Une punition sévère pour Michael: PART ONE

Michael woke up to the sounds of the muezzins in the Mosque El-houda and the Grande Mosquee de Lyon performing the sonorous 'adhan' - their early morning call to prayer.  Their voices were answered by the sweet chimes from the splendid Basilique de Notre Dame de Fourviere.  Michael closed his eyes.  His erection was hot and hard.  He needed to deal with it...immediately.

 He listened to the sweet bells ring out their matins and pictured the black and white crocodile of thirteen nuns weaving through the cloisters towards the huge wooden door at the south entrance.  Nuns.  

 Michael had tasted the discipline of cruel nuns during his schooldays.  The bells seemed to be ringing louder.  The bells were rung supposedly to drive out demons.  The nuns had used canes and leather belts to drive out the demons of lust and vice from the trembling, half naked young boys.

 There was one nun in particular, Soeur Marie, who took a very personal interest in Michael, Michael's behaviour...and Michael's bare bottom.  Soeur Marie.  Not yet forty but with a sharp face lined with a world weariness.   Michael dared to imagine the face with a touch of make-up and a hint of soft pink lipstick.  Anything to soften the cruel severity of her face, of her eyes, that made him shiver when he came under her stern, unblinking stare. Michael could never quite get the memory of Soeur Marie's cold blue-grey eyes out of his troubled mind.

 Under her soft, velvety black robes, the nun's body was supple and her figure was ripe and mellow and essentially feminine.  Michael tried to imagine her breasts, bound fiercely in tight white cotton.  Michael sensed that her full breasts would bounce softly as her arm  rose up to slice the cane down across his bare bottom.  Michael often dreamed troubled dreams of black stockings...sheer and shiny...or stretchy black pantyhose.  In these troubled wet dreams of Soeur Marie in black nylon stockings or stretchy black pantyhose, Michael would ejaculate violently and soak his bedding.  Even in his sleep he could sense his aching balls as they churned in his hot sac.

 Michael's hand stole down and he let his fingers curl around his hard, hot cock.

 Punishment.  He was instantly back in the silent class room.  Sunbeams swirled in the dancing chalk dust as the end of the Latin lesson was marked by the cleaning of the black board.  The soft cloth wiped away in seconds the irregular verbs Michael struggled for hours to master and remember.  Michael had not worked hard.  He had failed to distinguish the semantic nuances between nunc, ita and igitur.  Straining to shyly peep at the swell of Soeur Marie's tightly bound bosom,  Michael had failed and so he was to be punished.  The class was dismissed and Soeur Marie had gone down the corridor to collect the cane.  The supple length of cruel yellow whippy bamboo.

 He was kneeling on the floor, his hands upon his head.  It was the customary pre-punishment position boys who were to be beaten had to adopt in the strict school with the severe regime. 

 Michael started to squeeze firmly. he felt the pulse quicken as his hard cock strained.

Then he imagined her approaching footsteps coming back down along the corridor, treading unerringly on the polished wooden floor.  The click of the class room door as it opened and the soft squeak as the door opened wider to admit the cane-carrying nun.

 'Stand up at once, boy.'

 'Yes - '

 'Silence! she barked.  'Get across the desk, trousers down.'

 His hands shaking, Michael would fumble awkwardly and drag his grey uniform trousers down to his lower thighs.

 'Right down...below your knees.'

 Michael obeyed and bent down over the desk.

 Her hand would touch his pants and - pulling the elastic waist away sharply - drag them down to his knees.

 Yes.  The moment when she bared his bottom.  He saw himself, bare bottomed and bending, shivering in anticipation of the pain from the cane to come. 

 Michael started to masturbate slowly, generously and deliciously.

 Soeur Marie savoured every moment of the pleasure of punishment.  She inspected the bare bottom she was about to beat slowly, intimately.   She inspected the tip of the yellow cane carefully, almost leisurely.  She levelled the tip of the cruel wood dominantly against Michael's mouth.  She worked it painfully against his lips.

  'Kiss the cane, wretched boy.  Lazy, stupid boy.  Your laziness...Ca me fait chier...'  She pressed the tip of the cane more firmly against Michael's lips.  'Kiss the cane!' she hissed vehemently.

 Closing his eyes, and drowning in the remembered moment, Michael thumbed his wet glans vigorously.

She stood behind the bare bottomed boy and then took two paces a  little to one side, the cane now levelled in against his tightened cheeks.  The tight line between his squeezed buttocks disappeared in to thin crease of fear.  Soeur Marie tap-tapped the bare bottom with the quivering bamboo. 

 'You will apologise for your poor behaviour during your punishment,' Soeur Marie whispered softly, playing the shining yellow cane's length against the tight buttocks she was about to beat.  'I am going to give you twelve strokes.'

 Michael was reliving his ordeals over the desk.  Under the duvet, he was pumping his cock furiously.

 'Begin...' she commanded harshly.

Michael mumbled his apologies falteringly... his throat tight and dry...his tongue swollen with fear.

 'No! No! No! In Latin, boy. Say your apologies in Latin!'

 Swish, slice!  Swish, crack!

 Michael shivered as he stuttered out his sorrow.

 Michael sobbed but clutched the desk and pressed his knees into the wooden frame for support.  Livid lines of fire blazed across his upturned cheeks where the double-stroke had sliced into them so savagely.  Already, twin crimson traces of pain were burned into the soft cream of his bare bottom.

 Swish, crack!  Swish, crack!

 Relentlessly, remorselessly, the caning progressed.  Four strokes.  Six strokes.  Eight strokes.

 Across the desk, Michael started to wet himself.  The hot urine flowed down inside his quivering left leg and soaked his pants and grey trousers.

 Yes!  The shame of the hot piss soaking his underwear as the stern, beautiful nun caned his bare bottom.  Caned his bare, blazing bottom searchingly, viciously...relentlessly and remorselessly.  Michael gasped aloud...sweat scaled his eyes...Michael's cock was about to burst...

 A sharp knock on his bedroom door instantly erased the memory of his punishment in the school room.  Michael groaned.  It was his aunt, on her way out to work at the publishers.

 She spoke through the door.  Micheal tossed his head back in frustration.  His cock was throbbing but there had been no release.  

 'You can meet me at one thirty.  For lunch.  I'll bring Mademoiselle Bazin with me. She's signing her contract with us this morning. You will like her. OK?'

 'OK,' Michael managed, disguising his thwarted lust as sleepiness.

 'I'm sure you will like her...she is only just eighteen...' his aunt said, encouragingly. 'We are publishing her first book of existentialist verse "Je suis perdu pour toujours". In paperback, to start with, of course.'

 Michael stayed silent.  He held the existentialists, even in hardback, in equal contempt with les ecrivains religieux.

 'So be sure to be at the bouchon I told you about. One thirty, mind!'

 He listened as his aunt left the apartment and took the ancient, unreliable noisy lift down to the street below.

 Merde! If only his aunt would stop trying to be a matchmaker, Michael thought resentfully.  And lunch in that bouchon!  Lyon had many such bistro-cafes, many of them several hundred years old - they used to feed all the migrant Huguenot silk workers - and all of them so proud of having no nouvelle cuisine on the menu and nothing but viande grasse (especially fatty duck and even fattier pork dishes) served with sauces cremeuses.

 Michael has come to stay with his aunt Veronique in Lyon as it was cheaper for him to stay with her than getting his own apartment.  He worked in the laboratories attached to the botanical gardens in the Parc de Gerland and did not have to start until 10.00 am.  A talented botanist, Michael had secured the post against fierce competition because of his...excellent Latin.

 Mademoiselle Bazin.  Michael shook his head dismissively.  Pourquoi au nom de Dieu couldn't his aunt just leave him be.  His choice of lunch would have been a visit to McDonald's in the Cours Charlemagne near the Musee des Confluences in the heart of the 2e Arron.   Yes...a Big Mac and a side of fries.   Michael would have preferred that to the Quenelles de Brochet avec sauce Nantua his aunt would order.  Brochet.  The slightly muddy tasting pike was not to his palate.  As a child, there had been a sweet shop...un magasin de bonbon... run by a bad tempered crone whose yeux vrilles fonces always frightened Michael.  Yes.  The old crone had the dark evil eyes of a pike...

 Aunt Veronique.  His aunt.  Hmm...Michael mused.  Early forties, svelte and willowy.  Perhaps only very slightly underweight.  But tres elegant, tres chic.  She always...and only ...wore Claudie Pierlot or Clergerie.   Her shoes were unswervingly by Repetto or François du Chastel.  There was a leggy charm about his aunt.  Vaguely attracted to her maturity, he appreciated her style as a woman and her success as a hard negotiator in the cut-throat world of publishing.

 Michael frowned.  His cock was still hard and aching...but the box of tissues by his bedside was empty.  He got up, naked, and padded across to his bedroom door.  Outside the door to his aunt's bedroom, he paused.   She would surely have tissues.  He went in.  

 There was a miasma of femininity in the bedroom, an all enveloping, all pervading fragrance of...Orange Water, musk, Coty, Elizabeth Arden...Blue Grass...

 Michael snuffed in the haze of sweetness and femininity greedily.  His cock bulged and nodded as its muscled length twitched and rose up.

 At the dressing table Michael saw the bottles and jars...he savoured the opulence before him: Eau Thermale (peaux sensibles); Nuxe (Huile Prodigieuse); Dior mascara; high-lighters, concealers...and lipstick.

 Michael felt his tongue-tip forcing itself between his dry lips.  Aunt Veronique always wore her lips fully lipsticked...red and plump and sensually glossy...

 Michael reached down and picked up the golden bullet of Armani Rouge Ecstacy (Boudoir 509).  Staring vacantly into the looking glass he applied the sweet lipstick to his lower lip.  It dragged sensually across his sensitive flesh.

 He swallowed hard and applied the slippery waxy stick to his upper lip.  His cock strained for release.

 'Kiss the cane!’

 Michael froze as the harsh words of Soeur Marie rang out in his brain. 

 'Kiss the cane!'

 Michael felt hot.  Hot, aroused and very...very excited.  The red lines of lipstick became the red lines of the cane across his shiny sore bottom.  The shiny sore bare bottom he had surrendered, as a trembling and frightened boy, to the cruel cane-wielding nun.

 Swish! Crack!      Swish!  Slice!

 Michael stumbled forward and pulled open a delicate drawer and snatched up a cellophane bag.  In it a pair of gossamer black tights surrendered to his trembling finger-tips.  He bit open the wrapping and spat it out, flicking and unfurling the soft black tights to their full length in an instant.  Too eager and anxious to drag the tights up his legs, over his knees and over his straining cock, he simply bound the length of his hot erection with the delicious crackling nylon and started to masturbate violently.

 The sheer nylon rasped his glans as he pumped ... sweat blinding him, the taste of lipstick haunting him...the remembered words of the cruel nun thrilling...yes...thrilling him.  Michael suddenly discovered the great big beautiful 'black hole' in his sexual universe.

 Michael liked punishment.  It was inextricably linked to sexual arousal and...release.

 'Hurt me...punish me...' he rasped, barely able to utter the pleading, as his climax shimmered on the brink of explosion.  'Aunt Veronique,' he whispered hoarsely, almost overwhelmed at his discovery of his urgent need and newfound delight, 'be strict with me...be harsh with me...hurt my bottom...hurt my bottom..spank me...spank me...please...auntie...tata... tata please...'

 The next few moments became a blur - and remained a blur for the rest of his life.

 Sinking to his knees, Michael started to come.  It was an overwhelming orgasm, the most sweetest and the most violent he had ever experienced.

 As the hot silver spurted into and soaked the black pantyhose wound around his pulsing erection, Michael moaned and groaned.

 As Michael, on his knees, emptied his seed to soak his aunt Veronique's pantyhose, his aunt Veronique stepped softly into her bedroom.

 Michael shuddered as he was held in the final seconds of the steel grip of his climax.

 Aunt Veronique shivered with a frisson of primal delight.

 Michael managed to hoarsely whisper his mantra one more time.

 'Punish me please...'  he pleaded, his eyes drowning in liquid delight.

 'Certainly, my boy.  Pass me my hairbrush and get across my knee...'

                                  ................................. END OF PART ONE .............................

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