The Spanking Mistress Trilogy is three full-length femdom novels (The Caning Mistress, The Whipping Mistress and The Flogging Mistress) in one bumper volume.
The three novels all feature the Kinky Headmistress, her milf daughter and BBW Granddaughter, caning, whipping, flogging and otherwise beating and humiliating males.
It was on the fifth or sixth occasion that the discovery took place. He was teetering in a pair of backless high heels when he lost his balance and crashed heavily onto the carpet, breaking a shoe heel. Hastily taking off his mother’s clothes, and putting them back as neatly as he could, and putting on his own clothes, he went down to his father’s tool shed to look for glue.
Rummaging at the back of a drawer in the dusty workbench, he came across an old supermarket carrier bag. To his astonishment, the bag contained three well-thumbed and dog-eared sex magazines. He guessed who they belonged to, and felt faintly bilious to think that his father should possess such stuff, even if the magazines did look very old. It certainly reflected his father in a new light. He wondered if his mum knew about them and decided that she did not.
The first two magazines were fairly ordinary; nothing more sensational than he had glimpsed on the top shelf of the corner newsagents. However, the third magazine was of the bizarre and fetish variety. In this, manacled and cowering men were dominated and beaten, with a variety of flagellation instruments, by women. One section of the magazine was headed ‘vintage pics’. Three of the vintage pics featured a young woman; he guessed about his age, with short-cropped hair, and deliciously curvy.
In two of the pics, she was in the act of whipping a naked man who was chained to a post. Her black, shiny, leotard costume was held together by crossed lacing at the sides and front. The front lacing was loosened so that both nipples were displayed. Her stance indicated that the male victim was about to receive another slash from a cat o’nine tails. In one of the other pictures, she appeared full face, with a snarling, domineering expression. He goggled at it. There was no mistake. He was quite certain who it was. He was looking at a young Miss Vanessa Stannard, now the headmistress of his school.
‘A mother has arrived with her son without an appointment; wants the school to take him. He’s just been expelled from his last school.’
The headmistress peered up at the speaker, Carol Reynolds, her secretary, through her half moon glasses, which made her look the epitome of a school mistress. ‘Would you be kind enough to say that we have a full complement of pupils for this term and cannot accommodate a new pupil. Also, we don’t need any more trouble makers. But don’t add that bit.’
‘The mother’s a lady.’
‘Mother’s usually are, Carol. At least, they’re usually female. Whether they always deserve the title of ‘a lady’ is questionable.’
‘This one’s a real lady. With a title. And money. Arrived in a Bentley.’
The headmistress looked up from the accounts she was perusing. ‘Title?’
‘Lady So and So. Son’s very good-looking. His mother obviously dotes on him.’
‘Well, Carol, who am I to refuse someone in need of an education. Show them in.’
A minute or so later, Carol ushered in a tall, elegant, expensively dressed beauty in her forties. ‘This is Lady Teakwood, headmistress.’
Having shown the statuesque matriarch into the headmistress’s study, Carol returned to her room adjacent to the study, which also functioned as a waiting room for pupils, staff and parents with an appointment to see the headmistress.
The prospective new pupil sat on a chair and gave Carol a leer. Carol was not unused to schoolboys and male parents and male teachers giving her admiring - if furtive - glances. She had a curvaceous, fulsome figure which she emphasised by wearing tightly fitting blouses and pencil-skirts. However, this was an obvious leer with unpleasant undertones as if the youth was trying to look and be offensive.
‘You’ve got fucking nice tits. And one hell of an arse,’ the boy said, in a coarse accent. He leered again. ‘Fancy a fuck?’
Carol stared at him coldly. She was twenty six, with a penchant for eighteen year old boys. After her cold stare she smiled sweetly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your first name.’
‘Julian.’ He looked surprised at her calm response, and the coarse accent was replaced by aristocratic vowels.
‘I’m Carol. Miss Stannard’s secretary and personal assistant. Show me your penis.’
‘I’ve made up my mind to flog the school’, the headmistress said.
‘What - literally?’ Francesca, her granddaughter and temporary secretary enquired. ‘Flogging over a hundred boys seems like hard work. But I don’t mind helping.’
‘What I meant is that I intend to sell the school, lock, stock and cane. And retire gracefully.’
‘So, I’ll be out of a job I’m pleased to say. The only interesting bit is the caning. Of which, there is plenty, one has to admit.’ She extracted a finished letter from her typewriter and handed it to the headmistress for signature.
‘Darling, your spelling leaves a lot to be desired.’
‘I am a lot to be desired even if I can’t spell.’
‘Too many chocolate biscuits.’
Francesca swivelled her ample buttocks in her typing chair to face the headmistress standing next to the reception desk. And to avoid facing the tempting tin of biscuits, which was almost empty. ‘Who are you going to sell the school to?’ ‘To whom are you going to sell the school, darling. A person named Mrs Wickham will be arriving at eleven.