The Headmistress Who Owns My Saturday Nights

I still get hard every time I see a school chair.

Not the plastic ones they have now, the old wooden ones with the curved back and the little groove where generations of bored kids carved their initials. One look at that chair and my stomach drops, my mouth goes dry, and my cock starts leaking like I’m eighteen again.

Because that’s the chair she uses.

Her name is Headmistress Lucia, and she’s been punishing me every third Saturday for the last fourteen months in the back room of an abandoned private school she somehow has keys to. The place smells like chalk dust, floor wax, and fear. My fear. The good kind.

I’m forty-one, senior VP, six-figure bonus, the guy who fires people before lunch and plays golf with the CEO on Sundays. And every third Saturday I park three blocks away, walk through the broken gate like a criminal, and stand outside her office door in my old school uniform (yes, she made me buy it, short gray shorts, knee socks, the whole humiliating works) until she opens the door and looks at me like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.

Last month was the worst. Or the best. Depends on how you measure these things.

I’d been late. Traffic. A lie. Truth is I sat in my car for twenty extra minutes trying to talk myself out of it, the way I always do, because every time I walk through that door I know I’m going to end up crying like a little bitch with my ass on fire.

She knew the second she saw me.

“Lateness is disrespect,” she said. Voice crisp, posh, the kind that could cut glass. “Detention. Six o’clock. Do not make me wait again.”

Detention. Fuck.

Six o’clock came. I knocked. She opened the door wearing the full outfit: black academic gown over a tight white blouse, pencil skirt, seamed stockings, patent heels that clicked like a countdown. Hair in a severe bun. Glasses perched on the end of her nose. In her hand: the senior cane. Thick, dark, crooked handle. The one that leaves marks for weeks.

“Inside. Hands on the desk. Shorts down.”

I obeyed so fast I nearly tripped. The classroom was exactly like I remembered from nightmares: rows of empty desks, blackboard covered in perfect copperplate handwriting: “Lines will be written on the buttocks when necessary.”

My shorts hit the floor. No underwear (she doesn’t allow it). My cock was already dripping, making a wet spot on the polished wood between my palms.

She walked slow circles around me, cane tapping against her palm.

“You’ve been masturbating again, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“To what?”

“Femdom spanking stories, Headmistress. The ones where the boy gets caned until he cries and begs.”

“And did you come?”

“Yes, Headmistress. Twice.”

“Disgusting. You know the rule.”

“No coming without permission, Headmistress.”

She stopped behind me, trailed the cane up my spine, let it rest across my bare ass.

“Twelve strokes. Then corner time. Then we’ll discuss your… problem.”

The first stroke took my breath away. A line of pure fire across both cheeks. I screamed before I could stop myself.

“Count.”

“One, thank you Headmistress!”

The second crossed the first. By six I was dancing on my toes, tears already dripping onto the desk. By nine my voice was shredded. The twelfth landed low, right where ass meets thigh, and my knees buckled. I hung over the desk sobbing, snot running, cock still traitorously hard and leaking a puddle.

She let me cry it out, then grabbed my ear like I was twelve and marched me to the corner.

“Nose to the wall. Hands on head. Legs apart. You will stay there until I decide you’ve learned something.”

I stood there for what felt like hours, ass throbbing, cum cooling on my thighs, listening to her mark papers with a red pen. Every scratch of that pen felt like judgment.

Finally she called me back.

“Over the vaulting horse.”

There’s an actual old leather gym horse in the corner. She buckled my wrists and ankles to the legs so I was bent double, ass high, balls dangling, completely helpless.

She picked up the tawse (two-tailed Scottish monster) and went to work.

Stroke after stroke across already cane-striped flesh. I lost count. Lost language. Just animal howls and tears and the wet slap of leather on swollen skin. At some point I started begging in tongues. She didn’t stop until my ass was purple and I was hanging limp in the straps, broken open and floating.

Then she did something new.

She walked around to my head, lifted her skirt, and pressed my tear-soaked face between her thighs. No panties. Just wet, hot, perfect cunt. She ground against my mouth, using my tongue like a toy, while I sobbed and licked and thanked her between breaths.

When she came she flooded my face, held me there until I was drowning in her, then pushed me away like used tissue.

“Good boy,” she whispered. “Now clean the horse with your tongue. Every drop.”

I did. Licked my own precum and tears off the leather while she watched, smoking a cigarette she wasn’t supposed to have on school grounds.

When she finally unbuckled me I collapsed to the floor, kissing her shoes, babbling thank you thank you thank you.

She crouched down, lifted my chin with the cane handle.

“Next month you’ll wear the dunce cap and write lines on the board with a plug in your arse. And if you’re late again, I’ll cane you in front of the window where anyone walking past can see what happens to filthy wankers who can’t control themselves.”

I came right there on the floor, untouched, just from her words.

That’s the thing nobody tells you in those pretty little femdom spanking stories.

It’s not about the pain. Pain you can take.

It’s about the shame. The total, humiliating, delicious surrender of being treated like a stupid, horny little boy who needs his bottom beaten raw by a woman who doesn’t give a fuck about your job title or your bank account.

I pay her nothing. She doesn’t want money. She wants my tears. My obedience. My humiliation.

And I give it to her. Every drop.

Because when I’m bent over that horse, ass striped and throbbing, face covered in her cum and my own snot, I’m not a man pretending anymore.

I’m just hers.

If you’re reading this and your cock is leaking or your clit is aching or you’re clenching around nothing remembering that one time you almost asked for it, stop almost.

Find her. The one who’ll look at you like you’re nothing and make you everything.

Walk through that door.
Drop your trousers.
Bend over.

And when the first stroke lands and the whole world disappears except heat and shame and perfect, perfect surrender… you’ll understand why I’ll keep coming back until I’m too old to take it anymore.

Because this, this is the only church I believe in.
And Headmistress Lucia is my goddess.