This is a perennial classic, something I’m asked for time and time again. It’s worth noting again here that there may well be themes that you or I don’t want to explore but, within a role-play, which will always be discussed beforehand and within which boundaries have been clearly set, there is no judgement. This is fantasy. Reality remains intact.

“Sent to my office again, Carla?” you say, disgusted. “That’s the third time this term.”

I squirm. I know I’ve been bad but, in my too-tight school uniform, I’m the epitome of rebellion. “I haven’t done anything, Sir,” I say sulkily.

In the back of my mind, images are still racing. We’d thought the door was locked, hadn’t expected Mr Davies to walk in catch us. I can still feel Joel’s hand on my leg, creeping its way up under my skirt, can remember his fingers – soft and cool – edging their way around the edge of my panties. When I move my legs, the wetness is still there.

“Are you listening to me, Carla?”

“Yes Sir,” I’m nonchalant, expecting to get my own way as I thrust out my chest, my nipples showing through my regulation school blouse.

“I don’t think you’re quite understanding me, young lady. If ‘lady’ is the right word for such a slutty little girl. I’ve been hearing reports about your behaviour.”

“It’s all lies,” I say. “Mr Davies just makes things up.”

As you watch me squirm before you, slandering another teacher, you know what’s needed. Only one form of discipline will get through to me.

“Bend over and touch your toes,” you tell me.

“But Sir…”

“Do it now.”

Reluctantly, I bend over. But what is this? Skimpy panties which leave nothing to the imagination. Through the fabric, the shape of my pussy is only too clear to see. Definitely not regulation. Raising your hand, you bring it down hard, watching me flinch, enjoying the feeling of my warm bottom through the fabric.

You instruct me to count. “One, thank you Sir. Two, thank you Sir…”

Despite the sting of your hand, however, I’m still smirking. Infuriated, you put me over your knee and begin spanking me again. To your horror, I grow visibly excited. Is that a wet patch on my panties? You touch it to check. There’s nothing for it now, harder punishment is needed. You pick up a flogger.

“Are you ready to apologise for what you did?” you ask.

“I didn’t do anything,” I stubbornly reply, my arse, pink and tender, still in the air.

Pulling me to my feet again, you tell me to remove all of my clothes and sit on your desk. It’s time for me to show you what I was doing with the boys. This school girl most certainly needs to learn her lesson…