Houshou Marine leaned over the teacher's desk, flattening her breasts against it and staining her blouse with dust and chalk. Her uniform, albeit designed to be chaste, fit her all too snugly in the best of times, and now you could trace some of the curves of her body in great detail. Although she was currently very closely staring at a notch at the desk's edge, her very skin could feel twenty-nine pairs of young eyes staring at her, as if she was the five breads from last week's sermon.

Out loud, she said what she was mentally rehearsing: "I was insufficiently diligent in my studies! I hope this correction will serve as a lesson for me and an example for others. Please punish and forgive me."

The limited amount of chastity afforded to her quickly evaporated as the hem of her skirt got yanked all the way up, revealing first her black thigh-highs, then an area of pale skin, then white regulation underwear that was maybe one size too small. The underwear was not removed: she was allowed that much modesty. In a co-ed class anyway.

Marine blushed intensely and started sawing the desk in two with her intense stare. She heard a couple steps in the background, walking to the blackboard and back again. Grabbing the yardstick, no doubt. A couple whooshes in the air (to shake off the chalk, no doubt) confirmed as much: nice, long wooden ruler. The school didn't do canes any more, or paddles for that matter (this was before her time, but apparently at some point they had custom paddles engraved with the school logo), but corporal punishment was still on the menu, and also on the menu was Marine.

The end of the ruler touched her own rear end, searching up and down, until it found a nice snug spot: right at the top of her thighs and settled there. Good pick. Marine noticed herself nodding a little, almost imperceptibly. The ruler rose up in the air, and she tensed slightly, then relaxed as it returned to its previous spot slowly and carefully. Another try. On the third, the wood finally kissed Marine's skin and gave it the gift of pain.

She kept her composure easily and calmly said "One." Another burning stripe came much higher, "three" and "four" somewhere in between them, but five was in the same exact spot as the first, hence "Ow, f-five!". Marine vaguely remembered that she was supposed to serve as an example for the others, so, as she counted her every new stripe, she added "aw" and "ouch", maybe a little bit overacted. The pain  accumulated with every strike though, compounded on itself, sent waves through her body much like the strikes themselves sent jiggles through her fat, white rear end.

Marine was actually quite proud of her body. It didn't mesh much with the quasi-ascetic lifestyle imposed on them in real life or with the #thinspo and pro-ana aesthetic that was all the rage online (and the two meshed together quite nicely), but the boys' (and some girls'!) eyes were inevitably drawn to her already, and hopefully the sight of her lower body will find their way into their wet dreams for the coming weeks. Another perk was that, in the unlikely event that she would be spanked in front of her whole class, her butt would serve as a nice little cushion to soften the blows. Which it was doing quite nicely, as she was counting.

All things had their limits though. By eleven, she was sucking air through her teeth audibly, "fourteen" sounded more like "aaa-AH-ha", and seventeen was in that exact same first spot, right on the fresh bruise, for the fifth time. That bruise was the exact border between stoic delinquent and pliable whiny mess, apparently, and Marine passed it. Her knees gave out, she grabbed her poor achy tushy with her hands and started sobbing. She heard clatter from the yardstick being put on the table, then his hands raised her back into the upright position, grabbed hers, and put them back on the table. She then felt his hand on her behind, expecting him to give her a little bit extra, maybe even tell her to restart the count - she was expected to take the whole thing obediently as a promise of future improvement. But instead he massaged it a little, fairly tenderly. Copped a feel, too, but that was okay: she was his naughty little slut and he could do anything to her that he felt she deserved.

After a couple seconds or weeks of this, the ruler rose up from the desk again, and then it was reunited with her skin again. She decided she was on "seventeen" again, the previous one didn't count. He was more attentive now, she really wished to have a butt that's all nice little horizontal stripes, like someone has hung a French window blind over it, through which you could peek how much of a naughty little whore she has been. But(t) alas. Instead, he devoted more attention to the sides of her derriere, as well as periodically tanning her upper thighs, avoiding previous stripes almost every time. She counted out with the same diligence: twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight. Twenty nine. Thirtieth would be the last.

He put his ruler against that one first bruise, tapped it twice. It hurt to even touch lightly, much less to hit with a piece of wood. The ruler rose in the air. Bastard. Here it comes. She didn't know whether to love or hate him for this, but was fully prepared to start begging and sobbing. Instead, he slapped her right buttock. With his hand. Elsewhere. It was... over. Was it over? It could not have been. There had to be more.  Could he not see how this makes her feel? This was not enough. He should yank her panties down, undo his belt, and skewer her through, hit her cervix, every thrust hurting so deliciously, as she sobs and drools and moans, forever cementing her in the mind of the whole class as a hole and nothing but. All she needed is to grab her tormentor's hand, to shove it down her underwear, and make the instincts do the rest. Career-ruining? Who gives a damn. That's what she was put for on God's blessed earth, for this exact moment.

Instead, she stood up and unfurled her skirt, letting it cover the stripes, groaning a little as it chafed her tender skin. She wiped her tears and drool with the sleeve of her blouse while she was still turned away, took a few deep breaths to calm down.

"You may sit."

The boy nodded and went back to his desk, swerving a little. The past few minutes have obviously been pretty interesting for his hormone-addled body.

"And this, class", she said in a gravely serious tone, "is what awaits every single one of you who fails the upcoming Latin test, which," she took out a piece of chalk from the pocket and wrote out the date on the blackboard, then underlined it twice, "is, I remind you. Next. Friday."

She grabbed the ruler, wiped it with a piece of cloth and drew two intersecting lines.

"So, today's review will start with verbs. Verbs in Latin fall into two conjugations: in the first person singular one ends with o, as in amo, the second with eo, as in video..."