The day after he punished me was delicious and agonising. I slept lying on my front, and in the morning when I woke and pulled on my clothes I winced as they moved against the tender welts that marked my backside. Anderson's marks, left by him on my skin like tattoos. Every time I sat down - every time I even shifted in my seat during class - the pain reminded me of him.
I couldn't concentrate. All day long my mind drifted. As I sat in English Literature I found myself idly inspecting my wrist and remembering the way it had felt when he strapped me down to the bench. The memory was so vivid - sound and smell and feeling all wrapped up in one. My face grew hot as I remembered, and I felt a slow tingling begin in my belly.
"Focus," I whispered, and pinched my arm to distract myself.
But as the day wore on, distracting myself became a more and more impossible task. I was horny and desperate and restless. Lying on my front in bed the night before I had resisted the urge to masturbate, wanting to save myself, keep myself for him. But now I needed release. If I wasn't able to get myself off soon I felt that I would go crazy.
"I'm just going up to the dorm," I said to my friend Nancy as we left English and set off towards our History lesson. "Tell Mr Wickes I'm not feeling well."
"Oh, you okay?" said Nancy, obviously concerned.
I shrugged. "Yeah. Fine. Just got cramps. Tell him I'm sorry. I just can't concentrate. I might go to the nurse."
Nancy nodded earnestly, convinced by my story, and I headed off towards the dorm. I felt vaguely surreal - I'd never skipped lesson in the middle of the day before, and certainly not to touch myself. Such things I'd always kept for after hours when the lights were out. The privacy of night was where they belonged. But waiting for night to come wasn't an option. I was desperate.
Fortunately I made it to the dorm without incident. I was pleased to see that the cleaner had already been in. There was a fresh pine smell in the air and the beds were immaculate. That meant I wouldn't be disturbed. Quickly, I stripped off my clothes and pulled on my pyjamas, then got into bed. It felt strange being there in the middle of the day, with bright light shining through the gap in the curtains. But nice too. It was so quiet.
I lay on my front. That felt good. I lay on my front and imagined Anderson standing over me, cane in hand, ready to punish me again. I imagined that I was waiting for the first strike to fall, bound and gagged and helpless. One hand crept down between my legs. The other I reached back and slipped into the waistband of my pyjamas. I could feel the welts across my bottom, the roughness of the skin as if it had been grazed.
Deliberately, delightedly, I squeezed my backside, digging my fingers into the tender flesh. A shudder of pain rolled through me. Sweet, tired pain. A memory of something sharper. I squeezed until it the pain mounted and I gasped into my pillow. My other hand slipped into the cleft between my legs and found the sweet place there where each movement brought a frisson of pleasure.
It was exquisite. I brought myself to the very edge of coming and then dug my fingers into my backside and let the pain carry me higher. Three or four times I did this before at last I tipped over the edge. My muscles went into spasm and I bit down on the pillow to keep myself from crying out. I rocked my hips against the bed, against my hand. Tears sprung to my eyes and my breath halted in my throat. I thought of Anderson. The bench. The sting of that first lash. I came.
Weak in the aftermath of such a sweeping climax, I curled into a ball, hugging my pillow. I could feel my entire body trembling, every muscle exhausted as though I'd just sprinted a mile. Before I knew it I was asleep, exhausted and satisfied.
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