Flipping through the day’s set of detention slips, I put my feet on my desk, resting for a moment from a full day of disciplinary duties. Today was especially tiring, as I performed a routine locker check that always reveals the depth of depravity that surrounds me. That, coupled with the revelation that two teachers had been caught “talking closely” in a corner of the gymnasium, and a fight had broken out in the hallway.

It is always exasperating to have to discipline one’s peers, but the teachers were quite apologetic in fear of their jobs. As they were both female, I expressed my dismay through the administration of an enthusiastic paddling, in which I implored Satan to be released from their buttocks. I then issued a warning and commanded they acknowledge their shameful act to the vicar, who has more experience in these matters than I.

The female students who had started a fight in the hallway had almost ripped each other’s clothes to pieces in their passionate quarrel. The nurse had to be called, and one of the girl’s skirts was completely ripped off. I ordered them all into my office, regardless of their disheveled state, and made them apologize and shake hands before I gave each of them ten swift strokes with my rattan cane. I then ordered them to leave my presence to ponder the futility of their violence, detention slips in hand. Sniffling and rubbing their rosy red hindquarters, I believe they left with a renewed sense of what it means to be a lady.

Now, finally able to rest, I glance over at my wall of implements and smile. The cane sits jauntily in it’s receptacle, almost begging to be picked up in order exert yet more of it’s influence. I finger it lightly, then grab it and swipe it through the air to hear it whistle. A small giggle escapes my lips. Oh, but there is still more work to be done! I button my blouse up to the top, straighten my skirt, and fix any stray wisps of hair away from my face as I remember that Thomas, a new student, has still to walk through my door. I would politely describe him as “obedience challenged”, as he has only been in my charge for two weeks, but has already been tardy three times, and has fallen asleep during his English class. Recalling these infractions, I swipe the cane three more times. Clearing my throat, I lean on my desk and call him in.

“Good afternoon, Thomas.”

“Hi, Ms. Wolfe.”

“Sit down.” I point with the cane to a small chair, which I keep across from my desk. The height of it makes him look more diminutive than a normal one might. I loom over him, a good four feet, arms folded. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No, I have no idea.”

“Really? You’ve absolutely no notion of why you would be called down to my office.” I demand, rather than ask.

“No, ma’am.”

“Perhaps you could be induced to remember if I told you that I performed a routine locker check today.”

“No, ma’am, I have no idea how my locker contents could get me in trouble, ma’am.”

“Are you telling me that you are not aware of the contents of your own locker?”

“No, ma’am.”

My patience is wearing thin. He has been given a chance to confess, which he refuses to take. Does he really think he can get away with such insolence? I grab his jaw, perhaps a little harder than he would expect.

“Don’t play games with me, Thomas.”

He squirms, trying to break free of my grip. His eyes flash with fear. I look down at him, raising one eyebrow, and bringing my face closer to his. He is an audacious little thing, and doesn’t seem to know quite what he’s gotten himself into.

“There’s nothing bad in my locker ma’am, if there is, it was put in there by someone else, I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I sense him turning scenarios and lies over in his mind, trying to decide on an alibi. I stare into his eyes. He is my prey. He swallows, and can’t hold my gaze. I know he is lying. I walk behind him, slowly, deliberately. I put both hands on his shoulders, rubbing them softly, and then taking hold of them. I whisper in his ear, “Thomas, don’t dig yourself deeper than you already have.” I make sure that my voice is as soft as my caresses, and that my lips lightly touch the lobe of his ear, almost a kiss.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wolfe, I honestly don’t know why I’m here.”

He’s made the decision to withold information, and therefore to disrespect me. Obviously, he needs to be introduced to my special “behavioral modification techniques”. I tell him to strip.

“What?” he says.

“You heard me. Do it now.”

“This is highly unorthodox, ma’am.”

I take the herbal contraband out of my desk and hold it in front of his face. “Is that so? Would you rather I call the police? Surely they would not tolerate such substances being brought to school. In fact, I doubt they would have any reservations about recommending you to a juvenile detention center.” His face becomes more serious as he realizes the gravity of his situation. “I see that you recognize the contents. Undress. Now.” It makes me smile to watch him take his clothes off hurriedly, as if they were burning him. He undresses to reveal his deliciously lithe body, sinewy and alive with a faint, glistening glow all over him. His odor wafts toward me, and I walk around him, drinking it in. He stands with his head down.

“When I said undress, everything must come off.” He looks at me pleadingly, as if to say, why? I seize the opportunity to smack his round, toned ass.

“Everything. Off. Now.”

To Be Continued…

Doolee doolee doolee doolee do! Nevermind, if you’ve never seen Wayne’s World.

What I meant by that excitable title is that Ms. Alex and I had a party at our play space for our Mistress friends last Tuesday, that was excellent fun- and YOU missed it! Ha ha! However, here is a general account of what happened on that dark and stormy night…

Alex wore a tux, and I was in my 9-inch tall platform boots with a leather skirt and vamp 60’s biker chick eyeliner carefully applied. We were “Mommy and Daddy” as it were, with a twist.

I had instructed two of our favorite slaves a few days in advance that they would be serving at this event, and gave them a detailed email including what was expected of them in terms of dress, demeanor, wine and table service, and preparation. Both slaves were very enthusiastic, and one even went to the extent of fully transforming himself (ahem, in terms of clothing) with maid’s outfit, wig, and high heels. We were very proud of him. They were told to print out the email that I gave them, and to research the eight or so different wines we would have for the ladies to choose from. Hence, they were to know which wine a lady might properly imbibe with her meal.

Alex and I decided that the “girls” names for the evening would be “Spunk” (a name I chose for Thomas a long time ago) and that our little maid would be called “Lolita”. We then showed them how to curtsy, and had them complete their preparation work, re: setting the table, opening the red wine, transforming the dungeon into a dining room, and making sure the cook (one of Alex’s slaves who was trained at the Cordon Bleu) was accommodated in any way he required. I tied Spunk’s apron in a nice bow, and made sure Lolita’s wig was on nice and straight.

As the ladies arrived, Spunk took their coats, and Lolita asked them if they would like any Villa Crespia (a sparkling Italian wine similar to champagne). The ladies then retired with us to the living room for hors d’oeuvres and conversation.

From this point on, all pretense of propriety and vanilla-esque behavior promptly stopped.

Get eight Dommes with a torrential flow of wine in a room with two very submissive, compliant slaves, and all hell will eventually break loose.

Lolita was directed to look up dirty limericks, while frantically researching them on his iPhone and listen to our demands at the same time for, “More pate!” “More wine!” “No, a different one!” “Hold the ashtray in front of me!!” It was funny to watch “her” scurry around, not knowing which order to fulfill first, teetering the whole time in her heels. Mistress Alex spanked “her” for some or other arbitrary infraction, as did I.

This prompted the Ladies of course throw Spunk on his back in a matter of seconds- a Mistress had already raided the implement closet in order to slap his inner thigh with my riding crop. He was writhing on the floor, moaning, as she gave him 20 swift, well-aimed blows. I then decided that it was time to show off his little ass, and unzipped his little boy shorts so that I could take him over my knee. As I did this, Alex exclaimed, “His ass! It’s like you’re peeling a peach! Like a soft fuzzy peach!” I rubbed his ass, feeling him make himself comfortable over my lap and gave him ten cupped-hand blows right on his little sweet spot. He sighed and squirmed, and I offered him to Mistress Devon, imploring her to use the wooden spoon. He always bruises prettiest with that. She obliged me, and taking the spoon, promptly gave him ten solid whacks with it, leaving him breathless and limp. I really wanted to show him off at this point, so took a single-tail out of the closet and made him stand in the corner. He cowered, and gave me his one-eyed, open-mouthed look that implies he’s up for a challenge. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! I cracked the whip behind him, so that he could hear the noise that it would make on his hind-quarters. I then hit him repeatedly on his back one after the other, swiping him with the tip (glad to see that the wine had not yet gotten in the way of my aim) rubbing his poor back and ass between intervals. I then handed the single tail to Mistress Alex, and she continued my barrage of pain in a swift, unrelenting manner that made him lose his position. I ordered him to point his ass out, hands on the wall, and not to clench. He did so. I then went to the closet to fetch the flogger I made out of speakerwire to really give the ladies a show. He had described the pain to me previously as being hit with eight canes at once, which I repeated for the Ladies, much to their delight. He took each of my heavy-handed blows dutifully, as he always does. Oh, poor Spunk. We really are so nasty to him. All of course, done out of love. There was a request by one of the Ladies for a speakerwire flogger of her own, which I enthusiastically plan to provide for Her.

“Lolita” stepped forward to announce that she had found a limerick. She was then ordered again to get on her knees for a ripe spanking, as she had spoken with out being asked. Her ass got apple red, and I used her as a foot stool, of which Mistress Alex promptly took a picture. Ha ha!

Hijinks ensued, loud conversation, arguments over which wine who had gotten, more spankings,

Okay, wait! Before you start rolling your eyes- the kidnapping scene including the part where they ballgag their boss and put him in full body suspension is completely in tact in this new adaptation! One of my friend’s clients sent me a link to the website, after we had a session with him, discussing just how we would kidnap him and string him up the same way!

I’m serious. If there is any doubt in your mind that you cannot show up, don’t effing call me.

When you set an appointment with me, I get dressed up and make sure that I am prepared. I make phone calls to procure a space. I think about what the session will look like, and how it will progress. I get amped up about beating the crap out of you… and then you don’t show up?! You don’t even call? Come on, now.

I know times are tough. I also know that sometimes shit happens and your schedule will not allow you to come to town. However, YOUR TIME IS NOT MORE VALUABLE THAN MINE. If you know you cannot see me in person, but want to, just tell me. We can work something out. I am flexible and accommodating like that. Really, I am. We can have a phone session. We can negotiate.

All I ask is that you remind yourself that I am a person, with obligations and responsibilities- just like you. I should not even feel the need to express this. It should be understood, but apparently, some minds need to be refreshed.

xoxo.

Taking the Chinatown Bus to Boston is an interesting experience. Well, it is and it isn’t. Inevitably, they always take you through Connecticut (for 3 hours!), and stop at McDonald’s. Ugh. To relieve myself of some of the doldrums, I usually make sure
I have a lot of gossip magazines and crosswords, but sometimes find myself staring out the window. I always kind of hate driving through Connecticut, and only had a vague feeling of why until now.

Connecticut, I have something to tell you. Sit down, let’s talk. Um… everyone hates you. Everyone in New England hates you, even states outside of your region hate you- New York included. You’re boring. And you kinda suck. I mean, it’s always gray, there’s mile after mile of fakey-old colonial type colorless blocky houses. You have no flair, no personality, and no spice. It’s like looking out the window at an economics text book, or tax forms or something. Oh, and you want to know the worst part? You don’t even have your own baseball team. In fact, you can’t even decide whether you’re Red Sox fans or Yankee fans. So, on top of being boring, you’re also a flake. I mean, even people from Massachusetts think you’re white bred. Now that’s bad.

But no, for real the worst part is that you put all these companies along the highway, like you’re showcasing the fact that you’re the home of nefariously named corporations like: New Technology Systems, The Regional Companies, Inc., Preferred Mfg. (manufacturing what??), and JC Penney Logistics. What sort of logic, exactly, does JC Penney need to employ? What are they actually doing there, I wonder, that JC Penney has a stake in? Soooo nefarious! And Gerber Laboratories? What kind of genetically modified baby poison are they concocting in that place? Seriously, Connecticut, if you want other states to like you, you might want to tamp down the evil corporation loving a bit. The only redeemable corporation name that I found was Assa Abloy. But what the fuck does that mean? (I could Google it, but I’m not. I’m so tired of googling things! Maybe I don’t need to know everything instantly all the time. Maybe I like to be ignorant of some things.)

I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, Connecticut, maybe there is a you beyond the highway. Maybe there is a vital, bustling part of you that I just haven’t seen. But I doubt it.

If I didn’t have to ride through you for 3 hours on occasion, maybe I wouldn’t resent you so much. Maybe if I could ignore you, I wouldn’t feel the need to write about you.

Please, if anyone from Connecticut is reading this, give it a reason to exist!

xoxo.