Having survived a traumatic caning, largely delivered by my sister with attempted guidance from Laura, events settled down for a while. The frostiness that had marked the time before my punishment was lifted, and Laura was on friendly, loving terms with me, whilst always making sure I knew my place, which often meant my lips being between her legs.

Her appetite for sex remained insatiable, but my rewards for giving her multiple orgasms were well spaced out. She understood perfectly that keeping me hungry for release ensured I served her better, whilst also appreciating that denying me all relief might drive me away. She skilfully established a balance between release and denial, and I was happy to be with her, and she with me.

Denial had also ensured my good behaviour and, since the caning, I had not needed to receive any further punishment from her. Of course, I was still required to wear panties and “unisex” clothes at all times, and a bra when in the flat. These were non-negotiable and she never considered them to be punishments.

Outwardly, Laura seemed pleased that I was being well behaved, but I suspected she was secretly hoping that I would give her a reason to administer further punishment or humiliation. It was something she clearly thrived on, and I felt she was getting withdrawal symptoms.

Three weeks after the caning, I gave her the cause she was looking for. On arriving home from university one Monday evening, we found an official looking brown envelope had arrived in the post for me.

Even before taking my upper clothes off to put on my bra, I had ripped the envelope open. I could tell that Laura was just as eager as me to know what the letter said. “What is it, poppet?” she asked.

I read it, and read it a second time, before replying. “I've... I've been done for speeding, Miss!” I exclaimed.

“What?!” she shouted, wide-eyed.

“I was caught on camera doing twenty-five in a twenty mile per hour zone, by the university.”

“Nooo?!” She sounded shocked.

“Yes! It was two weeks ago. I remember now, I had someone on my tail, and I went a bit faster than I should have.”

“A bit faster? You were going twenty-five percent above the speed limit!”

“It was only five miles an hour too fast, Miss.”

“Like I said, twenty-five percent above the limit. Didn't your mother tell you to be law abiding?”

“Well, yes, but she didn't mean minor motoring offences, she...”

“What?! So, she said you should obey the law, but don't worry about causing mayhem on the roads?”

“No, no! That's not what I meant, Miss.”

“This is disgraceful. I'm living with a criminal. I could be murdered in my bed!”

I made the mistake of smiling at her exaggeration, which drew a savage response. “Oh, so you find breaking the law to be amusing, do you?”

“No, but it's just a speeding ticket. I've got to go on a speed awareness course. There's no fine nor any penalty points, Miss.”

“Oh, my God, you're not even being punished!” She gave me a look of startled amazement. “I don't believe it! This country is finished! How can the police be letting you off like that? You must have been driving like a maniac!”

“Er... you must have been in the car with me, Miss, and you didn't notice anything.”

“What! Are you saying it was my fault?” Her expression was one of pure astonishment, but how genuine that was, was hard to say. Nevertheless, I had to tread carefully.

“No, no! Definitely not your fault, Miss. It was mine entirely.”

She stared hard at me for several seconds, with an exhausted look in her eyes. “If the authorities aren't going to punish you, it looks like I'm going to have to do it. Why can't they do it? Why is it left to women to have to punish their wayward boyfriends?” The questions were rhetorical, I assumed. She shook her head, as if to say this was yet another weight on her shoulders. What was unmistakeable, though, was that she was secretly welcoming the chance to step in where the authorities had failed.

“No dinner for you tonight, Stevie! Strip down to your knickers and put a bra on, then go and stand in the corner. You need quiet time to think.”

“Yes, Miss,” I replied meekly. Making any sort of protest would not have helped my case.

A few minutes later, just wearing a pale blue bra with matching satin and lace panties, I positioned myself in the corner. Laura had fetched my handcuffs, and she secured my wrists behind me.

“Think about what an idiot you've been and how you could have killed us both by driving at breakneck speed. After I've eaten, we can discuss how you should be punished.”

Resigned to my fate, I simply said, “Yes, Miss.”

oooOOooo

I'm not sure what Laura had planned to cook for dinner that evening, but I suspect she changed the menu to ensure that I would be tortured by the smell of bacon and onions being fried. I was hungry and my mouth was watering at the thought of what I was missing.

She was in no rush to cook and eat, and, after an age, the smell of bacon and onions was replaced by that of freshly brewed coffee. Then I could hear her tapping away on her laptop, catching up on emails or posting on social media. Next, I heard her making a lengthy phone call to a girlfriend, talking about nothing in particular. She was chatting away with no thought for my discomfort, standing in the corner.

Eventually, she ended her call and spoke to me. “Turn around, Stevie,” she ordered. “What do you have to say for yourself? Eh?”

“Er... I'm very sorry for breaking the speed limit, Miss, and... and driving recklessly and endangering your life.”

Somehow, she managed to stay stony-faced, despite the nonsense I was speaking.

“And what are we going to do about it, Stevie?”

“I need to be punished, Miss.”

“I agree, so what do you suggest?”

I hate it when she invites me to propose a punishment. There is a high risk of proposing something that is either less severe or more severe than she has in mind. Either way, the outcome is never in my favour.

I delayed replying for a few seconds, weighing up the risks. Her favourite form of punishment was undoubtedly the cane, but it was also my least favourite. “Hmm... I think writing out lines might be most appropriate, Miss,” I suggested.

“Lines? Lines?” she replied, her voice rising an octave, as she unsuccessfully tried to disguise her disappointment. “I was thinking the cane would be the best punishment, Stevie.”

That's what I thought she would say! “Well, Miss,” I said, struggling to compose a counter argument, “Writing the same sentence many times is very, very monotonous, extremely tedious, and I would have to concentrate hard so as not to make mistakes. If it was an appropriate sentence I had to write, it would drum home to me the dangers of speeding. It would force the message into my really, really tiny brain, Miss.”

“Hmm...”, she pondered, neither sounding convinced nor amused by my suggestion. But then she continued, “Of course, your sister made you write lines, didn't she?”

“Yes, Miss. It was so incredibly boring. It was terrible, a real punishment, Miss.”

“Haha, you only wrote a hundred!”

“It took ages, Miss.”

“How long?”

“Er... hmm... nearly an hour, Miss!”

“What?! That's no time at all!” She was right about that, and I was getting worried.

However, I noticed a sparkle in her eyes. Something I'd said had piqued her interest. “I think you've been a naughty girl, and I need to put you in detention,” she concluded, sternly, while glaring at me. This was the first time she'd ever called me a girl. I felt my penis twitch inside its cage at this new humiliation.

“Sorry, Miss,” was all I could think to say.

“Sorry, as in apology, or sorry you don't understand, Steffi?”

“Er..., both, Miss.”

“I'll be your teacher, Steffi, and on Saturday you will spend a whole day in detention, writing lines and doing whatever else I decide to punish you for your stupidity. You can do the laundry on Sunday, but on Saturday we'll turn the lounge into a school room, and we'll turn the clock back to the 1960s when I know that corporal punishment was still in use.”

I felt a shiver going down my spine. It seemed that I was to get the worst of both worlds—monotonous lines plus corporal punishment. “Yes, Miss,” I gulped.

“Judging from the photos that Phoebe sent me, you'll enjoy dressing up as a schoolgirl.” My penis, which had previously been twitching, was now throbbing.

She gave me a coy smile, adding, “Don't get too excited, Steffi, because I'll be making sure you don't enjoy it too much! As you said, writing lines won't be fun, at least not for you.”

I didn't know what to say, but she continued, “You'll be sixteen-year-old Steffi, and I'll be young Miss Smith, your very strict teacher. We won't be play-acting. Well, I suppose I will, but it will be very real for you, I assure you.”

“Yes, I understand. Do... do I have to wear a uniform, Miss?” I asked, hoping the answer would be a yes.

“Of course you do, stupid! I've told you that already. I'll have to get you something appropriate, won't I?”

I was getting excited, but so was she. “I need some attention, muffin, so follow me.” Well, at least she was back to calling me “muffin”, so there was hope.

Still dressed in my bra and panties, with my wrists cuffed behind, I followed her into the bedroom. Her intentions were plain, and a few minutes later she had stripped off and was lying on the bed, her legs apart. It didn't take long for me to bring her to an almighty climax.

As she came down from her high, she looked at me and commented, “So, you did get something to eat tonight after all, sweetie.” She was unable to conceal her delight at her little joke.

oooOOooo

For the rest of the week, nothing much was said about my detention on the coming Saturday, but I knew it had not been forgotten. For a start, she had gone shopping one lunch time and she was carrying a little shopping bag as well as a small suitcase when I picked her late afternoon to drive back to the flat. I was curious to see what was in them, but she just gave me a sly smile and tapped her nose. I was going to have to wait until Saturday.

As the week progressed, I was becoming more nervous. On Thursday, a small wooden desk with a wooden stool was delivered to the flat, evidently intended for my use. She was aiming for realism.

“I've borrowed this from the university's Amateur Dramatic Society,” she explained. “It's a real thing, from the 1960s. Comfort wasn't a consideration in those days!” she grinned.

On Friday, the desk was joined by a blackboard and easel. “This is on loan as well,” she told me. “We want to be authentic, don't we?”

“Yes, Miss,” I quietly replied, wondering if I might have been better off suggesting six strokes of the cane as my punishment for speeding. It was disconcerting how she had taken my detention to heart.

The rest of Friday was uneventful except, as we were getting ready for bed, Laura said, “Your detention starts at ten o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. You need to be showered, dressed and breakfasted, and ready and sitting at your desk by 9.30 AM. A spell of sitting quietly will calm you down in readiness. In the corner of the bathroom, you'll find a case with everything you need, as well as something you might not think you need! No peeking, until tomorrow. Oh, and make sure to shave twice—I don't want to see any stubble! Good night, sweetie.” With that, she turned off the light, leaving me wondering what I was going to find.

oooOOooo

I had a restless night, being both nervous and excited about what was in store for my detention. Consequently, I was awake early and went through to the bathroom. As Laura had said, in the corner was the small suitcase, marked “Property of A.D.S.”, which I took to mean the university's Amateur Dramatic Society. I resisted looking inside until I had shaved (twice) and showered. Then I undid the case and began to explore what was inside.

My penis started twitching inside its cage as the contents were revealed. On the very top was a small plastic bag, bearing the name of a well-known store of women's clothing. I tore it open, and it contained underwear. There was a pair of plain white cotton knickers and a similarly plain white bra, both very reminiscent of what Phoebe had made me wear six years earlier and which still occasionally haunted my dreams. But there was also a white suspender belt, a pair of black nylon stockings, and a short, white, nylon waist slip with a lacy hem.

Then, beneath where the bag had been, I saw what was the external part of a school uniform, comprising a short, navy-blue pleated skirt, a white blouse, a school tie, a navy-blue blazer with yellow piping, and a pair of shiny black shoes with buckles, all on loan from the A.D.S., I presumed. Laura was certainly turning the clock back to the 1960s.

I thought that was everything, but then I noticed a paper bag at the very bottom of the case. I opened it and out fell a black object plus a tube of something. A wave of queasiness passed over me as I realised I was looking at a silicone butt plug with lubricant. I had read about butt plugs but never worn one. This one looked enormous.

There were no instructions, but it seemed self-evident what Laura expected me to do. Still naked after my shower, I spread some of the lube over the butt plug and then attempted to insert it into my rectum. Getting past my anal sphincter was no easy matter. I was struggling until I worked out that I needed to relax. This was easier said than done, of course, but with patience I managed to wiggle the wide part past my sphincter. Eventually, after it seemed to have gone up several feet, my sphincter clamped the narrow waist of the plug into position, leaving me thinking about how difficult it might be to remove.

The sensation I felt was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. My rectum was full—so full, that I had the strong urge to expel this foreign object, yet I knew that I had to keep it in place. At the same time, it was not an unpleasant experience, and I sensed that my penis was attempting to rise to the occasion. It was impossible to forget the plug was there and I could see that it was likely to distract me from the line writing task that lay ahead, and whatever else Laura had in mind for me.

With the plug firmly—very firmly—in place, I put on the uniform, my penis suffering further contortions as I did so.

The suspender belt, panties and bra were very tight, and I guessed that Laura, who was very familiar with my sizes, had purposefully bought me things that were too small. The bra became even tighter when I inserted my falsies to provide shape. The nylons felt strange to put on, and the elastic of the suspender belt had to be stretched to near breaking point to bridge the gap to the stocking tops.

And the skirt was extremely short, as I thought it would be, with my stocking tops and the hem of my slip almost showing beneath the bottom of it. Needless to say, the blouse proved to be extremely tight across my chest and around my neck, almost strangling me.

Looking in the mirror, there was no disguising my bra which showed through the fabric of the shirt, visible through my unbuttoned blazer. I looked stupid, yet, at the same time, the vision I saw was almost passable for a girl. The stockings and blazer concealed my hairy legs and arms, and my long hair and close shave softened my face. It was uncanny! It was the first time I had ever seen myself dressed entirely en femme. I was turned on by my appearance, but thankful that no one other than Laura would witness it—I hoped!

oooOOooo

Fully dressed, I had a quick breakfast and, as it was approaching 9.30 AM, I went through to the lounge, or the “classroom” as it was to be called today. The desk and blackboard were in position and on the desk sat an A4 pad of paper, a fountain pen and a ruler. I also noticed that the clock that was usually on the wall had been removed.

I heard Laura getting up and going through to the bathroom. I had no choice but to sit on the stool and wait. As I lowered myself onto the hard wooden surface, so the butt plug pushed its way a little deeper into my rectum, causing my penis to respond. There was going to be no forgetting the invader was there.

It was fifteen minutes past ten before Laura entered, holding a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. That was strange, but even weirder she was wearing a black academic gown and a mortar board, another throw-back to the sixties, I assumed, and no doubt on loan from the A.D.S. again.

As she swept in, the gown billowing behind her, I could see she was incongruously dressed in an ultra-short leather skirt and see-through blouse—so see through that I could see her brown areolae around her protruding nipples, and I knew she was not wearing a bra.

Obviously, I was careful not to stare, but I sat there entranced, unable to move or say anything. “Stop doing an impression of a goldfish and stand up, girl,” she commanded. “When a teacher enters the room, you should know you stand up, yes?”

“Yes, Miss,” I uttered, doing as she said.

“Yes, Miss, what?” she asked.

“Oh, sorry, yes, Miss Smith,” I answered. The authoritative and humiliating way she spoke to me caused my penis to harden, in so far as it could. She had promised realism, and she was wasting no time setting the tone.

I then saw that protruding from both the top and bottom of her miniskirt was her tawse, the eighteen inch leather instrument she had used on me before. She pulled it out. “Right hand out, Steffi,” she ordered.

I did so, and she brought the tawse sharply down on my upturned palm. It stung like a wasp! “What do you say, Steffi?”

“Er... thank you, Miss Smith,” I replied.

“And why are you wearing a watch, Steffi? You must know that watches are not allowed to be worn by girls in detention.”

“Sorry, Miss Smith. I don't think I've been told that.”

“You've had enough detentions to know the rules. Hand out again, and then give me your watch.”

Two more blows were delivered to my palm. My right hand—my writing hand—was now inflamed and tingling. My penis, which had been waking up, had withered again. I could see that this was going to be a day of eroticism mingled with proper punishment.

I passed Laura my watch. “And look at your hair! Have you taken time to brush it today?”

“Yes, Miss Smith,” I truthfully replied. However, since Laura had imposed a ban on me getting my hair cut, it had become unruly.

“Well, you'd better put this in to stop it falling over your eyes, you silly girl.” She passed me a pink hair slide, decorated with paste jewels, which I put into my hair. I now felt even more stupid which, obviously, was her intention.

“You're in detention, Steffi, and I will not put up with any disobedience or feigned ignorance of the rules. I will be applying zero tolerance. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Miss Smith, sorry, Miss Smith.”

“You will speak only when you are spoken to, otherwise you will not make any noise, whatsoever. That includes scraping your stool across the floor. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss Smith.”

Laura then went over to the blackboard and, picking up a piece of chalk from the easel, wrote, “I must not ride my bicycle at dangerous speeds”. I took this to be an analogy to me speeding in my car!

“Steffi, you will start writing this sentence out and not stop until I tell you. You will write the expected number of lines, to the prescribed standard. The usual rules apply. Understood?”

“Er... sorry, Miss Smith, how many lines and, er..., what is the prescribed standard and what are the usual rules?” I was genuinely puzzled. Had I missed something?

“By definition, you silly girl, the usual rules are the usual rules. You've sat enough detentions in the past to know how many lines you have to write and what standard they need to meet. If you've not paid attention to what you've been told, then that's your problem, not mine. Start writing, and do not stop until you are told.”

It was clear that Laura was setting me up for further punishment. She had warned me that we—or at least I— would not be play acting, and she was taking her position very seriously.

Unsure what to do, I started by writing my name and the date at the top of a blank page. As I had been given a ruler, I inscribed a one-inch margin down the left-hand side of the page. I then began writing out the sentence I could see on the board, numbering each line in the margin. The fountain pen proved harder to use than a ball point pen and I suspected that Laura had deliberately sourced a cheap one that was likely to malfunction.

Nevertheless, I tried to write the best I could, my right hand still pounding from the effects of the tawse. In spite of being dressed to the hilt as a schoolgirl, my penis was asleep. The writing task provided no arousal, but demanded painstaking care.

And then, on the tenth line, the fountain pen let out a small blob of ink which sat precariously on the paper. What was I to do? I trusted it would dry out and I continued writing. While I wrote, Laura sat on the sofa and read a novel, just occasionally looking up at me.

oooOOooo

With neither wall clock nor watch, I had little idea of the passage of time and could only estimate it by judging my progress. I was on my fourth page and reaching line one hundred and five. Was I maintaining the pace she was expecting? Probably not, but going faster would only lead to more errors.

What's more, sitting on the hard wooden stool, with the butt plug pushed into my bottom, was very uncomfortable and distracting. My undersized underwear didn't help either, and I was sure that the tight elastic of my panties was slowly working its way through my thighs, much as a cheese wire cuts through cheese. Surreptitiously—or so I thought—I tried to adjust my position to relieve my discomfort, but I was spotted.

“Steffi! Have you forgotten the rules—again? Girls writing lines sit still, with their backs straight, both feet firmly on the floor, their knees together and their elbows off the desk.”

“Sorry, Miss Smith,” I replied, thankful that she had not wielded the tawse this time. And that was possibly because it would have involved her standing up from the comfy sofa.

I continued writing, but such was my discomfort that I soon found myself fidgeting again, without being especially conscious of so doing. And then I pushed the stool back a couple of inches, causing a screeching sound. In the quiet of the “classroom”, it sounded like an express train doing an emergency stop. I instantly realised I had again broken one of Laura's rules. Moreover, it was a rule she had specifically told me about, so I was in trouble.

I looked at her, and she looked back at me. And then she put her book down and stood up...