Can you stand it?

I am inclined to think that when someone writes on a blog, they develop a certain kind of persona. You, the reader, gets to see them in a particular light. It is not that the person writing isn't telling the truth, but rather that they are, possibly, only telling you what they think you want to hear.

The reason for this might be that even though our blogs are often anonymous, our true identity not disclosed, there is a part of us that worries about disclosure, and/or worries that the reader might not be able to handle all the facets of us. When one considers that the number of people interested in our mindset is very small, comparatively speaking, to write of dark fantasies might be too much.

I wonder.

On any given day, in any situation, you are probably surrounded with people with dark fantasies. The difference is that they will never admit them. I'd like money on that belief. Alas, I will never prove it.

I have dark fantasies. When I masturbate (yes, yes! I admit it!) I go to those dark fantasies, often. I fantasize about men who behave in the most ungallant ways. They are so often men in positions of power; headmasters and husbands of yesteryear. However, the rules of society, even olden day society do not exist. They can do as they wish.

The headmaster of my fantasy is the most severe of men. It is not his way to dispense with six of the cane and send me on my way. More likely, he will lecture me of my disappointing behaviour and order me to return to his study on Sunday evening. He is not interested in ending the ordeal. Not at all. In fact, he wishes to prolong my experience.

Of course, I can think of nothing else for several days and each time I sit down at my desk I think of what is to befall me on my return trip to his study. It doesn't end there. When the time finally arrives, he is never ready to proceed, asking me instead to kneel on the wooden bench in his corner, my skirt held up and my panties taken down, so that I can feel the cool breeze on my bottom. He may well leave me there for an hour.

Finally, when he calls me to stand in front of his desk, he makes clear the gravity of the situation. I won't be running in the corridors any time soon, that's for sure! He goes to his implement cupboard and tries out a few canes. He slashes them through the air, whilst I watch; heart stopped.

He tells me that since this is the second time I have been to his office this term, it is clear that I have the hallmarks of a girl that requires severe punishment and thus it will be twelve hard strokes this time. He says the word "hard" with particular emphasis.

He has a whipping bench, thank God. Without restraint, I think my fantasy might have come to an end too soon. It is possible to scare oneself too much! He has me lay across it, and he pulls the leather belt tight across my back; secures my wrists and ankles firmly to the legs. He bares the buttocks he is about to thrash and he delivers the strokes slowly, firmly; with the resolve of a man who means to change this girl's errant behaviour, forever.

He likes to talk. Before he delivers the next stroke he talks of the necessity for discipline in a girl's life. He talks of his responsibility to see that all girl's at his college are well prepared for a life of submission to their husbands. He assures me that the whipping is for my own good.

Upon completion of his task, he returns the cane to its place beside his other canes, and he inspects my bottom, ordering me to report to matron that evening for a salt water wash. It seems that there is broken skin to be attended to.

Once standing, he asks what I have to say, and naturally, I thank him for punishing me; apologize for taking up his time. He says that he has done no more than his duty. I am his charge, after all.

He writes a sentence on a piece of paper and hands it to me. He has me go to the detention room to write the sentence 500 times.

"Young ladies of Sufferidge College must not run in the corridors."

He tells me that the work must be in my best handwriting or else I will be told to do it again.

As I open the door to leave, trying desperately not to rub my stinging backside, he reminds me to be sure to sit directly on my bottom.

"There is to be no squirming, young lady, if you know what is good for you."

"Yes Sir," I say.

And, that is not the half of it. There is so much more. But, can you stand it?