The collage of agony and ecstasy part seven
tupid as to fall for such an obvious trick?!*
Montagne avoided any classmates from his teacher’s class as he waited outside for the school doors to open. When they did, he immediately headed to his locker and then to class. Unfortunately, for him, even boys and girls who are not a part of Miss Seoid‘s class were smirking and whispering about him.
The fascination wasn't just Jasmine and Priya's sickness. It was a school-wide obsession. Teachers couldn't spank kids within earshot of classrooms, let alone bare or batter a student’s backside publicly. Absolute privacy was mandatory, and this secrecy fueled fantasies.
Girls whispered in hallways, giggled during recess, eyes tracking boys who'd been called to the office or forced to stay after class. They imagined the scene: a boy, stripped of his tough-guy act, bent over a desk or lap, pants yanked down, exposed and vulnerable. The rhythmic *smack-smack-smack*, the choked cries, the inevitable tears – it was the ultimate power reversal. Seeing a boy who usually swaggered emerge red-eyed, walking stiffly, cheeks flushed with humiliation? That was pure gold. They’d swarm him, voices dripping with faux sympathy saying things like, "Ooooh, did Mrs. Henderson roast your buns?"
"Bet it stings!”
“Ask your mommy to put something on it, buttermilk works great!”
Some bolder young females would offered to give their younger male counterparts aftercare themselves, saying, “if you want we can make your butt all better!”
More than once, Montagne had witnessed the unnerving spectacle: a pack of older girls dragging a nervous boy towards the girls' bathroom or an empty classroom, clutching jars of Noxzema, tubs of petroleum jelly, or bottles of thick aloe gel. They never forced it; the boys, flushed and stammering, always agreed, drawn by the terrifying thrill of submission and the promise of soothing hands on their freshly punished skin. Sometimes, Montagne saw girls receiving similar "treatments" too, a strange ritual of shared vulnerability.
Montagne himself was a frequent target, not just for spanking rumors, but for his sheer transparency. Unlike other boys who hid behind bluster, Montagne openly admitted his social awkwardness, his crippling shyness around girls, his fear of rejection. He wore his vulnerability like an ill-fitting sweater – impossible to miss. To girls like Jasmine and Priya, accustomed to deciphering layers of teenage machismo, Montagne was startlingly, refreshingly real. His lack of pretense made him fascinating prey. His honesty became their favorite toy. The only thing he wouldn’t discuss about himself, of course, was whether he’d been punished by any teachers.
Female students often asked him to carry their bags for them, to sit by them at lunch, or to walk them to class. He always agreed, trying to get over his shyness, and the girls would enjoy his blushing, stiffening, and squirming, especially when they held his arms or hands as he walked them to their classrooms. Their giggling did nothing to alleviate his embarrassment.
But when girls asked Montagne to kiss them, hug them, to go on dates, to see their underwear, bare bottoms, and genitals, or to let them see his, he always refused. He’d stammer, turn crimson, and bolt away as they erupted into laughter.
Now, as Montagne slid into his seat early Monday morning, Stella was arranging papers at her desk. He approached quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Miss Seoid... everyone's staring. Asking if you... punished me."
His cheeks burned. Stella glanced up, a slow smirk spreading across her lips.
"I never said you *couldn't* tell them you were punished, Montagne," she murmured, leaning closer. "Just keep our *special* secrets. Let those girls 'treat' your backside if they offer. Let them flirt. It hides the truth beautifully." She patted his cheek, her touch lingering. "It’ll help you overcome that shyness, too. Be brave for me." Montagne swallowed hard, nodding reluctantly before scurrying back to his seat.
The classroom filled quickly. Stella began her history lesson on ancient Egypt, her voice crisp and authoritative as she pointed to hieroglyphs on the smartboard. Every student kept their eyes on the teacher or the chalkboard; talking, giggling, making gestures, passing notes or staring at other students strictly prohibited and could earn the offending student a severe punishment physical or otherwise. But whenever she turned her back to write notes or face the screen, a ripple of suppressed giggles and whispers spread. Jasmine caught Montagne’s eye, miming a dramatic spanking motion with her hand, eyebrows wiggling. Priya silently mouthed "*Blistered?*" beside her, grinning wickedly. Across the aisle, another girl subtly slid a small tub of aloe vera gel halfway out of her backpack, locking eyes with Montagne meaningfully. Yet another girl, with her hand under her chin,looks at him and then down to his butt knowingly. He hunched lower in his seat, staring fixedly at his textbook, the phantom sting on his buttocks flaring under their relentless scrutiny.
Study hour arrived, a quiet hum replacing the morning’s intensity. Montagne escaped to the water fountain near the deserted sixth-grade wing, gulping cold water to soothe his dry throat. Suddenly, four shadows fell over him. Lilith and Sarai, known for their boldness from different grades, flanked Madeline and Helmi – Helmi’s Finnish name meaning "gem," a sharp contrast to her predatory grin.
“C’mon, Montagne," Madeline pleaded playfully, leaning against the wall beside him.
"Tell us! Did she blister it?" Helmi’s hand shot out, grabbing his crotch through his jeans with shocking boldness. He squeaked, jumping back as Lilith snickered. Helmi leaned close, her breath hot on his ear.
"Never had a girl touch you there?" she whispered.
“I’ll make it *so* worth telling." Montagne’s mind screamed *wrong*, picturing Stella’s possessive gaze. But the girls’ expectant stares pinned him.
“Okay," he mumbled, cheeks blazing. They clapped, stifling excited squeals.
He stammered out the edited truth: Miss Seoid’s hand first, then a switch, a hairbrush, finally the belt.
"Very thorough," he added weakly. The girls erupted in giggles.
"Poor baby," Sarai cooed, eyes gleaming.
"Want us to make that sore bottom feel better?" Montagne hesitated, trapped.
"O-okay."
Instantly, they seized his arms, marching him down the hall. Within seconds, they found an unlocked, empty classroom – Ms. Abernathy’s art class. Some teachers let kids study in their classrooms, but not her, and she always left it during study hour for the teachers lounge, which worked in the girls favor. Lilith shoved a sturdy blue student chair under the door handle. Sarai dragged the teacher’s gray swivel chair, its cotton seat worn thin, to the center of the room. She shrugged off her bright orange backpack, rummaging inside before pulling out an 8oz bottle of kiwi-lime lotion.
"Off," Madeline commanded, pointing at his jeans. Montagne fumbled with the button, grateful he’d chosen plain blueberry-patterned boxers today, not the embarrassing Snoopy ones. He pushed jeans and underwear down past his bruised thighs. Four pairs of eyes widened, drinking in the sight of his striped, swollen buttocks and exposed genitals. Helmi whistled softly.
"Wow. She *really* worked you over."
Madeline leaned closer, her finger hovering near Montagne's throbbing bottom. "And look at *this*," she giggled, pointing directly at his exposed genitals. "His little wiener looks like a succulent mushroom!" Helmi snorted. "Yeah, and those balls? Like two little boiled eggs!" Sarai chimed in, "Perfectly cooked!" Montagne's face burned crimson. The sheer absurdity of the comparison, coupled with the intense scrutiny, triggered an involuntary reaction. A loud, gurgling belch erupted from his stomach, echoing in the quiet classroom. The girls froze for a split second before collapsing into shrieking, uncontrollable laughter, clutching their sides as if witnessing the funniest comedy routine ever performed.
Sarai wiped tears of mirth from her eyes, still chuckling. "Alright, mushroom boy," she gasped, patting her thighs decisively. "Bend over these."
Montagne hesitated, acutely aware of his exposed state, but obeyed, draping himself awkwardly across her lap. The cool classroom air prickled his bruised skin. Sarai squeezed a generous dollop of the kiwi-lime lotion onto her palm. The sharp, sweet scent filled the space as she began rubbing it onto his welted cheeks with firm, circular motions. The initial coolness was a shock, followed by a deep, penetrating warmth that eased the residual sting. Her fingers worked methodically, pressing into the sore muscles. A low groan escaped Montagne’s lips – part relief, part embarrassment.
"You like that, don’t you, baby?" Sarai murmured, her voice thick with amusement as she kneaded his tender flesh. The other girls watched intently, smirking. Montagne’s face burned hotter against her skirt. He needed them to believe this was all he craved – simple aftercare, not Stella’s dark promises.
"Y-yes," he stammered, the word muffled.
“Please... don’t stop." Another wave of giggles erupted around him. Sarai chuckled, squeezing more lotion onto her palm.
"Don’t worry, mushroom boy," she teased, resuming her firm, soothing circles.
"I won’t."
Sarai worked the lotion deeper, kneading Montagne’s sore muscles until the bottle was completely drained. The sharp scent of kiwi-lime hung thick in the air as she patted his reddened skin firmly.
“Up," she ordered. Montagne scrambled off her lap, expecting the aftercare to be over. Instead, after Sarai vacated the chair, Madeline took her place, taking a jar of peppermint whipped tallow face cream from her backpack, which was designed with red Hawaiian flowers. She unscrewed the top of it. The peppermint-scented filled the classroom.
Lilith stepped forward, sliding her ʻŌhiʻa lehua-designed backpack off her shoulders and bending forward, so that it landed in front of her. Then she unzipped and reached into one of its side pocket, pulling out a bottle of avocado oil mixed with lavender.
“Oh, Sarai’s not the only one prepared, all of us have brought something to that cute little butt of yours. A good thing we did, because Miss Seoid cooked it well done!” she said in a tone of playful authority.
Madeline crooked her finger in the classic "come here" gesture, her eyes locked on Montagne’s. He stiffened, a fresh wave of dread and excitement tightening his chest, but obeyed instantly, shuffling forward on unsteady legs. He bent over her lap, his welted cheeks trembling slightly as they met the soft cotton of her red snowflake-patterned sweatpants. The polar bear on her T-shirt seemed to grin knowingly beneath the northern lights.
Scooping a generous dollop of the cool, whipped tallow onto her fingers, Madeline smeared it thickly across Montagne’s bruised skin. The intense peppermint chill bit deep, a shocking contrast to Sarai’s warming lotion, making him gasp and squirm.
"Ever tried peppermint bread?" she mused, her voice playful as she worked the cream into his sore flesh. "Your butt cheeks look just like it—all red and glazed." Montagne’s face flushed crimson against her thigh. "N-no, Miss," he stammered, "but I’ll... try some."
Montagne avoided any classmates from his teacher’s class as he waited outside for the school doors to open. When they did, he immediately headed to his locker and then to class. Unfortunately, for him, even boys and girls who are not a part of Miss Seoid‘s class were smirking and whispering about him.
The fascination wasn't just Jasmine and Priya's sickness. It was a school-wide obsession. Teachers couldn't spank kids within earshot of classrooms, let alone bare or batter a student’s backside publicly. Absolute privacy was mandatory, and this secrecy fueled fantasies.
Girls whispered in hallways, giggled during recess, eyes tracking boys who'd been called to the office or forced to stay after class. They imagined the scene: a boy, stripped of his tough-guy act, bent over a desk or lap, pants yanked down, exposed and vulnerable. The rhythmic *smack-smack-smack*, the choked cries, the inevitable tears – it was the ultimate power reversal. Seeing a boy who usually swaggered emerge red-eyed, walking stiffly, cheeks flushed with humiliation? That was pure gold. They’d swarm him, voices dripping with faux sympathy saying things like, "Ooooh, did Mrs. Henderson roast your buns?"
"Bet it stings!”
“Ask your mommy to put something on it, buttermilk works great!”
Some bolder young females would offered to give their younger male counterparts aftercare themselves, saying, “if you want we can make your butt all better!”
More than once, Montagne had witnessed the unnerving spectacle: a pack of older girls dragging a nervous boy towards the girls' bathroom or an empty classroom, clutching jars of Noxzema, tubs of petroleum jelly, or bottles of thick aloe gel. They never forced it; the boys, flushed and stammering, always agreed, drawn by the terrifying thrill of submission and the promise of soothing hands on their freshly punished skin. Sometimes, Montagne saw girls receiving similar "treatments" too, a strange ritual of shared vulnerability.
Montagne himself was a frequent target, not just for spanking rumors, but for his sheer transparency. Unlike other boys who hid behind bluster, Montagne openly admitted his social awkwardness, his crippling shyness around girls, his fear of rejection. He wore his vulnerability like an ill-fitting sweater – impossible to miss. To girls like Jasmine and Priya, accustomed to deciphering layers of teenage machismo, Montagne was startlingly, refreshingly real. His lack of pretense made him fascinating prey. His honesty became their favorite toy. The only thing he wouldn’t discuss about himself, of course, was whether he’d been punished by any teachers.
Female students often asked him to carry their bags for them, to sit by them at lunch, or to walk them to class. He always agreed, trying to get over his shyness, and the girls would enjoy his blushing, stiffening, and squirming, especially when they held his arms or hands as he walked them to their classrooms. Their giggling did nothing to alleviate his embarrassment.
But when girls asked Montagne to kiss them, hug them, to go on dates, to see their underwear, bare bottoms, and genitals, or to let them see his, he always refused. He’d stammer, turn crimson, and bolt away as they erupted into laughter.
Now, as Montagne slid into his seat early Monday morning, Stella was arranging papers at her desk. He approached quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Miss Seoid... everyone's staring. Asking if you... punished me."
His cheeks burned. Stella glanced up, a slow smirk spreading across her lips.
"I never said you *couldn't* tell them you were punished, Montagne," she murmured, leaning closer. "Just keep our *special* secrets. Let those girls 'treat' your backside if they offer. Let them flirt. It hides the truth beautifully." She patted his cheek, her touch lingering. "It’ll help you overcome that shyness, too. Be brave for me." Montagne swallowed hard, nodding reluctantly before scurrying back to his seat.
The classroom filled quickly. Stella began her history lesson on ancient Egypt, her voice crisp and authoritative as she pointed to hieroglyphs on the smartboard. Every student kept their eyes on the teacher or the chalkboard; talking, giggling, making gestures, passing notes or staring at other students strictly prohibited and could earn the offending student a severe punishment physical or otherwise. But whenever she turned her back to write notes or face the screen, a ripple of suppressed giggles and whispers spread. Jasmine caught Montagne’s eye, miming a dramatic spanking motion with her hand, eyebrows wiggling. Priya silently mouthed "*Blistered?*" beside her, grinning wickedly. Across the aisle, another girl subtly slid a small tub of aloe vera gel halfway out of her backpack, locking eyes with Montagne meaningfully. Yet another girl, with her hand under her chin,looks at him and then down to his butt knowingly. He hunched lower in his seat, staring fixedly at his textbook, the phantom sting on his buttocks flaring under their relentless scrutiny.
Study hour arrived, a quiet hum replacing the morning’s intensity. Montagne escaped to the water fountain near the deserted sixth-grade wing, gulping cold water to soothe his dry throat. Suddenly, four shadows fell over him. Lilith and Sarai, known for their boldness from different grades, flanked Madeline and Helmi – Helmi’s Finnish name meaning "gem," a sharp contrast to her predatory grin.
“C’mon, Montagne," Madeline pleaded playfully, leaning against the wall beside him.
"Tell us! Did she blister it?" Helmi’s hand shot out, grabbing his crotch through his jeans with shocking boldness. He squeaked, jumping back as Lilith snickered. Helmi leaned close, her breath hot on his ear.
"Never had a girl touch you there?" she whispered.
“I’ll make it *so* worth telling." Montagne’s mind screamed *wrong*, picturing Stella’s possessive gaze. But the girls’ expectant stares pinned him.
“Okay," he mumbled, cheeks blazing. They clapped, stifling excited squeals.
He stammered out the edited truth: Miss Seoid’s hand first, then a switch, a hairbrush, finally the belt.
"Very thorough," he added weakly. The girls erupted in giggles.
"Poor baby," Sarai cooed, eyes gleaming.
"Want us to make that sore bottom feel better?" Montagne hesitated, trapped.
"O-okay."
Instantly, they seized his arms, marching him down the hall. Within seconds, they found an unlocked, empty classroom – Ms. Abernathy’s art class. Some teachers let kids study in their classrooms, but not her, and she always left it during study hour for the teachers lounge, which worked in the girls favor. Lilith shoved a sturdy blue student chair under the door handle. Sarai dragged the teacher’s gray swivel chair, its cotton seat worn thin, to the center of the room. She shrugged off her bright orange backpack, rummaging inside before pulling out an 8oz bottle of kiwi-lime lotion.
"Off," Madeline commanded, pointing at his jeans. Montagne fumbled with the button, grateful he’d chosen plain blueberry-patterned boxers today, not the embarrassing Snoopy ones. He pushed jeans and underwear down past his bruised thighs. Four pairs of eyes widened, drinking in the sight of his striped, swollen buttocks and exposed genitals. Helmi whistled softly.
"Wow. She *really* worked you over."
Madeline leaned closer, her finger hovering near Montagne's throbbing bottom. "And look at *this*," she giggled, pointing directly at his exposed genitals. "His little wiener looks like a succulent mushroom!" Helmi snorted. "Yeah, and those balls? Like two little boiled eggs!" Sarai chimed in, "Perfectly cooked!" Montagne's face burned crimson. The sheer absurdity of the comparison, coupled with the intense scrutiny, triggered an involuntary reaction. A loud, gurgling belch erupted from his stomach, echoing in the quiet classroom. The girls froze for a split second before collapsing into shrieking, uncontrollable laughter, clutching their sides as if witnessing the funniest comedy routine ever performed.
Sarai wiped tears of mirth from her eyes, still chuckling. "Alright, mushroom boy," she gasped, patting her thighs decisively. "Bend over these."
Montagne hesitated, acutely aware of his exposed state, but obeyed, draping himself awkwardly across her lap. The cool classroom air prickled his bruised skin. Sarai squeezed a generous dollop of the kiwi-lime lotion onto her palm. The sharp, sweet scent filled the space as she began rubbing it onto his welted cheeks with firm, circular motions. The initial coolness was a shock, followed by a deep, penetrating warmth that eased the residual sting. Her fingers worked methodically, pressing into the sore muscles. A low groan escaped Montagne’s lips – part relief, part embarrassment.
"You like that, don’t you, baby?" Sarai murmured, her voice thick with amusement as she kneaded his tender flesh. The other girls watched intently, smirking. Montagne’s face burned hotter against her skirt. He needed them to believe this was all he craved – simple aftercare, not Stella’s dark promises.
"Y-yes," he stammered, the word muffled.
“Please... don’t stop." Another wave of giggles erupted around him. Sarai chuckled, squeezing more lotion onto her palm.
"Don’t worry, mushroom boy," she teased, resuming her firm, soothing circles.
"I won’t."
Sarai worked the lotion deeper, kneading Montagne’s sore muscles until the bottle was completely drained. The sharp scent of kiwi-lime hung thick in the air as she patted his reddened skin firmly.
“Up," she ordered. Montagne scrambled off her lap, expecting the aftercare to be over. Instead, after Sarai vacated the chair, Madeline took her place, taking a jar of peppermint whipped tallow face cream from her backpack, which was designed with red Hawaiian flowers. She unscrewed the top of it. The peppermint-scented filled the classroom.
Lilith stepped forward, sliding her ʻŌhiʻa lehua-designed backpack off her shoulders and bending forward, so that it landed in front of her. Then she unzipped and reached into one of its side pocket, pulling out a bottle of avocado oil mixed with lavender.
“Oh, Sarai’s not the only one prepared, all of us have brought something to that cute little butt of yours. A good thing we did, because Miss Seoid cooked it well done!” she said in a tone of playful authority.
Madeline crooked her finger in the classic "come here" gesture, her eyes locked on Montagne’s. He stiffened, a fresh wave of dread and excitement tightening his chest, but obeyed instantly, shuffling forward on unsteady legs. He bent over her lap, his welted cheeks trembling slightly as they met the soft cotton of her red snowflake-patterned sweatpants. The polar bear on her T-shirt seemed to grin knowingly beneath the northern lights.
Scooping a generous dollop of the cool, whipped tallow onto her fingers, Madeline smeared it thickly across Montagne’s bruised skin. The intense peppermint chill bit deep, a shocking contrast to Sarai’s warming lotion, making him gasp and squirm.
"Ever tried peppermint bread?" she mused, her voice playful as she worked the cream into his sore flesh. "Your butt cheeks look just like it—all red and glazed." Montagne’s face flushed crimson against her thigh. "N-no, Miss," he stammered, "but I’ll... try some."
31-35, M