Give your hands to Mar Franklin

You bend your right arm back, lying it along your side - which means your hand rests against his crotch. You can feel something hot and stiff under the trouser fabric. He takes your wrist in his hand and bends it behind your back.

“The other, please.” You bend your other arm behind your back, and he wraps his hand around both your wrists, pinioning them just under your shoulder blades.

Your hair hangs in wavelets around your head, obscuring your vision, and your breasts feel heavy and meaty as his free hand explores them unhindered.

He switches his grip, holding your wrists with his right hand, as his left caresses your ass cheeks.

“This school is founded on the principle of discipline, Janet,” Mr. Franklin says. “A young lady like yourself - here at Rutherford of your own free will - has an even greater obligation to render obedience to your superiors. Unlike some of the more **** students, you know that you are meant to be a female, and that is proper that you learn your role within society. A simple breach of the rules like the omission of a permission slip may seem a small matter, but we at Rutherford expect the best from our girls. Now, I want you to count out the blows for me,” he finishes.

And you do, saying softly, “One”, “Two”, “Three”, “Four,”, “Five”...but by ten, you're crying as you call out the blows. By twenty, you're sobbing.

Mr. Franklin pushes you off his lap to your knees by the couch. Your cheeks are soaked from tears.

“Now, say ‘Thank you, Sir, for reminding me of my place.’”