Teacher's Pet

I was in the fifth form at St. Cyprian's when Miss Markwell gave me the experience that unlocked my sexual identity. Thanks to her, I adore and serve dominant women. Instead of the strutting, aggressive cocks-man I could have turned into, I am a male who understands that my absurd appendage is for women's use and amusement only.

Although a late developer, I was still acutely conscious of the way Miss Markwell adorned her firm, curvaceous figure. She always wore tight pencil skirts, fitted jackets, and crisp white blouses, which barely contained the pneumatic perfection of her luscious but firm bosom. Her blouses swooped down to a waist of such narrowness. From her waist hung skirts that caressed the voluptuous cradle of her femininity: hips, buttocks and thighs. Below that, fishnet stockings flowed down to black patent leather court shoes, on which she glided on long lithe legs with singular purpose and poise.

Miss Markwell wore her blonde hair severely back, which emphasised her lovely long neck. Her eyes were clear and intense as the blue summer skies of childhood, prevented from seeming cold by their mischievousness. At 25, she was the youngest teacher in the school, but she nevertheless commanded a great deal of respect from colleagues and pupils. Her reputation as a formidable disciplinarian attracted the admiration of the older members of staff, and the grudging respect of the boys. To the girls, she was a role model.

I don't know what drove me to transgress in her class that day. I was usually well behaved, even if I found myself fantasising unduly about her. I think too that perhaps she recognised in me the promise of my submissiveness, and maybe that is why she homed in on me that day. And perhaps I was subconsciously ripe to embark on my sexual journey, and seeking to test myself against her formidable untrammelled femininity.

She asked me a question, and instead of answering in the polite manner she had instilled in us all, I found myself just staring back at her.

Suddenly she was standing in front of me.

"Why are you not paying attention?"

She challenged, telling me to remain behind to see her after class.

In truth, I had known the answer to the question she had put to me and could not account for my initial silence; and then was too embarrassed to respond to her more direct challenge, for fear of stammering and looking foolish in front of my friends. .

It was with little surface trepidation that I stayed behind for detention. I had always been top of the class, and I was sure that I could explain to Miss Markwell my momentary lapse, and show that I had understood what she asked me. However, at a deeper level, I believe I felt a sense of awe at being alone with this woman, nervous in the face of her total and resounding femininity.

"But I knew the answer to your question, Miss".

I started off, when the others had all left.

"We will see what you know", was all she said.

She told me to stand in the corner of the room while she wrote in her black lesson plan book. I felt relieved, anticipating soon being back with my mates, boasting about what I had got up to with this mesmerising teacher. Miss Markwell must have noted my complacent manner from the start, and had already hatched her plan finally to break me.

"Sit down,"

She said in a quiet voice pointing at a chair and desk in front of her.

I did so, diverting my eyes, looking out of the window to where I could make out my chums playing.

She got up from her chair and I heard the squeal of the key being turned in the lock of the classroom door. I shuddered a little at this unexpected escalation.

"That's the trouble!"

She exclaimed, pointing at my meandering gaze.

"What's the trouble, Miss?"

I stammered.

"Your school work can be good, I may have a budding intellectual on my hands, but you don't participate in class. You spend far too much time with your oafish pals."

She explained, fixing my gaze with her clear, penetrating stare.

I remembered, suddenly, in a flash back, how late one afternoon last winter term I had followed Miss Markwell and Mr Evans along the path behind the sports centre. Turning the corner, I had been amazed to see Miss Markwell standing with her feet apart, and Mr Evans lying on the concrete path, between her legs, paying what appeared to be frantic oral homage to her right shoe.

Panic stricken, but fascinated, I had ducked back behind the brick wall, and peered round the corner at the two teachers' amazing antics. I took it all in, the glowing, triumphant expression on Miss Markwell's face, and the muted moans of Mr Evans when she twisted the heel of her left shoe on his neck, pressing him lower into the cold ground,

Miss Markwell's voice in the here and now snapped me out of my reverie

"Now, Morgan, repeat what you said about me to your Neanderthal colleagues at break this afternoon."

"Well, Miss, I..."

She had overheard! Already my remaining bravado was seeping quickly away.

I had never in fact told anyone about the episode between Miss Markwell and Mr Evans, doubting that they would believe it. Mr Evans was a hero among the boys, and a favourite of the girls. Standing well over six feet tall, and with broad shoulders and a sturdy build, he was an imposing physical specimen. He had the dark swarthy good looks that Welsh blood sometimes produces, and an athleticism that had taken him to the fringes of the Welsh national rugby team.

I remembered how, in a match between the School First Fifteen and the Teachers, Mr Evans had scored a solo try from his own 25 yard line, feinting and weaving his way at speed straight through the School pack, barely touching a boy, and leaving the bewildered creme-de-la-creme of the School sporting establishment lying scattered and bewildered in his wake, nursing nothing more than bruised egos.

How remarkable that a man such as that should, apparently of his own free will, be lying in the cold, at the feet of Miss Markwell, licking her shoes like a vanquished slave.

Miss Markwell coughed, expressing impatience.

"I just said what a nice figure you had, Miss"

I muttered, blushing horribly now, which made my embarrassment worse.

'Big tits' was, I think, the actual expression, wasn't it? Answer me, boy".

"Yes, Miss".

"I'm glad you like them. I'm rather proud of them myself. However, that is a crass and gross expression, don't use it again".

"Oh no Miss, I won't".

She arose, unbuttoning her blouse so that her breasts, in a half-cup bra, were displayed in all their glory inches from my blushing face.

"Is this what you wanted to see?"

I gaped at her and she slapped me hard on the face with the flat of her hand.. That was a shock, and it hurt, but I could not help looking at her, begging for more.

Never before had a woman shown me such delights. No previous experience had drawn me like this. I did not care. I had to look. She slapped me again.

I kept turning and she kept slapping me. I wanted to see her beautiful breasts and eventually I wanted her to slap me. The two sensations melted into one.

Every time she slapped me she said, "You little creep".

I wanted to be her creep and was proud and glad to have that privilege. She ch anged her approach, probably recognising that she could slap me all night and I would still give in to the compulsive urge to gaze.

"I can see by that silly expression on your face that you would like to take a closer look."

She proclaimed, and I suddenly found myself sprawled on my back with Miss Markwell seated astride my hips, and my face smothered by her magnificent breasts.

"What do you think of them now, boy?"

I made smothered groans.

"Exactly!"

She laughed out loud.

She teasingly began to let her full weight rest on my prostrate form. It was clear that she felt great satisfaction when I found it hard to breathe beneath her fragrant warm weight. I began to wriggle.

"The more you resist the more discomfort you will feel".

I was now completely in her power and she knew that a few more moments of this and I would submit to her will, in and out of the classroom. She had no need to say anything but just let my coltish nature meet its fate to be broken.

Clearly she loved the feeling of male resistance ebbing away beneath her. I felt she sensed that, underneath my male arrogance there was a sensitive soul in need of benign female control. So she guided me, relentlessly but compassionately, slowly towards a realisation of my true nature.

I stopped squirming. She was silent and had obviously decided that further words were unnecessary: I had already submitted to her superior strength, and only needed time to give myself up inwardly. Silence and patience would be her methods.

She sat astride my chest, taking up a book and a plate of sandwiches as if settling down for the evening. I had worked out that I could just about breathe if I kept still and followed the pattern of my teachers breathing: it was easier for me if I obeyed the dictates of her movement, and the symbolism of this was not lost on me. I was also dimly aware that something profound was happening to me. In later years I understood that I was being simultaneously fed the life force of the Goddess. At the age of sixteen I merely understood that a humdinger of an erection was on its way.

Miss Markwell was now totally absorbed in her book. She sensed the calmness that had entered my spirit and was also aware of the erotic excitement I was experiencing. She rounded off this first private tutorial very nicely by articulating what had happened to me.

"Now, Morgan, my little pet pupil: trapped and captive you may be but you and I both know that you have been liberated from the absurd male posturing required by your friends, and it has dawned on you that your role is to adore and worship the feminine. You may grunt if you disagree".

Silence.

She eased herself off me, standing astride me and was pleased that I dare not rise without her permission.

"I cannot allow this, however," indicating my erection and stooping to hit it with a silver pencil.

"You must subdue your sexual desires and learn that erotic pleasure is only for me to enjoy. Your body is my temple: I cannot allow you to defile it."

"I will have to give you some clear direction, young man".

She sat down, making an exquisite lap for me. She opened the drawer in her desk and pulled out a pair of gloves and elegantly pulled them on to her hands, flexing her fingers in the tight black leather.

"These punishment gloves will always be worn when I administer correction. Let's have your trousers and pants down around your ankles. Now bend over here so I can give your bare bottom a good spanking."

Her frank language took me back. I started to undo my pants but before I could finish she grabbed the waist and hauled everything down.

"You are much too slow, Morgan, you must learn to obey my commands, instantly and quickly".

I thought I could take my punishment like a man. How wrong that would prove to be. She pulled my hair until I was lying in the correct position. Her firm hands pressed between my shoulder blades

"Bend over so your bottom is sticking out."

I stuck it out and wiggled it a little in defiance. One buttock then the other felt the force of her considerable strength as her spanking hand settled into its rhythm. From time to time she would stop and prise my cheeks apart. I felt the cool air and knew how exposed to her view I must be. I felt pain and humiliation but it was neither of these that made tears well up in my eyes. Whatever it was it was good, I knew it was something for which I should be deeply grateful, and the words came purely from instinct:

"Thank you, Miss. Thank you."

She saw that I was crying.

"There now. You may kiss the punishment gloves and thank me for correcting you by promising that you will amend your behaviour, and then you will get dressed and sit back at the desk".

In a daze of submissive obedience I did as she commanded. Since my bottom hurt I involuntary put my hands behind me to rub it better. This jutted my torso out making my penis stand straight out towards her. She reached out and grabbed it with her firm hold.

"This is your problem. It destroys your concentration in class. It is also a threat to the girls. You don't want to upset the girls do you by making them pregnant and ruining their lives and yours?"

Nothing could be further from my thoughts. My hope now was to learn from her and become her most obedient student.

"When you get erections, your brain is sending your body an evil message. You need to make these bad messages go away safely. I will not allow your pathetic penis to think for you. Whenever you get aroused you are to think of my knickers and excuse yourself to play with yourself. This must not occur more than twice a day. The fluid must be fully drained. Do you understand?"

I was humiliated by the way she was using my own penis to scold me, and surrendered all dignity and resistance.

"You must only have a flaccid penis in the presence of females. Then it is no danger to us."

She lifted her skirt and I glimpsed her panties. My gaze was locked on them..

"Stay there you creep"

She warned and, looking me straight in the eye, smoothed her skirt upward, swaying her body from side to side as she did so. The look on her face was haughty and disdainful. Her suit became an object of desire as the seductive serpentine movement of her body made it cling smoothly to her. She was looking straight at me when her tight black panties came fully into view.

"Stay where you are, I said."

Her hand went between her legs and she smoothed her panties. She began to stroke herself with her whole hand and then with just one finger producing a soft trench and then a hint of dampness. All the time she looked at me, pinioning me with her gaze. I was lost, tossed in a sea of urges.

She came closer to where I sat at the desk. The corner of the desk had been smoothed by many sweaty hands but had never felt a caress like this. I was imprisoned between her legs. The transfixing centre of her crotch settled on that section of desk and seemed to swell. Menacingly she gyrated herself up and down over the wooden corner of the school desk. The corner of the table was pressing hard into her.

Her panties swelled, darkened, as a stream of her warm urine came over the desk. It ran into the inkwell, and down the sloping desk. Through her wet panties I could see the darkness of her sacred cleft.

"Lick it up creep, lick my pee off the desk".

I fell to it, my face between her luxuriant thighs, lapping her strong scented urine in long tongue strokes, suspended between the obscene and the holy, degraded yet purified. Every time I paused she hit me with a ruler. The beating was part of the experience, associated with the pleasure and excitement. I had been a good boy for her as a teacher and now I was a bad boy for her in this other role. This was so new and exciting. To be bad but be rewarded with such sights and smells and tastes of sex, and with punishment which I now understood to be a reward. So confusing yet so wonderful.

She grasped my hair, and pushed my face to her wet panties.

"Suck them clean, creep, suck them dry. Go on you little slacker, you idle worthless boy".

I would have done anything for her. I kept thinking, "Flay me, flay me, just never send me away and let me keep my face pressed into your soft breasts and sweet panties for the rest of my life".

She continued to lecture me.

"You have insufficient experience to be sure in your judgements. I am trying to save you from your baser self. You must listen earnestly to what I tell you."

She smiled and any residual resistance I had to her fused into cringing love in the crucible of her sexuality.

"It is futile to resist correction from your castigator. For castigating you for your inborn wilfulness I deserve your thanks."

It was clear she revelled in her power for its own sake and was able to secure perfect voluntary obedience from boys, men, like me, like Mr Evans.

"You surrender to me of your own free will".

I pictured the mighty macho Mr Evans, prostrate on the path, her willing slave. It was true; we were powerless to resist her independent, ironic, critical distance from the established shibboleths of male power. She was self-made, had a facility with words and a power to make me face up to long suppressed truths. She had seen to the core of the hidden, magical side of my nature and exploited it to the full.

In later life, reflecting on my education at the hands of Miss Markwell, I felt I had been like a prize colt racehorse, first biting the bit and later liking it; rearing under the saddle, while soon learning to enjoy submitting to my trainer's will, displaying my harness and prancing proudly beneath its trappings.

She was already setting out the way it would be from now on. I was her boy. I would never be able to go out with girls in the normal way, even though they had begun to take an interest, telling me they found me cute. They were a pale reflection of her magnificence and she strictly forbade it. As for the boys, returning to them felt like a cold barren exile from all I was coming to cherish.

After this baptism, I was kept back regularly several times a week for induction. I learnt to show her the respect she demanded. This included bowing to her on command, kissing her feet and polishing her shoes with my tongue and licking her stockinged feet clean; begging at last for cauterising redemption beneath the molten kiss of her imperious rattan cane.

This intense educational environment established for me at an impressionable age by Miss Markwell helped to fix important lessons in my mind, and successfully effected an attitude adjustment. I am truly grateful that my latent potential was first perceived by her, and then so skilfully nurtured and harvested for the benefit of my female superiors.

Marquise