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He smiled and took off his reading glasses. "I heard you talking to Mrs. Ford," he said. "Sit down, Sean." He gestured toward the pair of chairs in front of his desk.When we had both settled into our chairs, he steepled his hands, the tips resting lightly against his moustache, as he gazed at me with an expressionless face. I felt fidgety, but I concentrated on sitting still, wondering why he didn't begin.Finally, he dropped his hands. "What can I do for you, Sean?"Now I was confused. Certainly he wanted to yell at me, tell me what a dunderhead I was, a troublemaker who was skating on thin ice, in danger of being expelled for fighting on school grounds. Why was he asking me this? Is he toying with me before he lowers the boom?"Well, uh, I'm back, and I... I'm here to apologize... and... Don't you want to tell me... ?" I stopped, unsure of where to go.He smiled, just a little. "I see," he said, almost to himself. "Let's start like this, shall we? How are you feeling, Sean? Tell me. I moved from my position at the drivers door and took a few side steps to the back door and opened as ordered. The smell of the leather upholstery made my nostrils flare, as I was pushed forward onto the back seat and my face buried into the soft skinned fabric.'Keep your fucking eyes tightly shut bitch', and again I obeyed, feeling my clothes being undone, my skirt unbuttoned and the zipper torn asunder, opening the area and exposing my buttocks and stocking tops, the thin line of my thong exciting him more as he tore it from my crotch, now I was completely exposed, and his cold hands parted my cheeks as he examined me like a farmer examining an a****l for slaughter.'Put your fucking knees on the edge', I assumed he meant the seat edge, so I tried to, but my skirt was in the way.He could see I was getting into a pickle so he helped in his usual manner and tore the garment from me and tossed it over my head onto the back seat, now a rag, like my panties, ripped and devoid of any.
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He nodded, then I felt him slowly reach out with the whip and invite me to kiss it. The last couple of inches of a dressage whip is not woven leather like the rest but is a frayed end and I kissed it, knowing that by so doing I was accepting his intentions to do with it whatever he pleased. He started by lowering it and brought the tip to the inside of my left knee. I wanted to squirm, to step out of range, but I could do neither as the tip of the whip ran teasingly up the inside of my thigh, just brushed gently across the crotch of my thong, then down the right thigh. I trembled at the caress of my crotch, the frayed end of the whip still sufficient to make itself felt on my sensitive labia. Then he lifted it and slowly outlined the curve of my breasts, pressing firmly against my blouse in my hands raised position. As the whip touched me there, it dawned on me that I didn’t seem to have a bra on beneath my blouse, and I felt the erotic response of my nipples growing and in.

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