The Exhibitionist

This story is any entry to a story writing challenge entitled: “Secrets and Lies”

The Exhibitionist

I am the embodiment of sexual contradiction, being at once submissive and dominant. I admit to being an exhibitionist but am turned on by playing voyeur. I have masochistic tendencies, yet watching another being whipped arouses. I consider myself to be a mature, calculating adult but my activities are often, at best, those of a hormone driven adolescent. I am in a satisfying heterosexual marriage, though I am driven to indulge in the fruits of a lesbian relationship.

In short, I am a therapist’s worst nightmare, yet a Pandora’s Box of wonderfully conflicted material for an inquisitive psychiatrist.

I enrolled at Fullsome Hall for a week of their school regression program. I longed to experience being back at a high discipline, girls only institution and to take full advantage of the experiences available. As a teenager, I had attended just such a school, and taken the line of least resistance; I regret that to this day.

The Matron

I arrived early and was shown to the dorm where I unpacked my bags. The quarters were Spartan, just as I had remembered from my school days:  a narrow, steel locker to hang my clothes, a small steel bedside table with a single drawer, a steel  bed with a thin fiber mattress, thin blanket and threadbare sheets. It was enough to throw a cloud of despondency over an occupant; for me it was heaven, offering the harsh accommodation experience I so craved.

Ten minutes later, I found myself standing naked in front of the matron in her cramped office, being processed for intake. I had been weighed, measured and photographed. The physical had been demeaning as she called out her findings in a dispassionate tone for the nurse to record on my chart: “Breasts – saggy, no lumps; vagina –  lubrication present, evidence of arousal, deflowered; rectal – no evidence of hemorrhoids or anal tears…..”

And so it went on. I felt at once violated yet stimulated, humiliated yet aroused.

The questions were as invasive as the physical, her probing questions reaching where her fingers had fallen short.

“Are you sexually active?”

“Not at present.”

“Do you masturbate?”

I looked at her dumbstruck; what type of question was that!

“Do you practice self abuse, girl? It’s a simple question….do you or don’t you?”

I flushed.

“No, Matron”

The answers were noted on my chart, her incredulous look spoke volumes.

My processing complete, I struggled into my schoolgirl uniform, one I am sure had been deliberately issued a couple of sizes too small. My breasts strained at the thin white shirt, threatening to pop the top buttons; my hips pushed out the plaid mini-skirt, leaving it smooth where the pleats should have folded neatly. White, knee high stocking dug into my chubby calves, black Mary-Janes left my feet feeling flat-footed and frumpish. I twisted my hair into two neat little pigtails and substituted my contacts for clear, black framed glasses. Now, suitably attired, I made my way back to the headmistress’s office for my interview.

The Headmistress

She did not rise from behind her desk when I entered; she simply glared at me over the top of her rimless reading glasses. Her eyes travelled up and down, settling for a few disconcerting moments on my straining shirt, tut-tutting at my slovenly appearance, muttering under her breath that this was one she would need to pay particular attention to.

The office was gloomy; a typical principals den. Her desk was old and wooden, the inkwells serving as a holder for pens and pencils. A couple of straps and two tailed tawses hung neatly from hooks at the side of a wooden coat cupboard; a few canes lay on the high window sill where they had been dropped after their last usage.

She reached across the desk towards me and held out her hand; her manner curt, her voice brittle. I would not have thought she was much older than me; early forties perhaps. Despite her harsh manner, she had a sleek figure, wore a tailored jacket over a white lace-trimmed blouse, and somehow exuded a bouquet of a character which perhaps matched mine for complexity.

“Chart!” she snapped.

She practically snatched it from my trembling fingers as I handed it across the desk. Her eyes skimmed down the pages, absorbing the information, forming instant opinions.

“I presume you sneaked a peak at this report on your way over to the office?”

I nodded gloomily; who wouldn’t have done that?  The words announced the state of even my most private parts; it was the photographs the matron had snapped which provided the color. Somehow, being an exhibitionist was different when you were anonymous; in person it was humiliating and base.

“Well, do you have anything you want to add?”

I shook my head; what more could be said?

“Or …perhaps ….anything you wish to change or correct?”

Again, I shook my head; they had captured it all.

“Miss light-fingers,” she addressed me sternly. Her tone was grave, her look was accusing. “I don’t appreciate lies; I deal with liars harshly.”

I couldn’t even start to fathom what she was going on about yet my nerves were on edge.

“I conducted a locker inspection while you were having your physical, missy, and what do you think I found?”

Once again, I shook my head blankly

The headmistress reached into her desk drawer, and dangled an object over her desk. She held it between two fingers, distaste and disgust written over her refined features.

“I am sorry, Miss, I didn’t know we were not allowed to have those on school property,” I stammered.

“Well you aren’t; you should have read the school rules. For that misdemeanor, you will be punished.”

She flipped the report open and ran a manicured nail down the text. I knew then where she was headed.

“…but the Matron has documented here that you said you don’t masturbate. So, please explain to me, what is the purpose of this vibrator?”

I had nowhere to go, no answer to give. I wanted to sink into the floor, to rewind the clock, to suffer that humiliating physical all over again so that I could undo my error.

“You lied to Matron, young lady, and you lied to me again.”

The headmistress moved like a predator; with cat like grace she risen from behind the desk, a strap in her hand, a scowl on her face. A hand clamped around my wrist and expertly twisted my arm. I had no option; there was only one way to relieve the pressure and that was by bending across her knee.

I have heard it told that the preliminaries and preparations are all part of the punishment. There was none of that with this headmistress. Her movements were economical, her intentions clear. She did not need to dwell on pinning up my skirt; in my bent over position, it barely covered my plump bottom as gravity helped draw it along my back. My white panties barely complained as they were dragged down my thighs, in fact, in retrospect, I surmised that they were probably keen to get out of the way of that threatening strap.

I was not asked to count the strokes, nor would it have been possible. All I was aware of was the blistering heat that seared across my bottom and thighs. It was relentless; scorching every surface, sending eddies of pain into every nook and cranny. Somewhere in my consciousness, I became aware of the sounds that accompanied this terrible inferno; my feet drumming on the wooden floors, the splatt as the leather connected with my flesh, the wailing and sobs that emanated from my mouth but seemed to come from a long way off.

At last she stopped, and I felt her fingers start to explore; stroking the inflamed flesh, tracing the wheals, probing my entrances. I wiped my eyes, and looked at the world from my upside down position; her polished toenails, strappy heels, slender ankles.

And then I gasped, not out pain, but in surprise, for there was a little tattoo marked on the outside of her right ankle and the picture was one that I was intimately familiar with.

“Carlotta Danger!” I hissed under my breath.

The effect couldn’t have been more electrifying. I was dumped unceremoniously onto the carpet and the headmistress shot to her feet.

“What did you just say?” she growled.

I scrambled to my feet, oblivious of my pain, the scent of blood in the air.

“Carlotta Danger!” I shook my head as I struggled, at first to comprehend, and then to plot a scheme.

Carlotta Danger

The Headmistress had retreated back to behind her desk; I waddled painfully to the window and selected a cane. To say that I swished it through the air theatrically would have been an overstatement, yet it did feel good in my hands. It had a satisfying bounce when I flicked it, and the sudden power exchange made me feel charged and alive.

“It’s a secret, you can’t tell! Promise me you won’t tell!” she bleated, her eyes looking up at me pitifully, her fingers doing a dance of apprehension.

“Get up Carlotta! Drop your skirt to your ankles, panties to your knees!”

Her hands shook as she complied; her eyes welled up with tears. As the panties descended and exposed her neatly trimmed pubis, another tattoo came into view, the same design as the first. A mermaid sat on a pile of rocks, a mirror in one hand, a whip in the other. It was a tattoo I had seen displayed in a number of the voyeur web sites I had frequented; the signature was that of Carlotta Danger. I had seen it transmitted as a grainy webcam image as Carlotta showed her wares. Recently, she had upped her game and sexting had become her poison; a high quality image of the tattoo and surrounding flesh sat safely on my smartphone.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Carlotta. Listen carefully so you don’t break the rules. For the next week, while I am a student at your institution, I will play the schoolgirl role I signed up for. However, at ten o’clock each night, you will report to me in this study, and the roles will be reversed. You will have a two hour detention in which we will review the lessons of the day. Do you understand me?”

“And then my secret will be safe?” she whispered.

As she bent to grasp her knees, the cane provided her with the answer she sought. A set of vivid red lines sprang up across her cheeks, lighting fires between her thighs, creating a painful furnace that matched my own.

There is only one way to subdue such fiery heat and as we rolled around on the luxurious rug, our limbs intertwined, our tongues probing, we succeeded in turning the pain to pleasure, the dominance to equality, the heat to delicious warmth. Her secret was safe, and my lie was undone, for I never did need to use that vibrator during that week.


2 thoughts on “The Exhibitionist

  1. Norah says:

    Gail…..This is a great turn on, and I see these girls haveing fun together for a long time….. I hope to see part 2…. well done and up to your usual standard….. have been missing your stories!!


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