"We pride ourselves in providing the very best start in life for all our girls, Mr Hollinger," I said, smiling politely at the brusque inquiry from the man across the desk. Brusque, and frankly rather rude; Mr Hollinger was clearly a man more used to sitting this side of a large desk than that. An investment banking executive according to his daughter's application forms. Brusque, rude, but very wealthy - and that's what counted. "An education at St Catherine's is highly sought after. We are very exclusive, and, I have to say, very selective. We take on only a few girls each year but return each and every one as confident, accomplished and highly motivated young ladies." I smiled again, my most winning, flashing it briefly at the silently disinterested Mrs Hollinger and the silently sulky girl sitting between them, but saving most of its charm for the man himself.
"Of course. We are perfectly happy with St Catherine's, and your own reputation, Mrs Cockburn, is of course second to none," replied the banker. He even managed a grimace of a smile. "Apologies for the double-checking, I'm a little ---" His own phone cut him off. "Sorry, better take this. Yep!" he snapped into the device, rising and making for the door to the office. Prick, I thought, and inclined my head politely towards Mrs H. "Do you have any final questions, Mrs Hollinger?" I murmured in my silkiest tones. "No, no, no, I'm sure," she replied distantly. "My husband is the one to please." Hmm, I bet, I thought, and turned my gaze coolly to the girl.
Our newest pupil sat staring moodily around her, fidgeting slightly in her elegant St Catherine's uniform. She met my gaze briefly, a spark of something defiant making her hold it longer than was suitably deferential towards her new headmistress before she flashed a tight little smile and looked down. Oh-ho, I thought, my smile widening. So, we're a spoiled little madam, are we? I bet we have Daddy running in rings for us, don't we? Well, my girl, I'm sure we'll change that in time. A little tingle ran through my crotch at that thought, and I squeezed my thighs together for a second or two.
"And Natasha," I continued smoothly, "what are your first impressions of your new school?" I girl looked up again, then briefly around at the tasteful elegance of my office surroundings. I watched the tip of her tongue as it moistened her lips, full lips, wanton-looking lips. I squeezed my thighs together again. She looked back at me. "Yes, I think it's fine," she replied. Her quiet, polite tones were belied by the hints of supercilious superiority in her deep hazel eyes. Remarkably self-assured for an eight-year-old, I thought, my smile turning ever so slightly wintry. I let a hint of ice enter my eyes, just for her. Cocky little bitch! I wonder how long it will be before you're on the St Catherine's naughty step? That gave me another twinge deep between my legs, a particularly delicious one, and I pressed my thighs tightly together.
Mr H returned from his call and we completed the formalities. We had just risen for the final handshake when there was a tap on the door and Amanda came in.
"I do beg your pardon Headmistress, sir, madam," she said, inclining her head in best St Catherine's style to my visitors. "Mrs Cockburn, Mr Peterson asked if I could pass this to you as a matter of urgency." She handed me a folded note from John Peterson, modern languages, and stood deferentially awaiting my response. I scanned the note, and glanced sideways at Mr Hollinger. He was openly admiring Amanda, a lovely girl, one of our handful of Seniors, a prefect and a terribly alluring sight in her St Catherine's uniform. Just in the last year Amanda had blossomed from a slightly overweight 15 to a fabulously voluptuous 16 with a tumble of dark brown hair and two large, firm, perfectly-globular tits straining to escape the confines of her blazer. She noticed Mr H's attention and smiled, politely but warmly, with a soft beat of her eyelids. A St Kate's girl through and through!
"Amanda," I said, amusedly breaking the spell, "thank you very much, and could you tell Mr Peterson: yes, three o'clock."
Amanda bobbed her head and withdrew. She gave no lingering backwards glance, no vulgar fluttering of eyelashes, but I could tell from the almost imperceptible but devastatingly effective roll of her hips that she had fully appreciated and assimilated Mr Hollinger's interest and knew exactly what she was doing. Atta girl! Amanda was a favourite of mine, self-assured, self-effacing, wonderfully self-confident, a glowing testament to our school. And a tongue as skilled as the finest whores in Bangkok... Oo. Squeeze.
A faint look of disapproval passed over Mrs H's face as she watched her husband metaphorically roll his tongue back into his mouth and retract his telescoped eyeballs. I grinned inwardly. You'll get used to that, honey, I thought. Your own little daughter will be a St Kate's girl soon. And a very fine one, too, I mused, appraising once more the youngster's strong, pretty face with its overtones of wantonness. Once we correct that attitude and instill the right values. of course.
I saw the tiresome Mr and Mrs H out through the outer office. "Molly," I asked my PA, "would you find Mrs Kay for me please, and let her know her new girl has arrived. Well, Natasha," I said, turning to the still-cocky-looking eight-year-old, "welcome again to St Catherine's. I'm sure you'll soon be right at home. Mrs Kay will collect you in due course. She is to be your House Mistress, House Phryné. She will explain all you need to know, and introduce you to the other girls in your stair." What a luscious little piece you are, I thought, as the girl looked up at me, still a little sullen. Oo, yes, honey, you keep that attitude going and I'll be seeing you in my study very soon indeed. Oo, yes. Very soon!
"We aim to give all our girls a thorough, rounded education, not just academically but in all respects. Being a St Catherine's girl is about achieving your very best, as a student and as a young lady. We pay particular attention to girls' social and moral education, and we have perhaps an unusual emphasis on a few 'old fashioned' ideas such as etiquette and role-models.
"Ah, Mrs Kay, thank you for being so prompt. Mrs Kay, this is Natasha Hollinger, joining us today into Year 2, House Phryné of course, stair..?" "Stair 34d," beamed Mrs Kay, a short, softly rounded, friendly sort. "The porter has already taken your bags along. Come with me, Natasha, and welcome to St Catherine's!"
I watched Natasha Hollinger's blonde ponytail as she left the office with Mrs Kay, her shoulders set still in cocksure spoiled brat-ness. Yes, see you very soon, madam...
Well, I have to confess that that morning's interview had left me rather warm. Having a little time free, I retired to my office, closing the door behind me. I keep a variety of stress-relief toys in the lower drawer of my desk, and a favourite habit of mine is to sit in my desk chair, feet up on the desk, knees wide to the world and relieve some tension. There's something wonderfully sensual about wriggling my tight suit skirt and cotton underskirt up around my thighs, just enough to expose the suspended tops of my stockings, then planting my three-inch heels against the gorgeous walnut desk and bringing myself off. I never wear knickers, of course.
That morning, with images of Natasha Hollinger in my head (and her photo on my desk, it must be said), and fond memories of Amanda Etherington's mouth, I chose a small, neat buzzing chrome vibrator which felt the closest I could get to an active little tongue. Feet up, legs spread, I moistened the vibrator with a few slow, deep delves into my shamefully wet cunt, then turned it on max against my swollen clit. Oh, my goodness! Oh yes! Mm, Natasha Hollinger, you gorgeous little madam!
It didn't take long at all, a fabulous little quickie with a swift, bursting orgasm. Long, slow, intensely built-up orgasms are the best kind, of course, but sometimes you can't beat a short, sharp explosive little cum! Ooooo, it felt good! A wash of heat and juices, and a little firecracker popping in my head. I reveled in my own wetness for a little while before mopping myself with my underskirt (that's why I favour cotton over silk!) and tidying up.
The warm glow in my cunt and on my cheeks persisted as I left the office for a morning tour around the school. Molly smiled affectionately at me as I left; she's such a treasure. I'm normally quite quiet, but sometimes Molly turns on Beethoven in the outer office if I'm being particularly vigorous - or a guest is. I do like to get out and about after cumming, though - partly to avoid the risk of nodding off, partly because I relish the feeling of walking around the school, neat and trim, with the cooling wetness of my cunt juices drying slowly on my thighs. I am, as you'll see, a very naughty Headmistress!
I always feel a tremendous sense of pride every time I tour my school. It is a place of calm, quiet elegance, full to bursting with the very creme de la creme of young femininity. From shoots to buds to first-bloom flowers, we shape them all to be perfect young ladies. Ours is a very feminine environment, and this is perhaps reflected in our school uniforms. Our Juniors wear pink-gingham pinafore dresses and white socks with matching pink piping. Middle-school girls wear white blouses - blouses, mind, not shirts - with knee-length skirts in the School's maroon-pink, and Seniors add a tailored blazer. Make-up is allowed, but only if applied tastefully. Miss Rogers teaches the proper application of makeups to Years 4 and upwards. We feel nine is young enough for makeup. Our Juniors are still little girls, and should look like little girls.
So touring the school is always a delight; seldom do I have to speak sharply to any of the girls, and only then if I catch them unawares. The girls all hold me in the greatest respect, no more so than if they have had cause to be sent to my study during their time. Not every girl has required discipline from the Headmistress by any means; the prefects and the House Mistresses are empowered to enforce discipline, and only the naughtiest cases need my personal attention. That said, we as a school believe in discipline and following the rules, and we do have a lot of rules...
I returned to my office in a very pleasant state of mind and spent the rest of the morning on necessary paperwork. Lunch was a light salad in the Refectory; during the course of it I noticed that Natasha Hollinger seemed to be settling in OK: she was chatting contentedly with a small group of Year 2s. Rather bossily, on occasion, I felt. Yes, definitely an attitude there that wasn't quite St Catherine's.
I had some phone calls to make after lunch, and a meeting with the Bursar to ensure our paperwork for the month's new starts was in order and the money flowing. Only the Hollinger girl and another Junior, a Year 1 starter called Megan Kidson (a sweet, chubby little girl with a lovely smile and a lovelier bottom!). All very tedious, but all very necessary of course, and I was fortified by the thought of my Year 1 Social and Moral Education class at 3.00pm; our topic was father/daughter relationships and this afternoon's was going to be fun.
We have an excellent teaching staff at St Catherine's with specialists in many fields, but I pride myself in taking a close interest in guiding the social etiquette side of the girls' broader education. Of course, I have excellent support and for this particular class I met John Peterson outside Tutorial Room 3.7 at a few minutes before three. John is our head of modern languages and normally teaches Russian and Spanish, but he's one of my favourite assistants for this particular class. The Junior girls were also waiting, lined up reasonably neatly for Year 1s, and mostly quiet. There were only four of them, which is about the largest group for this particular class. None of our classes are very big at St Catherine's but this stage of SocEd 1 calls for no more than five to a class.
I smiled at the girls as they filed past me into the room. They were all six, apart from Janie Philips who'd just turned seven, and all neatly turned out in their pink pinafore dresses. They filed in quietly, clearly in awe of their Headmistress, and arranged themselves on one of the two long sofas that make up most of the seating in Tutorial Room 3.7. Our tutorial teaching tends to be very practical, very hands-on, and reasonably informal. John took a seat in a large armchair to one side, and I took my place at the lectern. I had a few PowerPoint slides to illustrate the essence of the day's subject, but this was to be primarily a practical lesson.
"Good afternoon, girls," I began. I always get a little thrill from the soft chorus of "Good afternoon Headmistress" from the girls. For first-address it is always "Headmistress"; after that, "Mrs Cockburn" is allowed, a little like "Your Majesty" and "Ma'am" for the queen, I like to think.
"So, we've covered the essentials of father/daughter relationships so far," I continued, "so today we're going to try out some of the techniques for real. Mr Peterson -" I nodded towards John, who grinned easily at the girls "- will be our 'daddy' for the lesson."
"Hello, girls," said John affably. He has a wonderfully laid-back approach to this sort of thing, really helps keep the girls relaxed.
"Hello Mr Peterson," came the return chorus, all except for Roopa Kaur Singh who, with a glance towards me, said distinctly "hello, daddy". I beamed at her. "Excellent, Roopa! Well done!" Roopa's pretty little Punjabi face lit up. She's a very clever little girl, Roopa, very quick to catch on, very polite - and with a latent Punjabi understanding of the Kama Sutra running through her DNA. She will be an excellent St Catherine's role model. Future Head Girl, I would imagine.
"Hello daddy," they repeated. Janie Philips suppressed a giggle as she glanced at Roopa. Year 1 are allowed a little latitude.
"So, what do we remember about father/daughter relations? What are the most important parts of it?" All four hands shot up. "Chan?" I pointed to Lao Chan, youngest daughter of a terribly important Hong Kong businessman. "Duty, Mrs Cockburn," she replied in her beautiful sing-song voice. "Duty. Well done, Chan. Janie?" "Please, Mrs Cockburn, def'rence," "Well done, Janie, yes: deference. And the most important perhaps..? Roopa?" "Love, Mrs Cockburn," replied the girl, her teeth flashing in her soft coffee complexion.
"Love, indeed. Duty, deference and love. A daughter is dutiful, deferential and loving towards her father. Your fathers - all fathers - have a lot of stresses and strains in everyday life to contend with, and a daughter's duty is to help her daddy forget all about these and to help him unwind at the end of a difficult day's work. Now, we all know hugs and kisses and cuddles and snuggles are the kinds of things every daughter should give her daddy, but what other things do we know about that will help relieve his tension at the end of a hard day?"
Four hands shot up again. They were a wonderfully studious group, these Year 1s. "Janie?" I asked. Janie bobbed her head, her blonde pigtails bouncing with excitement. "Please Mrs Cockburn, fellatio!" she answered eagerly. I couldn't help but smile. "Well, yes, Janie, fellatio will certainly work, but I was thinking of something I little less advanced for now. You've been talking to your sister again haven't you?" Janie looked a little crestfallen, but I gazed at her benevolently. Janie had a sister in Year 4, and her sister had clearly not spared her younger sibling tales of the Year 4 Etiquette classes.
"Tanya?" I asked of the pretty little brunette sitting next to Chan. "Masturbation, Mrs Cockburn," she replied proudly.
"Masturbation! Just so. Manual stimulation of the adult male penis to provide gratification and sexual release.
"Now you all clearly know your theory on this - very commendable indeed. You are all very good girls and very dutiful daughters. So, let's try it out for real! Of course this is where I need some help." The girls tittered slightly, perhaps a frisson of nerves fluttering in the air between them. This is why John Peterson is perfect for this class.
"So Mr Peterson here is daddy. Let's practice snuggling and kissing for a little while. Roopa, you first please."
John sprawled a little in the armchair, playing the role of the tired, stressed daddy. A little self-consciously, Roopa got up and went over to him. He smiled warmly. "Hello, honey, daddy's a little tired today," he said, nevertheless holding out a welcoming arm. No daddy can resist a snuggle from his dutiful daughter. Clearly feeling bolder, Roopa climbed up onto his lap and snuggled herself in to him. She kissed him on the cheek, then more boldly on the corner of his mouth, squeezing his chest with her slim brown arm. Such a sweet sight! And, I have to confess, a terrible turn-on. I felt warmth building between my legs as the little Punjabi girl ruffled her 'daddy's' hair and kissed his face sweetly. Her dress rode up to flash her white knickers, all adding to the effect on me.
One by one the girls practised snuggling and gentle kissing with 'daddy'. Tanya was last, and I watched her carefully. She was using her tongue just a little, flicking it very gently against John's mouth, and her hand was hugging him around the belly. I could just sense she was itching to move it lower. I do believe Tanya had been reading ahead. For all his great composure, John was not unaffected. His fingers stroking through Tanya's long, dark hair - purely involuntarily, I'd have been prepared to wager.
"Very good, girls. Very good Tanya! Now, Tanya, let's see if we can help daddy unwind more. Use your hand to find his penis now." Little Tanya's hand went straight to it, pressing into John's crotch and part-curling around the semi-erection in his trousers. "Excellent, Tanya. See, girls, how Tanya is touching 'daddy'? Rub him up and down, Tanya, follow the shape of his penis through his trousers. Find the end of it if you can, and rub just below it." I glanced at John's face; he nodded back and winked. I felt a little pulse of moisture inside my own cunt, and pressed my thighs together.
"Very good, indeed, Tanya. You can get down for now. Now, how many of you girls have handled a real penis before?" I asked. I saw Tanya hesitate a little, but I smiled warmly at her. "I think you have, Tanya, haven't you? Wonderful!" Tanya flushed but looked pleased. "Right, this will be really quite exciting for most of you then. Now, unzipping daddy's trousers without snagging his penis can be a little fiddly, so we'll cheat today and ask 'daddy' to help us out."
John grinned as he unfastened belt, trousers and zip and stood up. With no ceremony at all he dropped his trousers and boxer shorts around his ankles and sat back down in the armchair. His erection was pretty-well full; even his professional cool could not withstand the gentle ministrations of four cute little Year 1 girls. The girls had, of course, seen pictures and videos in their earlier classes but this was probably their first sight of an erection "in the flesh" - except perhaps for Tanya. Chan and Janie in particular seemed slightly spellbound. Chan's little eyes widened beautifully in her face as she watched the long, hardening male member pop out of John's boxers and swing in front of her.
"Thank you, daddy," I smiled. "So, girls. Daddy really wants you to masturbate his penis. What's the main rule of masturbating a penis? Roopa?" "Please Mrs Cockburn, lubrication," replied Roopa keenly.
"Excellent, Roopa. Lubrication. Keep that cock slippery and daddy will love you forever." I deliberately used the word 'cock' - usually reserved for Year 3 and above - to indicate my pleasure with their progress and attention. Chan giggled, and Janie and Roopa exchanged a delightful little grin. They were big girls!
So, with that, I retrieved the bottle of baby oil from behind the lectern. One by one I showed the girls how to apply it to their hands, then one by one got them to try out a hand stroke on John's cock. He relaxed back into the armchair as four slippery little hands stroked his dick one after the other. He murmured encouragement to each girl, and after a few trials, I showed them how to hold their hands in a little fist and squeeze just so. "You can squeeze daddy quite hard, you won't hurt him. In fact, daddy likes his cock squeezed like that."
The girls practised long, tip-to-base stroking, a minute or two each. John's straight, handsome cock glowed red and purple, his foreskin stretched right down, his cockhead glistening with babyoil and his own lubricants. They were performing so well that after a little while I introduced some new techniques.
"Girls, you're doing exceedingly well! See how daddy's cock is responding? All daddy's stress and tension has drained from his working brain to his cock and balls; you are being perfect little daughters! Let's try something a little different. Daddy, could you stand, please?" John rose to his feet, his cock standing out at a stiff, red 80 degrees or so. "Alright. Now, Roopa, are you left handed or right handed? Alright, come and stand here next to daddy. Now, hug him around the waist with your left arm. That's nice. Now, close your right hand over his cock like this. Are you still slippery enough? Yes? Good. Now, try and join your finger and thumb together in a ring just around the base of his cockhead. Girls, what's the proper name for 'cockhead'? Chan?" "Glans penis, Mrs Cockburn," replied my slightly breathless little Chinese cutie. "Just so. Make a ring, Roopa, close your hand around daddy's cockhead, and now quite quickly, rub your hand back and forth by just a centimetre or so, keeping your finger-thumb ring as tight below his cockhead as you can."
I watched the last of John Peterson's composure vanish from his face as the gorgeous little Indian cutie squeezed the head of his dick between her slippery little fingers and vibrated her whole hand, stimulating the dark purple ring at the base of his cockhead in a way I understood to be like someone exposing my erect clitoris and rubbing it fiercely with oily fingers. "Oh God Roopa," he blurted, flashing me an apologetic glance at the blasphemy. Not one to hold him to under the circumstances. My own vantage as a spectator had my vaginal juices flowing freely, more than likely beading on my pussy lips - and I didn't have a six-year-old's hand down there.
One by one the girls tried this technique out, and minute by minute John's legs grew shakier and shakier. I had them try some introductory ball-fondling too. Finally, with my eye on the clock, and an almost overwhelming desire to push John Peterson to the ground, straddle him and drive his hot cock deep into my sopping cunt, I called a halt.
"Girls, that was excellent! I'm really pleased for all of you. Now, as a final service for daddy we need to help him cum. Often he will already have cum for you, but in case he is as resilient as poor Mr Peterson here, I'll show a quick way to help him over the edge. Now, you've all seen the films so you know what to expect, but please go and sit down again otherwise you might get messy. Now, often the best way to finish daddy off by hand does *not* need lubrication but a firm grip here, midway along his shaft, and a vigorous up-and-down motion like this."
I took hold of John's penis in my firm, dry hand and began to jerk him smoothly. He groaned. "Janie," I said. "Pass that towel over please. Thank you. Now, can you help me by asking daddy to cum? One by one, starting with you, Chan: 'please cum for me daddy'. And... go."
One by one the girls chanted "please cum for me daddy", then back round in a lovely little chorus. Sure enough, halfway through the third round John gave an almighty groan and erupted, squirting semen eighteen inches into the air, missing the towel and splattering across the parquet flooring of the tutorial room. A terrible mess, but most gratifying! The girls gave little gasps as he came. I felt a dribble of moisture against my inner thigh and ground my legs together.
So, an excellent lesson all round. John cleaned himself up, looking thoroughly spent, and headed off to try and focus on a Senior Russian class next period. The girls filed out, eyes glowing, barely suppressing their urge to chatter. There would some lovely little dorm-room conversations tonight, I thought to myself.
And me? I closed the door, knelt down, hitched my skirts above my waist, plunged two fingers into my dripping, overheated cunt and brought myself off as I licked up Mr Peterson's semen - cold and sticky and tasty as fuck - from the parquet flooring of Tutorial Room 3.7.
I told you I was a naughty Headmistress!
Well, that was a rather explosive start to the week, wasn't it? And almost the highlight. Almost. Nothing else half as much fun happened until Friday, but Friday... Well, it was a busy day. Friday was the day Natasha Hollinger next crossed my path, but before that, in the morning, was Year 4's Etiquette class.
At this point in the school curriculum, Y4 Etiquette is one I particularly enjoy. Eight well-drilled 10 and 11 year-olds, two hardy male teaching assistants, and expert advice from a knowing Headmistress on the finesse of deep-throating a penis. I especially enjoy working with Liam Swayne; he is twenty-four, one of our swimming coaches and has a body to die for. My other assistant that morning was Dan Rogers, Business and Management, a keen squash player and very easy on the eye.
The lesson had every chance of descending into a riot, but that's why I am there as Headmistress to supervise. First off, my two male assistants are generally naked, and secondly I insist the girls remove their dresses and work in knickers and vests or training bras. Eight lovely pre-teen girls from around the world sitting in their underwear, and two naked men sporting erections from very nearly the get-go. Wonderful!
So there we were. Liam and Dan perched on desks either side of me as I walked the girls through the principles again. Some of them were already very accomplished, particularly Irina Andropova with her natural Russian affinity for cocks, and sweet little Hanna Neuberger, quiet, unassuming younger daughter of a German industrialist and closet nymphomaniac at the age of only 10. I had the girls practise with their largest dildos, a little modest oral penetration to begin with and then the deeper, throat-delving kind that a good daughter should develop to please her daddy and his friends. The sight of so many semi-naked girls sucking on latex cocks gets me very worked up very quickly, and both Dan and Liam clearly enjoyed it too. Mind you, the sight of Liam Swayne's hard cock hovering in front of his flat abs, with its gentle upturn and stark veins, gets me going too. I usually have to fight the urge to gobble his cock up myself and suck him down my throat.
With no gagging - and certainly no vomiting - in evidence, the girls were clearly ready for their first live deep-throat practice, so I divided them into two groups. Dan and Liam braced themselves against the desks, their cocks standing proud, and one by one the girls took them into their mouths and swallowed as deeply as they could. Irina approached Dan's handsomely straight cock with typical Russian elan - a firm grip around the base with her hand, a toss of her blonde ponytail and a smooth entry between her full lips. I watched Dan leaning back, watched his feelings flicker across his face as the hot little Russian took his cock deeper and deeper until her lips were brushing his pubic hair and her eyes were shining with achievement. She pulled back with another, triumphal toss of her pony tail, leaving a long strand of gooey saliva dangling from Dan's wet cock, and looked up first at him and then across at me. "Very, very good, Irina," I smiled back, and she skipped to the back of her line with such a self-satisfied look on her face - nearly crossing the line into smugness, which is *not* a trait we seek to encourage at St Catherine's, but she *was* good.
Nympho Hanna was also very good, slurping Liam's cock into her mouth in a series of beautifully gobbly stages. Her eyes shone and sparkled as she ate up his rigid manhood, her little hands braced against his thighs, her short pigtails flapping with her exertions. Hanna is very petite for her age, and usually very quiet, but over the last year or so I've watched her develop an almost insatiable appetite for big, hard cocks. It seems she's never happier than when she has a rigid penis in her mouth. She loves to experiment with lips and tongue, and I know from talking to my male staff that she's extremely talented for such a young girl. Truth to tell, I felt a pang of jealousy as I watched her gobble Liam's beautiful cock, and heard his involuntary gasp as she squeezed him into her narrow little throat.
However, the top of the class that Friday was a very pleasant surprise: Christina Edo, the plump, bespectacled daughter of a slightly shady Nigerian businessman. Christina was a recent arrival, joining us last year straight into Year 3 with a rather undistinguished academic record, little affinity for sports and, it must be said, a rather plain appearance. She had problems settling in and, I'm afraid to say, came in front of the Panel not once but twice, but since then she had really come on. I'd heard good reports recently, but today was the first time I'd actually had her in an Etiquette class and I was delightfully impressed. While I generally prefer girls to be svelte and skinny, I have to say that Christina's gentle rolls and curves were lovely to look at, her tight white knickers and training bra contrasting beautifully with her rich, dark skin.
She stepped in front of Dan Rogers, looked up into his eyes and knelt slowly. Giving his sloppy wet cock a couple of firm strokes first, she pressed her soft, full lips to the tip, sucked in her cheeks - making Dan gasp out loud - and then, just when I thought she'd not understood the purpose of the class, went down on him in one smooth motion. Dan's cock vanished into her mouth, in, in, in; her nose bumped against his abdomen, and she reversed in a similar smooth motion. And again, straight down her throat and back out, and again, and again, deep-throating him like a professional! Dan's hands gripped the edge of the desk, and I heard his breath panting as this hot little Nigerian honey gave him what looked to be the most fabulous deep-throat blowjob of his life (and with twelve years at St Catherine's, Dan's had some life!). "Christina, that was excellent!" I said when she released him after six long, smooth, deep penetrations. "Truly excellent!"
After Christina and Jodie had finished I had the two groups swap over. By the end of the lesson the two man were red-faced and sweating slightly; Dan had a definite tremble in his knees, and Liam's cock glowed scarlet and purple. Both were dripping with gooey little-girl saliva. For the final part of the lesson I asked for a show of hands for who wanted to "take the cream". All eight hands shot up. I cautioned that we would try for a full deep-throat orgasm from the men, but no hand wavered. I chose Irina and, of course, Christina: the pale blonde Russian and the rich dark Nigerian. Irina took Liam's cock and Christina Dan's. I allowed a little polite encouragement from the other girls and made it a bit of a contest.
Liam came first, a long, shuddering breath, his cock most of the way down Irina's throat. I saw her tense, a little flash of alarm in her eyes, but then she controlled herself and the spurting flow of semen and finished him off very creditably. Chistina and Dan continued for another good few minutes, and I was beginning to wonder whether she wasn't, after all, delivering the goods for him when I noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead, the whiteness of his knuckles against the desk - and realised that the little hussy was playing him like a flute! Controlling my urge to grin in a very un-headmistressly way, I murmured gently "Alright, Christina", and almost at once Dan Rogers tensed, flung his head back and cried out "Ohhhhhhhhh!". His cock was fully down her throat, and I could almost see his balls spasming as he blasted off, semen spurting straight into her little stomach, and the cool little missy took it all, every drop, and thank you very much sir.
Well, well, well. What a way to start a Friday! And from that beginning I was straight into a series of meetings with no opportunity to relieve my own considerable tension. Honestly! After standing serenely observing that glorious class of beautiful, scantily-clad young girls sucking on beautiful, scantily-clad grown men I was in some state: mentally frenzied, leaking vag juice like a faulty tap, and so much blood flushing through my pussy and clit that it was a wonder I didn't pass out. I had little runnels of moisture beading at the top of my stockings as I hurried to my first meeting, and I'm sure I must've smelled like the bitch in heat I was! Were it not for my cotton underskirts I'd have left wet patches wherever I sat.
So, by the time the clock ticked around to four p.m. I was in a high old state of sexual tension. Just the right state, perhaps, for the Panel.
Ah, the Panel! You won't know about the Panel, of course. Its formal name is the Disciplinary Panel. It meets as required, but very seldom more than once a month, and then only on a Friday. Its job is to review disciplinary cases brought to its attention and to decide upon, and implement, suitable punishment to the girls in question. I chair it, of course, and there are usually two other members of staff. That particular Friday there were two male members of staff on the Panel. I won't name them because... Well, you see, we have this curious little custom at St Catherine's whereby the members of the Panel are formally anonymous. They even wear masks, the rubber bondage kind in fact, to enable all concerned to distinguish the miscreant/punisher relationship from the pupil/teacher one. Except for me, of course. I don't wear a mask because everyone knows I chair the Panel. I do wear a different outfit, though, a kind of "uniform".
The Panel meets in a special room, a very old-fashioned, formal room with rich wooden paneling, a broad, leather-topped desk, comfortable chairs, couches and a variety of padded benches and other oddly shaped furnishings. Some looked like they would be more at home in a gym, but each had its purpose. Behind the desk that Friday afternoon sat we three, my two colleagues in their grotesque masks and shorts, me in my Panel uniform. This can vary in style and colour but follows the basic pattern of, well, bondage dominatrix I suppose! Corset (black that day) and bare breasts on top, long gloves (lace, also black), suspended stockings with knickers on top (French, black lace again) and knee boots (I find thigh boots unnecessarily vulgar).
There is seldom any chit-chat amongst the Panel members - it is a serious affair. We had two cases to consider, both Juniors, and under the circumstances it made sense to deal with them together. The first on the list, the older of the two, was Becca Norris, Year 3, nine years old, a rather headstrong girl who, unfortunately for her, wasn't really quite with it and consequently seemed to find herself in trouble more often be accident or by the machinations of others then by her own devices. I had the sense from the notes that she had been set up on this particular occasion - girls can be terribly cruel, even though that is something we actively discourage at St Catherine's - but rules are rules, and where would we be without them? The second name on the list was, of course, that of Natasha Hollinger.
On the stroke of four o'clock the far door opened and the girls were led in by a prefect to stand in front of the desk. Becca looked downcast and a little miserable - she understood what was about to happen, I'm sure - but Natasha had clearly had no idea what to expect and was openly goggling at me and my two colleagues. My face was stone; theirs, of course, unreadable beneath the PVC.
"Rebecca Josephine Norris. Natasha Anne Francine Hollinger. Do you both understand why you are here?"
"Yes Headmistress," mumbled Becca Norris, her hands twisting together in front of her, her eyes downcast still. She was a plain girl, quite big for her age, both height-wise and width-wise, and already wearing a training bra. Long brown hair, now part-masking her face.
Natasha hadn't spoken. I fixed my eyes on hers and snapped "Natasha Hollinger!" Her head jerked at that; she gave it a little shake as if emerging from a dream and muttered "Yes Headmistress" in a low voice.
"When you are addressed you will answer at once. When you are not addressed you will not speak. When I address you, you will respond and you will address me as Headmistress or ma'am. You will address the other members of the Panel as Mr Smith" - I indicated my colleague on my right - "and Mr Jones" - to the left - "or as sir. Am I clear?"
"Yes ma'am," replied Becca, overlaid with a "yes Headmistress" from Natasha. The girls gave each other a confused glance, perhaps fearing the lack of perfect synchronisation would penalise them further. I smiled inwardly.
"Becca!" The big girl looked up, the first glow of tears visible in her eyes. "This is your second appearance before the Disciplinary Panel this term, young lady. That is simply appalling. You are a St Catherine's girl! You know our standards and you know our rules, and yet here you are again! Clearly we were too lenient on you last time." This caused a flare of alarm in Becca's normally dull eyes and I saw her mouth open slightly before she recalled herself and slammed it tight shut. "Consequently you have left yourself, and the Panel, no choice.
"Strip. Naked. Do it now."
I watched the alarm flash into Natasha Hollinger's sexy little face with glee as Becca began miserably to unbutton her pink gingham dress. One, two, three buttons, then a little wriggle of the shoulders and her dress slid slowly down her young body leaving her in plain white training bra and white cottons knickers with a delicate pink piping around the waist and cuffs. She stepped out of the dress and bent to unfasten her shoes.
"Keep your socks on," I ordered, and after removing her shoes she straightened. Slowly, almost certainly out of reluctance rather than a desire to titillate, she wriggled her white, camisole-style training bra up and over her head, revealing the soft, delicate bulges of her pre-pubescent tits. She had small, neat nipples - most of the bulge was breast rather than nipple - and her tits were firm and pale. I sensed excitement in 'Mr Smith' on my right; he shifted position, leaning forward across the desk for a better view. 'Mr Jones' sat impassively, arms folded across his smooth, muscular chest. The bulge in his shorts belied his true feelings, though.
Becca hesitated, but only briefly. Her lesson in obedience was having its effect. With her eyes on the floor she tugged down her knickers and dropped them into the nest of her fallen dress. Naked apart from short white socks with their delicate pink gingham ruff, she stood quietly in front of us, resigned, her hands dangling by her sides. Apart from her budding breasts she was still very much girl-shaped: no real hint of hips despite her broad midriff and rather large bottom. Her belly curved rather more than one might expect from a girl her age, and her smooth mons venera bulged noticeably; her pussy lips were soft and puffy. I watched a tear trickle slowly down her face, listened to 'Mr Smith's heavy breathing. My nipples were hard; blood pulsed through my crotch; my cunt was wet.
I rose. Coming around the desk, I directed Becca toward an oddly tall, padded bench. It stood around waist height on her, with a padded top curving down in an L shape to provide support for the thighs. It was, of course, a spanking bench. I pushed Becca into place, standing her against the padded front and getting her to lean forward, sprawling across the top. "Hold those," I commanded, indicating two handgrips. She did, and whimpered audibly as I looped the Velcro straps around her wrists. I ran a finger down between her shoulder blades, tracing the line of her spine to the junction of her buttocks, then down across her right buttock to her thigh. Her helpless nudity thrilled me.
"You will remember our standards, young lady. You will remember our rules."
I returned to the desk and lifted the cane.
"Natasha Hollinger!" My imperative startled the blonde girl out of her horrified, hypnotised reverie. She looked around, wildly, as if suddenly recalled from a nightmare, nevertheless managing a rather strangled "ma'am yes Headmistress". I held out the cane to her, grip first.
"Duty and obedience, Natasha. Two of St Catherine's key tenets." I nodded my head toward the helpless Becca, now sniffing audibly, doubtless dribbling snot onto the leather bench. "Cane her. Six strokes. Make them count; shirking your duty will be bad for you and bad for her. Do you understand?"
She looked blank, uncomprehending. "Please!" wailed Becca. "Cane me!" I grinned inwardly. Becca's plea startled Natasha more than any words from me might have done. The blonde girl move, slowly, but she moved, to stand next to the bench. The cane dangled from her hand as she started at the bound girl. "Quickly!" pleaded Becca.
"Quiet, bitch!" growled 'Mr Smith', rising from his seat to get a better view of proceedings. He pointed at Natasha. "You, slut! Lash her butt. Hard! Now!"
His last command was a bark; Natasha jumped, and swung the cane reflexively. It swished most pleasingly and struck with a soft whacking sound against the soft flesh at the base of Becca Norris's bottom. The bound girl gave a yelp, but I knew it hadn't landed that hard. I gazed impassively at Natasha. She shook herself, and drew back the cane. Her second blow was harder, straight across Becca's ample buttocks. They quivered, she yelled, this time in genuine pain. A fine, red line emerged across her pale flesh. She wriggled her hips in a vain attempt to reduce the sting.
Natasha swung again, a solid whack just above the first red line. Becca cried out again, and this time carried on crying. Two parallel lines glowed across her naked bottom. 'Mr Smith' was rubbing the major erection in his short. 'Mr Jones' had joined me to spectate. The warmth and wetness in my cunt increased steadily.
A fourth blow, higher this time and angled, imprinting the left buttock more strongly, but still raising only a thin red mark - no weal, no bruising. I could see Natasha's hand trembling. Her face held a look halfway between misery and dreamlike incomprehension. Becca cried quietly.
Natasha's fifth and sixth came in rapid succession, the fifth low down and the last so rushed the cane nearly skipped off the top of Becca's bottom. The blonde girl looked up at me, wild uncertainty in her gaze. Was that good enough? Hard enough? Had she done her duty? Becca sobbed.
I took the cane out of her hand and moved Natasha sideways to stand between the scarily imposing and sexually rampant Mr Smith and Mr Jones. Mr Jones unfolded his arms briefly to run Natasha's long blonde ponytail through his fingers. I saw her shudder physically from top to toe.
Natasha would come later, however. I turned my attention to Becca Norris lying quivering on the bench, her bare bottom marked by four relatively clear lines and a scuff-mark or two. She looked up at me across her outstretched arm, her long brown hair obscuring most of her crumpled face. I could see the tears glistening on her cheeks through the strands of hair stuck partly to her face. I swished the cane down once, twice, then brought it round in a fast, tight arc. The sound of it striking Becca's soft young buttocks had a whole different quality compared to Natasha's efforts.
Becca screamed and writhed. Natasha watched horror-struck as a thick, red weal slowly rose from Becca's trembling flesh, stark against her pale skin. 'Mr Smith' exhaled long and deep. I felt a pulse of moisture inside me. I lashed again, leaving a second weal across the first. Natasha turned her head away, but 'Mr Jones' whipped a hand out, grabbing her by the back of her neck and forcing it back around. I heard his whisper, low and terrifying. "Keep your eyes open, bitch..."
My third blow raised a new weal, at first white, then blazing into red, surrounded by a halo of dark bruising on Becca's right buttock. The girl screamed and wailed, the leather of the bench slippery with her snot and tears. I paused, swishing the cane in the air. My clit throbbed gently. I indulged myself in a tweak of my right nipple, sending a thrilling electricity through my nerves.
"Becca Norris. Do you understand the standards we expect of a St Catherine's girl?"
Perhaps unsurprisingly, she didn't respond. Her loud crying drowned any other sound in the room. I swished the cane again, close to her trembling bottom; I'm sure she felt the draught of its passage. 'Mr Smith' left his place beside the shaking Natasha and went around to the far side of the bench. He squatted down, his face near to Becca's. His voice was low, but clearly audible to all of us, a hiss of menace and overt sexual tension.
"Answer your Headmistress you fucking... little... whore!"
He slowly and deliberately gathered her hair together, drawing it carefully back from her face, almost lovingly - and then equally slowly and deliberately twisted it down and sideways, forcing Becca's red, blotchy face around to face me. I watched her struggle to get her breath, fighting the sobs and hitches. She sniffed massively, drawing a long descender of snot back into her nose.
"Yes Headmistress," she whispered.
I smiled at her, my sweetest smile. I think she probably had learned her lesson this time.
"Very good, Becca. Nearly over."
The girl sniffed again, coughed, then spoke in a barely audible whisper. "Yes ma'am. Ma'am, please? I need to visit the lavatory."
"Try to hold on, Becca. We're nearly done."
I stepped back. 'Mr Smith' released her hair but stayed squatting beside her. I smiled encouragement at the miserable girl, then swung the cane. A hard thwack, a fourth weal, thickest on her left buttock this time. Becca screamed again and buried her face in the slick leather of the bench. Again, this time lower, cutting across the base of her buttocks and raising matching red marks on the soft, puffy lips of her fabulous little pussy. Her wail rose in pitch at that, and her bladder control finally gave out.
"No!" gasped Natasha Hollinger as she watched the miserable Norris girl tense her bottom and release a splashing, splattering spray of pee against the leather of the bench. She tried to turn her head away again, but 'Mr Jones' grabbed her this time by the ponytail and forced her back. Becca Norris sobbed uncontrollably as I lashed her bottom one final time as the piss ran down her chubby little legs and pooled on the floor between her cutely-socked feet.
I waited until her flow had subsided, then motioned to 'Mr Smith'. He unfastened the Velcro wrist bands and Becca at once slid down to her knees and subsided into her pool of pee. She reached around to touch her bruised and welted bottom, then quickly snatched her hand back with a cry.
"So, Rebecca," I said after a moment or two, "have I helped you understand your duty as a St Catherine's girl?"
There was a short silence as Becca Norris pulled herself together as best she could. But she did - she was, after all, a St Kate's girl.
"Yes, Headmistress," she whispered. "Thank you, Headmistress."
"Very good, Becca. Now, you may go, but please use your dress to mop up your mess before you do. Report to your House Mistress. And I hope this is the last time I see you before the Panel."
Directed by a quietly laughing 'Mr Smith', Becca Norris used her pretty pink gingham dress to soak up most of her piss, then carrying her sopping clothing she limped slowly from the room. Despite her evident pain and dejection, I felt sure I detected a new strength of resolve in her normally dull face. Good girl, Becca, I thought. You may yet do very nicely.
The room was quiet for a moment or two after the door closed behind Becca Norris, the only sound the rapid, panicked breathing of Natasha Hollinger, still held by the ponytail by the silent 'Mr Jones'. I turned towards her, absent-mindedly rubbing myself between the legs with the cane. She looked up at me, her face a mask of horror. A soft, rounded, wantonly sexy eight-year-old mask of horror, that is, and thus very, very exciting.
"So, Natasha," I began. "I must say I am very disappointed to see you here before the Panel in your very first week. However, it is your first appearance and so I can offer you a choice of discipline: either a caning, or a beasting. Now, which is it to be?"
I could sense her intense desire to ask what a beasting was, but I could also see her forcing herself not to. She was beginning to understand that you don't fuck with the Headmistress, unless the Headmistress wants to fuck with you.
I cocked my head politely on one side, the cane still rubbing at the wet patch on the front of my French knickers. Given the last half hour, there was only one real answer she could come out with.
"Please, miss, Headmistress, ma'am," she stuttered. "A... a beasting!"
She blurted the word out. I smiled.
"Very good, Natasha. Very good.
"Now," I continued. "Strip. Naked."
I think she'd probably guessed this part because she wasn't obviously surprised. She was clearly a little shy, though, and tried to shuffle around to keep her back to my male colleagues as she took off first her shoes, then her dress, then her simple yet rather elegant vest. Standing there in her knickers - white with a pink Hello Kitty motif - and her white-and-pink school socks she did look incredibly gorgeous. She was slim, much more so than Becca Norris, a tight, flat stomach suggesting a sporty childhood, slim hips of course, and a smooth, flat, little-girl chest. Her nipples were soft coffee coloured; her skin generally held a modest tan, with no sign of white lines around her chest or back. Still young enough to walk around topless on the beaches of the South of France. Quite lovely!
She dropped her knickers almost primly and was about to squat gracefully to remove her socks when I gave a gentle shake of my head. I love seeing our girls naked but for their cute little which socks. So, she stood, her hands clasped in front of her, legs modestly together. I looked her up and down. Lovely indeed. 'Mr Smith' and 'Mr Jones' were appraising her from behind, no doubt admiring her cute little bottom.
"Very nice, Natasha. You are a lovely little girl, aren't you? Now, come over here with me." I led her across the room, away from the still-wet spanking bench (much to her obvious relief) and toward a low chaise-longue still bench with a back rest at one end. "Kneel there," I ordered. "Now, head down, flat on the bench. Get your bottom in the air. Come on. That's it."
With the cute little blonde girl kneeling dutifully, face down, bottom up on the bench, I knelt down behind her and nuzzled my face slowly in between her thighs. I do so love the smell of a little girl's bottom like this: the combination of the delicate scents of her sweet little cunt and her delicate asshole mingled with soft hints of sweat. I breathed her in, feeling her body tremble as I brushed it with my hair and nose and lips, then delicately began to lick her.
I used little flicks of my tongue to taste her asshole and her pussy lips, to tickle her perineum. My lips hovered just above her skin, or rested softly around one of her little holes. Her trembling increased - just tension, I suspect, rather than sexual excitement - and I kissed and nibbled gently. This wasn't for her, you understand, but a glorious way to ratchet up my own already-high levels of rampant lust for this hot little piece of wanton blonde ass.
It wasn't too long before I had my tongue in her asshole, and in between her pussy lips, delving her little cunt as far as her hymen would let me. Her thighs quivered and her breathing rattled loudly, but she held her place. Maybe she thought a 'beasting' was actually going to be just fine. Well, we'd only just started.
I rose and stepped to one side, and 'Mr Jones' took my place, his tongue rougher and more insistent, his PVC mask slick against her buttocks. He pulled her buttocks apart, not hard but enough to remind her of her place, and plunged his tongue deep into her little pink anus. I watched for a few seconds, then squatted to remove my creamy-damp French knickers. Swinging my leg across in front of Natasha, I sat against the backrest, opened my knees and pushed my hips forward until my pussy was right under her nose. Settling myself comfortably, I gazed down between my thighs at the tense, pretty face of the young girl framed there. I reached down, peeled my hot, sticky pussy lips apart and said "Lick me out, girl."
She was a little startled, a little confused, a little excited, a little distracted by the ministrations of the two men at her bottom. She looked into my eyes - it gave me a hot thrill to look back, deep into her beautiful blue ones - looked down at the quivering, glistening pink tunnel of my cunt. She made a little sound - "oo" - as a tongue pushed its way into her anus, and licked her lips in a way that suggest uncertainty rather than desire. But she dipped her head and licked me firmly across one splayed wing of my pussy.
Ooh, if you've never had a tentative little girl lick your pussy you really should try it! I settled back as her little tongue got bolder, licking up and down the sides, exploring my dark, sweet cunt and flicking across my enraged little clitty! I moved my hands away, let her use her little fingers to explore me as she licked. I was really, really wet, juices leaking out of my cunt and dribbling onto the bench. I watched the child as she worked, curiosity and real interest now guiding her fingers and tongue. Mmm, she was sweet.
After a minute or two she suddenly raised her head with a little cry, and squirmed to look behind her. 'Mr Jones' was behind her and I knew he'd just penetrated her anus with a finger. I smiled, and reaching down I grabbed Natasha Hollinger by her ponytail and forced her face back down into my crotch. "Lick me, you hot little slut!" I hissed. "Suck my clit! I want to cum in your face!" I held her head, pressing her mouth and nose into my cunt. She struggled a little, probably trying to breathe, then I felt her tongue working again. Every now and then she would tense as one of the men thrust a finger up her spit-lubricated asshole. I was hot, dizzy, wet, my clit tingling, my cunt tense. I pushed her face harder against me, grinding my hips upwards, wanting her to fuck me with her whole soft, wanton little face.
Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh... yes... oh... oh... oh!
Oo! The orgasm crashed upon me. I jammed the girls face hard against my cunt as it spasmed, a little squirt of juice fountaining from the top and dampening her soft blonde hair. Oo, it was good! Oo, yes, you little slut! Mmmm!
I held her in place for a while, and then we swapped. 'Mr Smith' took my place, his shorts abandoned, his thick, hard cock in Natasha's mouth as soon as he could seize her ponytail. He forced her head down, his cock pushing the back of her mouth. I watched her squirm in panic and laughed. "Make her suck it well, Mr Smith," I said, stroking the girl's wriggling back and slapping her lightly on the backside. "I want to see that cock down your throat, Natasha. Take his cock all the way, girl."
"Fucking... suck it... you little whore," panted my colleague, using her ponytail to bob her little head up and down. Dribbles of thick saliva oozed from her mouth around the hard, unrelenting cock. I moved to her bottom end again, and joined 'Mr Jones' in licking and finger-fucking her anus. She was very messy and slippery down there now, and our fingers slid in and out of her bottom very easily. Good girl, I thought. What a nice, cute, welcoming bottom you have. I knelt behind her and buried my tongue between her soft, sweet pussy lips and strained forward to flick her little, undeveloped clit. Mm, soft and sweet and gorgeous; I grabbed her hips and rubbed my face all over her wet, slimy bottom, pushing my lips and nose into her holes. I rubbed every part of my face against her shiny pink anus and her swollen, puffy pussy lips. My clit throbbed angrily again.
The men swapped over, 'Mr Jones' taking the bench and forcing the little whore's mouth down on his cock. 'Mr Smith' came to join me, his stiff, red cock slimy with the girl's deep-throat saliva. We exchanged glances and I smiled and leaned over, taking his shiny PVC face in my hands and kissing him long and hard. My fingers squeaked on his mask as his tongue raped my mouth in return.
"Oh yes, Mr Smith," I panted, breaking away and seizing him at the base of his cock. "Oh yes. Fuck her asshole. Fuck the little bitch up the ass. Now!"
I saw Natasha squirm, try to turn her head. 'Mr Jones' held her pinned on his cock. I held her thigh firmly, while 'Mr Smith' knelt behind her on the bench. His cock glistened redly as he lined it up against her slippery pink anus. Her hole looked tiny compared to the marauding head of his big, hard dick. Tiny, little pink-brown anus and big, hard red-purple cock. Juice pulsed in my cunt as I watched him, helped him, hold her thighs steady, pull her buttocks apart and push.
I gripped her thigh and his butt. "Yesss. Fuck her! Fuck her! Fill her little bottom with your big... hard... Yes! There we go!"
I yanked his head down, kissed him hard again as his cock penetrated the girl's anus, sliding in slowly but steadily as the head found its way past her sphincter and into her rectum. Her little body trembled, but she could do nothing, impaled as she now was by a penis in her mouth and a second in her anus.
I moved to the head of the couch and French-kissed 'Mr Jones' hard and deep. I was panting again as I watched the slight, blonde form of Natasha Hollinger getting heavily fucked by two hard, merciless cocks.
"Beast her, boys," I said, hoarsely. "Beast her!"
And beast the naughty little madam we did! For the next half an hour and more we rotated around her. She had a stiff cock pretty much permanently up her neat, tight little bottom and often a second - fresh from her rectum - rammed into her mouth. A few times I interjected, pushing one of the men aside to sit on the bench and get the little slut's face down between my thighs. With ready assistance from 'Mr Smith' or 'Mr Jones' I could wriggle down, pull my legs up and have her stressed, tearful little face squashed into my pussy or my bum-crack. I particularly enjoyed holding my legs up while 'Mr Jones' gripped Natasha hard by the ponytail and mashed her soft lips down against my anus. A few encouraging slaps on the butt from 'Mr Smith' and her tongue was soon busy rimming me. Her moans and gasps and sniffs and yelps, wonderfully muffled, were music to my ears.
And I must say, she was learning her duty well, the little trollop. I imagine her bottom was getting quite sore, especially when 'Mr Smith' was in her, and her pretty little face was a mess of thick saliva, snot and Mrs Cellia Cockburn's cunt juices, but despite this she did her best. Her tongue was active in my cunt and asshole, her lips sweet against my clit, and she brought me off at least twice. The second (or maybe third?) was especially fine: she was tonguing my asshole and I hit my clit just right to produce a sweet little squirt, a spray of the Headmistress's cunt juice all over her face and hair. Yes, by the time we were near the end she was a fine mess of heavily-fucked little girl with, I felt sure, a much better understanding of the St Catherine's spirit.
After that delicious squirt, I rolled off the bench for the last time. I stayed 'Mr Smith' before he could take my place and said, rather unsteadily, "Gentlemen, we should finish up here. 'Devonshire-style', I think to conclude."
'Mr Smith' grinned inside his latex mask. 'Mr Jones' withdrew his angry, wet cock slowly from the girl's anus and I watched it for a few moments as it gaped wide at the world, a huge dark orifice glistening in the middle of her neat little bottom, before it slowly began shrinking and closing. Oo, that gave me a shudder I have to confess, but for all my delicious cums induced by the by-now thoroughly chastised Year 2 new girl I needed some deep, hard penetration to round off the day.
With prods and some encouraging smiles I got Natasha lying on her back on the bench. I think she was probably glad to lie down, and barely made any move or sound when I climbed on top of her, braced myself on all fours, pushed her knees apart and went down greedily on her sweet little pussy. Mm! Super soft, smooth pussy lips! Neat, sweet little crevice and tight little cunt, barred by a drum-tight hymen. Tiny baby clitoris, just made for the most delicate nibbles. I reveled in her little-girl's cunt as the two men agreed who would go first.
My colleagues knew, of course, what 'Devonshire-style' meant and both of them knew how I liked it - hard, fast and deep from behind. I think 'Mr Jones' went first, one knee up behind me and his cock at once slamming deep into my aching cunt. His grunt was very satisfying. "Come on!" I called. "Fuck me hard! Harder!" He gripped my hips and pounded me. "Fuck me you're hot," he panted, "God that's so hot." Oh, yes! That was so what I needed! A stiff cock filling my cunt, pounding me hard. It didn't take long for me to cum again; I buried my face in Natasha's pussy and moaned. Within a few seconds 'Mr Jones' was at the edge too, but in the proper spirit of 'Devonshire' he whipped his cock out of me, aimed and, with a huge groan, ejaculated all over Natasha Hollinger's face. Great sprays and splatters of semen covered her sweet, exhausted face. She barely had the energy to turn or roll her head away. Forehead, eyes, cheeks, hair covered in globs of thick, warm semen.
The second one is, of course, less of a surprise for the girl but that didn't matter. 'Mr Smith' was inside me as soon as 'Mr Jones' was out, a slower stroke but longer and harder. He pulled out nearly all the way, then slammed fully in, balls deep in my throbbing wet cunt, his thighs slapping against my bum. There was latent violence in his fucking, but there always is with 'Mr Smith'. I loved it. His hard, brutal cock brought me off for the final time in a matter of minutes. My arms wobbled and I collapsed between Natasha's thighs as my cunt spasmed and splattered under his assault. Almost at once he was out and cumming hard and long over the girl's face and hair, covering the few parts that 'Mr Jones' had missed.
And that pretty much concluded the Panel for the day. With a little help from the boys I staggered back to my seat behind the desk. Natasha Hollinger lay sprawled across the bench for quite a while, cum cooling and thickening on her face, dripping onto the leather beneath her, her slight, trembling little body smeared with bodily fluids from all four of us - saliva, semen, vaginal juices, even trace smears from her own rectum.
After a while I called out "Natasha!" in a gentle voice, and she shook herself visibly, then shakily rose to a sitting position, paused, then tottered to her feet. She looked thoroughly beasted, ravaged, but ravishing as well. I surveyed her for a while, then asked "Well, Natasha, do you understand now what we expect of a St Catherine's girl?"
She drew a deep, shivering breath and pushed a heavy strand of semen-matted hair away from her face. She looked straight at me, but with none of the cockiness of that Monday interview. She bowed her head slightly. "Yes, Headmistress, I do."
I smiled kindly. "Excellent, Natasha. Excellent! I do believe you mean it too! I don't think we will see you before the Panel again. Excellent! Well done!"
A thick trickle of semen dripped down across her nose, but still the blonde eight-year-old managed a smile of her own. "Yes ma'am."
I beamed. "Natasha, you may go."
She bobbed her head and turned to collect her clothes. Bobbing again she headed for the door. Stopping on the threshold, she turned back. "Ma'am?" she asked.
"Ma'am, thank you, ma'am."
Then she was gone. I felt a surge of pride. I turned to 'Mr Jones' who was wrestling his way out of his bondage mask. "I think our new girl will do very well indeed," I said.