Bdsm School Stories

⚡ ALL INFORMATION CLICK HERE 👈🏻👈🏻👈🏻

Bdsm School Stories
Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER! Copyright 1985-2020 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved.
Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet
or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_
modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form
of publication is allowed without written permission. This
document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature.
***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own
problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only,
and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the
author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All
characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people
is purely coincidental.
Purchase this story in print form!
Don't like reading on screen? This story is available in print form in Ultimate Archive: Volume 1 at the Flogmaster's Bookstore . Purchase your copy today to encourage the Flogmaster to write more cool stories.


Site contents Copyright ©1995-2020 by the Flogmaster (flogmaster100 at gmail). All Rights Reserved.
You have permission to download these stories for personal use only. No other type of publication of these stories is permitted without written authorization of the Flogmaster.

A headmaster remembers disciplining his charges. (Approximately 7,520 words. Originally published 1999-11.)
My name is Francois Lemain. In the 1930s my wife and I
operated a small school and boarding house in what was then
the Belgian Congo. Our school was for the daughters of
English-speaking foreigners. There were a few similar
schools in the country, but they were only for boys. My
wife, an American, was outraged by this "discrimination" and
urged me to use my teaching talents in the upbringing of
young ladies. While I had severe doubts as to the economic
viability of such an undertaking, when Sarah put her
father's money on the table, I wasn't going to argue.


We bought a rather large house about two hours from
Mbandaka, the nearest city of notable size. I spent the
summer as foreman to a crew of workers who converted the
building into a school and rooming house, while Sarah took
charge of recruitment. She notified the British and American
embassies of our intentions, and soon we had a number of
inquiries. There was indeed a demand for my services, though
it wasn't as high as Sarah had anticipated.


In the fall of 1932 we opened the Bengassou English Boarding
School for Girls. We restricted entry to students 12 to 19
years old. We wanted girls old enough to live on their own,
away from their families, and though that didn't apply to
the non-residents, I had decided I didn't want a large range
of students. With a narrow group of ages more academic
material could apply to the whole group rather than one or
two students. It was a formula that worked. That first year
we had three permanent residents and two day students. It
wasn't much, but it was a start. We gave those girls all we
had.


For the next couple years the school struggled, but
gradually our reputation spread. Parents admired our passion
for strict discipline and high moral behavior, and felt
secure sending their daughters to live with us. Due to the
small number of students I was able to devote a great deal
of time to personal tutoring, and our girls excelled
academically. By the fourth year we had nine girls living
with us and seven others attending in the daytime. That
proved to be typical -- in the history of the school we
never had more than 23 in one year, and 15 students was
average.


Many of these girls who attended our school weren't American
or British. At various times we housed French, German,
Spanish, Dutch, Swedish, South African, and Australian
girls. All of them spoke excellent English -- it was a
requirement we could not waive, as I did not have time to
teach language and lessons simultaneously.


We had expected most of the girls to come from the families
of wealthy businessmen and embassy personnel, but to our
surprise, quite a few of our girls were the daughters of
foreign missionaries. These parents encouraged and supported
our discipline methods, and were glad that we offered
religious teaching as part of our curriculum.


As time progressed, it was to the missionary parents we
catered. They wanted stricter rules and harsher punishments,
and we obliged. A few parents did not appreciate our
methods, but the increased enrollment gained from the
conservative, tightly-knit missionary community more than
made up losing a few spoiled rich girls.


With more and more of our girls coming from strict
households, disciplinary instances dropped dramatically.
These girls were hard-working angels who rarely needed the
encouragement of the slipper and rod. Parents, however, were
displeased. They demanded precise accounting of all
discipline procedures reported to them quarterly, and if
their daughters hadn't been sufficiently punished, they
blamed the school, not the good behavior of their daughters.
So gradually my wife and I were forced to increase the
already high standards of our school to inhuman levels --
meaning that every girl would fail occasionally, suffer the
rod, and thus satisfy their parents' desires for stern
discipline.


For instance, we instigated a plan by which poor marks on
exams and papers earned painful corporal punishment. The
rule eventually became one stroke of the cane for every
inaccurate answer. That meant that even the best and
brightest suffered under the rod just as their sisters.


The effects of this rigid environment was astonishing.
Rather than rebel or become morose and uncooperative, the
girls seemed to flourish. Spankings, strappings, and canings
were a near daily occurrence, yet once they'd adapted, it
rarely bothered them. The girls found escaping the rod a
wonderful challenge. It was a game that brought out the best
of all of them. They feared punishment (of course), but it
didn't rule them, mostly because it was such a common event.
It constantly amazed me what severity of punishment the
girls would risk for the scantiest pleasures, like the quick
puff of a forbidden cigarette, or the kiss of a love-sick
boy.


Of course behavior, in general, was quite excellent. If our
standards hadn't have been abnormally high I wouldn't have
had to cane more than a half dozen girls a year. As it was,
I usually met that quota in a week.


In a typical day, a girl at our school would rarely escape
without at least a spanking. For the resident girls, it was
nearly a guarantee. Here was how it worked. Since I was the
teacher and headmaster, punishments from me were always
formal, official punishments. I used the ruler, slipper,
strap, or cane, with the girl over my lap or bent across a
desk. She would raise her skirt and except in severe cases,
the whacking was done over her panties. Not so for my wife.
Her spankings were reserved for the residents only, who were
required to obey her as though she was their mother. Her
punishments were on the bare bottom, usually consisting of
long bouts with the hairbrush. It should be as no surprise
that the best behaved girls were always the resident girls.


We treated the girls like our own children. We were strict,
but fair. The girls knew and respected that. I couldn't
begin to count the number of times I got knocks on my office
door late in the evening to find a teary-eyed young lady
sobbing out a broken-hearted confession of some misdeed. The
girl knew I would punish her -- yet she came to me anyway.
It always melted my heart to witness that, though of course
I never let it interfere with administering the proper dose
of discipline. After her punishment, she always hugged and
thanked me and went away content, her spirit free again.


Since we were always fair, our students loved us. They
feared and respected us, but they knew we'd never truly hurt
them, and that we'd be there no matter what. For instance, I
remember one girl's parents dying in a plane crash. It was
nearly two months before she could travel back to the States
to live with relatives there. She cried when she left,
saying she wished she could live with us forever. It was the
most difficult good-bye I ever endured.


Being such a rigorous school, I spent a good deal of my days
enforcing discipline. During the early years this bothered
me. One of the resident girls in our first year was an
eighteen-year-old from North Carolina. Upon enrolling her,
her mother told me, "Darla's too big for her britches, so
you feel free to tan her bottom whenever she needs it."


The woman's assessment of her daughter proved dismally
accurate, and that first semester it seemed I was constantly
applying the strap or cane to Darla's mature backside.
Though I hesitated for a long time, I finally upped the ante
and really thrashed the girl on several memorable occasions.
(On one of them, I remember I had to call Sarah in to hold
the girl down.)


At first it made no visible difference, but gradually
Darla's behavior fell in line and soon she was a different
girl. Her mother was delighted, but I was still troubled.
Some of those punishments had bordered on abuse. But the
next year I received a wonderful letter from Darla, studying
at an American university. She thanked me for all I'd done
and told me how she'd been rebelling against her parents and
heading for disaster when I'd caught her and turned her life
180 degrees.


"It wasn't pleasant," she wrote, "but I'm ever so grateful
for those countless lessons in your office. (I swear you
must have worn out a strap or two on my behind!) I know you
had doubts about such discipline -- I could see it in your
eyes, and I often tried to capitalize on your emotions to
escape or minimize my punishment. I must apologize. It was
wrong of me to use you like that. But your resilience
changed my life. It got through to me when nothing else
could. I am eternally thankful. If I had a daughter of my
own I'd have no doubts about putting her in your care."


I saw that Darla was right: consistent discipline never hurt
anyone. It was inconsistency that did life-long damage.
Unkept promises, whether for pleasure or punishment,
promoted rebellion and provoked disobedience. After that, I
never regretted the time it took to discipline my girls -- I
saw it as a vital part of my teaching duties, perhaps, in
the long run, far more important than any math or geography
lesson.


Indeed, when the school was at the height of its popularity
and the rules had been raised to angel level, I calculated
that nearly half my day was spent enforcing discipline. I
nearly always spanked a girl before breakfast, and perhaps
one or two after, before class started. Before lunch I'd
have been forced to spank several more, and by afternoon my
arm would be sore.


After school there were always one or two girls kept late
for a punishment session. These were for more severe
offenses and were extensive. Rather than a dozen swats with
the slipper, a girl might be over my lap for ten minutes of
solid whacking. Then she might have the strap or cane as a
bonus.


My evenings, fortunately, were usually free for research and
preparation as Sarah handled any routine household spanking
needs. Occasionally I was forced to administer a severe
thrashing for extremely vile behavior (like stealing or
cheating). These were serious punishments planned days in
advance. For non-resident girls, permission was obtained
from the parents (I never had any decline) who could attend
it they wished. For resident girls, explanations
after-the-fact were sent home. Typically these sessions
involved long bare bottomed spankings and slipperings
followed by an extensive strapping or caning. Fortunately,
these were rare, no more than one or two per month.


The first few weeks of school were always the most
strenuous, discipline-wise. The returning students knew the
house rules and consequences, but the lack of discipline
over the summer usually meant a number of fresh lessons to
be relearned. The new girls, however, arrived naive and had
to be inducted into the system with a number of painful
bouts with the rod and strap.


I always felt the sorriest for these girls, for they tried
very hard to behave, and the corporal discipline frightened
them far more than the veterans, used to such treatment. But
I also knew that I couldn't slack in their education -- it
would be like giving a child simpler math problems simply
because she found the more complicated ones difficult. She
would learn nothing, and later in life would suffer far more
in regret and lost opportunities.


I remember one girl named Sarie. She was a pretty thing,
very small and delicate, aged fourteen when she arrived to
stay with us. Corporal punishment terrified her, but she
gave me no end of excuses to thrash her. She was so fearful,
however, that even the mildest of punishment caused her to
panic. On her first day, she earned a slippering in front of
class for whispering. I ordered her to the front of the
room.


"Oh, but sir!" she gasped, her face going crimson. "I was
just asking Megan if I could borrow her pencil."


"That is irrelevant," I said. "Now if you are not up here in
five seconds I shall exchange the slipper for the wooden
paddle." The girl's face was ashen at my threat, but her
feet seemed to have lost the ability to move her. I took up
the paddle and that only made her begin to cry -- she still
did not move.


Eventually, I was forced to retrieve her from her desk by
force. I was quite upset by her attitude, and vowed to see
that she was so thoroughly punished she'd never dare disobey
me again.


I bent her across my desk and lifted her skirts. Normally,
as I have mentioned, I allow my girls to maintain their
modesty -- but Sarie had crossed the line with her
insolence, so I dragged her undergarments to her knees. She
howled in protest, but I was ruthless.


I began with the slipper -- a crisp crack to her left cheek.
To my astonishment, the girl rose off the desk and ran away,
screaming as though I'd stuck her with a knife.


I must interject here that this was extremely unusual.
Though my punishments were often severe, in only the rarest
cases did the delinquent fail to cooperate. There was a
strong sense of honor among the girls -- none wanted to seem
weak before the others. Sarie, however, was the exception.
She seemed to have no shame in hiding or avoiding punishment
-- her greatest fear, by far, was the pain itself.


That first slippering proved to be symbolic of her future. I
was forced to recruit two older girls to hold Sarie down
while I proceeded to slipper and paddle the poor girl. I
blistered her buttocks so badly that I sent her to my wife
for medical treatment afterward.


That evening, in my office for a caning (for I felt that she
had yet to learn her lesson), the poor girl begged me not to
beat her. I almost gave in, but ordered her to stand for
just three strokes -- symbolic ones, really -- but she
couldn't even do that. At every stroke she rose and ran
around the room bawling, refusing to get back in position.
The three became six, then nine, then twelve. Still she
wouldn't cooperate. Finally I had Sarah hold her while I
administered a dozen of the best, on top of the six or so
I'd attempted.


For a couple weeks, this was how things worked with poor
Sarie. She escalated even the slightest punishment into the
most severe. I explained this to her carefully, hoping to
appeal to her logic. She said she understood, but later,
when faced with the slipper, she could not stay still. Soon
I simply resorted to having her restrained for her
punishments, but I made them far more severe than for anyone
else. When another girl might have merited a dozen with the
slipper over her panties, I gave Sarie two dozen with the
paddle on her bare bottom. The poor girl's buttocks were
always black and blue and covered with blisters. It made me
sad, but I felt it was her own choice.


It was Sarah that finally broke Sarie. She did it one night
with her hairbrush, during what began as a routine bedtime
spanking. She had administered a salve to Sarie's tender
behind, then proceeded to give the girl a few strokes of the
hairbrush as a bedtime punishment. The girl went wild,
kicking and screaming as though Sarah was attempting to
murder her. Sarah, who'd been incredibly patient with the
girl up to then, was exhausted. Her frustration became
determination. She took up the hairbrush and proceeded to
give the longest, hardest, most painful spanking she'd ever
given. It lasted for nearly an hour. That's right, an hour
of constant paddling. The poor girl was bedridden for three
days afterward, and her buttocks and thighs had to be
constantly cleaned and doused with ointment to prevent
infection.


But the interesting thing was that during that spanking
something inside Sarie was broken. She lost her fear. She
relaxed and accepted the spanking, instead of trying to
constantly fight it. Truly, I think it was her fears and
imagination that scared more than the actual spankings. Once
she'd enduring the worst possible -- at the hand of a caring
woman -- she became a different girl. After that I rarely
had to be strict with her. A half-dozen slipperings a month,
a spanking or two a week from Sarah, and the occasional
caning were all it took to keep her in line. She never took
her punishments with quite the nonchalance of the other
girls, but she didn't fight and run as she had previously.


A few times over the years we encountered some tough rebels.
These were girls who were destined to become juvenile
delinquents if not taken in hand early. Strangely, though I
hated the frequency and severity with which I was forced to
punish these girls, I couldn't help but admire their spirit
and determination. To this day I feel a little guilty that
some of my fondest memories are of these naughty,
disobedient rebel girls, while a number of the good, sweet
young ladies I can scarcely name.


There was one girl by the name of Esther. She'd been sent to
us specifically for discipline, as her father explained to
me she'd already been expelled from three schools (two in
America and one in Capetown). An American, she was seventeen
years old when she arrived, very tall and elegant, and
physically mature. She was extremely attractive -- stunning
in fact. Unfortunately she knew this too well and had not
only adopted a superior, arrogant attitude, but had
perfected her charms to such an extent that she could master
any boy or man she met.


She had minimal morals and was quite loose with men. One of
the first severe punishments I had to give her was after I
caught her behind the outhouse with a young man who brought
us deliveries. She was half-naked, her blouse open, and the
boy had her breast in his mouth when I arrived on the scene.
Worse, the brat seemed annoyed at _me_ for discovering them!
She had no shame and saw no wrong in what she was doing.


A long spanking and slippering did little to change her
attitude except make her more angry. I ordered her to strip
bare for a thrashing and she complied with a smugness that
infuriated me. She wasn't the least bit embarrassed at being
naked before me -- she was brazen, in fact, leaving nothing
uncovered and even touching herself while she watched my
expression.


The thrashing that followed was memorable to me, at least. I
cannot say if it made much of an impression on dear stubborn
Esther. It hurt her, I know that, for she made various
exclamations and swore at me several times during the
beating. The act
Mom Forces Son To Suck Cock
Sex Stiries
Mom And Daughter Masterbate Together