Wicked Wednesday: How can you beat a tattoo?

The head drove me home, but let me out a block away, so I’d look like I was walking back from my friend’s. The next day he took me to a doctor, a nice, friendly woman who took the need for pregnancy testing and STD testing, for a girl in school uniform, very much in her stride. 

Doctor, doctor, gimme the news…

He took me back to her clinic a week later, and held my hand – she took that in her stride too – while she gave me the results. And when she told us I wasn’t pregnant and hadn’t acquired any STDs I was so happy I jumped into his arms and kissed him.

That didn’t surprise her either, so I guess she knew that Conal Wright sometimes fucked his girl pupils. I didn’t think of that at the time.

I wasn’t his first schoolgirl, and I wouldn’t be the last, but he’d look after me till I left.

So he took me to his place after school, and I took off all my clothes at the door, like he’d instructed me.

Ah, that’s better!

He cuddled me on the couch, and then he took me over his knee and gave me a long, long, quite hard spanking. It was a gift, too. I needed it and I loved it, naked over his knee, ass under his nose with my thighs apart. Afterwards he stroked me, fingers inside my cunt, until I came. It felt so wonderful, and I wanted more, of course.

But he told me to come in two nights’ time: Friday night, and tell my parents I was on a school expedition. That meant I was going to stay the night! I could hardly wait. I was walking on air for the next couple of days. 

There was just one other thing. On Thursday, at my local supermarket, I saw the creep who’d raped me. He had a broken leg and two broken arms, and bruises and abrasions on his nose and cheekbones. Even so I was terrified that he’d see me. But when he did he fell back, obviously terrified, and hobbled off as fast as he could. On his crutches.

If I ever got raped again, darling, [Maddie said to me as I lay beside her, listening to her story] I’d be furious if you did something like that. It doesn’t make anything any better. And it’s just stupid macho display; it’s not for my good, but the man’s. And I hate the smarmy way men tell a woman they’ve beaten up their rapist, like they’re a cat dropping a bloody mouse onto the carpet. So don’t do that. But … the truth was, I felt good when I saw that creep. I felt so savage, and glad he’d got what he fucking well deserved.

One thing I’ll say for the Head was that he never told me about it. He’d done it, I guess, to relieve his own feelings, and maybe to put the guy out of the raping business, at least for a while. So he hadn’t pretended to me that he’d done it for me. But I was pleased he’d done it. I was pretty ruthless back then. And I never saw that creep again, either.

Anyway, on Friday morning, I got out my old school uniform. The one that was far too small. The reason he’d first punished me, it seemed an age ago. I put it in my schoolbag.

The Edinburgh Tattoo

I left early in the morning, and when I got to school I changed into the mini-me uniform in the toilets. I looked such a slut! Skirt just about up to my panties, and well, I had trouble getting the shirt buttons done up. Perfect! Then I went to see the head. He’d cane me for that, I knew. And I wanted him to cane me hard, before he fucked me.

So I knocked on his door, my heart beating a tattoo.

 

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