Michael stood outside the heavy oak door of the headmistress’s office, heart hammering like a trapped bird. At eighteen, as head prefect, he had thought himself untouchable—until the moment Miss Armstrong caught him peering through the gap in the girls’ changing-room blinds. Now the summons had come. He knocked once and entered.
Miss Armstrong sat behind her wide desk, petite and deceptively delicate, with soft brown curls and an innocent prettiness that made the steel in her eyes all the more startling. “Close the door, Michael. We have a serious matter to discuss.” Her voice was calm, almost sweet. “Spying on the changing room. I could expel you today. Or you may accept twelve strokes of the cane. Your choice.”
He swallowed. Expulsion would ruin everything. “The cane, Miss Armstrong.”
A knowing smile curved her lips. “Trousers first. Then your underpants. Everything off.”
Michael’s face burned as he obeyed, standing naked before her. She did not look away; she studied him with quiet satisfaction. “Bend over the desk. Feet well apart.”
He complied, every inch of him exposed—his cock hanging heavy between his spread thighs, his ass presented. Miss Armstrong picked up the long cane, flexing it. “You will count.” The first stroke landed with a sharp crack. He gasped the number. Each subsequent stroke burned deeper, the cane slicing across his ass with precise, stinging force. By the tenth he was panting, sweat sliding down his back. On the twelfth he cried out, voice cracking.
“Stand up,” she ordered. He straightened, mortified to find his cock fully hard, jutting upward, the head glistening. Miss Armstrong’s eyes gleamed with excitement; she felt a warm, wet pulse between her own thighs. “You’re horny, aren’t you? Touch yourself. Now.”
Humiliation warred with desperate arousal. “Miss… please…”
“Witty enough to spy, but not to obey? Stroke your cock for me, Michael. I want to see you come.”
He wrapped a shaking hand around his shaft and began to pump, slow at first, then faster under her steady gaze. “That’s it. Harder. Let me hear how much you need it.” Her voice stayed cool even as her pussy grew slick, dripping against her silk panties. Michael’s breathing turned ragged, panting, his ass still throbbing from the cane. “Miss Armstrong… I’m close—”
“On the floor. Every drop.” He came with a strangled groan, thick ropes of cum splattering the polished wood. She watched, empowered, her own body humming with heat.
Miss Armstrong stepped closer, voice low and teasing. “Clean yourself up. And remember—I’ll be watching for the next errant boy… or perhaps I’ll decide you need far more personal correction next time.”
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