I’d escaped from class and examined the damage. Now that I was alone in the bathroom and could afford to give it my full attention, I found that the sensation that had developed down there while I was over the principal’s knee, and that had ebbed and flowed during the subsequent class, couldn’t be ignored any longer. It was overwhelming. No wonder it had been such a struggle to concentrate in class.
I stifled a moan, and it came out as a whimper. The arousal was too much, and I couldn’t contain it any longer. I felt like I might cry with desire for… who knows what. And not knowing was part of the problem.
I began slowly. With my panties still at mid-thigh, I teased myself gently. I stroked my belly, for now deliberately avoiding the source of the ache in order to heighten the sweet frustration of it. I allowed my fingers to drift down, down, through those little curls. Combing my fingers through now, the hair wiry but somehow soft. I paused a moment, holding my breath. Feeling like I was on the edge and savoring the balance until I finally let myself tip gently into it. Sliding my middle finger now into that cleft. Wet, oh, so wet. Perfectly slick. Not sticky, viscous honey. Like olive oil (extra virgin, ha!), making everything slippery. Drippy.
My abs were clenched, breathing shallow. I ran my finger slowly down over that firm nub of flesh. Up and down, deliciously. Liquid now starting to drip down the delicate skin of my inner thighs. Up and down still, more pressure, sometimes circling. Sometimes slipping off the apex of sweet sensation, a momentary enforced break. Now dipping into that well of wetness. One finger. Two. Back up again.
Wait. The spanking. Over his knee (my gut clenched at the thought), I had felt warm there, much like this. What did it to me? Was it the embarrassment, the pain? The caresses? Was it Mr. Martin himself, or him being hard against my hip?
I put both hands on my flanks, then started touching, experimenting with sensation. A light touch with fingertips. Now scratching upwards, leaving livid lines behind. Ah! My breathing shallow and labored. Now pinching here and there. Acting on the idea before I could think, I slapped my right ass cheek sharply. I gasped and panted, my breathing irregular. Squirming even as the report echoed on all the hard surfaces. Heavier breathing, the odd little whimper, but I held back from vocally expressing my want.
Just then I heard high heels clicking, metronomic, louder and louder. That smack had probably been audible in the hall. Shit. Couldn’t do that again, much as I may have wanted to, and once may have been too much. I held my breath. But that staccato rhythm continued, quieter and quieter. I let out my breath.
God, what a weird day. First time being called to the principal’s office. First spanking. First time getting off in the restroom at school. I chuckled at the ridiculousness of it, then had a flash of intuition about my future. I knew that when I looked back on high school this day would be a highlight.
My focus, and ache, returned. Or rather, I returned myself to my focus and ache. There seemed to be something about that bit of pain. Not wanted to risk any further noise, I scratched at myself. My attention was firmly fixed at my center while I denied myself the friction I craved.
With one hand pinching outraged skin (how outrageous to have been spanked!), I finally let the other rub and circle and dip. And then, at that moment when I remembered Mr. Martin smacking me so vividly that I could feel it, I came, stifling my cries in the echoing room.