TheInvisibleMan
Disclaimer: This story depicts a stage performance at an erotic cabaret. I’ve published stories in this format before (one, two), and they form part of a larger, interconnected series available on my Patreon.
The story contains sexual content and corporal punishment. One of the illustrations features a girl wearing a short skirt.
For the avoidance of doubt, all of the actors performing the scene are adults, as explicitly stated in the story. The characters they portray, who are high school students, are also 18 years old.
The master of ceremonies appeared on stage.
“Did you enjoy the act? Yes! But now we’re going to show you something truly terrifying. No, not vampires or a maniac with a chainsaw. Something that sometimes makes me wake up in a cold sweat. Everyone here is of age, right? They checked your IDs at the door? Don’t worry — our actors are of age too. And now… silence. Class is in session.”
The curtain slowly parted. A classroom stood on the stage: desks, a blackboard, a portrait of some stern gentleman. The “students” were dressed in perfectly pressed uniforms. The young men wore dark jackets and trousers with sharp creases. The girls wore white blouses, plaid skirts, and knee socks. Some of them looked noticeably older than eighteen, but under the right lighting and with the proper posture the class could pass for Oberstufe graduates.
A balding teacher with round glasses, thin moustache, and a heavy wooden ruler in his hand paced slowly between the rows. He spoke loudly and irritably:
“Repeat after me: An acre is the area of a rectangle whose length is one furlong and whose width is one chain.”
A folded note was quietly passed to the blonde sitting at the very edge of the stage. The teacher noticed instantly. He walked over, took the slip of paper between two fingers, adjusted his glasses, and read it aloud for the entire hall to hear:
“‘I’ve got a bike. You can ride it if you like.’
Absolute rubbish.
Rosner. You will stay after class.”
A sharp electric bell rang. The students leapt up at once and almost ran out through the door. Only the teacher and the girl remained in the classroom.
He opened the desk drawer and took out a large pair of tailor’s scissors. Slowly he circled the desk where Rosner sat with her head bowed. Her two thick blonde braids rested on her shoulders.
“You are not diligent enough, Rosner. You need a lesson in… strictness. These childish braids are not appropriate for Oberstufe.”
He took one braid at the very root, pulled it taut, and cut it with a loud crunch. The heavy blonde plait fell to the stage floor. The girl let out a quiet sob. The teacher picked up the severed braid and, with a light flick of his wrist, sent it flying into the audience. Someone in the crowd jumped up, caught the trophy mid-air, and raised it triumphantly. A low murmur ran through the hall.
The second braid followed the first. Now only uneven, sticking-out stumps remained on the girl’s head. She sat with her eyes lowered, cheeks burning.
The teacher reached into the drawer again and took out a hair clipper. He switched it on. A low buzz filled the silence. He approached from behind, gripped the girl’s chin, and forced her head up straight. With the first stroke he ran the clipper from her temple downward — a wide strip of blonde hair fell onto her blouse and the desk. The skin beneath the cut was pink, almost bare. Another pass. Then another. He worked methodically, as if trimming a hedge. Hair rained onto the floor, onto her knees, onto the white blouse. When he finished, Rosner was left with a short, bowl-like cut above the ears. The nape of her neck and the back of her head were shaved. She sat motionless, only her shoulders trembling slightly. Her ears and neck burned with shame and the sudden feel of air on bare skin.
“Much stricter this way,” the teacher said, switching off the clipper.
A young man’s head appeared in the doorway. The teacher barked sharply:
“Ah, and here is the motorcycle owner. Weiss. Come in.”
The young man entered, eyes downcast. The teacher continued in a calm tone:
“We have put her appearance in order. Now — the punishment. Rosner, stand up. Place your hands on the desk and bend over.”
She obeyed. The plaid skirt rode up almost to her buttocks — it had been provocatively short to begin with. The teacher adjusted his glasses.
“Rosner. Do you agree that you have earned this punishment?”
“Yes, teacher,” she answered quietly.
“Weiss. Take my ruler. Twenty strokes.”
The young man took the heavy wooden ruler. He stepped behind her, slowly lifted the skirt and tucked it into the waistband. The audience saw her sheer white panties with delicate lace. Weiss raised the ruler. The first stroke landed dead centre. A sharp, dry crack. The girl yelped and jerked forward. A pink mark immediately appeared on the light fabric.
“Rosner, you don’t mind that Weiss is helping us, do you?”
“No, teacher…”
“Continue.”
The strokes fell at a measured pace. Not too hard — more humiliating and crisp than painful. After the fifth or sixth she no longer yelped, but moaned softly and drawn-out in time with each crack. By the tenth her buttocks glowed bright pink and the panties clung slightly. By the twentieth she no longer held back her voice — the moans had grown lower, wetter. When the final stroke sounded, she remained in the same position, breathing heavily, and stroked the burning skin herself through the thin fabric.
The teacher nodded.
“Compose yourself before you leave. Your punishment is over.”
He walked out, closing the door firmly behind him. Only the two of them remained in the classroom. The girl was still bent over, quietly moaning as she ran her fingers over the welts left by the ruler.
“Mike…”
“Yes, Kat?”
“I would really like a ride on your bike. Right now.”
She pulled her wet panties down to her knees herself and spread her legs wider. Between her thighs it glistened. The young man unzipped his fly, freed his already fully hard cock, and thrust into her in one hard stroke, burying himself to the hilt. She almost howled. He immediately set a deep, sweeping rhythm, gripping her by the short-cropped hair at the back of her head. Every thrust forced a new moan from her. The skirt flapped against her hips; the cut hair stuck to her sweaty neck. The curtain began to descend slowly amid the rising applause of the audience.
