Sharon’s Awakening – Part 1 – Corner Time

Sharon’s Awakening – Part 1 – Corner Time


Sharon’s Awakening – Corner Time
Copyright: gail.sher (c)

Her hands clasped behind her head, her thighs together in a miserable attempt at maintaining some semblance of modesty, Sharon stood in the corner. She was very close to the wall, the pressure from her nose pressing a coin against the creamy surface. Naked except for a pair of high heeled sandals, she felt sore and vulnerable. She wished that she had not chosen to wear them tonight. Elegant and sexy, they had become a self inflicted punishment, the harshness of the bare, hardwood floors offering no relief to her aching feet and ankles.

Her clothes were folded neatly, and placed in a neat bundle next to the door in the entrance hall. She had taken so much care in dressing for this evening, but as she stood in the corner, she reflected that it had all probably been a waste of time. Well, perhaps, first impressions did count for something?

Claire had barely glanced at her when she let her in. The exchange reminded Sharon of her last physical at the doctor, where the nurse had told her to remove her clothes, and that the doctor would soon be with her. No interest, no pleasantries, no attempt to connect. It had been the same with Claire this evening. A simple set of instructions, and then Claire had left her. It left Sharon feeling uncertain and insecure and wondering how Claire would relate to her.

So now she stood naked and vulnerable in the corner, like a disgraced child. She had lost track of time; perhaps it had been ten minutes or maybe twenty. A host of emotions washed through her: boredom, uncertainty, the anticipation of the punishment, and humiliation. She shuffled her body as the discomfort stated to touch every part of it, but stayed focused on pressing the coin to the wall. She suspected the penalty for letting it drop before she was given permission to move would probably result in a harsh response. Behind her, she could hear Claire’s own heels tapping out a rhythmic tattoo as she moved around the room, breaking the ominous silence. Breaths of her Claire’s perfume, unmistakably Armani, occasionally kissed her senses.

Sharon was usually aroused by Armani, a seductive and sensual perfume that usually evoked images of mountain flowers and forests. But tonight, it seemed to evoke a sense of fear and foreboding. It made her cast her mind back a few hours ago to her meeting with Claire at the ladies-only club. The chemistry of it all seemed so strange, but it was Claire’s dispassionate, cool character that was such a turn on.

Perhaps it was a throwback to her girlhood crush on a teacher at high school. It had all seemed so long ago now. Now in her mid-40’s, Sharon had gone to school in England when corporal punishment was still practiced at some of the girls high schools. At that stage of her life, she had been terrified at the prospects of getting punished. Some times, the girls walked out of the principles office with their hands tucked into their armpits, tears streaming down their red cheeks.

But it was the girls who received the cane that held a morbid fascination for her. She could imagine the scene behind those closed doors as her headmistress made them bend over and pin their skirts up. Her imagination ran wild as she heard the two or three cracks that signaled a cane wrapping itself around a proffered posterior, and then a few minutes later she would watch the chastised girl emerging from the office, rubbing their bottoms.

Sharon had tried to analyze it in her own mind many times. Was it the humiliation of being made to offer your buttocks for punishment, was it the inherent masochist that lived inside her, or was I the simple expression of one person’s power of another? Perhaps it was all three. Always too scared to do anything wrong, she had never been on the receiving end of either the cane or the strap, and now in her later life she had come to regret it.

It was Miss Brock, who had turned this fascination into a sexual fetish that seemed to grow stronger, year by year. A slim, pretty lady in her mid-twenties, Miss Brock was always well turned out. The model of femininity, she wore crisp summer frocks and strappy sandals. The colder months would see her dressed in stylish formal dresses, sheer stocking and elegant high heeled pumps. Sharon would be mesmerized by her, as she walked around the room, a long blackboard pointer gripped lightly between her long fingers, her red nails contrasting with the white beechwood pointer. She would pick out words on the board, tapping them when emphasis was needed. For Sharon, it became a symbol of power, but one that she never saw used.

It was in her final year at school, that Sharon came to the realization that this was a fetish of hers, but by then it was too late and the opportunity had passed her by. During a test, two of her classmates had been caught cheating; a really serious offense. Miss Brock called them to the front desk and wrote a short note out on piece of paper. Her voice did not show any emotion, as she passed it over to them with the instruction: “Take this to the headmistress. I have requested that she cane you.”

Sharon felt a flush of sexual excitement as she watched the two girls walk slowly from the room. She empathized with them and felt a sense of dread on their behalf, but in some strange way, she felt jealous! A deathly silence fell on the class, and remained that way as the girls desperately tried to refocus their minds and feverishly tried to finish their tests. A fail might well result in a similar note and walk down to the administrative building.

Eventually the girls returned. Miss Brock looked up as they entered the classroom, and waited expectantly as they walked stiffly across to her desk, handing them a note. She read it, and looked up at the two distressed girls. They were clearly in a state of considerable discomfort, and red eyes with tear streaked cheeks were evidence of the trial they had been through.

“Learned a lesson?” she asked, her voice even and matter of fact. “Now go and stand in front of the blackboard for the rest of the class.” They moved to where she indicated and faced the board.

Miss Brock lifted a piece of chalk, and heavily chalked in a circle level with each girls nose. “Now put your noses against the chalk circles, clasp your hands behind your necks, and make sure you don’t move until I give you permission.”

Sharon felt her breath quicken and a dampness beginning to build between her thighs. She could feel her cheeks ad breasts becoming flushed as blood seemed to rush to the surface. Her bra seemed to tease her nipples, which were becoming more sensitive by the second. As surreptitiously as she could, she began to rhythmically squeeze her thighs together. She watched the drama continue to unfold as Miss Brock moved behind the girls and deftly pinned up their skirts. One of them let out and audible squeal, whether from pain or protest, Sharon could not tell, as Miss Brock peeled their panties down to her mid-thighs, revealing a pattern of welts and bruises.

Sharon watched mesmerized, as the teacher’s delicate fingers traced along a few of the stroke marks lines. She was horrified at the wicked looking bruises that painted vivid reds and blues along the structured patterns of the raised welts, and desperately, but unsuccessfully tried to imagine what it must feel like.

Miss Brock’s cultured and measured voice broke the silence. She did not admonish the girls as Sharon had expected, nor did she offer any compassion. She simply made a matter-of-fact statement stating they would have trouble sitting for a few days. That’s just the way it would be!

The lesson ended in haze for Sharon. She packed up her books, and stood up to walk away from her desk. She felt awash in conflicting emotions; she was deeply disturbed by the sight of the punished bottoms, but felt a strange jealousy for what the punished girls had endured; the sight horrified but absorbed her; and the lack of compassion shown by Miss Brock confused, but strangely, aroused her. How could anyone act so dispassionately to the sight of those painful marks?

“Sharon….stay behind please, the rest of you girls can go.” The punished girls made themselves presentable and the class poured out of the door. Sharon waited with trepidation.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you Sharon? I was watching your reaction.” Miss Brock’s voice was steady, and there was no hint of accusation in it. She tapped the damp spot on the chair where Sharon had sat, and then pointed to the back of her skirt. “You had better go home and get changed Sharon, you don’t want the other girls to notice!”

Mortified, Sharon nodded and made for the door.

So now, Sharon waited in the corner, ready to pickup on her unsatisfied fetish which she had left behind twenty years ago.

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