Clairisa entered my study with her eyes downcast. This was her third Saturday detention that term, and her offense was quite a breach of propriety. St. Mark's Grade School has a reputation for producing graduates with strong character who embrace Christian values. And Clairisa knew that she was not going to graduate without earning my approval.
She walked across the room to the writing table and waited, eyes lowed and hands clasped together. I made a point of continuing my work for several seconds before turning sideways to face her. She had dressed in the standard school uniform of a plaid skirt with a white cotton shirt. She wore plain cotton socks and her tennis shoes were clean. Her long golden hair was tied back into a pony tail with a single pink ribbon. All within regulation. Standard uniform is not required for detention, but I did not let her effort to win my graces alter my stern expression.
"Good Morning, Miss Donovan." I spoke in my most formal manner.
"Good Morning, Father."
"Please explain why Sr. Garcia placed you on Saturday morning detention." I knew, of course, but forcing the student to explain their conduct is an old ploy to begin breaking down any defiance. Young girls start to get rebellious when they reach the sixth grade, and I was not certain her petitent attitude was entirely genuine.
"Sr. Garcia found me with a forbidden magazine during morning recess." She replied quietly.
"Why is the magazine forbidden?"
"Because it contains sexual material, which profanes the gift God has given each of us, Father." A textbook answer. She is going to have to do better than that.
"Please kneel down, facing the crucifix over the window. You may consider this a Confession." She turned to her right and knelt down on the floor. As she made the sign of the cross and said an Act of Contrition, I turned my chair and pulled it closer and behind her. I admired her youthful legs poking out from under the back of her skirt. They were the tan, smooth perfection which is common in adolescence, but so hard to maintain with age. I regretted, not for the first time, that the school rules mandated the skirt must touch the bottom of the knee. I doubt I could have found a flaw with a lens.
"I will remind you that failing to make a full confession is itself a mortal sin. You will now answer my questions about your sin." She nodded her acknowledgment of my command.
"Did this magazine contain pictures?"
"Pictures of men?
"Pictures of men without proper attire?"
I paused as though contemplating her answer. I stood and began to pace behind her, as if I needed to think about my next question. In reality, I was hoping the morning sun was shinning at an angle which would allow me to see through the side of her shirt. I was pleased to see how small and fragile she looked; although she was well proportioned for a girl of eleven, her actual height was a bit below average, certainly no more than five feet.
"How long have you had this magazine?"
"One week, Father."
"Had you looked at it before?"
"I want you to tell me when and where you were every time you look at that magazine."
A slight hesitation betrayed the beginning of embarrassment. She obviously had not expected that I would be asking for details. "I had looked in it twice before. Both times I was alone in my room, after going to bed."
"I see. What were you doing at the time?"
"Just looking, Father."
"Are you sure you were 'just looking'? You did nothing else."
"No... I mean, Yes, Father."
"Which is it?"
"Yes, I was just looking, I did nothing else."
"You are sure you did not rub your legs together or squeeze your thighs in an unwholesome manner."
"No... I mean maybe, just a little." She began to lose her composure under my cross-examination. Her body, formerly the picture of contrite submission, began to twitch nervously and her eyes started to glisten. For my own, I was starting to feel the effects of this interview in a different region.
"No 'maybes' Clairisa. Yes or No."
"Do you know what the word 'clitoris' means, Clairisa?"
"Yes, Father." She answered, turning slightly pink.
"You moved your legs to massage your clitoris, didn't you Clairisa?"
"Did you use your hand to massage your clitoris, Clairisa?"
"Only a little, Father."
Her cheeks were red, and her eyes almost ready to tear. "Clairisa, this sin is most offensive to God and to all good Christians" I said in a stern voice. She squeezed her hands to try to hide the fact they were starting to tremble.
"Did it swell up?"
"Did rubbing your clitoris make it swell up!" I say, raising my voice.
"I don't understand."
"When you masturbated, did you enjoy it so much your clitoris swelled up?"
"Did the nipples of your breasts get hard?" I say, while leaning over to look down upon her chest as unobtrusively and casually as possible.
"I... I don't remember, Father."
"No, I am sure they didn't." I mocked. "Did you touch your vagina?"
"Don't lie!" I yell, as though suddenly in a fit of anger. "You lay in the darkness, rubbing yourself without shame! Your vagina got wet and then you smeared the foul liquid around your flesh with your own hand. You thrust your fingers inside and felt your chest. You lay like a whore and defiled your innocent body in the sight of God!"
"No! I didn't do it! Not like that." The frightened child pleas. My tirade has moved her to open crying from fear and shame and guilt.
I opened the drawer of the table and withdrew the very magazine we were discussing. It renews both her crying and her protests when I hold it in front of her. I open it, stepping in front of her while using it to conceal my now obvious erection.
"I bet you stared at his penis as you defiled your sex. Did you picture it in your mind? Did you try to imagine its volume inside your body? You dreamt of that *cock* thrusting into your *cunt*, didn't you *whore*!"
"Nooo, It wasn't like that." she whines, looking up at me. "I didn't mean it."
I was conscious that her small, round mouth was leaning toward the erection in my pants, but my own lust was not enough to prevent me from realizing that there was a serious danger she would faint, or worse, try to run crying from the abbey. I step behind her again and replace the magazine. I also have to adjust my penis, which has become enlarged in a painful position. "Please excuse me while I step into the next room to consider your punishment."
She was too upset to notice anything unusual about my request, despite its oddity and the excitement in my voice.
I step into the next room and begin to strip. I remove my shorts and undershirt, anything which will impede my haste later on. I even go so far as to remove my socks and my ring. While standing nude, I reopen the door a crack. She is still crying, though more subdued than before, so I did not fear that she heard me. Beside her gorgeous calves, which I have already inadequately described, I have a partial view of her innocent profile. Soft, unmarred by the passage of time, is her skin, and her complexion like cream. But most exiting to me is the tinge of red in her cheeks, the rivulets of tears, the shaking of her body, and the muffled sound of her sorrow. This is no sterile work of an artist, kneeling before my crucifix in the gentle morning glow. Her slightest shudder defines her volume, the slight rise and ragged fall of her chest confirms her life. And the moistness of her cheeks and muffled whimpers are the proof of my test; her innocence is within my reach, and I can leave a mark on her mind that would long outlive any mark on her body.
I replace my pants and shirt, though I leave the snap undone on the former and the collar open on the later. I replace my shoes, without socks, but tie them so loosely that I could kick them off without difficulty. My erection is plainly obvious should she turn her tiny head without my leave.
"Though you are getting a bit old," I say as I enter, "I have decided that a spanking is the appropriate punishment. Stand and place your hands on the table." She slowly stands. Under lighter circumstances she might protest, being at least two years older than the customary limit for this punishment, but after my tirade, she must be relieved to be punished in a familiar manner. Indeed her anxiety drains away as she stands flush against the table and leans on her hands, about four inches from the side. I withdraw a eleven inch plastic ruler from the table drawer.
I set the ruler on the edge of the table. Suddenly, I grab her little wrists and pull her farther, at least three times as far, over the table. The move is not brutal, but sudden and unexpected enough to cause her to give a startled shout. I also spread her arms a several inches past shoulder width. She is so short that I caused her pelvis to press painfully into the table and her heels are pulled slightly off the floor. It is now a strain to hold herself up, and it would be difficult for her to straighten were she to try.
Her legs are slightly apart. Her skirt has been pulled up a couple more inches, and I stare with open lust at the back of her thighs, their curves shifting tantalizingly as she tries to minimize her discomfort while moving as little as possible. I kneel down to the floor and pull her ankles together. I resist the temptation to touch them more only with great difficulty.
She is becoming uncomfortable again, unnerved by the detail of my preparations. I reach under her skirt and tug sharply at the top of her panties. She gasps at the touch of my fingers, as this is not standard procedure at any age and clearly improper at hers, but she does not say anything as I drag them down her thighs, over her knees, and finally let them rest around her ankles. Unable to resist, I caress her lovely skin more than is necessary as I go. My penis pushes painfully toward the little girl, but I keep it restrained as I stand again.
Her chin trembles, and tears begin to well once more. Her sense of relief is rapidly fading as uncertainty about her punishment returns to her. I casually take the ruler in my right hand and a handful of her skirt in my left. With a slow, deliberate motion, I raise her skirt exposing first her upper thighs, and then her tiny ass. The sun dances across her golden skin from the side, exposing the curves by the play of light and shadow. I press the skirt into the small of her back and raise the ruler.
The deliberateness of my movements does nothing to relax her body, and she trembles openly now. While I doubt she knows my lust, the eroticism of her exposure ignites the first fears deeper than those of a erring student receiving correction.
With a flick of my wrist I crack the ruler against the cheeks of her ass. The plastic slaps her tender skin sharp enough to reverberate off the walls of the room. A scream, as much of surprise as pain from the unexpected ferocity of my blow, quickly turns to a continuos wail. A red mark is already forming by the time I strike her again. And then again. And again. I slap the ruler across her body at a fast and steady pace. No less than twice a second it cracks, beating in time with her racing heart. Her legs buckle more than once, and she slowly starts to slip down farther over the table. She cries loudly, her voice wavering. She clenches her eyes shut, but tears still flow freely down the sides of her face. Her face is red from the exertion of crying, and the ruler continues to fall. Rather than let up, I let my blows fall harder as my silent count passes thirty, then forty. The hand which holds her skirt away from my work feels every tremble, every ragged gasp. Her screams quickly become desperate, but this only excites my desire. Her flesh has turned a brilliant crimson.
I break my rhythm long enough to drag down the zipper of my pants, which fall around my knees. In her pain, she hardly notices the break, much less the engorged penis now held from her sex by my will alone. My penis, only slightly above average in size, looks grossly enlarged next to one so small, and its throbbing head longs to reach into her interior, but instead I just resume her spanking with renewed vigor.
As my silent count goes past sixty, I vary my strokes so several land on the tops of her thighs. Unable to keep her arms steady during my stream of abuse, her hands slide across the table bit by bit, pulling her heels off the floor and pulling her chest closer to the table. As my count reaches eighty, her torso hits the table. Dragged to tip toe, her calves are gloriously extended and I can plainly see her opening peaking out from under her body. I inch closer to her, as close as possible without stopping her torture. Soon, less than one foot of air holds my penis from her young vagina.
One hundred goes by, and I continue to beat the little girl without mercy. I lean into her and strike her as though I meant to have her life. The wildness of her screams complimented the wildness in my eyes. I half noticed I was gyrating my hips in time with the ruler. Spittle rolled down my chin. My own breath comes hard. I swing the ruler as hard as I can.
One hundred twenty. I place the ruler table and quickly replace my pants before she regains her senses. I need not have worried, as she is so shaken and weak it is several seconds before she begins to move. Watching her quaking body, moist with a thin film of sweat and beautifully extended, while she makes no motion to cover herself is almost more than I can stand. Her ass is deep purple in places, and slightly swollen. Her vagina, indeed her whole body, is glistening with moisture. She lies completely unresisting with her vagina exposed, too weak to defend herself from any advance. Eventually, she slowly manages to push herself up, but not without difficulty as her panties restrain her from moving her feet and her hands are slick from moisture. She bends down modestly to pull her panties painfully back into position.
I give her several minutes to regain her composure before speaking to her again. I go back to the adjoining room to retrieve a collapsing cot, as well as a small jar of Vaseline and a small bundle of white cloth.
"I am sorry I had to be so harsh," I say as I return, "but sin requires punishment. Please lie down and I will give you some lotion to make it feel better." I unfold the cot, which is a simple, sturdy metal frame with blue canvass fabric, attached at the corners and a single stiff strap, two inches wide, on the narrow sides, and two such straps along the wide sides. It is adult size, nearly twice as long as her.
She knows how much I enjoyed her torture, but not why. It takes a little coaxing to get her to lie down, and even so she turns her head back to watch what I am going to do. I remove the jar of Vaseline from my pocket, and also the small bundle. I turn, my eyes tracing down her legs, and untie her shoes. I slip them off her feet and place them on the ground beside the cot.
I turn back and remove the lid from the jar of Vaseline. I reach under her skirt for the second time, and pull her panties down until they are just above her knees. I flip her skirt up onto her back and admire her nakedness for the second time. Next I reach up and untie the single pink ribbon restraining her hair. She looks at me in alarm, and asks "Why are you taking my clothes off?". I run my fingers through her golden hair and let the silken strands fall down her back I smear some of the jelly onto my fingers, and gently smear it onto her ass.
She whimpers quietly at the touch, but I only rub her body with more passion. After only a few seconds, I begin to drop the pretext of "lotion" and rub her body with my entire hand, then both hands. Gradually, the area I massage increases, until I am rubbing her down to the middle of her thighs. But she doesn't start to fight me until I begin to lubricate the insides of her thighs. A new fear is visible in her face and she starts to protest demurely and fidget uncomfortably. She tries to rise, and only my constant touch keeps her from rolling over and getting up. Rather than allow her up at this symbolic struggle, the area I moisten grows a little more in size.
Clearly frightened by that response, she asks me to stop out loud and props herself up on her elbows, intent on rising from the cot. I stop my groping and take her shoulders as she rolls into a sitting position. I repeat that it is okay, that nothing is wrong, and I lower her gently down so she lies on her back. She hardly accepts my too hasty reassurances and is starting to get back up just as I grab the small bundle of white cloth. I take her wrists and guide them together and to the back of the cot. I try to be gentle, but the swiftness of the action and the growing tension starts her crying again. She again asks, with a pleading sound, for me to let her up. Instead I unfurl the bundle, revealing it to be a pair of white stockings, far too small for a grown woman.
She tries to shy away, though she does not apply her strength. She is also hampered by her own weight, which is partially resting on her hands. It is only when I actually begin to tie her wrists, when she feels the fabric against her skin, that she tries to pull.
I am forced to apply myself to keep her wrists together as I wrap around the lengths of thin cloth. She tugs and pulls, with half articulated cries of "no" and "stop". I am wrapping the ends around the central strap when she becomes desperate and begins to kick and jerk her entire body in protest. Instinct alone causes her to kick her legs, pushing her weight against the cot in an effort to sit up again, but she is hampered by the minimal restraint offered by her own panties, rolled and twisted into a cord, holding her legs together.
"Why did you tie me up? What are you going to do?"
When I finish my task and pull back, she stares at me as if she has never seen me before. The need for caution gone, I stare at her with my lust plainly visible. She asks me what I am doing, why, but her questions are more like pleas. I unbutton my shirt as hastily as my hands will move, and unconsciously bring her eyes down to the bulge in my pants. Until now, I had kept her attention away from it, but there was no need for more pretense.
She has no idea why I tied her down, but she knows she can't break free. She doesn't guess what I am going to do, but she knows she is powerless to stop it. She only has a bare inkling of what the bulge means, but she knows it does not bode well for her. Everything she took for granted, who I was, who she was to me, her safety with me, the meaning of everything happening, being a girl, being a man, was shown to be false. She was filled with the greatest fear of all, the fear of the unknown.
I discarded the shirt and moved to the other end of the cot. Her eyes never leave my pants. Her body lies motionless. She does not begin to struggle again until I reach for her and cup her knees. The resistance is futile and I lift and pull her down the cot, until her arms are pulled out straight. I step back, kick off my shoes, and stand at the foot of the cot.
I unzip my pants quickly while looking at her. Wrists tied together and down with a child's white stockings, her tiny arms stretched taught, silken hair framing an angels face, white cotton of her shirt, plaid skirt pushed up halfway, thin tan thighs, cotton panties, thin shins, bright white socks covering tiny feet. I drop my pants and climb onto the cot.
I pull her panties down and off, discarding them. I straddle her closed legs over her groin and start unbuttoning her shirt. Her protests are constant but quiet. Half articulated cries of "no" and "stop" escape her lips as each button is released. Her eyes are imploring, begging me to stop scaring her so intensely that I feel her emotion. I open her shirt as if it were a package and pause.
The morning glow illuminates her alabaster skin and a thin training bra. Her breasts are tiny mounds, extending from her chest no more than two inches. I slip my left arm around her, under her shirt, and lift so I can pull it over her head. I feel her breath on my skin while I fumble with the clasp of her bra, and after a moment it too goes over her head. I sit down on her skirt and grope her chest with two hands. Her chest is so small that my hands seem gigantic when they clench and release her tiny breasts. I play my fingers over her tiny bright pink nipples. My dick sticks out in the air over her belly button.
I lift myself off her and slide my hands down to her skirt. Backing up, I pull it down off her body. Now Clairisa lies before me completely nude, and completely helpless. Now just below her knees, I move my right knee between hers and then my left, slightly parting her legs. Her small, hairless slit lies just before me. I grab the jar of Vaseline and scoop some out.
She watches me with her begging eyes to stop, praying that this is only some kind of threat or joke. Her eyes follow my hand as I smear the jelly thickly onto my erection. Each stage of my preparations increases the effort of clinging to hope, but she continues to plea.
"I'm sorry please please don't please why? no please let me up please untie my hands please don't please don't hurt me anymore I don't like this please"
"Why won't you stop touching me?"
I take her one knee in each hand and slowly but irresistibly push the child's legs apart. Farther and farther, beyond what is necessary, I push them open. I push them steadily over the edges of the bed. Painfully wide I open them more and more. Her labia stretch apart, revealing the glistening pink hole itself, leading up into her body. I move my penis toward it at last. Its menacing shape looks impossibly huge to fit inside her hairless opening.
Her hope breaks. In an instant she becomes hysterically desperate, madly tugging at her wrists with all her strength. The cot creaks at her frantic tugs, which are so hard she arches her back with each one. Her entire body moves up and down with her rapid jerks. Her lovely face is contorted into a mask of fear. She tries twisting side to side, writhing underneath me. She screams as if she is on fire, hyperventilating with shallow rapid gasps. She pulls with all her might to try to increase the distance between her pussy and my cock by a fraction. Indeed, Clairisa might have believed my dick was a flaming torch without making a more desperate reaction. I draw out the moment, but soon my head makes contact with her open labia.
Her opening is hot and slightly sticky to my touch. She convulses as if in a seizure, jerking her arms in rapid vibration and with her head wrenched back, staring at the stockings with open mouthed horror. I push my penis inside with a steady motion.
I sink my entire length inside her. The tiny tight virgin hole tears as I enter and her muscles spasm, clenching my intruder. The lubrication causes my penis to enter without resistance. Memory does not prepare me for the ecstasy of heat, the effortless sliding, or the tight pressure which comes from the moment itself. She shrieks with a sharp intake of breath, her every muscle clenched, eyes tightly shut. I withdraw and move in again, in and out. I fall onto her and take her body into a crude embrace, emphasizing the narrowness of her tiny body. I press my face to hers and obscenely kiss her mouth. My tongue fills her mouth and reaches into the back of her throat. I wetly lick her tears and face while smothering her with my body and fucking her hole. My hands rub her body rudely, and my legs rub against hers. I taste her nose and eyes, neck and ears, tasting every portion of her. With each push of my penis I carry my entire body forward, so she is pressed back and forth on the cot. My hands probe her skin, moving to her legs and back again. We rock back and forth in this manner for minute after minute.
I slow down a little after five minutes in order to prolong the ordeal. She has been quiet since the moment of penetration, only silently mouthing words when my mouth is not pressed into hers. I stop my groping with my arms wrapped around her and press my cheek against hers. I revel in the feeling of my chest on her chest. I touch every inch of my flesh against as much of hers as possible as we continue to rock together. Slow and steady but hard and deep. I dominate her, my sheer mass absorbing any resistance she might be offering. Her vagina spreads at my whim. My own eyes close and drool escapes my mouth, running down her chin.
I am inside the child. She is beautiful in every way, innocent in every way, and helpless in every way. The obscenity of my unwanted closeness moves my dick. My gross sensation is multiplied by every taboo violated and confidence broken. I near orgasm. She is helpless, completely at my mercy, and I press my penis in. Every civilized fiber of my being tells me to pull out, but I press in. She wants me to stop and I continue. She wants me to free her and I smother her. She wants me to stop touching her and I touch her deep inside. I climax and feel my cum fall into her body, my penis falls into her body. I continue to hold the receptacle of my lust.
After the moment passes, I leave my penis inside and continue my molestation. I suck on her tits and clench her ass. No portion of her body escapes invasion. My motions are not brutal, but done with a rude disregard, her body dominated. I touch every inch of skin, examine every fold. My penis regains its firmness in ten minutes and resumes its penetrating motion.
She mouths wordless pleas. But she is no longer speaking to me, now offering silent prayers for salvation. As my cock increases speed again, she feels deep, primal sensations rush through her body. But they are a nauseating parody of pleasure. The lubrication minimizes any distracting pain. Her body responds to my rhythm by heightening her own senses, so she feels every unwanted motion and unwelcome probe with increasing vibrancy. She feels her own body betray her; her clitoris swells and her nipples harden. But instead of heightening pleasure they heighten revulsion. Her own body adds to the slickness of her vagina, and my speed increases as a result. She suddenly feels increasing waves of nausea spread through her body. They crash and rebound and build just as I ejaculate for the second time. Her stomach dry heaves and she gags, choking, while she feels my cum dribbling impossibly deep inside her.
Spent, I lay on top of her for a minute before pulling out and standing up. I take a camera from a shelf to record the moment. I focus on her tiny body, breathing slowly, exhausted, limp, utterly passive. The child is so small and powerless. Her body is wet with moisture and her face is flushed red. She lies without the strength to close her wide-spread legs as I snap the shutter of the camera. Her fluids are slowly leaking out her naked cunt.
I have no doubt I will be able to keep her quiet. Paradoxical sounding to adults, little girls often are less likely to talk the more horrible the experience is. As long as I leave the impression in her mind that this is a one-time occurrence, and back that up with threats of blackmail over her record, I will be safe. I will be able to content myself with lesser liberties, the pantieless spankings of pretty girls, too friendly embraces, pats, gropes, viewing my clandestine pictures, and masturbation while watching the girls in the gym through one way glass. Yes, I won't have to repeat this with someone else for a long time.
Authors love hearing from their fans.