Kate and I stood at the front of the classroom, attired in only our white panties, socks, and black Mary Janes. Ms. Rutherford laid her textbook on the podium and took the brown leather strap from its hook near the door. She looked us both over as if inspecting what little remained of our uniforms for flaws. Apparently, she found none.
Her voice lacked compassion. “Lower your panties to your knees and touch your toes.”
“Yes, Miss,” we replied and complied without hesitation. I can’t say I appreciated the upside down view of my classmates though.
Ms. Rutherford said, “I’ll not tolerate the disruption of unsolicited speech in this classroom. Britney, as you attempted to hide Kate’s involvement and have a rather busy record of minor offenses over the last month, you’ll receive 22 strokes. Kate, in recognition of your honesty and generally clean disciplinary record, you’ll receive 18. Do you girls find that fair?”
Did it matter? I badly wanted to ask the question, though I knew it would only bring more trouble.
“Yes, Miss,” we replied.
Ms. Rutherford took up position behind Kate. “Britney, you will count Kate’s strokes. Any mistake or murmuring will add strokes to your own spanking. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” I said.
I listened for the contact. The strap makes little noise passing through the air. But on contact, the strap can produce a variety of sounds ranging from a dull thud to a sharp snap. The way its swung and the amount of force are significant factors as well as the quality and thickness of the leather. My time at Rosecliff had taught me that not all straps and not all strappings were equal.
Ms. Rutherford’s efforts resulted in the sharp snap. It echoed in the room and made me and every other bystander blink. Kate inhaled a sharp, squeaky breath. I watched her body jerk and her legs wobble. Her panties slipped a little farther down her legs.
“One,” I said.
The strap connected again. I counted, figuring Kate would rather get the spanking over with quickly rather than having long delays between strokes. Ms. Rutherford had no problem keeping pace. I counted and listened as Kate’s breaths turned sharper. If she shed tears I could hear no signs of them. The sting of 18 with the strap would undoubtedly be faded by lunch and a mere memory by dinner. Even the 22 coming for me would be weatherable. The standard straps in the classroom weren’t meant for leaving girls dancing around the class and nursing their backsides the rest of the day. They were just attention getters and they did the job well.
After Kate’s 18 were finished, Ms. Rutherford moved on to me. It was Kate’s turn to count while I concentrated on staying in position and breathing through the sharp spikes of attention gathering heat and sting being imparted on my bare butt. After the first dozen, the pace increased. It seemed a mere second interval between loud snapping contacts. My butt burned from the center of the cheeks all the way down to the tops of my thighs. I couldn’t fault Ms. Rutherford’s technique. Her efforts resulted in what I would call the most significant, and painful, strapping I’d received in a classroom. Tears even stung at the corners of my eyes when Kate counted the last stroke.
Ms. Rutherford said, “Stand up girls, hands on your heads.”
We obliged. I blinked back tears. The even lines of the strap across my butt felt as pronounced as if they were strips of tape, tugging and pulling at my skin.
Ms. Rutherford said, “You two can stand against the wall in the hallway for the remainder of today’s class. I’ll let you know when you can pull your panties up and go to your next class. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” we replied.