I was early enough  Mandy would be home but her Mum, my landlady, was always later.  I was impatient to continue what we'd started the night before

I heard voices as I crept up the stairs to my room.  'You're not too old at all, my girl, and you know it ... Now get yourself over the bed!'  The first cracking stroke, with its pained girlish yell, made me hurry to Mandy's half-open door.  In time to watch Mrs Laithwaite wrap the whippy cane five more stinging times across the rounded tautness of Mandy's school knickers.  Six of the best!

Mrs Laithwaite stood then, flushed and breathing heavily, completing her humiliating lecture.  She knew about our romp downstairs while she'd been out.  In her left hand was her evidence ... the damp knickers I'd pulled off Mandy before taking her virginity.  Except her Mum hadn't realised we'd gone so far.

She confined Mandy to her room, en suite but supperless for the night, and I stood back respectfully as she came out, closing the door firmly before she saw me.

'And you're no better, Jake ... I should take this to you!'  She swished the air with angry venom, eyes brightly gleaming.

I held her furious glare calmly.  'OK.'  Her jaw dropped.  Silence.

'My room?'  I turned and went upstairs, not looking back.  I waited, and she followed me inside, watching open-mouthed as I locked the door.  I stripped to my undervest and shorts.  She blushed, seeing my prominent bulge.  Speechless.

'Don't you think caning a seventeen-year-old on the bottom rather harsh?'

Words were difficult.  'I don't want her to ...'

'You're the one whose bottom needs caning, Mrs Laithwaite.'

Confusion.  'Me?'

'For taking out your frustration.'

'Frustration?'

'An attractive woman needs sex.'

'Sex?' she faltered, clearing her throat.

'Sex.  Seeing to.  But now ... your punishment.'

'You're going to ...'

'Cane your bottom?  ... Yes.'

'Oh.'

I reached for and took the bamboo.  'Over the bed ... please.'

Like a sleepwalker.  Her trousers swelled outwards, smooth, broad and inviting.  'Six!'

'Six!', she gasped.  Then gasped more noisily, yelping, as three stingers whipped in painfully to her plump curves.

Three to go.  'Trousers off ... please.'  Eyes wet, querying, she stood looking, seeking comfort, then obeyed, meekly bending again.  Three more strokes, their soft yelping target less protected, made her weep openly ... floods.  Pain?  ... Yes.  And remorse.  Still bent over.  Attractive.

Cane abandoned, I stroked her hot, hurt, white cotton knickers, sensing punished warmth.  My touch welcomed.  Damp between her thighs.  Like Mandy.  Stroking steadily.  Pressing my firmness to her, and easing down the soft covering.  Six hot weals.  One oozing vulva.  Welcoming.  Slow and slippery wriggles.  Intense shafting and then ... release.

Blushing shame.  Reassurance.  Caressing.  Undressing.  Forgiveness.  Promises in bed to be broken quickly.  Another entry.  More tender.

And after supper.  I needed to study.  Excuses.  Assignations for leisurely afternoons.  But the subject of tonight's studying will be ... Mandy.