I tell you to sit on a small, low wooden chair in front of my desk. It is far too small for your adult size, so your knees are up towards your chest, and your buttocks spill over the edges of the seat. I sit on the high desk in front of you, my feet dangling, one leg crossed over the other, and regard you over the top of my glasses.

"You've been a very naughty boy, haven't you?"

You look at the floor shamefacedly. "Yes, Ruby."

"YOU WILL ADDRESS ME AS MS GARBANZA! Have some respect!"

"Yes, Ms Garbanza. Sorry Ms Garbanza."

"Look at me." You look up, and as you do so, I uncross and recross my legs. I am wearing a tight, knee length skirt in a tweedy fabric, and from your low vantage point you catch a glimpse of stocking top, and darkness between my thighs - black knickers? Pubic hair? You can't quite tell.

"Look at my face." Your gaze travels upwards, past a silky burgundy coloured blouse, just undone enough to reveal a tiny hint of black lacy bra and cleavage. My hair is pulled into a tight bun on top of my head, and my lips are slightly pursed, my expression revealing what looks rather more like amusement than annoyance, you think.

"Yes, very, very naughty indeed," I continue. "You've been having explicit conversations with someone on Lush, and masturbating." The irony that the person you have been conversing with, is, in fact, none other than the very same Ms Ruby Garbanza sitting in front of you now, is not lost on either of us.

"Get up." You heave yourself to your feet from the tiny chair. "Now, remove your shoes, and your trousers and briefs." You take them off, and stand there in your shirt and socks, your face burning with shame, but your loins tingling with excitement.

"Now, you will write out, one hundred times, in your best handwriting, 'I must not sext with sluts on the internet'." I hand you a piece of chalk, and you approach the blackboard, and start to write. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. As you finish the first line you feel something between your legs, stroking up your buttocks. It feels like the tip of a cane.

You continue to write, I must not sext with sluts on the internet. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. You tense, waiting for the blow that you know must be coming, but for now the cane tip continues to play around your buttocks and upper thighs. After the fifth I must not sext with sluts on the internet, the cane suddenly withdraws, and you hear a slight swish. The blow lands mostly on your right buttock, stinging, but not very hard. The pain is bearable, enjoyable, even. You feel your cock stiffen.

As you write lines six, seven, eight, and nine, the cane tip returns to stroke the tops of your thighs and between your legs, gently running over your ball sack. Your arm is reaching up to near the top of the blackboard, and is already starting to ache a little, so you pause - suddenly the cane withdraws and you hear the 'swish' again, and the second blow lands, on your left buttock this time, and much harder than the first. You let out an involuntary gasp.

"Continue." You carry on writing lines ten through to twenty. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. This time the cane does not return to stroke you from behind, and instead I move closer to you, and my left hand reaches between your legs, fondling your balls and stretching forward to touch the base of your, by now, fully erect cock. I run the tip of cane up and down the front of your legs. I must not sext with sluts on the internet.

"You are an extremely wicked boy. I think you are actually enjoying your punishment. Well, you know what happens to naughty, dirty boys like you, don't you. That's right. They get punished more." As you finish line twenty, my hand withdraws from under you, I step back, the cane swishes again, and lands across the back of both your thighs, hard and stinging. You feel like it has probably left welts. Line twenty one. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. Your hand and wrist are starting to hurt a bit now, unused to handwriting as you are in this digital age, a dull ache in contrast to the stinging pain coming from the back of your thighs, but your cock is still erect. Line twenty two. I must not sext with sluts on the internet.

As you write lines twenty three through to forty, you receive three more blows, about as hard as the second, across your buttocks. Then I step closer to you again, and my hand returns between your legs, squeezing and massaging your balls from behind. I am right up against you this time, and you feel the slight roughness of the tweed skirt rubbing against the reddened flesh where the blows have landed, and my hot breath in your ear. You hear me whisper, "you are a bad, bad, boy, for having such a stiff cock." I lean the cane against the wall and my right hand reaches around your front and grasps your shaft, moving up and down. You are rather aroused by this, and stop writing for a moment. Suddenly I withdraw both hands, pick up the cane, and step back.

"Did I tell you to stop writing? Continue!"

You continue to write. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. Each line is taking longer now, as your wrist is cramping, and your arm hurts as you are again working near to the top of the blackboard on a new column of lines. You brace yourself, knowing you will at some point receive another blow from the cane, and at about line fifty-three or four (you have lost count), it lands on your buttocks, the hardest yet. You yelp, and your arm jerks involuntarily, leaving a streak of chalk across the blackboard.

I rub out the chalk mark with a blackboard eraser, then reposition myself behind you. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. 'Swish', goes the cane, and lands with a crack on the tops of your thighs again, bringing tears to your eyes.

I move closer, put down the cane, and run my hand up and down your buttocks and thighs, feeling the slighty raised welts, my other hand stroking your erection. "Tell me what a bad, naughty, dirty boy you are."

"I'm a bad, naughty, dirty, boy, Ms Garbanza."

"Tell me why."

You pause your writing. "Because I like sexting with sluts on the internet, Ms Garbanza."

"And also?"

"Because I like you stroking my cock, Ms Garbanza."

"That's right." My hands continue their stroking on your buttocks and up and down your shaft. You start to write again, your handwriting quite sloppy by now, from wrist cramp and arousal. You start to groan slightly as the hand round your cock moves a little faster, cupping around the head as it reaches the top of each stroke.

"What line are you up to?"

You are struggling to focus, what with the wrist cramp and my hand working your penis. "Um, I'm not sure, Ms Garbanza. About sixty-something, I think."

My hands withdraw. "You mean you've lost count? I'm minded to make you start again, but luckily for you I have better things to do today than waste all my time punishing a naughty boy who can't seem to learn his lesson. But you'll have to count them!" I pick up the cane, and point to the blackboard to tap the first line with the tip.

"One," you say out loud. "Two, three, four, five...."

As you say ten, the cane withdraws from the blackboard, swishes and lands on your buttocks, relatively lightly this time, but the contact still smarts due to previous blows. Then the tip points to the next line and you continue to count out loud. You think you will get another blow at twenty, but it doesn't actually come until after you have said the number thirty-three. Again the contact is relatively light. Another 'swish', and a light thwack, after line fifty-eight is counted, then as you get to the end, line sixty-seven, you receive a much harder blow, and cry out.

"Don't. Lose. Count. Again. Continue writing your lines."

I recommence fondling your buttocks and balls, and stroking your shaft. I lean right up against you this time, and you can feel the shape of my breasts pressing into your back through the thin cotton of your shirt. Line seventy. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. Seventy one. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. Seventy two. I must not sext with sluts on the internet. Your arousal level is getting to the point where writing is becoming increasingly difficult, and your wrist is in agony by now.

"Would you like to cum, like the nasty, filthy boy you are?"

"Yes, Ms Garbanza."

"What do you say?"

"I would like to cum, please, Ms Garbanza."

I step back. "That is very, very naughty. You will not be allowed to cum until you finish your lines, and then I might consider it, if I judge that you have learned your lesson." A hard blow of the cane lands as you write internet for the eightieth time, causing another jerk of the wrist and streak of chalk.

I step beside you and once again lean the cane up against the wall, take up the eraser, and wipe away the stray chalk. After carefully replacing the eraser on the shelf below the blackboard, I undo another couple of buttons of my blouse and slip a hand inside my bra and start to fondle one breast, and run the other hand up and down my thighs, causing my skirt to ride up and reveal my stocking tops. You glance to the side to look at what I am doing. "Eyes to the blackboard! Continue." You start on line eighty-one. Your erection is absolutely straining by now, and you feel like you are about ready to explode. I must not sext with sluts on the internet.

Line ninety. The awareness of me running my hands over my body and inside my bra just a few inches from you, caressing breasts and thighs that I have described to you many times when we've sexted, has made your arousal almost unbearable. I must not sext with sluts on the internet.

"Ten more lines, then I might let you cum." I move right up behind you again and start to rub my body against your back and buttocks, writhing against you, my hands massaging your chest. With some difficulty, you write the remaining lines.

As you get to the hundredth, I lower a hand from your chest to your cock and begin to jerk you off in earnest. Your balls tense and you cum, seconds after completing the last word, spattering semen up the wall and onto the blackboard.

"So, what have we learned today, hmm?" You start to turn. "No, face the blackboard, I've not said you can move, yet. What have we learned?

"That I must not sext with sluts on the internet, Ms Garbanza."

"And will you still sext with sluts on the internet?"

"Probably, Ms Garbanza."

"That's right, you probably will. I can see that my detention periods are going to be occupied with punishing you for some time to come, you wicked boy." I step back and the cane swishes a final time, a hard blow landing right across the fullest part of your buttocks.

"OW! Thank you Ms Garbanza."

"You may go. Shut the door behind you"

You scuttle out of the classroom, clutching your shoes, trousers and briefs. I sit back on the desk, and hitch my skirt up around my hips (as you suspected, I am not wearing any knickers) and finger myself until I cum. With naughty, wicked boys like you to deal with, it's no wonder teachers need such long holidays, I think.