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Sometimes I'd go back to school in my dreams, while I lay awake at night. I’d imagine my lowly place in the classroom hierarchy would make me easy to bully and I’d be relentlessly persecuted. Trying to keep my head down and being careful would never work and I‘d end up in all sorts of trouble.

For example they made me steal sweets from the school tuck shop for them. I did it because I was fearful of what they’d do to me if I didn’t. Then they dropped me in it by reporting me to the school staff. They gleefully told me they had, to enjoy my panic. I went home that night knowing I was in for a rough time the next day, such was the background my imagination needed to excite me with retribution!

My awful fantasy begins in class when I discover I’m the centre of attention in the midst of a delicious new scandal, they all know. Our teacher walks in with a grave expression instead of his usual good morning smile and catches my eye as he addressed the class. There is something he needs to deal with he says. Obviously he means me and I listen to him as my heart thunders in my chest.

At first he says “someone” has betrayed the trust placed in them by the school and their selfish behaviour has jeopardised one of the privileges all students are allowed. This is to make sure he has whole hearted support for the level of cruelty he intends to inflict on me of course. I stare down at my desk to hide, not daring to face my classmates, prickling with shame and preoccupied with dread as his speech continues.

It’s not the first time something like this has happened. (No, I’d been maliciously duped before.) This time however, the severity of the consequences will reflect the fact that I’m a persistent offender and my wilful disobedience and blatant disregard for my fellow students will be mercilessly punished. I can feel what they think of me burn, and the joy in my disgrace of those who ensured it.

“Kate Lynn Grindall, come here!” he barks. As I stand up, shaking, I’m desperate not to wet myself. I’d die if that happened. I see him open one of his desk drawers and reach in. Sometimes it’s a table tennis bat or a slipper but if I’m feeling particularly filthy it’s the studded paddle he pulls out this time, this will make me profoundly sorry.

Our teacher is known as a pervert, a man who’ll revel in degrading me before my peers and one with a sinister sexual interest in doing so. My punishment has many layers!

I’m asked to bend over so I’m laying on his desk, resting on my breasts with my arse offered. I have to hold the edges of the top, to keep my hands busy, out of the way and unlikely to interfere. Complying with my instructions feels as dirty as hell.

Sometimes I lay over the front of his desk, so my classmates can look at me intimately. He pulls my skirt up and peels my knickers off my hips to display me for them. Other times I lay facing the class, so they can watch my face as I’m white knuckled, gripping the desk and yelping the pain through gritted teeth as each blow smacks into my flesh. They love to see me cry. I’m stung red raw until that happens.

Breathless from the effort, he orders me back to my desk. I slip my knickers painfully into place over my wounds and smooth down my skirt before I walk slowly across the classroom through the laughter and the pity. I don’t want to appear so thoroughly defeated but my dignity’s shattered. I’m humiliated to an almost unbearable erotic intensity. I sit down, easing myself onto my chair flush faced and sobbing, my loins on fire, panting as I’m denied the opportunity to cope with the heat between my thighs.

How can I feel so lonely yet need so much to be alone?