0 comments/ 50340 views/ 11 favorites Educating Emma By: adoration I jumped off the Stagecoach bus outside Hastings College in Archery Road and walked into the campus, feeling thrilled and scared at the same time. I was about to set out on an adventure of self-discovery, but little did I realise at the time just how exciting that adventure was going to be. I had enrolled in a twice-weekly computer course and on finally tracking down the lecture room found, to my delight, that there were only four other students – all women – who had signed up for the course. I say "delight", but to be brutally honest I'm a 35-year-old divorcee and I far prefer women. Why, well I don't really want to go there, but let's just say men stink. We had all placed our bags on desks were sitting down when the course lecturer walked in. And, to my delight once again, it was a woman. She was tall, with jet black hair which shone as it fell in beautifully brushed cascades to mid-shoulders. She was wearing a jet-black leather skirt and jacket outfit which gleamed like her hair and said "This cost hundreds girls". She was wearing what I hoped were stockings, black like her dress, and high-heeled Manolo Blahniks which I just wanted to kneel down and kiss. Naughty me! Her figure was superb, high breasts, lovely bum, great legs. Her age was about the same as mine, I guessed. Turning to face the class from her desk, she removed her glasses and smiled at us. She was so stunningly attractive, I felt my heart skip a beat. "Good afternoon, ladies," she said, in a sort of BBC tone of voice – impossible to say where she was from. "My name is Katherine Entwistle, but please call me Katherine. Not 'Kate', thank-you – I hate 'Kate'." One of our group put up her hand. "Please, Ms Entwistle – sorry, I mean Katherine – but are you any relation to that man who played for The Who?" Ms Entwistle – sorry, I mean Katherine – gave a broad grin and I felt a wetness gathering at my crotch. "If I had a pound for every time I've been asked that question, I could buy a record company," she said. "No, as far as I know my husband is not related to some old rocker." Her husband! My heart fell. But in an instant, it soared again. Katherine went on: "But when I divorced the old ratbag, I decided to keep his name. You see, my parents were Hepburns and both – mum and dad – had a huge crush on Katherine Hepburn. The times I've been teased about that name are beyond a joke. So about 10 years ago, when I became the former Mrs Entwistle, well I decided to keep the name." Another hand shot up. "Er, I'm Daphne, Katherine," said a young, acne-ridden blonde. "Can you tell us what you've done in computers?" Katherine stepped in front of the desk and placed her beautiful bum on it and hitched her skirt up slightly. Her thighs were to die for! I longed to place my face on her nylon-covered flesh and pour out my yearnings to her. "Well, I was for far too many years," she explained, "a person who wrote computer programmes. I started off small, but then I won a contract to provide a training manual for the Metropolitan Police. The year I did it for them it was voted the best rozzer's training manual in the world. "That led to a job providing a training manual for cabin crew on British Airways. If you want to know how to pour coffee without spilling it in a customer's lap at 35,000 feet during heavy turbulence call me. The answer, of course, is not to pour it but to go and strap yourself down as well, especially if it's really heavy turbulence." We all laughed. "But that enabled me to provide a programme for the Boeing company," she said. "They were impressed, apparently, with what I'd done for BA and I did a computer programme on certain aspects of the Boeing 737 ER." Daphne, the acned little bitch, shot her hand up again. "ER, er what's that mean, Ms – sorry, I mean, Katherine." Katherine smiled at her and I wanted to scratch Daphne's eyes out. "It stands for Extended Range," she informed the bitch blonde. "And I love that plane because it earned me a helluva lot of money and enabled me to buy a place here in Hastings and go into semi-retirement." Then she stood up, and said: "Right, starting with you Daphne, tell us a bit about yourself and why you've enrolled in this course." The vacuous little blonde rattled on for a few minutes, but I hardly heard a word. What was I going to say when it was my turn? Finally, it came to me. Last, as usual. "And your name is?" said Katherine, smiling her dazzling smile at me. "Er, er, I'm Emma," I said. Katherine smiled and I felt like melting. "Right Emma, what is it that brings you to my course – and please, don't say a Stagecoach bus." There was a titter in the class and Katherine put up her hand. "Sorry, that was uncalled for and a dreadful joke. OK, Emma, tell us." I breathed in a huge gulp of air and gabbled my lines. "I'm outwardly awfully shy, I mean dreadfully shy, but I like to think that inside I've got this, oh, this inner confidence. And I love computers and want to learn much more about them. I'm 35 and divorced, so I've got the time to find out more about computers now, and they're so useful." Then I stopped, feeling gauche and silly, afraid I'd rambled on, whereas I'd only been speaking for less than a minute. "Excellent," said Katherine, still smiling at me as if I was the only person in the class. "But you know the four most dreaded words in the English language, don't you, Emma?" I shook my head. "N-n-no, K-K-K-Katherine," I stammered. Katherine laughed. "The computer is down." Then the entire class laughed. "Computers are, of course, a wonderful tool," said Katherine, "but they're not the be-all and end-all of information. Say you want to know about, oh I don't know, let's say Napoleon Bonaparte. You want to know where and when he died. "Punch it into your search engine and you might get the answer 'Elba, 1821'. "But if the person who wrote the computer programme put, by mistake 1840 – the year his body was exhumed, by the way – then you get an example of what? Anyone know?" The dreadful Daphne's hand shot up again. "Bullshit in, bullshit out, Katherine?" she asked, smugly. I wanted to throttle her. "Correct," said our lecturer, who then walked around the class distributing sheets of paper to everyone. "On this I want you to fill in your details, why you're interested in my course and your phone number – mobile if you've got one – in case I need to contact you with a query out of class time." We all set to work and Katherine walked to the window giving a view out onto the large campus overlooking St Leonard's-on-Sea and gazed out. I looked at her superb arse and wanted to kneel behind her and worship her, but then she began to walk around the class, so I bent to my other work – filling in her form. As she passed me, I felt Katherine's hand gently press against my shoulder. It was, now I look back on it, a cool hand, but it tingled on my flesh like a stab of electricity. And I felt that stab flow down, arcing out into each nipple and then flooding down to my by now extremely moist panties. I'm sure that as she walked on, Katherine sneaked a glance down my cleavage – the summer dress I'd chosen was quite low cut and revealed a bit of breast, a department I'm quite large in. And then she gave me a small, hardly detectable smile. I looked at her and just managed to prevent myself gaping. It was a smile which said "I'm going to teach you about more than computers, my girl" and then she turned her face away and walked back to her desk. At the end of class, Katherine stood and announced: "Thank-you, ladies, I think we've made good progress. See you all same time tomorrow. Oh, Emma, please stay behind a moment, there's something on your sheet I've got a query with." My heart was going pitter-patter, pitter-patter, as I crammed my stuff into my shoulder bag and when the other four had left I walked nervously and painfully shyly to her desk. "Sorry, is something wrong, Katherine?" I asked in a tiny, girlish voice. She beamed up at me. "Nothing wrong at all, Emma," she grinned, "I just wanted the rest of them out of the way. Now, would you like a cup of coffee? Or better still, a drink at my place?" I felt like fainting, I was so excited. "I'm, er, well, I'm not much of a coffee fan," I said. "A drink, perhaps?" Katherine grabbed her smart, brown leather attache case. "Thank goodness for that," she said. "I drank almost all the reserves of Brazil coffee while I was in Seattle on that Boeing contract. I've got a car, we'll go to my place and have a big gin, I need one. This, believe it or not, was my very first class." Outside, in the staff car park, Katherine pointed out a low-slung, dark green E-type Jaguar. "That's my old set of wheels," she said. "Made in 1973 and no, they don't make 'em like that any more. I paid too much for her, but I just love Emma. Emma after E-type, not after you my dear, although it's hugely appropriate, don't you think?" I sank into the leather seat, which looked as if it had been polished every day of its life and admired the racy little gear lever and the wood trim on the steering wheel. It was so low! Well, low to someone accustomed to Stageoach buses. Katherine fired the throaty engine into life and we roared through the streets at what seemed a breakneck speed to her home, some two or three miles out of Hastings in a little village called Fairlight. There, high up on a cliff overlooking a long beach and the busy English Channel was a two-storey building, with massive panoramic windows. The E-type scrunched on the gravel as Katherine braked it to a stop. "Welcome to my humble home," she said. "It's rather nice, actually, but it set me back almost a couple of million quid. I call it 'The House that Boeing Built'. Let's get that drink." Inside in a magnificently modern kitchen that was almost as big as my entire bedsit, Katherine built two gins in long, tall glasses, added what looked to me to be suspiciously little tonic, then a couple of slivers of green limes and passed one to me. "Here's to friendship," she said, clinking her glass against mine. "Friendship," I murmured, still in a turmoil of excitement. Then, finding my voice, I asked: "Why Hastings, Katherine? Why not somewhere exotic and famous?" "Hastings not famous?" she laughed. "Battle of Hastings? 1066 and all that?" I felt silly. "Oh, historically famous, I agree," I said, "but not where I'd expect a wonderful woman like you to end up." Katherine sipped on her gin, I sipped on mine and yes, it was as powerful as I'd feared. "I hate big cities," she said. "Worked in too many of 'em. Small towns – what's Hastings? Something like 85,000 isn't it? This'll do me fine." I took another sip of my gin, which merely went to confirm my first fears. It was, as my appalling ex-husband was fond of putting it "a whoringly serious fucking drink". Then Katherine put her glass down on a massive kitchen table, made of what looked like oak and was almost large enough to play a game of tennis on and stepped behind me. I felt her breath on my cheek as she murmured in a much softer voice than her classroom lecturing: "And speaking of doing me fine, so will you, Emma, so will you. You like me, don't you?" I blushed beetroot red. "Was it that obvious?" I asked in a trembling voice. I felt her fingers unzipping the top of my dress and sliding the zip down to my panty-line. "No, of course not, but it was obvious to me that you like the look of me." Then she kissed me lightly on the cheek and whispered: "Black lingerie, you divine little devil. I simply adore black lingerie." And with a final flick, bringing the zip to the end of its descent, she grabbed my dress at the shoulders and pulled it off my body. I hooked it into one shoe-clad foot and kicked it away and then stood still. I was breathing heavily, still sipping occasionally at my monstrous gin and tonic, but under no illusions. I was being seduced and I was loving it. Katherine traced a hand across my black-pantied bum cheeks. "These are so adorable," she whispered. "They must bounce beautifully when they're spanked. Do they? Bounce beautifully?" I gulped back a sob. She was teasing me. "I don't know, Katherine, I can't remember when I was last spanked. Are you going to spank me?" She kissed me gently on the cheek. "Yup, I sure am, and you're going to love it," she told me. Then she peeked around my front. "Ohmigawd," she said, in that BBC accent, "those are so lovely. What are they darling? D-cup, 36, 37, 38?" "D-cup 36," I whispered, feeling a sort of burning in my breasts, knowing her eyes were figuratively glued to the gleaming black satin bra I had chosen with such care this morning. Now I was getting ogled! Then I felt her other hand – not her arse-stroking hand - move around to my front, and down across my satin panties, until her fingers were against my sopping quim. I felt mortified. My sexual lusting would be revealed to her glorious touch. "Oh crikey, Emma," she said, "you're so wet. And so smooth. Tell me, do you shave down there?" "Yes," my voice almost squeaked as I answered, I was just glorying in her lovely, satin-smooth stroke of my pussy. "Good," she said, kissing my cheek lightly again. "I hate it when I get pubic hair in my mouth." Then she placed her gin and tonic in my free hand, kissed me again gently and walked to the door. I remained glued to where I stood. Katherine unzipped her leather jacket and threw it casually on the floor. Her skirt followed and she kicked it away. She was wearing a little black bra, sheer and see-through, her nipples looked large and erect, her breasts smallish but beautifully rounded. On her hips was a narrow black suspender belt, her pussy was covered by a black pair of sheer panties. She looked gorgeous and it was my turn to ogle her. Then she shook her lovely long dark hair, pulled off her glasses and said: "Coming?" And with that she turned her cute, oh-so-adorable arse on me and I heard her high heels clip-clop away from the kitchen. "Don't forget to bring those gins, darling," she called and I shook myself from my stupor and followed her. As I walked upstairs I could see her divine buttocks jouncing in the sheer black prison, the light shimmering on her shiny, seamed stockings. We entered her large bedroom with its wonderful view out across the channel. Katherine walked to the window, but I held back. "Come on, silly, it's quite safe," she said, "we can see out, but no one down there can see in." I stepped beside her and once more her hand started to graze over my buttocks. "Now, let's get that spanking out of the way, shall we?" she whispered and I placed the glasses on the window ledge. "Don't hurt me, darling," I said, turning to face her. "I'm new to this." "Course I won't, pet," she said, "I love you, I'm not going to hurt you. Now, step over to the bed and place your hands, palms down on the mattress." Although she had said no one could see in, I felt more comfortable moving away from the long, wide window but when I placed my hands on the bed, it made me bend so my backside was sort of presented to her. I felt vulnerable – excited, yes, but vulnerable. Katherine stepped to my left and with her left hand she cupped my left breast and fondled it. "Shit, it's heavy," she said, in a truly awed tone. "I'm going to spend a lot of time sucking on these beauties." Then her right hand stroked my right buttock, just a gentle caress before she lifted her arm and cracked her hand down across my buttock cheek. "Oh fuck," she almost screamed, "it wobbled, it bounced, just like I knew it would. It's great." Then she struck me again. Each blow made a slapping sound on my buttock, but I was only feeling warmish down there. It was exciting, but I still felt vulnerable. Now Katherine worked into a steady tempo, raining blows down on the same buttock cheek, about 10 spanks to the minute. Then, after about 20 cracks, she transferred her attentions to my left buttock, all the while rubbing her left hand against my breasts, stroking and massaging me there. Finally, she stopped and kissed me on the cheek. "Now, darling," she whispered, "sans panties!" I still hadn't kissed her, so I turned my face and did something I knew was unlike me, but I needed it so. "Please, Katherine, please kiss me," I said, not pleading, but not far from it. Her lightly-lipsticked mouth brushed against my mouth, a brief butterfly kiss, then she pressed against me slightly harder, then her tongue was forcing its way into my mouth and she gave me a long, smoochy snog. "Wow, down girl," she smiled, after breaking away. "Time to warm that wonderful bum of yours a bit more." And placing one hand on each hip, she dragged my panties from my middle, then drew them up to her face and inhaled deeply. "Shit, they're sopping, absolutely sopping, you darling girl," she said, throwing the juicy, sex-stained panties onto the bed. Then her left hand went from my breasts to my pussy. "Oh fuck, Emma, you're leaking like a tap, you lovely little lady," she announced, and then her hand was raining down more blows on my poor bum. Only this time, she altered her technique. After each slapping stroke, her right forefinger glided from my anus down to my vagina, where she inserted it into the slippery wetness. Then she drew it out, pressed it against my anus again, before lifting her arm and whomping down to give me another stroke. It was heavenly! As her strike rate increased, Katherine started to stroke my engorged clitoris with her left hand, flicking it, teasing it, toying with it. Her spanking hand moved down from my anus until her forefinger invaded my cunt after each spanking stroke, then, as the warmth in my buttocks rose and rose with each strike, I felt her attentions at my clit reap its reward. I moved from a point of great excitement almost directly into a feeling of white heat. My buttocks were burning, but not a hurtful burn, a lovely, warm glow burn, and then I was thrusting and grinding against Katherine's left hand, where her fingers played and pulsated on my clit. Finally, I could take no more and with a scream of "Yaaaargh, I'm coming!" I fell onto the bed, her hand still firmly planted on my pussy, her fingers working wonderfully on my clit bud, and as I pumped up and down on her hand on the lovely soft duvet I roared out the signal that my climax had lifted off into orbit. "Fuuuuck, I've come, oh fuck, I've come you wonderful woman," I panted, as Katherine halted her spanking of my punished but also pleasured buttocks. Slowly, gently, my new love removed her sex-stained hand from my quim and smiled at my prone figure. "What a noisy little love, you are Emma," she said, as she removed her bra and shucked off her panties, to reveal a dark splotch of pubic hair the size of a couple of postage stamps on her mons. I looked up, still panting from my fantastic orgasm and looked at her large-nippled but small breasts. She saw me staring at them and covered them with her hands. "Please, darling, I know I'm nowhere near as well endowed as you," she said, "but it's the best I can do. I simply refuse to have implants." I sat up on the bed, wincing slightly as my warmed backside came into contact with the coolness of the duvet and placed my hands on hers, then dragged them down to her sides. Reaching up with my mouth I took her left nipple into my mouth and sucked on its firmness, then roamed around her areola, dark and succulent, then progressed to the rest of her lovely little globe. "They're gorgeous," I said, still sucking and nibbling at her left boob. "Don't worry, they're a lovely mouthful – what are they, 32?" Katherine shook her head. "No, 33s, but they may as well be 32s," she smiled. Educating Emma Ch. 01 My friend Jackie Macy and I first met each other about twenty years ago, when we first shared a room at the college during the first year. Jackie was a real flirt at college: right from the fresher's ball, it was quite clear that I, Muriel Grey, was to be the dull companion to the dazzling brunette. My closed-off frowns, my early nights and my short black hair, with its severe, almost boyish cut, presented a complete contrast to Jackie and her flowing brunette locks. I could hardly compete with her broad smiles and the openness with which she seemed to greet anyone and everyone. So, I simply chose to contrast full stop. Men would take one brief dismissive look at me, nod cursorily and then turn eagerly to attract the attentions of my room mate. Within weeks of that first excursion, my role as chaperone was redundant. Jackie was known far and wide as 'Racy' Macy after a series of short-lived encounters with various men, eager to show the teasing brunette the ropes or learn from her reputed exploits in bed. On the face of it we gradually drew apart as I lost myself in books and she lost herself in a whirlwind of sexual gratification that ended rather traumatically when she was sent down, pregnant early in our second year. At first we kept in touch with each other as she raised her child single-handedly. Her parents turned away from her and the boy who'd acted so irresponsibly having disappeared over the horizon and out of Jackie's life with the same rapidity as he'd jetted his sperm into her unprotected, young womb. I was fortunate to have been endowed with a small inheritance. Through it I was pleased to provide support to my former friend, using the funds to rebuild the bonds between us as I worked my way through academia and graduated with honours. You should know that I will remember that day for a long time because it was the last time that I saw Jackie for ages. She was my guest that day and brought baby Emma with her. See I have the photograph of them here in my rooms. Look at the loving way Jackie nurses her baby, gazing upon her with such motherly pride as the little girl sucks at her teat. And look at that gorgeous teat, all pink and swollen with a mother's milk. I had to clench my fists to not step forward and offer to nurse the other creamy breast myself, for all she looked so lovely and sweetly maternal. Instead, I contented myself with offering Jackie another cup of Earl Grey tea, a rather delicious biscuit and a discrete envelope containing further funds for Emma's development. Jackie was a very polite guest and never objected even when I insisted in taking a very close up picture of Emma on her teat, the roseate nipple being teased by Jackie to ensure sustenance for the child while I photographed the wonderful scene. I certainly ensured that I caught as much tit as I could in the picture. I did after all have to consider the subsequent clenching of my thighs in my subsequent masturbatory frenzy that night... After graduating, I moved into teaching first English and then specialised in English as a Foreign Language. During my post-graduate year, I gave Jackie advice on books for the toddler, Emma, to read, ways of encouraging her interest and various thoughts to help her language skills develop. By the time Emma started at school though, my friendship with her mother was maintained entirely by correspondence, as my teaching of English as a Foreign Language took me overseas. I wrote to them from all around the Mediterranean where I took up a number of short-lived posts as a private teacher of young ladies. As I grew in confidence I moved from teaching through schools towards more and more private tuition. Helping to add polish to the finishing of young ladies from the French, Italian and Spanish middle classes became my vocation. And I loved it. Jackie sent me news and updates on her work as a shop assistant and her slow progress towards a supervisory role. It was such a shame that all her promise had been spoilt by her university adventurism, but there were compensations. I so looked forward to the pictures she sent of Emma as she developed from a shy young girl into a rather lovely, petite brunette. In fact as time progressed she came to very much resemble my recollections of her mother at college. Emma wasn't all that athletic although she did swim quite a lot keeping down the puppy fat. It rather pleased me that Emma became quite bookish in her teens. I had high hopes of her and continued to recommend literature via Jackie. I confess that began to fantasise about her. Both she and her mother were such a contrast to the nubile young eighteen and nineteen year old Mediterranean girls who so often shared my bed, when their parents were off guard. I was caught a couple of times, but discretion was the watchword and I was sent on my way with tearful looks from the young signorinas, senoritas and mademoiselles and a stern, but often envious look from the offended parents. It was all Jackie's fault that I had this thing about teenaged girls. She was so forward when we shared that room when we were both nineteen that it stuck with me despite the risks to my profession. And I have no plans to change now after twenty years of seducing the daughters of the upper middle classes. They do, after all, have to come out sometime. Even though I've had lots of good times will my young charges, I will always recall the times when I was in the room alone with my books and Jackie was out with one of her many boyfriends that year we spent together. In fact, Jackie was very much my real early inspiration. I have to confess that had you strayed into our shared room, barely half an hour after she'd gone to her beloved of the night (and I'd stayed in on the pretext of some essay deadline to meet), you'd have found me furrowing through her drawers methodically. It became quite a fixation for me: toying with her smalls: those lovely bras and panties. Those delicious camisoles and the stockings, my dear, well! I can still feel the silkiness and the cotton soft fabric of the school girl knickers that she abandoned soon after arriving at college. And yes, I admit I did keep a couple of my favorite sets for old time's sake. It is quite amazing how you can manage to lose your room-mates panties when doing their wash for them communally. In any case I did no harm: it was simply recycling discarded raw materials - and they do say the planet is in sore need of that. Jackie quickly grew out of her sensible school panties and had soon moved on to unappealing thongs and lacy things more suited to a brothel than the tight, young mons of a beautiful and educated young English lady. Once I actually spread a pair of her old knickers out on her pillow and put my face to them, kissing and licking them, thinking of her undressing shamelessly in front of me after one of her little soirees, showing off the lacy gimmicks presented to her by her latest enamorata, changing right there in front of me completely shamelessly. Jackie looked sweet enough to eat in such a state of undress. And I certainly ate her when sneaking to the laundry basket late at night on pretext of a late night pee. I loved the thought of her sleeping barely five feet from me, with only a thin wall between us as I masturbated myself silly in the early hours. I remember that I would rummage through the laundry basket too and either chose her dirtiest pair of knickers or the ones she had worn most recently. Then I would use them as a panty-gag to muffle my groans as I played with my clitoris furiously, slapping my labia and sometimes pressing a slim finger into my dainty young bum hole. I would think of her looking so lovely and wholesome in her night dress; and then of her with a face full of cock all lecherous and needy; and then I would come and come and come. Imagine me, the prim, bookish Muriel, with her legs spread, her body contorted and her fingers pummeling in and out of the twin orifices. I came to love those cool porcelain nights, where I spent the most delicious hours on the pedestal of the toilet in the communal bathroom next to our bedroom. Oh! Alma Mater! You provided for me so generously. There was one time, when overcome by an excess of passion and daring I actually didn't make it to the bathroom. Instead, I took a pair of Jackie's sports shorts, fresh with her odour from a late night work out in the gym, stuffed the crotch in my mouth and masturbated under the sheets until I came like a soldier deprived of sex for a year of combat. My fingers were coated with the viscous fluids from my cunt and the warm residue that fingers occasionally coax from an overused anus. I felt quite disgusting after that climax and, in any case, had to get up to wash myself, for fear Jackie would scent my excitement when she woke in the morning. Quietly, I slid past Jackie's bed, tiptoeing to make sure that she would not be disturbed and as I walked past I gazed down at her peaceful face, as she lay on her side under the thin cotton sheets. It was then that I noticed that her lips were slightly open. I stood there for what seemed an age watching her breast rising and falling, willing myself to head to the bathroom; but I was quite paralysed by the sight of her warm lips and the soft tongue that I could glimpse between them. Finally, I could resist it no longer: I slid my come stained finger, sodden with my bodily spending, into her mouth. It brushed her lips and her tongue; it pushed in and out of her young mouth until the acrid moisture mingled with her saliva and the spermatozoa of whatever young beau had had her that night. I watched mesmerised as my fingers plunged in and out of Jackie's mouth, watching her soft lips accepting my dirty digits, fucking her face, reaching under my own nightdress to caress myself at the same time and then switching hands to give Jackie a fresher taste of chateau Muriel. And, when I'd done a second time, I was delighted to see her tongue licking away the residue from her Muriel encrusted lips before she rolled over and slid back into the deepest of sleeps. And, of course, you know that I really had to suppress a giggle when she complained of the fish supper she had had the following morning. I never told Jackie about my fantasies or the kinky goings on in our room when she absented herself in search of cock or slept through the night. I didn't want her to think ill of me, but I've since had the naughtiest thoughts about young women for years, tempting my gauche young charges to undress for me just like Jackie used to do. And more often than not succeeding. And I'd done more than think too. Let me tell you that you always have to be careful not to frighten the lovely young colts with their dark eyes and their eager smiles, so, so willing to please Miss Muriel Grey. First there is the introduction: are they nervous? How strong is the handshake? How damp are the hands? How trembling are their lovely young frames? Then there is the first embrace: the grazing of cheek to cheek. How firm is their grip on the arm? Do they tremble or just shake a little? Do they blanch when my ice blue eyes meet their soft, inexperienced pupils for the first time? Do they look down or turn to their mothers for reassurance? And how do they respond when I ask the mother about the child's disciplinary history and experience? I am a firm believer in traditions: spare the rod and spoil the child is my motto: hence my divergence into the most private spheres of education. A firm whipping early on in our relationship teaches the young would-be Prima Donna a lesson. It will show her why she should not to repeat her actions and will show me her precious under things. It also reassures the parents. They know that I mean business when they see me commanding their little darling to bend, bare and forget the rebellion of their earlier teenaged years. The fact that many of these wilful girls have not been spanked since they were children is gratifying. There is a look of shock in their eighteen year old faces as they look to their mama for guidance. And, yes, I always spank in the presence of the parents - at first at least. I love following the pleading look of my charge and seeing her mama firming her lips and slowly nodding her head, having heard my recitation of the daughter's crimes, real and imagined. Fathers will shy away from such scenes at first or pretend a disinterest that belies the excitement in the pits of their bellies and lower still. I've smiled at many a father, concealing his burgeoning erection beneath Il Journal, La Stampa or Le Monde. And I've watched their eyes following as I flip the skirts of their little darlings up, just as they've dreamed of doing, observing their minds, misty with lust as they note the contrast between dark Mediterranean flesh and the soft pastels of their offspring's innocent underwear. I've seen the look that passes between mother and father, when the crotch of the knickers is drawn up into the crease of the soft young behind. I've seen the mothers turn their faces away at the first whistle of the cane on nubile flesh. I've seen the gaunt, red-eyed look of the fathers, as I finally lower the skirts on the criss-cross patterns of their daughters well used behinds. And I've heard them at their siestas afterwards, as papa takes out his frustrations on his beloved wife. The headboard in the master bedroom thumps regularly against wall, the noises accelerating slowly, until their climax is reached. You should know that I do take my duty of care quite seriously. I find myself having to reach down to cover the ears of their precious darling through such blissful early afternoons; well I am charged with the young woman's moral welfare after all. And the girls themselves? Well, I don't think they notice, for they are far too busy at their studies, learning all about love and forgiveness between my thighs. As Emma grew into her teens Jackie's letters became less regular, but I still got the occasional snapshot of them on holiday together or sharing a special event like Emma getting 4 As in her A levels. I loved looking at the pictures of her, especially when I was able to catch glimpses of her underwear. There was one picture taken just after her eighteenth birthday where she wore a blue school blouse. It had three buttons open, so the picture showed off her cleavage to good advantage. I was so pleased to be able to see inside and get a peek at one of her white bras and the curve of her young breast within the bra cup, that I summonsed dear sweet Ramona. She was my twenty year old Spanish charge of that moment. I have to say that she was most obliging and obedient, as I told her to strip off her blouse and her bra to show off her dark Latin torso for me. And she was so proud. Why there was barely a tear when I whipped her breasts quite assiduously with a martinet throughout the siesta period. There was another picture taken during the Easter holiday of Emma's final year at school I think; at least it arrived as a lovely Easter present for me. She was wearing tight jean shorts. I could quite clearly discern the outline of her panties as she stretched up to catch a Frisbee. I couldn't help but rest the photo on Ramona's young back as she crouched down over the coffee table before me. You know I didn't take my eye off it, even as I stripped off my little Spaniard's panties. And didn't I make Ramona come so sweetly with my fingers in her delectable young pussy and my thumb in her tight, dry nether hole? Of course I did. And then, in Emma's final term in school, Jackie sent me a lovely picture of her daughter wearing her school uniform, studying hard for her exams. She looked so insouciant, completely unaware of the fact that her short plaid skirt had ridden up. Anyone looking could clearly see her white school panties peeking out underneath the skirt, the lips her peachy young mons clearly outlined against the fabric. And there was me all strapped up in no time and ready to apply a large pink dildo to a petite and dainty little French girl called Kiki. Her nineteen year old bottom hole made a lovely nest for my little alouette of a toy; and I tell you I was certainly not at all gentle. Oh the wails and oh the joy! It's a good thing Kiki's mama was used to the little charmer's off key singing by then. She had made her excuses and had withdrawn to the other side of the house to wrap herself in her Debussy records and a nice glass of absinthe. Still Kiki was wonderful and even cleaned off the strap on once we were done (with her tongue of course, my dear - there really is no other way). It's most heartening to see such affection for this excellent finishing tool amongst my more timid charges, anxious as they are to make for the bathroom to ensure the bottom burps occasioned by my forceful entry are exploded in private... When they moved house that summer, Jackie sent me loads of pictures of the most banal detail of the new place. She was perhaps conscious that she might be boring me, so she used Emma as an accessory to show off the finer features. There was one shot of Emma bending low in fashionable loose jeans, her pale yellow panties clearly visible as she looked over her shoulder. she was smiling happily and showing off the interior of the new refrigerator. The thing i most admired was the stretch of her young eighteen year old limbs. Another shot to show off the new parquet, was illustrated by Emma clearing the contents of a spilt mug of coffee. Emma was so focused on the task in hand and her mother so evidently keen to show off the lovely new floor, that both had forgotten that Emma was just wearing a camisole and shorts. Do you know that I nearly dropped my coffee cup myself as I caressed my sex, even more assiduously than usual on receipt of that set of pictures? How ironic. I distinctly remember whispering Emma's name and Lucia looking up at me from her kneeling position on the floor in front of my writing desk. Ah! My lovely new charge, Lucia, looked almost comically puzzled, as I pressed her nineteen year old face into the stickiest groin on the Genoese Riviera that afternoon; and wondered about the possibilities of ever meeting the younger Miss Macy... Educating Emma Ch. 02 "Kiki," I called down the corridor of the empty house, "Kiki." Kiki is my gentille alouette. She is normally such a sweet little lark: it is a delight to teach her little form, to educate her and to have her yield to my specific instructions. Her father has told her that she must be most attentive to my every instruction and who is she to disagree with him. He is, after all, a bear of a man; and both Kiki and her mother are quite in awe of him. Perhaps Kiki is no longer quite so much in awe of him as she once was: but things usually change in a household that lets Miss Muriel Grey in to play with the precious family treasures. And now the wretched girl is late again. I sent her to fetch the post for me not fifteen minutes ago, with the firmest instructions to return immediately with the post undisturbed. I am so anxious to receive news from England and the latest goings on in the Macy household. Kiki is delightful, elfin and beautifully mannered, but she had absolutely no sense of time keeping whatsoever. Her perpetual lateness was a source of considerable frustration to both me and her parents. In fact it was one of the reasons that I had been called in to this rather fine villa on the French Riviera just outside the boundaries of the exclusive resort town of St Tropez, between Nice and Cannes. I will always remember the first interview with her father, his strongly accented English, his large frame and above all the sombre room into which he ushered me: his study – his holy of holies apparently. The sun was kept at bay by heavy shutters, which were obviously rarely opened, perhaps to keep the thick vellum volumes safe; perhaps to allow the room to emulate his heavy lidded eyes that never seemed to look at one directly. "Mademoiselle Grey," he said slowly as he stared down at my resume. "You left your last employer fairly suddenly?" "The senora decided to shut up house and take the family abroad: to Tenerife I believe. I had no wish to leave the European mainland." "There was a scandal. Is this not so?" "I do not read the scandal sheets, sir." "There was an issue with your charge?" "There was absolutely no issue with my charge, sir. Ramona was very much in control of things despite certain gross exaggerations with respect to her mother and step-sister. One might say she rose to the challenge under my guidance." "And the senora herself: how is she?" "She was unwell for a while, but she reached a fine settlement with her husband. Although the older girl, Ramona's step-sister was quite distressed when I left, but it is all sunshine and smiles now; I do believe that Ramona had taken them both in hand." "Was the younger girl, Ramona, your only charge then, Mademoiselle Grey?" "She was. The older girl, Victoria, was at college and the family had no need of my service with regard to her. And, please, do not 'Frenchify' my title." "I find it hard to believe that one with your reputation did not influence the whole family?" He added as he continued to delve, despite my protestations, leaning back in his chair magisterially, as if sitting in judgement of me. "And yet I come to you with excellent references, which specifically clear my name of any involvement in either the illness or the alleged scandal." "You do Mademoiselle Grey." "I prefer Miss Grey." "You do then, Miss Grey. You do. You will be more than aware that I would not be seeing you, if this were not the case," he nodded his head slowly and then looked up at me sharply: "you have I believe a reputation for harsh discipline, Miss Muriel Grey?" "I do not spare the rod, sir and I prefer Miss Grey, as I have advised you once before." "Forgive me, Miss Grey. I do not mean to take liberties. Tell me: do you spare the child?" "I develop the child, sir. And seek to moderate the excesses of the inner child." "Will you spare Cordele: our little Kiki? She is, after all, barely nineteen." "I will treat your little Kiki as she needs to be treated." "And what are her needs?" "You are her father sir; not I." "Miss Grey. Let us not beat about the bush. Cordele's mother, my dear second wife, is of sensitive disposition and would have me employ an appropriate tutor for her lovely young daughter. Kiki is a delightful girl, but has her mind on so many things that make her tarry, when she should be engaged in far more serious activities. She needs more discipline in her life." "I believe that I can provide what she needs." "Do you spank your charges, Miss Grey?" "I do." "Senorita Ramona de Sagunto enjoyed the attentions of your tawse?" "She did. I see you have researched my Scottish background, sir." "I am sure your tawse researched the lovely, young lady's derriere." "I do my duties thoroughly, sir. Ramona was quite feckless and needed every instrument that I applied to her bottom and breasts." "You tawsed her breasts, Miss Grey?" "I certainly slapped them. It pleased me to do that." "I should like you to do that for my Cordele." "I see that you appreciate her breasts, Monsieur Le Grand." "Why should an idle girl not be reformed through mild physical punishment, Miss Grey?" "Should the father be punished too, since he appears to relish the girl's idleness?" "How on earth do you reach such a conclusion, Miss Grey?" "That picture of her sunbathing bare breasted on the patio outside your study: the one on your desk. It gives me a clue, sir." "Ah. You have seen my photo of her. Is she not a pretty thing?" "She is very pretty, but is such a photograph an appropriate desk ornament for her step father's study? Is it not rather distracting?" "It is very artistic." "It is artistic. Not quite as artistic as the picture of her skinny dipping on the isles, standing so proudly on your drinks cabinet, sir." "You are very observant, Miss Grey." "It pays to observe the wickedness in our world sir. We can only learn from it." "And what do you learn from this alleged wickedness, Miss Grey?" "I learn that there is probably a photograph album somewhere in this room filled with similarly 'innocent' moments in your daughter's life." "You do?" "I do and I would imagine that the page on the young lady at her toilette is taken as if through a pin-hole camera? Perhaps there is also a page dedicated to her choice in underwear taken in Avignon when the winds were blowing their strongest?" I continued. "That may be true." "And perhaps a lovely section dedicated to the young lady finishing her schooling at that private school. The one where they had such rigorous dress codes, that I am sure your nubile offspring broke flagrantly, whenever she had the opportunity to appear like the teenaged slut her father dreams might lie in his arms one day?" "Are you quite finished, Miss Grey?" "I could continue, if you like." "There is no need. I am a keen photographer, Miss Grey." "And, like the professionals you have an animated interest in his subject matter?" "Of course I do." "And you would like me to animate that interest further," I smiled disingenuously and toyed with one of the buttons on my blouse. "Most certainly," he smiled, practically licking his lips in anticipation. "We might revisit all the places you have photographed Cordele in and take pictures of me and her together?" I played along and duly unbuttoned to reveal just a little cleavage and let my fingers hover over the next button down. "That is a delicious thought, Miss Grey; please proceed." "Would you like us to take off each other's clothing for you: to strip away her girlish garb in such a way that you can see all her secret charms, monsieur?" "You would do this for me?" "Would this be appropriate?" "It seems like a good idea to me, my dear Miss Grey." "Would you like to photograph her punishments?" "I believe I would." "A new page for your scrapbook: here is Kiki over Miss Grey's lap. Here is Miss Grey drawing down Cordele's little panties. Here is Cordele kissing the paddle brush. Here is the paddle brush descending on Kiki's firm little behind. Here is the mark of the brush." "I feel a growing empathy with your methods, Miss Grey." "I thought you would." "Did you use the cane on Ramona too?" "I did." "Just on her bottom?" "And on the back of her thighs: I felt it appropriate for her to be shamed to have to display the marks that her bathing costume could not always conceal." "You seem to be a most admirable employee, Miss Grey. Tell me: is there a flogger in your armoury too?" "There is." "And do you use this assiduously." "Sometimes a girl's flower needs to be stung, sir." "You whip their pussies? Mon dieu!" "I apply myself to every aspect of their learning, sir." "I would love for you to flog Cordele's pussy." "I am quite sure you would, sir." "Whip it until it is as red as her hair. Will you do this for me?" "I will do all that is necessary and appropriate. You have my resume and me before you, sir." "I do." "Is it appropriate? Am I appropriate?" "It is very appropriate and you are very appropriate too. In any case my friend Carlos de Sagunto did write to me to advise me of your treatment of his daughter." "Senor de Sagunto was witness to my treatment of his daughter. I believe that he thoroughly approved of all my impositions upon Ramona. That his wife chose to emulate them with such unfortunate results was an avoidable tragedy." "She beat her own daughter?" "No. I believe that she was beaten with her step-daughter on several occasions." "Beaten on their naked behinds?" "I believe that both women had been instructed to divest themselves of their clothing prior to the beating in question; but they were beaten on the breasts and the buttocks." "And they were beaten very hard?" "They were whipped very soundly indeed sir: hence the scandal." "And why did she do this?" "I believe her need was due to lust; lust that is not sated is a dangerous thing, sir." "I know this, Miss Grey. And of course, you were not there because you were looking to your charge." "I was looking after dear Ramona's needs. She was barely twenty at the time." "You were elsewhere in the house?" "I was, as I said, looking after Ramona's needs, sir. Senora De Sagunto is quite old enough to look after her own needs and her step-daughter is in her mid-twenties." "And what were these needs, Miss Grey?" "Whose needs are you referring to, sir?" "Those of Ramona." "You do seem to be overly enthusiastic in your questioning. Have you not seen the scandal sheets?" "I have indeed." "And you have read the divorce court proceedings too, no doubt?" "Most assuredly, Miss Grey; in fact I attended them." "Then you will know all the disgusting detail. Your questioning seems rather redundant given that the photographs were quite explicit; the video even more so." "It is fortunate for one of the young ladies who was party to the act to have been so well masked and hidden by flora when she was mounted upon the Senora's back and using that riding whip with such vigour." "Isn't it just, sir," I smiled. "And the other dominant chit had her face hidden in the step daughter's nether regions throughout the video." "You are very observant, sir." "I can't understand how a senora as respected as Carmela could have placed herself in such a precarious position." "I would venture to suggest that you may have more than an idea of this than you would have me believe, Monsieur le Grand." "You may well be right, Miss Grey. Do you still have those lovely thigh boots and that gorgeous black silk underwear?" "Are you suggesting that it might have been me in those pictures sir?" "There is always that possibility." "There is always the possibility that there are fewer paparazzi at liberty with their lenses since my dear lawyer issued writs for defamation sir." "Is she a lady lawyer?" "She is, but what has gender to do with it?" "Forgive me, but I was imagining you both in thigh boots with lashes and riding crops and whips and the senora and her beautiful step-daughter tied together on the floor of that apartment in Barcelona." "You are letting your imagination carry you away sir. I certainly never engage in such activities with my lawyer. You have a very vivid imagination, sir." "Were the senora and her step-daughter not found in flagrante tied head to toe that fateful afternoon? "They were, I believe." "Tell me more of your charge." "Ramona was a keen student. Having been beaten thoroughly, she wished to explore exactly how it felt to discipline others." "Oh, how delightful, Miss Grey: you managed to turn her into a dominate." "I influenced her in that direction, yes. She was her father's girl and the sense of command was in her genes." "So she was the perpetrator of the scandal?" "She did get a little carried away that day." "And you did not restrain her? You let her whip her mother and her step-sister?" "I was merely following the senora's instructions." "How thoroughly perverse you are, Miss Grey." "Is it perverse to obey sir?" "No, it was very loyal of you." "Then please do not dishonour my good name with such inappropriate epithets." "Does it matter, dear lady?" "Of course it matters. You have power, influence and riches. I only have my name. Do not abuse it or besmirch it." "Tell me more about letting young Ramona off the leash, Miss Grey." "While you masturbate behind your big desk, Monsieur?" "I will do as I please, Miss Grey. Do not toy with me. Tell me about those whips and riding crops and lashes that were found scattered around the senora and her step-daughter." "Whips and Riding Crops and Lashes - Oh my!" "Do not be frivolous Miss Grey." "Your questions are more than impertinent and they deserve to be treated with frivolity, Monsieur Le Grand." "I only wish what is best for my daughter." "As would I, were you to charge me with that service." "I would charge you to ensure that this succès de scandale is not repeated in my household." "It is not for me to govern your class or your household, sir. I serve." "Were you instrumental in ensuring that the senora did not contest the divorce?" "I confess to telling her that if she chose to sate her lust, then she would pay the price. That is the danger of such situations." "You became quite intimate with Carmela then?" "That is not your business, sir," I sighed and decided that I had had enough. "Would it be bold of me to suggest, Monsieur Le Grand, you are sating some of your own prurient lust in this absurd line of questioning." "I would not wish to be dangerous, Miss Grey." "Dangerous?" "My danger also lies in an excess on unspent lust." "May I be of assistance in calming you, sir?" "You are a very sympathetic woman, Miss Grey." "I know my place, sir." "Do you know what I would like to see?" "I believe that the implements that I used upon Ramona and will, with your permission, use upon Cordele might be of interest to you, sir?" "Would you like to see my instrument too, Miss Grey?" "Sir, I am a governess and a tutor. I am not a sex worker." "By no means my dear Miss Grey; I do not wish to impugn your reputation in any way." "You may, if you wish, toy with your instrument as I show you mine." "That is very kind of you Miss Grey." "I am pleased to be of service sir," I smiled and lifted my little instrument bag on to the baize green leatherette of the desk between us. It was slightly disconcerting to note the unzipping sound as I undid the bag. I know several young ladies who have been most disconcerted, even tearful, at the sight of my bag being unbuckled, but the sturdy buckles had never hitherto made an unzipping sound. I stared at Monsieur Le Grand. He stared back at me and then dropped his head almost sheepishly. "Monsieur Le Grand?" "Please call me Pierre." "Which instrument would you like to see first, Pierre?" "May I see your whippiest cane, Miss Grey?" "Pierre wishes to see my whippiest cane, while he plays with his petit pine?" "Please, Miss Grey, do not tease me. I need to see it." "And what are your needs to me, Pierre?" "I will go mad if you do not do as I desire." "Then Pierre au petit pine will become Pierrot Le Fou," I grinned evilly. "Please, Miss Muriel," "Miss Grey," I said very firmly and then tugged my instrument from my bag, bringing it down with a crash on the desk. He snapped to attention at that and watched me with fascinated eyes as I walked round the desk, swishing the cane with each step I took. "So, Pierrot wishes to know how I use my instrument on young ladies' bottoms; does he?" "He does, miss." "Pierrot is a disgusting little maggot, is he not?" "He is, miss." "Pull out your chair, Monsieur Le Maggot. Let me see this magnificent, little penis that seems to occupy so much of your consciousness, while I tell you how I intend to cane little Kiki's derriere very hard indeed." "She has never been punished before, miss." "Then I will relish hearing her squeal very loudly indeed as I bring this swishy little instrument down upon her spoilt little sit-upon for the very first time." "She is not spoilt, miss." "Shut up you worm. If I say she is spoilt, then she is spoilt. What is she?" "She is spoilt, miss." "And what should I do to your spoilt daughter, Pierrot?" "You should cane her, miss." "I am not so sure that little Cordele will appreciate her father being so liberal with her favours; and what will Madame le Grand be doing while I am caning her daughter?" "What do you suggest, Miss Grey?" "I suggest you take her into the next room and put your little zizi to work to distract Madame from the sufferings of her beloved daughter." By this time I was practically standing over him. I laughed to myself to see that he was masturbating his member furiously as I spoke. His eyes were closed and he seemed in total bliss, thinking of stroking his wife to her climax while I applied my own ecstatic delivery to their innocent nineteen year old child. "Just what do you think you are doing you naughty, little boy," I shouted in his face and brought my cane down upon the desk right in front of him. "N-nothing miss!" "Does Kiki know her father has such a little zizi?" "No miss." "I wonder how Madame restrains her giggles when she sees it," I smiled and lifted the softening tube of flesh up on my cane. "Do you think your step-daughter would respect you if she knew you were such an under endowed man, Pierrot?" "No miss." "Then might I suggest that you keep your hands out of her knickers." "I will, miss." "Do you promise me this, Pierrot?" "I promise Miss." "You promise on your most sacred oath, Pierre Le Grand?" "I do." "And I promise you that she will find herself filled with all the delight in learning that Miss Muriel Grey can bestow upon her." "I thought you didn't like being called Muriel, miss?" "If you were good enough Pierrot, my little maggot; then you would have been allowed to use my first name; but as you are an incest obsessed, little worm, who hoped to use me as well as his own daughter, Miss Grey will be what you will call me. Tu comprends?" "Yes, I understand." "You will give me full charge of your daughter, little man." "I will miss." "Good boy. Now if you would be so good as to sign my contract here, here and here..." ...And here you find me, Miss Muriel Grey, waiting impatiently for Cordele Le Grand to show up. Perhaps she has gone to fetch the post. I do hope there is a letter for me from my good friend Jacky Macy. I so love the photographs she sends of her lovely daughter Emma. I wonder if Kiki has been trying to hide the post again. She can be such a naughty girl when she knows her mistress...ermmm...her tutor...gets so overwhelmed with the marvellous letters that she receives from England. Educating Emma Ch. 02 It can be quite vexing to find one's letters so tampered with; but Kiki knows from experience, just as her father does, exactly what can happen to curious little children who look where they are not permitted to look. And I believe that I can trust her discretion in this regard after all the summary impositions I have made upon her delightful derriere. Oh yes! The dear girl has squealed on numerous occasions as I have applied my entire armoury to her rounded rump. I love her hesitancy as she bends over. I adore the way that she looks back at me pleadingly. And I delight in making my mark on the poor pet's posterior. Sometimes I do get a little carried away I admit and have to slip off my knickers to caress myself as I whip the impudent Cordele as thoroughly as I dare. I do, however, hate untidiness and will always find a place for my panties in Cordele's sweet little mouth. I do believe that she is getting quite a taste for my perfumed panties and it does serve as a way to muffle her groans. Now don't misunderstand me. I love Cordele and treat my responsibilities very seriously indeed. I would never want to see any real harm come to her. After all, she is in my charge, but self-preservation is the least of my worries. I do have to say though that something changed between us once I had caned her for the very first time; when I hit out at those soft young flanks for the very first time. Maybe it was the smell of her when she began to get a taste for punishment. Maybe it was the fact that her father was excluded from the room and could only listen and groan as I laid into his delectable daughter. I smiled to myself to hear him through the door to what I declared was my schooling room. I don't know. It certainly excited me too, though. I've stolen into her father's room and have found his photographic albums and I've had the opportunity to compare his dirty photographic efforts with the real thing. A photograph is nothing when you have seen those breasts in reality. She has large nipples and lovely areolas that I just want to tweak and pinch after I've tawsed them. Sometimes I make things up just to punish her, so I can spank her breasts and her buttocks. I like to have her over my lap and love to press my fingers into her tight, young nineteen year old bottom. I've even caressed her sex and pressed little plugs against her pussy lips, taking care not to breach her hymen of course. There are so many common or garden objects that serve when educating a young lady. Does she protest I hear you ask? Well, she did at first, but she got used to it and has gradually come to realise that I am not doing this for anything other than her own good. I've also had my fingers up lovely, little derriere. She was very submissive when I first took her under my wing - a tribute to the fierceness of her father, bless him. And she has since learnt that I will not brook any disobedience. I tell and she does. That is the way things have been from the start. It pleases me to develop her in this way. My clever little tortures appear to excite her now. And if she is very good, I'll let her play with herself with her clever little fingers until she has orgasm while I watch proudly. However, I wish to develop her. Repetition is not my game. When she is quite ready for something new, something a little more advanced, I take her forward a step. Kiki is rather naive about some things, having led a rather sheltered life thus far, despite her father's imagined philandering. And that's where my little box of toys comes in. They are such useful accessories to play with as I play with her. They certainly help me to teach her new things. And they enable me to have the greatest fun in the world with her too. At least with them, as opposed to that disgusting beast of a predatory father of hers, as with me guiding them in and out of her, I know that she'll be safe and contented in my care. And that is my duty after all. Now, talking of duty of care: let me just get my strap-on out, so that I am quite prepared to fill young Cordele with learning when she finally returns. My teaching on this occasion will certainly involve showing her that her tight little bottom hole is such a delightful fit for her tutor. I like to bend her over to use her. I usually make her leaning on the arm of a chintz sofa, so that her lower back bends nicely as she makes herself comfortable on the seat, where my bottom reposed but a few moments before. I prefer her to slip her panties on after spanking her. This foible means that I can take fresh delight in flipping her skirt up to observe the contrast between her freshly reddened skin and her pantied behind right in front of my face. She will tremble when I put my hands on her thighs and draw my face into her tight little bum. I slide them greedily into the little black cotton knickers that stretch so indelicately over her naughty little cunt and tight little anal orifice. Such moments as these are sheer bliss for an enthusiastic governess and disciplinarian and certified lesbian such as myself. Yes, heaven can wait. I always find paradise when I push my face into the crack of her backside, pressing her knickers into her cleft. I smell her teenage scent. I stick my tongue into her bottom crease, through her knickers, as far as it will go. And I close my eyes and dream. And you know what: Kiki loves it. In no time at all I usually find that my dear little charge is starting to push back with her hips, wanting me deeper. Her surrender is always a wonderful moment. It's enough to make me swoon. That's my cue to place my hands further inside the elasticised waistband of her panties and to roll them slowly down, looking at her lovely sex, so pert and pink and prepared to be penetrated. "Spread your thighs, mademoiselle," I can hear myself saying, as she lies there, still whimpering a little from my recent attentions. And lo - like magic - see how Kiki spreads her legs for me, stretching the panties that are at knee level by now. And I sit back, crouching there, breathless, looking at her lovely young cunt - so ripe and ready to be fucked. It was a beautiful pearlescent sea-shell, almost ready to be opened, but there is the tightly furled arsehole too. How can anyone resist: the arse and cunt of one's employer's daughter. It is quite revolutionary of me. And yet they are ready and waiting for Miss Grey to enjoy herself so utterly and thoroughly, that she will have to shower with the girl later. And I tell you, I will certainly have the naughty little chit lick her pussy with that delicate little French tongue, until Miss Muriel's lust is entirely sated. One day I freely admit that I hope to open her pussy right up, but, for now, I am content with the tight brown hole. I will also have the pleasure of that sweet little mouth that sings so wonderfully when I cane her. Listen to our dialogue as she straps me up and you will realise that her submission is entirely consensual. I like to tease and to flirt and to bring my charge out of herself, reminding her how she likes to play, once I have punished her hard for holding up the post and being late for her lessons: "You like toying with your behind, don't you Mademoiselle Cordele?" "Yes, Miss Muriel, I do." "When you play, I've seen you put your fingers into your rectum, haven't I?" "Yes Miss. You have." "You are so naughty. Now, spread your cheeks, mademoiselle. Do it for Miss Grey, like a truly repentant girl ought to." And she will look shyly up at me, twisting her arms from under her to reach round her hips and spread for her governess. The further exposure of her bottom hole and the little pucker marks around it always leave me transfixed. I could watch her forever, with my fingers in my mouth, licking and tasting. Yet I don't. It will be no time at all before I'm spitting a large blob of saliva onto the palm of my hand and another directly onto the crack of her sweet, obliging, little bum. My fingers will twist and turn within her. She can almost see, as well as feel, the sensations as I press into her with my ring finger and then my index finger. Kiki loves to moan to excite me further. I think there is hope in her eyes that I will pull her panties out of her mouth, so she can converse like a civilised, young bourgeoise, instead of being buggered like an inarticulate peasant. I do like to discuss her lessons and all she has learnt, as I look down and do up my lovely big strappy. I know Cordele is looking round, her eyes growing bigger to see the size of that which is soon to penetrate her arse. She knows what is coming once I have inserted my fine Scottish finger into her refined, French derriere. I always work my spittle into Kiki's behind, reaming her out quite thoroughly with the fingers before whipping her panty gag out of her mouth and having her clean those self-same digits. "Ohh...Umm," Kiki will utter, rather like a village imbecile, between licks. "Oh, Miss," she may continue. "Please show me just how bad I've been, delaying all your important mail, miss." And I watch as she massages my dirty fingers with her lovely tongue, while playing with her inexperienced clitoris at the same time. And that is my cue to bring my strap on to that slightly opened hole and to rotate my way into her darling little sphincter. "UUUhhhhh, Ooohhh," she may exclaim as I tell her how it is for her own good to have seven, thick inches of rubberised plastic thrust between her freshly spanked buttocks. I love the way Kiki will often reach behind herself and spread herself as far as she can to ease the burning sensation in her bottom. I love to pump my big, fat strappy in and out even more and leaning over her to whisper in her ear: "You've been a very bad Kiki today. Are you ready for more discipline?" "Yes miss, please spank me as you take my little hole," she may whine. "Please. I've been so very naughty and most wicked." And at that moment I know that she is lost to her family and her friends. She is all mine for the taking: to dip her into whatever delicious bowl of eroticism I choose. I know that I can't have her virginity yet. I may never have it. These French bourgoises are saved for rich, young men. Or if the one chosen for Cordele is as effete as her father truly is, then perhaps I will venture to have her last but not least hole in the future. Her most precious treasure may well be mine. But right now she is quite ready for the full length of my toy. This is it. I will take her deeper than I've ever taken her before. I will take my Pierrot's daughter's backside as it has never been taken before in a fury of lust, ignoring her helpless cries: "Miss! What's happening, Miss? Your strap on is bigger than ever today. It is so large. Please, no, Miss. Please not that!" Finally! I will pull out and push her off the sofa where she can lie on all fours, mewling quietly in the floor. Then I will lift her body up, tugging the lower half of her nubile body towards me. There we go. Imagine me impaling her inexorably on the fat magenta strap-on that stood so proudly just below my abdomen. I won't worry about working it in. Enough of Miss Nicely Nicely Grey. Time for Mistress Muriel to bugger her little pet, working in and out of her teenaged arse to a chorus of moans from my lovely charge. Kiki may then begin to enjoy herself, relaxing her sphincter muscles, as I start the rhythmic fucking of her rear end. I know just how tight she is. My mons crashes against her bottom cheeks, adding to her bruises as if I were a freshly cut bundle of birch sticks. I sink in and we both sing like larks as she comes and comes and comes... Yes, (cough), I do have to say that it really is such a sweet lark to spank Cordele over my lap; and to cane, flog and fuck the darling girl with all with the authority of her benighted father. Well, I concede that the face fucking and sodomy were not identified as key elements of our unwritten agreement; but, there again, who knows what lies between the lines of such an imaginary document. I certainly feel that it's more than worth the paper that it has still to be printed on. And now you know why...Oh yes, you do...Kiki is my gentille alouette. Educating Emma Ch. 03 "Come along girl," Annabelle heard her new governess, a certain Miss Muriel Gray, order as the older woman's fingertip coaxed the young woman's panting body back into position over Muriel's lap on the sofa. The young lady couldn't resist a sigh as the finger slid down under the swell of her pubic mound. Given she was already naked at her governesses behest, there really was little question of resistance. In fact compliance was certainly the order of the day: "Oooh -- oooh." Then another spank landed on the young woman's bare backside, but not too hard this time, despite the loud report. The girl moaned. "There's a good girl." Three quick spanks followed in swift succession. The pert young miss swivelled her bum-cheeks seeking in a vain attempt to swerve away to protect herself. The older woman's hands edged her back again. Then Miss Muriel's palm stung her protégée once more. The spoilt, young girl squirmed and gasped. She snatched forward and away from the blow, but landed on the wicked fingers playing around her nubile sex. And then, she pulled away from the intrusion, so that her already tender bum thrust itself backwards and collided with the next spank, jolting her forward again from pleasure to pain and back again in quick succession. "Oooh -- ooh -- M-miss Muriel -- I..." "Hush. That's a good girl." Again our young heroine wriggled back from the toying digits. They were so insistent and so hard to escape and yet the tattered remains of her modesty required Annabelle to show some degree of restraint. There was little hope of that though, for, once more, Miss Muriel decided that delicious bottom was quite obviously pleading for another spank. And this was duly delivered. "Ooow! Ooh!" Slowly over the past six months the girl had learned lessons which her mama would never have taught her. The kneeling to say her prayers had been replaced by kneeling to lick out her governess's crotch, while Muriel platted the eighteen year old's hair. The brushing her teeth in the morning had been facilitated by nipple clamps that served as a convenient toothbrush holder while she rinsed her mouth. Annabelle had previous become very proficient in the flower arranging and country dancing advocated by the elderly governess who had made way for the more modern techniques of Miss Gray. And Annabelle was now assuredly becoming similarly adept at arranging her limbs over her new governess's desk and spreading them well, so that Muriel could slowly sodomise her with a banana from the fruit bowl or, better still, one of the ebony dildos that she had brought back from a trip to Morocco. And Annabelle now danced so well when bent across Miss Gray's desk and caned neatly across the backs of both thighs just above the level that her less than modest skirt would cover. Her dancing through the night as Miss Gray rode her face was second to none. As for Annabelle's papa: well, although he had only an inkling of the full curriculum, he was most eager to share his knowledge of his child's instruction. The recommendations from France, Italy and Spain had determined his initial choice given they were accompanied by the most interesting pictures of Miss Muriel's previous charges. And further interesting almost incestual imagery had followed over the subsequent six months. So, he had become rather more aware that Miss Muriel's classes included all sorts of the more interesting aspects of deportment. And the training had been most successful over the summer as exemplified today. Annabelle had clearly begun to realise that if she squirmed back away from the fingers, then her young bum couldn't help but thrust itself out, all ripe and ready for the descending palm. And it was so unfair: the more she stuck it out, the harder her poor dear sit-upon got spanked. The thing was not to stick it out. If Belle resisted the urge to slide backwards away from the naughty governess's fingers -- well, she still got spanked, but not so hard. True she would be spanked enough to make her wriggle; to squirm a bit and to make her even more squirmy, but, slowly, our star pupil caught on to that too. Muriel's hand slapped her charge again: not too hard. The girl wriggled: not too much. The hand hovered: not too eagerly. And the bottom stopped squirming without too much delay. All in all, the sequence was quite balletic. And yet with the next slap, the next less than virtuous spank, our trainee ballerina found that despite her attempts at horizontal over the knee entrechat, she was wriggling rather a lot! "You don't seem to be able to hold still, girl," Muriel commented in a dry tone. "I have a mind to write to my dear friend Emma and her mama to tell them how my latest little house slut misbehaves all the time." "You wouldn't!" "I most certainly would. And I will send them the photographs of that rather large cucumber in your delightfully tight behind the other night." "How shaming!" "Not quite as shaming as you devouring the cucumber sandwiches with your family at luncheon today, without telling them of the recent excursion of the gourd." "I couldn't." "Never mind. I told your papa afterwards." "Oh miss!" "He seemed strangely pleased and asked the maid to bring him the remains of the sandwiches with his afternoon tea." "Oh my!" "Yes, oh yes: oh your filthy, deviant papa indeed." "That's hardly my fault, Miss Muriel." "Whose fault would it be then?" "It could be yours, Miss," the girl replied hesitantly and instantly blushed at the less than veiled accusation. "And whose responsibility are you?" "Yours, Miss Muriel" "And so it's more my right than my fault isn't it?" "If you like, Miss Muriel" "I do like and what does my little lap-cunt like?" "She likes the way you explain things so much better than she can." "Would that also be so much better than mama or papa could do?" "Oh, yes miss," the girl squirmed happily feeling Miss Muriel's fingers pressing and probing, pushing daringly against the young girl's surprisingly intact hymen. "Even so, pet." "Even so what, Miss Muriel?" "Even so, I do think something a little more severe than spanking might be called for,' Muriel warned her. "Arch yourself up and wait for me. And don't forget to expose yourself properly, girl." Miss Annabelle Archet pressed her eighteen year old belly down and pushed her youthful bottom back, spreading her legs as she knelt on the sofa in the drawing room, blushing to think how she was showing absolutely everything. Hearing Miss Muriel walk across the room, to her little locked cabinet that had been an ominous presence in the house since Miss Gray had first arrived from the continent, Annabelle bit her lip, but she didn't look up. She didn't need to. She knew that, sitting in there, was Muriel's collection of belts, canes, floggers and tawses, all of which had been put to good use on the younger daughter of the Archet family. And Miss Gray was bound to select the new belt. She was always a one for novelty. Annabelle knew it was her governess's favourite toy for corrective purposes now: an unadorned black strip of thin, supple Italian leather, all the way from Firenze. Annabelle winced again. She could see Muriel in her mind's eye holding the buckle in her palm and wrapping the leather twice about her hand. She could sense the way Muriel would flick her wrist with a practised motion. And she winced again as she heard the belt crack satisfyingly in the thin air and let out an apprehensive moan. Then Annabelle swallowed, knowing that her indiscretion would return Muriel's attention to her youthful form. Annabelle quivered at the thought of Miss Gray looking back at her pupil waiting uncertainly and displayed so obscenely. She flushed to think of Muriel seeing her legs spread with her pussy and arsehole both revealed so rudely. Then she closed her eyes trying to ward off Muriel's attentions. Annabelle knew that as she screwed her eyes tight closed, Muriel's eyes were drinking in her nubile young curves and the lush expanse of tender flesh offered up to Muriel's mercy. There was no longer any pubic hair to hide Annabelle's modesty. Muriel had had that waxed away when first she had discovered how unkempt and hirsute her new charge was at the first undressing she had subjected Annabelle to. And Belle also knew that Muriel would hear each of her shallow, panting breaths and could see, between the splay of her teenaged thighs, the rise and fall of her pertly dangling breasts. "How many, then, Belle?" 'How many?' Annabelle queried meekly, once Muriel returned to resume her position at the girl's side. "How many shall I ask your mama in to help you count, pet?" "Oh no, Miss: please I'd die of shame." "Then how many shall I ask your twenty one year old sister to share with you? I could spank you both together then - since you are quite as naughty as each other and don't seem to be able to keep your tongues out of each other's pussies these days... or your tight little bottom holes either as I recall from the photographs I took of you both last week." "How can you be so cruel?" "With the greatest of ease as far as you are concerned, Belle." "You are so horrid to me?" "And you love it, pet." "I do, it's true." 'Well, in the absence of a sensible response from my agreeably submissive spoilt slut, I think the answer is enough to elicit something approaching contrition,' Muriel almost giggled as she answered her own question. Annabelle nodded compliantly and looked up towards her governess. "Now, arch your backside, slut." Obediently, Annabelle lifted herself up, her motion contrasted nicely by the way she looked down modestly at the sofa arm all the time. She was actually thinking how Muriel was at that very moment drawing back her arm and preparing to strike, so had good reason to be both demure and concessional. Simultaneously, Muriel and Annabelle considered just how the whippy leather would land with a sharp report on the fullest curve of Miss Archet's bottom-cheeks. "And let's try to see just how much we can disturb your dear papa next door." "Oh no, miss!" "Oh yes, pet. Now cry out if you dare, my sweet little spoiled bitch." Annabelle trembled to think her father would hear her mewls as the tip of the belt licked into the split crevice of her private areas. Muriel trembled to think that Mr Archet, working next door would lick his dry lips and unbutton himself as he heard his daughter's tormented cries. And both knew that an anguished wail would tear from the girl's throat, as Archet started to flaunt his raddled cock, pausing over tea in the next room. At that thought Annabelle began to raise her hand to protect her soon-to-be abused buttocks. 'Hold still!' Miss Gray snapped and, at the sound of Muriel's displeasure, Annabelle's hand shot back to its proper place, clinging to the sofa as to a safe harbour in a storm. And then it began again. Muriel tanned Annabelle Archet's arse cheeks methodically and clinically. She laid down each thin red stripe a little higher up the girl's flanks right up to the point where the girl's buttocks tapered into the small of her back. Then, Muriel returned her whippy tool (with an inevitable vengeance) to the mid-point of the child's derriere. She loved the squeals as the lashes descended on the teenager's quivering arse cheeks. Muriel wasn't spiteful though. She was careful to avoid the girl's plump, out-thrust shaven sex; but she compensated for that well enough. In fact, she made sure each blow landed with some precision and effect on the hapless girl's upper thigh. Muriel actually allowed a greater length to mark the young girl's skin, curling around and onto the front of her nubile legs. Each lash elicited a barking cry from the disciplined child. A few tears were certain. And the eventual outcome was inevitable: buckling at the knees, Annabelle's young hips snatched back and forth as her well-toasted bum got another half-dozen swishes of the governess's belt for good measure. And next door, on hearing the final outraged squeal of his cherished daughter, Mr Archet came, spurting feverishly all over his trousers. And then there was to be more coming: the lighter touches of womanly fingers came to find their way back to the apex of Annabelle's youthful vagina. These were teasing, toying touches. They were clever and caressing fondles. Muriel knew, from her days on the continent, just how to deploy a delicate, sensual connection. It was one that contrasted completely to both the spanking and the belting and one that would serve her young pupil in very, very good stead. While Mr Archet pressed his ear to a cup against the wall, his semen stained trousers around his knees Miss Muriel ensured that satisfaction was achieved. As her papa tried vainly to coax another erection, Belle gave her thanks to her governess with the most delightful keening wail. Yes, despite the last of her sobs from the punishment and the shock of the sight of the belt hanging over a nearby chair in case Miss Muriel needed it again momentarily, little Annabelle Archet shuddered (just as her papa had done so recently) through the peak of her next orgasm. And it was all at the instigation of the beloved and trusted Miss Muriel Gray; the very Miss Muriel who could be heard at that very moment pushing her own knee-length skirt up. It was only a short matter of time before she was pulling her young charge down, between Miss Gray's eagerly spread thighs. There was, after all, still half an hour of the lesson; and, therefore, there was considerable opportunity for Annabelle to refine her elocution with certain tongue twisting exercises in the slick depths of her governess's cunt. So, how could anyone not forgive a little impatience on Miss Muriel's part as she ordered once again: "Come along, girl..." Educating Emma "Well, I think they're lovely, Katherine," I smiled, then made a small joke. "They're the nicest tits I've sucked today." She roared with laughter, then pushed me flat on my back on the bed and dived between my thighs. "I never consider a seduction consummated until I've tasted the lady's love nest," she said, her tongue flicking against my still wet pussy. And as I lay, uncomplaining on my back, her tongue crept into all the crevices that tongues tend to seek out when cunnilingus is the name of the game. She nibbled at my clitoris, then left it alone for minutes, sensing no doubt that I needed to recover from my orgasm. Instead, Katherine's mouth moved down my labia lips to my cunt where her tongue drove into me quite forcibly. Then it was on down to my anus where she repeated the process, the first time I'd ever experienced a woman's tongue there. I wasn't disappointed, her oral adoration sent tingles up my spine which radiated out to my nipples. Only then, did she revert to my already-pleasured clit. Soon I was again moaning and groaning with desire as she mouthed me back to the wonderful shores of a pounding, surf-smashing orgasm and then I was again babbling "Yeah, fuuuuuuck that's good, lick me, lick me, oh yes" before tumbling over the edge and falling into another deep pool of sexual ecstasy. Katherine emerged from between my thighs, and planted a long, smoochy kiss on my mouth, allowing me to taste my pussy juices which had smeared her lips. "Now it's my turn, you wonderful wench," she said, kneeling up on the bed beside me. "Prop these under your head." And she pulled two pillows and placed them on top of each other. Placing a knee on either side of my head, she lowered her strongly-smelling but absolutely perfectly perfumed pussy to my mouth. Her labia lips were slim, slippery with aroused sex juice, her cunt was weeping, her clit was thick and engorged. "Start with my arsehole, just a brief visit, then tongue my vagina," she ordered, and I swept my tongue deeper down her sex trench in oral obedience. The musky saltiness was a delight, I could have stayed there for longer, but a murmured "Higher, darling, higher" made me move to her love hole, still dripping copiously. She tasted even more divine here and I lapped at her greedily. "Over the labia, then my clit, I'm getting close," I heard her say, as her quim started to rock back and forth on my mouth. I obeyed her commands, and then I was attacking the "little man in the boat" for all I was worth. Katherine was pressing hard down on my face now, her glorious sex juices sending off a thick, horny aroma which made me want to lick her forever. Then, just when I thought she would never come, she started to pant, then grunt and then sob "Emma, oh fuck, I'm educating Emma, Emma." And as she soared into sexual orbit she repeated my name over and over again while she graunched and ground to a shuddering Big O. Finally, she fell off my panting, pussy-stained face, got off the bed and went to the window ledge, retrieved the two g&ts and sat beside me. I sipped on my now much warmer drink, but the increased temperature did nothing to alleviate its sting, then asked the question which I'd been pondering for the last hour or so. "Katherine?" I said. She murmured "Mmmmm?" as she traced a tongue over my left breast, the one closest to her. "Why me?" I asked. She sat up and kissed me gently on the mouth. "Because of that little speech you gave," she said, "although, to be honest, I rather fancied you before that. "No, it was your speech. That business about being 'outwardly shy, but inwardly confident', or something, remember?" I nodded, and Katherine kissed me again – her mouth tasted so sexy, as I guess it should have. "Well, it was nicely put and it was such a complete opposite to me that I think I fell in love with you there and then," she said. "A complete opposite?" I asked. "What on earth do you mean?" Katherine sucked down a last gulp of her gin and placed the glass on a bedside table. "Well, hard as it may seem to believe, I'm exactly the opposite of you. Outwardly I'm all the tough, no-nonsense business woman, I dress very smartly to enhance that image. "But inside I'm as shy as hell. I'm such a retiring type, that I have to drive myself in public to be a successful, powerful woman to hide my insecurities." I gaped at her as she revealed those thoughts to me. "I think you're wonderful," I told her. "Really?" she said. "Honestly," I said. "Katherine, I think you're great." And she burst out laughing, real rib-tickling chuckles. She laughed so hard I thought she was going to wet her panties – not that she was wearing any, of course. "What's so funny?" I demanded. Katherine sat up and tried hard to control herself. "Well, it's so silly, really. But first I had to contend with the Katherine Hepburn thing. And then people wanted to know if I'm related to Entwistle. "And now you come along, my darling Emma and here I am 'Katherine the Great'!"