensitive where he placed his hand, down low by the entrance to her vagina, that she gasped and arched her back and pulled away before he could get a good grip, but he followed her forward and wouldn't let her get away, and he grabbed a great handful of girl flesh in his meaty paw and proceeded giving her a treatment, or perhaps it was a treat, a sequence of firm rhythmic squeezes much to Camille's embarrassment and delight. She closed her eyes, started bucking her hips, and moaned repeatedly, voicing her personal version of the wonderful sounds of a girl in heat being stimulated.

There's no way to tell when a girl's about to come he thought, though it's discussed ad infinitum at conferences and around the coffee pot. The conventional wisdom is that if you want to prevent it, you've got to stop early, but even what early is requires judgment. Mr. Punire used the halfway rule; he stopped when he judged her halfway along.

He rinsed her off one last time and pulled her out, and made her bend over, reach for her toes, and spread her legs. He dried her roughly, but not too roughly, and noted her high state of arousal. Her clitoris was protruding nicely, a little wet tongue poking from its sheath and peeking out her vulva; as beautifully formed a clitoris and sheath as ever I've seen he thought, and everything else down there swollen and red, and the entrance to her vagina surrounded by the engorged and protruding tissues of her minor labia. Nice, he said to himself, real nice.

He drew her from the bathroom, pulling her hard along, angry that she made him clean her, that she wasn't cooperating, and that he'd have to make her suffer for it. It wasn't that he didn't like to make pretty girls, and even smart and nice girls like Camille suffer. He did, he did immensely, but he also liked to play the game, and if a deal was struck as with Camille, and if she didn't uphold her end of the bargain, then anger is what the game demanded, and making her suffer was its inevitable consequence.

He left her standing by the table, still folded in its middle, and he called in Rico and Sadici who were only too glad to again be included, and he gave them the head shake in Camille's direction telling them to take over. Camille, half naked, covered her swollen privates with her hands and took a step back. Sadici gave her a sadistic smirk, and made a quick gesture in her direction, and she flinched and stepped back again, tripping on the table pedestal and turning and grabbing the table to keep from falling. Sadici took three quick steps and was upon her, and he flung her savagely over the table and positioned her as she had been for her enema, and he stood between her legs, kicked them wide apart, and placed his swollen penis, still within the smooth and fine cloth of his form fit trousers, firmly into her obliquity.

She hated it, she hated and feared him, but she couldn't help it, her sexual arousal was far too great, as great as she'd ever felt it, and she began with no volition to hump back at him. Two or three pumps was all she got, and he whacked her hard on her buttocks; she screamed "ahhh" in protest, and looked imploringly at Mr. Punire, but he turned his back on her and sat on a chair by the far wall.

"Strip her," he said.

She was already half undressed, and Rico and Sadici raised the lower half of the table to support her fully, then flipped her over so Camille was now on her back, arched over the table hump, stretched and offered with Rico holding her arms over her head, and Sadici holding her legs wide open, and exploring her hot over stimulated organs with his eyes.

Rico unbuttoned her shirt and stripped it off her arms, and reached under her and unclipped her bra, which she had refastened in the bathroom, and stripped that off too, now exposing her breasts in all their adolescent glory. Rico held her hands between his legs, he had removed his protective cup and she could feel her wrists wedged against his balls and buttocks, and he took his hands and fondled her breasts, and he fastened his fingers to the tips of her nipples.

Her nipples were swollen, not just with arousal and handling, but also with fluids induced by the sharply increased levels of hormones resulting from her coming of age. Her nipples were terribly tender, she was clearly in discomfort, and Mr. Punire stood, came over, and lifted Rico's hands off her. He examined Camille carefully. It wasn't only her nipples that were swollen, but the whole of the tips of her breasts, as if she had tiny little breasts on the ends of her primaries. He tested her with pinches, up and down both breasts, on all sides, from their bases to their tender tips; he gauged her reactions. "Leave them alone," he said to Rico, "she's too young."

Rico nodded his assent and left his hands off her breasts. "You're a lucky girl," Mr. Punire said to Camille, "old enough to be whipped, but not mature enough to have me whip your breasts."

"Thank God," she said, "I didn't know that was a possibility."

"All things are possible; some are not allowed."

She was young, tender, firm, and inexperienced; she was naked, stretched, spread and aroused. Rico and Sadici played her like a violin, smoothing over her dips and curves, scratching, tickling, but only a little of that, and kneading her flesh, but not in the places she really wanted. What she really wanted was to be home in her own bed, with her legs spread and her fingers plunging deep inside her, and rubbing, round and round and round her clitoris; if they'd only let me come she thought, my kingdom for an orgasm.

Mr. Punire brought over clothing; "dress her," he said.

"I can dress myself, Mr. Punire sir," she pleaded, but he paid her no mind.

Sadici closed her legs and took the trousers that Mr. Punire provided and placed them around her feet, and slid them up her legs, up around her abdomen, and he tied its draw string firmly at Camille's waist. Rico put her arms in the arms of the shirt, slipped it over her head, and pulled it down her body. They stood her up and pulled her to the full-length mirror on the wall so she'd know how she looked.

The clothing, if you could call it that, was made from fine white gauze, so thin you could see right through it. Her swollen nipples, still the pink of a young girl, could be clearly differentiated from the white of her breasts. The pants fit snugly into the separation of the swollen lips between her legs, there was no denying their form; her thatch of hair, sparse as it was, could be seen as clearly as if she hadn't had on a stitch; the redness of her tumescence could not be denied. This is worse than being naked she thought.

"How do you like it," Mr. Punire asked her?

"How do you like it Mr. Punire sir," she asked him back? I bet you like it a lot."

"Half concealed, is more revealed, I always say. Wouldn't you?"

"Can I keep them," she asked in a moment of inspiration? They really were beautiful she thought, and she thought of wearing them in them in the privacy of her bedroom, and then of stripping them off in front of some imaginary pasha who'd sink ten fingers and then his big hard cock up deep inside her. Fuck I'm horny.

"You can keep them" he said, "if you're a good girl," he added.

"I'm a good girl," she said, "thrusting her chest out toward him, but giving Rico and Sadici a 'not for you' look.

"That's dangerous girl. Never flirt with one who is going to punish you, some men will take it as a challenge to put you down."

"But not you... Mr. Punire. You wouldn't do that."

"No, I wouldn't, but don't push it."

"Yes sir."

"Put her on the long table," he said to Rico. "It's time to bring her up."

Camille had been distracted by everything that had been done to her so far, but now she realized it was a few minutes to ten and that the preliminaries were about to end, and that she was shortly going to be whipped, for real, probably much like that girl Suzy was two years ago when Camille was a sophomore. Her anxiety climbed into high gear, and she began to back up and move away from Rico and Sadici, but she had nowhere to go. Sadici grabbed her arm, and Rico a wrist, and they forced her to the side of the room and tumbled her onto a long thin table. They strapped her wrists to its head, and they spread her legs and pulled them tightly to the corners, stretching her uncomfortably. She looked imploringly at Mr. Punire, who made eye contact, but in no other way did he respond. Her shirt had risen up, and her pants down, and her midriff was delightful exposed. The lines of her ribs, the dip of her navel, the graceful rise to the swell of her abdomen, bare almost to the line of her pubic hair, creating a tableau as sexy as all the Venus' in all the great museums of the world. Rico took a firm pillow, lifted her, and wedged it under her back, stretching and displaying her lewdly; she gasped, the stretching was now very uncomfortable. The men had a hard time taking their eyes from her breasts trying valiantly to burst through the confines of the shear gauze, and from her mons, and the swirls and tufts of fine hair anointing it in seductive advertisement of the charms beneath.

"Let's go," Mr. Punire ordered, and the three men wheeled poor Camille to the elevator, and her fate that she had set in motion.



Chapter 8. The Assembly

The assembly was mandatory, everyone from the highest administrator to the lowest service worker, and all the students, were required to attend, but the school community had not been allowed into the auditorium, and was lined up in the hallways extending outward from the auditorium lobby. Camille came up the elevator, the doors opened, and she was brought into the crowd, totally exposed, stretched, and presented. She was wheeled past a hundred onlookers ogling her nakedness, the men and boys reaching into their pants to give room to rising penises, and as many as looked at her body with lust and longing also looked into her eyes to see and gauge her anguish, and prod her humiliation.

Mr. Punire wheeled the table, with Camille securely bound, to the auditorium door, and had Rico and Sadici stand at either end, and he stood behind it as each and every student, teacher, administrator, and staff member filed past. Mr. Punire held a hard crop in his hand, a crop reserved for hardened criminals, nothing he would use on a tender school girl, and he gently waved it back in forth in warning; if anyone were to reach to touch Camille he would have broken their hand. So saying, as senior staff members passed, he would frequently give Camille a paternalistic squeeze or pat, paternalistic except that he applied them to her most prominent mound. "Good girl," he whispered as he patted her. "Good girl," he said, "it will soon be over," and she couldn't help, despite being stretched taught, but to raise her pelvis to illicit from him a firmer touch.

Mr. Hartley was pissed, and had copped a vengeful attitude. With all the students filing past he was reminded of how Camille had debased him in front of her friends, but even more he was pissed at Mr. Punire for excluding him from Camille's preparation, arguably the most erotic part of the whole punishment procedure. He decided being nasty was in order, which he knew Mr. Punire definitely would not like, and as certain persons walked past he directed them to a reserved area in front of the stage. Every bad boy, every nasty girl, the most lecherous and the most hated teachers, the despised janitors, all the miscreants the school had to offer he seated right up front; there was no chance Camille wouldn't notice, nor wouldn't Mr. Punire.

Everyone was seated and a hush fell over the assembly. "Here we go girl," Mr. Punire said to Camille. "Go easy, please," she begged in a voice fraught with complexity. Mr. Punire understood: he could hear in her entreaty: fear, submission, compliance, supplication, resignation. "You'll be ok," he said, "you'll be fine, relax, just do everything I tell you, ignore everything but the sound of my voice," and he said these words and others like them over and over as a mantra to calm her, and make it as easy on her as possible.

They wheeled her up onto the stage and opened the curtains; a gasp rose from the assembly. Behind her, she couldn't see it yet, was a whipping frame, and next to it a bucket of whips which sprung from it like a bouquet of flowers; flowers beautiful in their craftsmanship and form, so gracefully curved and strung; and frightening in their message, how clearly form followed function. Mr. Hartley sat on stage nearby.

Camille turned as much as she could, but could not see behind and around Mr. Punire standing by her head, with his hands resting on it, his fingers delicately stroking her cheek trying to calm her fears.

"I'm going to release you now. Remember. You must do as I say."

"Yes Mr. Punire, I'll try my best."

Mr. Punire gave the nod and Rico and Sadici released Camille, and she worked circulation back into her arms and legs."

"Sit up and put your feet on the floor," he said.





The Last Sashay



Camille slid her legs over the side of the table and placed her feet on the floor, and she turned and saw the whipping frame for the first time, and then the whips, so many, and so many different kinds.

"Ohhh," she wailed in that tremolo he loved. "Ohhh, ohhh, ohhh," she repeated over and over; she couldn't take her eyes off those whips, she wondered how many he'd use on her; it couldn't be all of them, could it, and if not then which ones? As she cast her eyes from one to another, all different types and sizes, she tried to imagine which she would choose, which would be the least horrific. She tried to feel each in her mind, each in turn, and each was more terrible than the last. She turned and grabbed Mr. Punire by the arm, trying to hold herself up, to pull him down, to do anything that would change the course of events that she knew to be inevitable.

Mr. Punire shrugged her off, and told her to stand on her own two feet. "Respect yourself. Don't let them debase you. Show them how strong you are, act like a queen," he whispered.

Camille tried to pull herself together, stand straight, and accept the receiving of her punishment. She tried to ignore the humiliation being heaped upon her, but every time she looked to the audience and saw the leering grins of the horrible boys and men that Mr. Hartley had placed so close to her, so close that they could look right at her crotch, look up into it, and see her most intimate protruding bumps and folds, all of which were aching and inflamed with longing to be fondled; she could barely stand it."

"Take your pants down," he said.

The words took awhile to register: What did he mean she thought; her brain couldn't process the command. He waited while she digested his order. Finally she got it, and she slowly pulled the drawstring, so slowly she knew she was performing striptease, but couldn't make her fingers move any faster, and then the bow let go and her trousers fell the first inch. No longer having a choice, a way out, or means to delay, she put her thumbs into the waistband and slowly lowered the diaphanous drawers to her feet; but that was all she could do, she couldn't even step out of them, and stood with the discarded cloth piled loosely at her ankles.

Mr. Punire stepped behind her and directed his fingers toward that mysterious dark cleft between a woman's thighs and the lowest realm of her sexual organs, and he jabbed hard into it with purpose. The shock to her, his thrust into that supremely sensitive area just outside the tender opening to her vagina was so great that she jerked her pelvis forward and squealed in a lewd and delightful display, and he followed her on up, pushing her high until she was standing only on her toes, her legs spread, her vulva opening to show a hint of the pinkness inside. "Ahhh she wailed, but she had the presence to suppress her desire to shout 'don't,' or 'stop,' or anything else contrary to Mr. Punire's actions.

Catcalls and whistles and cheers broke out in the audience, and Mr. Punire quickly let her down and stepped in front of Camille, her face bright red, blushing furiously with embarrassment. "I won't have it," he boomed out, and he put out his arm and pointed in turn to each section of the auditorium. "If there is any, and I mean any lack of decorum in these proceedings, yoou," he drew out the word, "will pay." He pointed to Rico and Sadici. My men will be watching. If any one makes a sound, that I consider disrespectful of Ms. Camille Yvette Dupree, I will bring them up here and I will have no mercy."

"You," Mr. Punire shouted, pointing to the biggest student in the first row.

"Me," the boy said, his voice quavering, dreading the consequences of being singled out?

"Would you like to come up here and have your penis whipped to a bloody pulp?"

This Camille liked, she was glad that Mr. Punire had chosen that boy who was the biggest bully in the school. She would have liked to smile, but she knew if she were caught there'd be hell to pay, and she didn't need hell on top of the hell she was already in for.

"No sir," he said, turning quite pale.

"Sit down. I've got my eye on you."

Camille was still standing in front of the audience, unconsciously her hands had moved in front of her crotch.

"What are you doing," Mr. Punire said in anger. "Put your hands at your sides. No, clasp them behind your neck and spread your legs.

Camille obeyed at once, trying to be as stoic and regal as a queen, which was more than a little difficult considering the ungainly position she was in.

"Camille Yvette Dupree has erred. She has mocked her principal in front of other students," he slapped her butt and made her present herself without compromise. "She made lewd and suggestive remarks. She exposed herself to the principal," at this point Mr. Punire again jammed his hand between her legs from the rear and grabbed a great hunk of flesh and hair, and grabbed her pony tail in his other hand pulling her head back sharply and pushing her forward from beneath, forcing her to present her frontal view salaciously to the audience. He held her thus as he continued his indictment.

Camille was in a lot of discomfort: His fist held her sensitive tissues in a vice like grip, his upward force caused her to have to balance on her toes even as her hands remained behind her head neck in submission to his prior demand. He continued, as he presented this worthless criminal to every member of her school. "She exposed herself in a deliberate attempt to flout his authority. She was completely unrepentant." Mr. Punire pulled his hand roughly from between her legs and tossed her away like the trash he was saying she was. She stumbled, regained her footing, but didn't know which way to turn, or how he wanted her to stand, or what he wanted her to do. He'd just hurt her, she was frightened, and for a moment she forgot her nakedness and stood in fear of his wrath. Mr. Punire turned to his assistants. "Bring the frame."

"Face the audience," he demanded, which Camille did, her lush, naked, and very aroused lower half on display, her breasts teasing behind their film of gauze. She tried to look back, but Mr. Punire cuffed her head. She kept her gaze forward, but listened to the sound of the heavy frame sliding toward her.

"Turn around. Lower your hands."

Camille lowered her hands and Rico and Sadici took her wrists and threaded her into the frame, which was much like a stock, with fasteners for wrists and head, but with restraints for her waist and feet as well. Her head and hands were locked in place; her shoulder's cross-strapped as they had been for her enema. A band was placed around her waist as well, not to prevent her movements, the view of which was highly desirable, but to limit her inevitable violent attempts to escape the whip and possibly be injured. There were cases known where a person under the lash became so violent they broke their own back, and severe muscle injuries were common.

Each of Camille's feet were placed in a confining shoe and zipped tight. The use of a shoe restrained the whole foot and eliminated the possibility of dislocation associated with the previously used system of multiple straps. The shoes were placed outboard of her center, and raised from the floor, so in a position of rest Camille's bottom would be below her feet, her legs wide open, but as she was whipped she would inevitably rise up in an effort to escape.

Camille was strapped and spread and she heard Mr. Punire rummaging among his collection, selecting which of those fearsome whips he would use on her. She couldn't see behind, all she could see was Mr. Hartley watching her face so he could see her anguish and the effects of her torture on her emotions.

Mr. Hartley rose from his seat, a giant erection clearly evident, and came up to Mr. Punire to discuss selection. Mr. Punire didn't want Mr. Hartley's interference, but regulations allowed the principal some input, though the regulations were not clear on this point, not nearly as clear as they should be. In practice whip selection became a matter of negotiation.

"I want the buggy whip," Mr. Hartley said. "That will punish her right."

"I won't use a skin ripper, those days are past."

"Not in my school they're not. She did the crime, the buggy whip is allowed, and that's what she'll get, and if not that then the strip lash."

They argued back and forth, Mr. Hartley demanding to hurt her terribly, but Mr. Punire resisting, knowing that if he acceded to Mr. Hartley's demands, and if he were to misjudge the force of his strokes, he'd scar her permanently. Camille, strung up firm and tight, hanging with her sex spread wide to the gaze of those she most despised, who she knew were lusting after her and rubbing themselves as she wished she could rub herself, listened as the men argue her fate. She prayed that Mr. Punire would prevail, to go through life marked by Mr. Hartley as a bad girl was more than she could bear, but luck was with her, luck and Mr. Punire's seniority, and Mr. Hartley once again sat down in disgust, but not before coming over to her and in frustration and slapping her hard across the face which brought the first of many tears to her eyes. Bastard she thought; I'll get you.

In deference to Mr. Hartley and the trouble he could cause if he wanted to make a stink, Mr. Punire took out a silicone whip, not one made of leather, as Mr. Hartley wanted, but a modern day analog of the traditional buggy whip. He held it up to Mr. Hartley, who nodded his head in approval; the negotiation was concluded.

"Here it comes," he said quietly to Camille. "Stand and present yourself, take a deep breath... take another," and Camille obediently straightened her legs and rose into position as Mr. Punire raised the whip, far behind his shoulder, and with a great breath inward, followed by an explosive exhalation, he brought his arm downward with ferocious speed and a violent terminating snap.

The effect was instant and electric. Camille shrieked at the top of her range, a rending inhuman wail, followed by another, and another more prolonged, and she rose up high with her legs straight and taught, and then down, and up, and down, throwing herself forward and sideways, and every which way she could within the limits of the waist strap and her other bonds.

Mr. Punire knew what he was about, and though the pain far exceeded anything Camille ever imagined possibly, the punishment artist was sure with his stroke and upon striking her he did not move the whip, even slightly, to draw it across her skin. He simply laid it on, with great force to be sure, and stuck it. There would be bruising for certain, but never a scar. Mr. Punire looked at Mr. Hartley who shook his head with approval.

Camille was in the throes of agony and disbelief, agony that spread far beyond the line of impact, it felt as if the whole of her buttocks was doused in oil and set afire; and disbelief that anything could hurt so much, and that her punishment was just at its beginning. She was crying hard, sobbing, her makeup streaking down her face and her hair hanging in disarray.

Mr. Punire put down the buggy whip and came to Camille to give encouragement. "That was a hard one he said."

"You're telling me... Mr. Punire sir," she remembered to add? She was still thrusting her bottom back and forth in an unknowing pantomime of rut, and clenching and spreading her legs much to the delight of her audience."

"The next will be easier," Mr. Punire said. He had decided to use his favorite, a lightweight minitail. The lightweight minitail whip, or miniwhip for short, is so named because its lashes are diminutive. Medium short in length, low in mass, and custom made in his preferred ultra smooth-surface silicone, resulting in an instrument that in trained hands can be applied with high accuracy, does no permanent and little short term damage, and whose application can be most prolonged, which is exactly what he intended to do. How many tails he thought? The more tails, the broader the application, but the less the sting; the fewer tails, the greater the accuracy of application, but the more bruising. He selected three as a good compromise, picked up the three-tail miniwhip, and without warning commenced with a wicked slash to the backs of her thighs.

It got Camille's attention immediately, but before she could do much more than rise up and screech one time, Mr. Punire laid on a succession of strikes; back, forth, back, forth, working his way down, from thigh to calf, then back up her legs. Camille was frantic to get away, and despite the straps applied to keep her safe she seemed far too out of control for Mr. Punire's liking. "Rico," he called out, "hold her," and Rico stepped to her side and wrapped his arms around her chest, one arm above and the other below her breasts, and held her tight. She was free to move from the waist down, and she did so with astonishing energy, franticly trying to elude the three tailed mini as it played up and down her legs, screaming all the while at the top of her voice, crying and wailing and spreading her legs to display far up into her vagina, and the lovely form of her clitoris and its sheath, but Mr. Punire was not yet ready to stop. He was enjoying immensely the feel of the three-tailed mini, its wonderful responsiveness, which he helped to design, and the potent effect it was having on his oh so poor little Camille.

He let her be for a moment, told Rico to let her go, but she continued to wail and writhe in her bonds, and bemoan her suffering. "Please," she screamed at the top of her voice, and then quietly, "please, please, please... please let me go," and she broke into a fit of sobs; her tears began dripping from cheeks.

Mr. Punire brought her some water, and helped her drink, and gave her a moment of respite; then he walked behind her and picked up the whip again. "Never," he yelled and whipped her hard on the inside of her left thigh. "Please," she screamed, thrusting lasciviously.

"Never," he yelled and whipped the inside of her right thigh.

"Please, Please," she screeched.

And again he whipped her, back and forth, back and forth, in measured strokes, this time pacing his relentless attack, punctuating each slash too her thighs with an admonishment, hitting low down, mid-thigh, and then as high as he could without lashing into the core of her femininity. When he was satisfied, he walked to her and told her quietly, privately, warningly, "Never, never, never disrespect your headmaster again." Even if he is an idiot he added to himself.

He had stopped when she no longer had strength to rise up. He'd whipped her good on the backs of her legs, and many times savagely on the insides of her thighs, all of which had turned a lovely bright red, and five times into the crack of her buttocks, twice with the very tip of the tails on her anus which brought out an entirely new and enchanting range of vocalization. She sings beautifully he thought, and the audience agreed, and would be happy when they got home to the privacy of their homes where they could masturbate to the memory of Camille's thrashing.

He waited patiently as Camille cried herself out... As he had promised, this fierce whipping, though more prolonged, was not as intensely sadistic and painful as the buggy whip, and though Camille was in no state to judge objectively, he thought that later on were she to consider the differences she would agree.

Camille was hanging again in her restraints, only occasionally rising as fresh onslaughts of pain came forth. Her legs were splayed most indecorously, but she had neither the strength nor inclination to care what she looked like. Mr. Punire came around and lifted her head, pushing up gently on her chin. "My little Camille," he crooned quietly to her. "We're nearly done."

"Ohhh," she moaned, she didn't like the sound of that, for what came foremost to her mind was the 'nearly,' meaning 'not yet over.' "Ohhh" she said again, "please Mr. Punire, please no more; I beg you with all my heart... Mr. Punire sir" she implored. Why do you do this? Why do you like to hurt girls? Did your mother hurt you?"

"You impudent little girl. You're lucky it's not Mr. Coletnik behind you with a whip. Remember Suzy? She spent two days in a hospital when he was finished with her. You think I hurt girls? You have no idea what hurt can be. I love girls; that's why I do what I do; I do it for you.

Mr. Punire went over to Mr. Hartley, and another heated argument ensued. Camille's fate hung in the balance, with her fully aware that that it was so. "Please God," she prayed. "Please let Mr. Punire win."

After a long time Mr. Punire came back and told Rico and Sadici to get her down, and they unstrapped and supported her as she hobbled with her legs spread so her thighs wouldn't rub, and they laid her again on her back on the long table. Camille gave a tremendous sob, and began to cry with relief, believing it was all over, but her relief was short lived. The assistants again stretched and strapped poor Camille, this time spreading her wide open, each leg bent at the knee and pulled over the table's sides, each foot again in an encompassing shoe, fastened low to a table leg with elastic cord to temper the shock of the violence to come.

Then they propped her with support under her tailbone and the upper reaches of her buttocks, and they wheeled her front and center. What's going on, she thought wildly, isn't he done with me, and she thought of the first argument between Mr. Hartley and Mr. Punire and how a compromise had been reached, though she couldn't imagine how that unbearable buggy whip could be any kind of a compromise. If this is a compromise like that first whip... I can't take this any more she thought and quailed... but she knew in her heart that whether or not she would be able to take it, she was going to get it, and as she thought this she realized they were positioning the core of her sexual being to be her most prominent feature, and she grew frantic with fear and began to struggle. No, they can't, she thought, they can't, he wouldn't, and she wished she'd gotten to the part of the book of regulations that said what they could or couldn't do... but her positioning couldn't be denied; she realized Mr. Punire was going to whip her between her legs.

"Mr. Punire, no Mr. Punire, please, not between my legs. It isn't right, I don't want you to..."

She was a deer in the headlights, nowhere to go, no time to get there, and she wildly turned from Mr. Punire, to Mr. Hartley, back and forth looking for mercy, or any sign of temperance. Mr. Punire was all business. Mr. Hartley gloated and mocked her much as she'd mocked him.

"Mr. Punire, sir," Camille tried to get his attention, tried to get him to talk to her, anything to delay what he was preparing to do even at the risk of antagonizing him. "Did the girls not love you back, is that why you do what you do Mr. Punire? Did they not want to do it with you when you were a boy? You're not very nice to us you know." Camille realized she might have gone too far and she quickly added, "Though you have a nice side." She looked up into his face to see if he was listening. She caught the tremor of a tick of his right eye; she knew she'd touched a nerve.

"Raise her up some more," was Mr. Punire's answer.

Oh God she thought, oh God, now I'm going to get it. What have I done?

"Camille," Mr. Punire called sharply to got her attention. He came close up to her, his demeanor softened, and he kneeled and whispered in her ear: "Camille, my poor little Camille," but she wasn't having any of it.

"You can't, you can't" she insisted, anger sounding in her voice.

"Camille, Camille, you blame me for your predicament, and your distress, but you who lose sight of the essential fact of today's proceeding. It is you who broke the rules, and broke them harshly, and there is no one to blame for your situation but yourself. Yes it is I who implement the regulations of the district, that is true, but I do so with skill and mercy that in your present position you cannot appreciate, but they are not my rules, and if you take issue with their severity then you must petition the district to change them. Until then, accept the fate which you set into motion."




The Last Sashay



"I don't blame you Mr. Punire. I understand that you punish, and try to protect me at the same time, but I'm hurting so bad, why can't you stop she asked rhetorically? But before he could respond she said, quietly so only he could hear, "it's Mr. Hartley, isn't it?"

"Yes dear. It's Mr. Hartley. If it were up to me you'd be done."

"Ohh, ohhh" she moaned, "ohh please, can't you pretend to hit me. He'll never know."

"But I'll know," he said, and he placed the heal of his hand on her mons, and his middle finger along the length of the line of the split of her labia.

Camille's physical arousal had vanished upon the onset of her whipping, but her mind was swirling with sexual excess. Many of her fantasies involved displaying herself, much as she did to the boys, and then to Mr. Hartley in the hallway the day she got in trouble, and her most exciting fantasies were to be displayed against her will to men she feared and loathed. Her public display to the likes of the men and boys of the first ten rows made her dizzy with lust; her fantasy had come true. As Mr. Punire's finger rested in the cleft of her widely spread vulva, his long middle digit at rest from her clitoris to the hot wet opening of her vagina, not moving, or was it, yes, it was, but merely the slightest change of pressure, unnoticeable but that it rested on the most sensitive of Camille's tissues; it was the tiniest tease, and her membranes again began to swell, and her feminine liquid again to secrete. He patted her down there, gently, repeatedly, insistently; he was fond of that caress, and then he began to stroke his finger up and down the length of her, and she couldn't help but rise and moan and rub in concert with his ministrations. He pretended to lean again and whisper in her ear, but he kissed her instead, once and then again, and she responded with a call of wild abandon that nearly broke his heart.

Mr. Puire played her, the sensitivities of her body, and the depths of the consciousness of her burgeoning womanhood. The audience watched and listened, spellbound by the scene before them: Mr. Punire stimulating her; she bound, stretched, spread, presented; and Camille, eyes closed, in a far off world of pleasure and excitement the likes of which her pubescence mind never imagined might exist.

He judged the halfway mark to be attained, and he went to his bucket and took the single tailed mini from his collection, and ran its supple thong through his fingers feeling for any discontinuity; it was perfect. He looked to Mr. Hartley who nodded his assent, and he looked to Camille, who opened her eyes to see him standing over her with that final instrument of her torture in his grip.

Mr. Hartley stood, Mr. Punire waited for him to come nearby to watch Camille, up close and personal, taunting her. "The double X," Mr. Hartley said, reminding Mr. Punire of the agreement they had reached.

"Yes," Mr. Punire nodded, "but as we agreed."

Mr. Hartley nodded in return.

Camille watched their interaction, and then as Mr. Punire raised the single tailed whip she shut her eyes tight and tensed every muscle in her body in preparation for the strike that would ensue on this virgin sacrificed to the rule of law and the lust and egos of the men who created it. "Relax," he said, "quickly now," and he waited as she forced herself to do so, and then he struck.

It was a crack and scream as had never been heard in that school or district before or since. His aim was perfect, his form the poetry of his profession, his inspiration the love of this divine creature that had captured his soul; and his strike took her to a parallel universe where only white light and searing fire existed in the heavens and hells of her reality and her illusions. She screamed and screamed and twisted in her bonds, and the mark upon her was at once bright red and would soon be turning blue, though not a cell of skin was broken on the surface.

What he'd done was more than enough; more than enough to satisfy the requirements of any sane man and Mr. Hartley knew it. Mr. Punire looked at him, and Mr. Hartley, still within the spell of Camille's agony and screams, turned and walked away. He didn't leave the stage, but stood by the wall in indication that Mr. Punire should proceed as he judged right.

A proper double X would be four lashes, two from either side, two centered on the clitoris, and two on the vaginal opening. It is a punishment that is allowed, but under the circumstances, at the far limit of severity, much farther in the opinion of Mr. Punire than should ever be allowed to be perpetrated on one as young and immature as the likes of Camille; one that should only be allowed in prison if at all. The compromise reached was a double X, but neither on the clitoris nor the vagina, but between the two where lesser harm might be done. Still, four lashes on the vulva would take a terrible toll, and Mr. Punire forged his own path on a lesser course, though one that still would satisfy the technicalities of their agreement. It took all his skill, all he'd learned and practiced over decades of education and practice, skills that were perhaps secret to him alone, he'd certainly never shared them, and the single stroke he placed on the hyper-aroused mound of Camille's lust was the culmination of all his experience. He summed it up in one simple phrase: Maximum pain, minimum damage.

The pain part was the key to Camille's survival, not because of what it did to her, but because of what Mr. Hartley would believe was done to her. Mr. Punire was now free to finish as he wished, and he quickly lashed three more times across her vulva in accordance with the men's agreement. He was not one to break an agreement, but now he could administer it as he wished, and though Camille certainly felt them dreadfully, they were but fleabites to that first of the final strokes.

"Quickly," he said to Rico and Sadici who knew what to do, and jumped into action. Sadici untied Camille and Rico crushed an ice pack to get its chemicals to mix and freeze. Mr. Punire grabbed it from his hands and thrust it between Camille's legs, put her hands on it to hold it in place, and closed her thighs.

"Keep the ice pack on" he said to Camille, "ten minutes on, two or three minutes off. You'll be alright in a few hours." Camille looked up at him, tear streaked and woozy from her ordeal; she nodded but he could see she wasn't right; she was turning pale.

"Tilt her up, quickly," he shouted to the assistants, and they tilted the table so Camille's head would be below her body. "Tilt her more," Mr. Punire shouted, and they swung the table so Camille was at a precipitous angle, almost sliding off, Sadici holding her up.

Mr. Punire grabbed a washrag from his kit and a bottle of water and wet the rag and folded it quickly, and put it on Camille's forehead, wrapping around it around her temples.

Oh God, I'm passing out she thought, but then they tilted her down, and put the cool washcloth on her head. She was surprised how effective it was, she felt herself coming back instead of drifting further into unconsciousness. She never could have taken three more strokes Mr. Punire thought, not three real ones.



Chapter 9. The Final Sashay

They closed the curtains, it was near eleven o'clock, and the school assembly was put to a close. Mr. Hartley went back to his office, his fun was over, and Mr. Punire sat with Camille for the first hour while she recovered. Rico and Sadici disassembled the whipping frame and took its parts and the bucket of whips to their van.

By noon the ice had numbed the pain between her legs and kept the swelling down, and the bruise on her buttocks from the buggy whip looked not too severe, nor the others on her legs. She was recovering nicely, her color looked good, and she was chatting with Mr. Punire, and even had some words with Rico, though she wanted nothing to do with Sadici, which was fine by him.

"Take her downstairs. Give her a new ice pack. I've got some calls I've got to make, I'll be back in half an hour." Mr. Punire left, and Rico and Sadici each took one of Camille's arms around their shoulders to help her walk. They'd given her water and a protein shake, she was young and would recover quickly, but she was still quite weak. "Wait a minute she said, and she hobbled over and picked up her harem pants, lying discarded stage left. "I suffered for these, I want them, and she started to put them on, but Sadici took them from her and stuck them in his pocket. They took her arms again and guided Camille, still half naked, down a back stairway leading from the auditorium to the lower levels of the building. Camille didn't notice Sadici pick up the single tailed miniwhip at the last moment.

As soon as they entered the secluded stairwell Camille got that sinking feeling; this was all too familiar. She hoped she was imagining it, she hoped it wasn't happen, but when Sadici brought out the whip, and began waving it, tauntingly, rhythmically, menacingly before her, her terror surged, and with all her strength she tried franticly to pull herself from their grip and run.

"I've been looking at those sweet titties of yours all day," he said. "But no, you're just not old enough, are you, to have your tender little nipples whipped, aren't you 'my poor Camille,'" he mocked.

"No, I mean yes, Mr. Punire won't let you, you'll get in trouble, please, I've had enough." She turned to Rico, "please Rico, don't let him do it, you'll get in trouble."

"That's Mr. Rico, sir, to you 'my little Camille'." He mocked her too.

"Not my breasts, please, they hurt already."

"Not my breasts," Rico mimicked, "they hurt already," he said in an imitation of a young girl's voice. "Do it now" he said to Sadici, and he grabbed Camille, got himself in a crouch leaning against the wall, trapped Camille's legs between his own, and pulled her gauzy shirt up over her head and behind her neck, and he crossed her wrists and Sadici used the harem pants to bind her.

"No," she began to scream, but Rico held his hand firmly over her mouth as Sadici raised the single tailed mini and started on her still maturing mammaries. His aim wasn't too bad either, and he slashed each breasts on each of it's four sides, forehand then backhand: Right top, left top, then he waited... Right outside, left outside, wait for her screams to subside... left inside, right inside, wait again... and a nasty slashing upper cut to her left breast, then her right, and when she thought he was finally done he let loose with two more cuts, to just the tips, those hormonally swollen areolas, those mini breasts from whose prominence her tiny pink nipples budded, and Sadici, with all his frustration and sadism coming to fore slashed the whip and pulled it back, once for each nipple, snapping the tip of the whip on the tip of Camille's young breasts and wrenching from her a couple of shrieking screams that ranked with the best he'd ever induced.

"That's enough," Rico said, and they untied her and gave her the ice pack again. "Better put it on your nips," Rico said, and he took her shirt and pulled it back down and stuck the ice pack under it and put her hands on top. Camille was still nested into Rico's lap; she could feel his erection fit into the cleft of her backside. Rico had Sadici pass him Camille's pants and he slipped one foot, then the other into them, and Sadici pulled her up by her arms and Rico pulled the pants up and tied them at the waist. "Thank you for a wonderful evening," he said, and they took her to the preparation room and let her be.

Mr. Punire came back and Camille showed him her breasts and complained bitterly. "You're responsible," she said, "for my safety and welfare. And look what happened," she said, sticking her breasts out at him.

Mr. Punire had no idea she'd read the book of regulations, he thought she'd guessed about his responsibility, but she was right, he was responsible, and if she were to make a complaint he would be in a lot of trouble. Rico and Sadici were counting on that, that Mr. Punire couldn't sanction them without risking his own position. He was furious, but under the circumstances he wasn't willing to make wrong right.

"Get out," he said to his men. "Wait by the van until I'm ready for you."

Mr. Punire turned to Camille. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're right, I didn't protect you as I should have."

"Well I'm hurting and you're a prick," she said, her breasts were really hurting badly and she was angry, "and unless you start being really nice to me, not this phony 'my poor little Camille' crap, I'm going to stick it to you."

"Don't push it girl. I don't take kindly to ultimatums; you push too far and I may say damn the consequences and take you over my knee."

"Yeah, well fuck you, but I get your point. How about a truce? The way I feel it's hard for me to accept that you did anything nice for me, but I know you did, and I appreciate it."

"Okay, a truce. Let me look at your breasts."

Camille gave him a dirty look, but she took her shirt off, put a pillow down for her head, and lay on her back on the table.

Mr. Punire inspected the damage. "Ice is still the best thing, but Sadici nearly broke the skin in a couple of places. If you let me I'll put some lotion on you, or you could do it yourself if you prefer."

"Since we have a truce I'll let you do the honors, and it is an honor, and don't forget it; and they really really hurt so really really go easy; not easy like upstairs"

"Yes Camille."

"That's Ms. Camille to you, Mr. Punire."

"Not Ms. Dupree?"

"Not Mr. Salvatore?"

"How do you know my name," he asked, very much surprised?

"It's what we girls do; find out about people we like." In the beginning of the book of rules and regulations she had seen a list of contributors and current members of the board of directors, and Salvatore was the only Italian name she saw; she guessed it was him. "Mr. Salvatore Donato," she added for good measure.

"You are something," he said, and he poured a generous dollop of lotion into his hand and most gingerly began touching his warm palm covered with cream to her bruised nipples.

"Oh shit that feels good," she said, her nipples rising to his touch. His penis began rising as well, and he adjusted himself discretely, which Camille pretended not to notice. He continued spreading lotion on her nipples, then on her breasts, and her hands once again found their way to her crotch, and once again she started moaning, and she started rhythmically raising her pelvis to her hands as he ministered to her.

"You've got a nice touch," she said, "can you do my back?"

Camille turned over and glanced at the clock, it was two thirty-five, just about enough time she thought.

Mr. Punire untied the drawstring and pulled the harem pants down her legs and off her feet. Camille was completely naked for the first time that day, and his erection hardened precipitously. He spread lotion over the buggy-whip lash, and all down the length of her legs, and she moaned and writhed seductively all the while; he had no idea if she knew the effect she was having on him.

"Do you want me to do between your legs too," he asked?

"Oh yes," she said enthusiastically, and she opened her legs to facilitate.

"He lotioned her inner thighs, approaching her vulva, but not touching, teasing her mercilessly, and she loved every minute of it, and then he touched his finger to her vagina and she squealed that delightful trilling sound he'd come to love so much. He gently put it in her, slowly, slowly, as far as he could reach, and he worked it around, firmly but gently, and then he put two fingers in, and she put her hands beneath her and masturbated her clitoris while wildly humping his fingers; her juices flowing copiously out of her and coating his hand.

She stopped just when he thought she was about to come, she was way past the halfway point, she took his hand and pulled his fingers out of her; she glanced again at the clock. "Do you have a condom," she asked?

"A condom? A condom. I don't know," he said, meaning he didn't know if it was a good idea, meaning he knew it wasn't a good idea, completely forbidden, and yet there had been cases, quite a few in fact where men of his stature were forgiven, due to 'extenuating circumstances' as they were euphemistically called. And there she was in front of him, wet and ready, asking for it, clearly seducing him, not the other way round; and who's to know anyway. "Yes, I believe I do" he said, his erection raging, hard as a bar of iron, hotter than a blast furnace, throbbing with each beat of his heart." Mr. Punire went and got a condom, and as he was passing she reached her arm round his hips and brought him to her, and through his pants she kissed his penis, up and down the length of it, then grabbed the tip of it between her teeth.

"Ahhh," he gasped, "not so hard," but she held him on that line between pleasure and pain, and just a little past that line, letting him know that at least right then she was master.

He gasped with relief when she let him go? "Where'd you learn that," he asked?

"I made it up," Camille answered. "Did you like it?"

"Ahh... yes and no," he said. She understood.

"Mr. Punire, Mr. Salvatore? Could you do something for me, I mean besides fucking by brains out?"

"Anything my dear."

"Is my punishment over now, I mean, officially? I dying," she spread her legs seductively to make clear what she meant, "but I feel weird about you being my authority. I mean I know you're way older than I am, and we're not equals, but I don't want you to own me any more like you do when you punish a girl. Can I be officially released before we do it?"

"Easily done," he said, "just a slip of the pen," and Mr. Punire went and got the multipart transportation form and signed, timed, and dated it and gave Camille her copy, and she slid it under her chest as he walked behind her, pulled off his pants, rolled on the condom, lowered the bottom half of the hinged table, spread her legs, and placed the tip of his stallion's penis to the hot and hungry entrance of her adolescent vagina."

"Go easy she said, I'm a virgin... though I've had things up inside me," she added, which explained what he found, or rather didn't find with his digital manipulation.

"Okay dear, nice and slow; easy does it."

"Thank you Mr. Punire," she turned her head toward him, "and could you hold off coming until I've had at least two orgasms," and she gave him a wink?

"I was intending to," he said, though he was so pumped with lust he wasn't really intending to at all. What he was intending to do was punish her some more, by stuffing her tight little young girl cunt with his man size prick, and making her yell for mercy while he pumped her full of a bucket of semen, at least metaphorically, given the need to not get her pregnant. But now that she'd brought it up he'd show her who was in control; he could hold off coming for as long as he wanted, all day and night if necessary. He'd make her come so many times she'd beg him to get himself off.

Camille looked at the clock again. "Do it now," she begged in her best girl's sweet pleading soprano. "Put it in, please, put it in," and she raised her rear and spread her legs wider. Her display was unambiguous, and he did what she asked, slowly as promised, but unrelentingly, until his pubic bone pushed hard into the softness of her buttocks. He held it there, and then he slid himself out, again with excruciating slowness, and back in all the way.

Camille was breathing hard; she'd been way close to the edge during his massage, and way way close to the edge when he had his fingers in her, with her own fingers worrying her engorged clit. "Oh God," she said, "oh, oh, oh" she screamed, and she started her first orgasm, fucking herself on his penis as he kept himself still and made her do all the work, and then she rose to another series of spasms when he reached around and pinched her bruised nipples, which also got a shriek, and she swung around and tried to give him an elbow in the face but he caught her arm, and then he took her other arm and pinned her down as he fucked her, the spasms of her orgasm continued unabated. That's number one he thought.