23 girls stared at me. They sat straight-backed in their hard chairs. Their backs were turned to the computer workstations that lined the perimeter of the classroom. Ms. Chambers stood behind me against the wall, beside the door. I stood in the center of the room, exposed from all angles. My thoughts struggled to remain on topic.
“Keyboarding,” I said, feeling the intense scrutiny of a freckled redhead, Lindsay Owens, on my left staring at my sore buttocks, “or typing is one of the most fundamental skills in working with computers.”
A snort drew my attention to the right side of the class. I could not identify the source, but I suspected the brunette, Vicki Stephens. Her gaze seemed inappropriately focused on my naked breasts. Envious, no doubt. I glared my way through the moment, until I felt control of the room was back in my hands.
I said, “By the time you leave this class, you’ll know every key on the keyboard by memory and be able to type accurately without looking at a screen or watching your fingers. Some of you may even reach speeds of up to 90 words per minute.”
Control slipped again. Vicki’s brown eyes taunted me. Lindsay masked her amusement behind a facade of impassivity. I glanced toward the door and Ms. Chambers. She smiled. My situation pleased her. A streak of tension clenched my buttocks and reminded me of their tenderness. Ms. Chambers’ paddling, followed by Dean Rosecliff’s at dinner had ensured a restless night.
I turned back to my class. The blonde, Cheryl Foster, sitting in the middle of the workstations along the far wall, quickly erased a smile from her lips. Her blue eyes laughed at me. The temptation to paddle every girl in the room was almost overwhelming. Ms. Chambers would never allow it. They had said nothing, broken no rules. I closed my eyes, reaching inside for control.
The moment was teaching. Dean Rosecliff had hoped his demonstration would teach me the impact such punishments would have on the girls. It did indeed. Focusing on the tasks at hand was far more difficult than it should have been. The embarrassment, the shame, even the pain, kept returning and dominating my thoughts.
With my Uncle, punishments had always been the same. When it was over, I was always grateful. I learned my lessons and here I was learning that the intense methods still worked best. Less than three days into a five day punishment I was already intent on making certain the girls in my classes learned the same hard lessons I had learned. They would all be the better for it.
“Your first assignment,” I said, “is to take out your notebook and draw a picture of the keyboard on your desk,” The shuffle of girls digging for their notebooks and pencils filled the room. I smiled. “without looking at it.”
A few gasps came from around the room.
“Be as accurate as possible,” I said. Maybe Ms. Chambers would allow me to discipline the girls whose drawings were more than 30% inaccurate.