The Mission

Sally admired the wall. The chalky white surface was pitted with age, stained, damaged in its long past by flooding and yet still it stood. She longed to lean against it, feel its silent strength pressing back against her. Bare and cold, the wall reflected more than light and shadows. It had stories to tell, lessons in timeless endurance. Sally listened.

A dull aching pulsed from her knees. She remained unmoved and unmoving, kneeling on the pew. It was remarkably well preserved, hard and unforgiving. Her hands clenched on the back. The wood was smooth, waxy from years of pious polishing. Its faded stain gave testament to another life of untold endurance. Sally leaned forward on her palms redistributing her weight. The aching in her knees eased.

Her butt glowed with warmth. The skin prickled in the open air, begging for comfort and attention. Sally longed to hold the tender flesh in her palms, to rub away the discomfort. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, dampening her cheeks and splashing on the pew’s back between her hands. She focused on breathing, drowning her sorrow in the rhythm. The white wall offered reflection.

Sally had been warned. Miss Donovan was not known for her patience or second chances. The consequences were clear. A small leather paddle, oval in shape, rested in plain sight on her work table. Its purpose was indisputable.

She remembered being spanked. They were always fearful events to be avoided. Her father’s implement of choice was his belt, ripped from around his waist and doubled over for thudding spanks. She had learned to avoid those embarrassing bare bottom moments in private with her father. They had become distant memories, almost forgotten, but the sight of Miss Donovan’s paddle had reawakened them.

Sally had stared weak-kneed at the paddle on her day of arrival. Miss Donovan had looked her over, hands planted firmly on her hips. She spoke in harsh tones, grim and disapproving without any cause. “You’re an intern,” Miss Donovan said, “and that means I can’t dock your pay because you don’t get any. But, don’t think for a second that means I won’t hold you to your responsibilities.”

“I’m here to help and learn ma’am. I assure you I’ll do my very best for you,” Sally said. She forced herself to meet the daunting gaze of Miss Donovan. They were nearly equal in height and yet Sally felt as if she were looking high above herself.

Miss Donovan said, “Let’s hope your best efforts are sufficient to meet my standards because if they’re not, you’ll find my consequences for failure are swift and uncompromising.” Her gaze flickered to the paddle, leading Sally’s eyes back to it.

Sally gulped. “I understand.”

Miss Donovan wasted no more time on warnings or threats. She sent Sally to work in the pit, dismissing her with an indifferent wave of her hand. The pit had once been the site of a modest chapel. Natives had constructed it with the local resources of clay and straw at the behest of their Spaniard conquerors. It had fallen sometime in the latter years of the 19Th century during an earthquake. The earth had long since covered over the remains until a farmer had unburied a few remnants more than a century later. Miss Donovan had plans to restore the site to its former glory in the name of historical curiosity.

The work was slow and methodical. Sally brushed aside dirt and dust with a small, round brush, capturing it in a glass jar. It would be analyzed at length by those with the experience and knowledge to detect the valuable specs from the ordinary dirt. For Sally, it was a mind numbing task that let her thoughts wander. And they kept running back to the leather paddle. Miss Donovan’s vague threat toyed with her imagination. Sally’s ears and cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. She glanced guiltily around her wondering if anyone suspected the thoughts coursing through her mind.

In bed, she dreamed about the strangely alluring prospect of being punished by Miss Donovan and her paddle. The possibility teased her stomach with butterflies and knots she had almost forgotten. A spanking was punishment, shameful, humiliating, tormenting. It was to be avoided at all costs. And yet she wondered what it would be like from Miss Donovan.

A week slipped past. Sally’s work was adequate. Miss Donovan remained stern, uncompromising in her expectations, but Sally met them. The threat remained, the paddle was kept on the table in the open, and Sally stared at it every time she entered the room. It consumed her thoughts during the monotony of her work, filled her dreams with its taunting suggestion. Sally concluded the only way to free herself from it would be to submit herself to it. She took another week to mount the courage necessary.

The night before, she tossed and turned, twisting the sheets like the knots twisting in her stomach. Come morning, she stayed in bed until all chance of backing out was gone. She was late. Sally arrived at the pit, welcomed by embarrassed smiles and shaking heads. Miss Donovan caught her attention with a scowl. Without a word she pointed inside and turned her back, expecting Sally to obey the unspoken command.

Inside the room, Sally looked to the table for the paddle, but it was gone. Miss Donovan held it in her hand. Sally had expected a lecture. Miss Donovan saw no point. She would spank Sally, embarrass her, shame her, and Sally would either choose to stay and do better or leave for good. Miss Donovan would not coddle an adult no matter how foolish or immature their actions. There was the job, the expectations and there was discipline for failure. It was simple and pure.

Miss Donovan lifted the paddle, pointing out the pew at the back of the room. “Get undressed and kneel on the pew, facing the wall,” she said.

Sally gawked at Miss Donovan. “Undressed?”

Miss Donovan gazed coldly at Sally. “Undressed, naked, nude, in your birthday suit. Get to it or get out. You’ve wasted enough of my time already.”

Sally blushed all the way to the roots of her long dark hair. She considered fleeing the scene, never coming back. Ultimately, it was her curiosity that kept her in the room. She went about the business of stripping off her clothes almost without any conscious thought. Her fingers found the buttons and zippers, unfastening them each in turn and exposing herself little by little until she stood fully nude beside the pile of her discarded clothing.

The air tickled her hot flesh as she walked to the pew. She knelt on the wood, stared at the white wall just beyond it and shuddered at the sound of the murmurs from the other interns working outside. Miss Donovan slapped the leather paddle against her buttocks. It echoed loudly in the room and Sally flushed red from head to toe. She knew every soul around could hear the spanking. Miss Donovan whacked the paddle into her bottom, alternating from cheek to cheek. There was no mistaking the effect. Sally’s bottom warmed with every spank, stung more with every passing second. She squirmed to no avail.

For precisely ninety seconds, Miss Donovan spanked Sally at a rapid pace. Sally’s buttocks bounced in every direction, but never far enough to avoid the next spank of the paddle. She cried, unable to endure the discipline in silence. When the time ran out, Miss Donovan stepped back and laid the paddle to rest on the table. Sally quivered in the silence, tensely awaiting another volley of spanks that would not come.

“You will remain as you are for the next hour,” Miss Donovan said, “after which you will resume your duties in the pit. Am I understood?”

Sally nodded and sniffled. “Yes, ma’am.”

Miss Donovan left the room. Sally leaned against the pew. She stared at the wall. Warmth emanated from her bottom. Her thoughts were jumbled. She was naked and spanked, excited and embarrassed. Sally faced the wall and pondered how she would face anyone else.

A Bent Perspective

The loud clap of the oak paddle stamping Nora Trevane’s tenderly protruding flesh resonated off the walls and penetrated her body with a deep trembling. Hands pressed against the floor, she closed her eyes only to open them wider. She searched for an escape, all the while knowing it was both too late and too soon. Her face contorted, lips parted and air gushed from her open mouth. She howled in tune with the ripples of the paddle’s force singing through her body.

There was pain. It was lightning, flashing white and bright, coursing its way from her posterior to her glossy eyes. The sparks tingled her every nerve building up to a sharp pinnacle before fading to a dull throb. Thunder rolled in ragged waves of stinging disappointment. It emanated from the paddle’s scolding contact with her bubbled bottom. Her vision clouded with the gathering of tear droplets in advance of  the waterworks that would inevitably fall like rain from her glistening eyes. She weathered it all, embracing the inevitable nature of the storm.

Nora’s thoughts floated on the moment. She pictured herself, prim and proper. Someday she would be that woman. Sense would be common and wrong would never masquerade as right. Pride would come directly from her actions, not the way she faced their consequences. Her bottom would be attractively dressed instead of embarrassingly bare and exposed. She would hold her head high rather than bowing it low in disgrace. Compliments would be the source of the warm glow gracing her cheeks. She dreamed of that fanciful day while weltering in the red glow of her shame.

The paddle withdrew, leaving her buttocks devoid of its solid reassurance. In its wake, a gentle breeze teased her heat with coolness. She felt the nakedness of her thighs, her butt, her labia. Nora shuddered. The acuteness of her humiliating position renewed itself with fresh blood rushing to the surface of her pale skin. She cringed at the tingling.

Cold sweat and hot blood kept Nora quivering. She dreaded the rush of wind preceding the paddle’s touch. Its cool draft would be just enough to temper the blaze burning in her bottom. The moment of impact would bring with it a spark reigniting the flame. In the waiting her senses heightened her awareness of every sensation, unwittingly driving the fanned flames of her spanking higher. Her muscles tensed, anticipating the paddle’s return.

Regret fluttered with the butterflies tickling her stomach. It had been an error in judgment. There was no evil in her heart, no demonic plans formulated in her brain. It was nothing more or less than a foolish mistake. Anyone can make a mistake, she told herself. A foolish mistake was another matter and she knew it. Her lack of foresight combined with her selfish nature to lead her into disaster. They were the traits she struggled to control, to overcome. Having failed, she delivered herself to the consequences.

The paddle sang through the air, punctuated by the impacting crack of wood and flesh. Her bottom bounced inward. The ripples jolted through her body, filtering down into her hands and dissipating into the floor. The paddle lifted away once more, leaving Nora waiting for its return. She gazed into nothingness and saw her mischievous self mocking her.

In the terse silence she prayed for the spanking to continue. It seemed unfair from her bent perspective, but the swats delivered more than a searing discomfort. There was strength to be found. Next time she would be stronger, more resistant to the foolishness of her careless heart. Every swat made her more resolved. A brusque waft tickled her naked skin. She was trapped in the repetitious cycle. There would be an end, but not until she was strong enough to resist temptation and sorrowful enough to be forgiven. It was a spanking, after all.

Blushing Moments

A shallow, trembling breath could no more fill her lungs than calm her rapid heartbeat. Her head swam in exhilaration, in humiliation. Hot blood flushed her cheeks in the color of shame and nervous perspiration gave it a glossy sheen. She stood with her back to the wall. Her head was lowered, eyes scouring the floor for an escape. There was a reason, not that her fragile thoughts could focus on it, but it was enough to know it existed.

She longed to take a single step backward, to feel the cool, solid support of the wall pressing against her back. The gap left her feeling exposed and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled for attention. Her bare legs tingled in response to the room’s air conditioned breeze while her naked buttocks quivered in tense anticipation. She hid her sex with hands clasped together in front. It was futile and fleeting and she knew it from the start.

The muffled movements and voices from outside the room echoed in her ears. She could hear them talking, knew they were talking about her. The words were too soft to make out, but her thoughts filled in the sentiment. Bad girl. Naughty girl. Needs to be taught a lesson. Needs a spanking. There could be no doubt it was coming. Her skirt, her panties, were still there, in the other room with them. It was only a matter of when, with what, and how much.

Her solitude ended. The door creaked open. She shuddered at the sound of footsteps. He was coming, but he was not alone. Her blood flushed hotter. They would see her soon, again. Her nipples hardened, acutely aware of her partially opened blouse, the exposure of her bra encased breasts. They had seen it before, would see it again, see everything. She hated their wandering eyes more than anything, more than what she had done or the spanking soon to come.

The footsteps stopped. His eyes drank from her shame as did the eyes of his guest. He spoke with authority. “Turn around. Touch your toes and count.”

She obeyed without question. The thought to resist, to object never entered her mind. Her eyes stayed low as she moved, avoiding him and his guests except for the slightest of glances to confirm the implement of her fate. The crook handled cane dangled in his hands. Her fingers dangled near her toes. She closed her eyes and held a breath. He tapped the cane along the center of her bottom.

The cane swished through the air and cracked against the protruding flesh of her bent buttocks. Her breath exploded from her lungs. Tears stung in the corners of her eyes. Her knees bent and straightened as she wiggled her bottom against the searing mark of the cane. “One,” she said in a soft voice barely heard above the rattle of the air conditioning vent.

He laid the cane against her buttocks. She trembled at its touch. He raised it high and swung it fast. “Two,” she said, fighting her reflexes to hold herself in place. He bounced the cane off her bottom and brought it down with striking force. She cried unable to resist the singing pain in her bottom. “Three,” she said through tears.

His guest laughed and said, “She’s feeling it now.”

“As she should,” he said and swung the cane. The impact rocked her onto her toes. More tears sprung from her red eyes, but the pain was secondary to the humiliation of being watched. “Four,” she said, her voice hoarse and barely more than a whisper.

She imagined herself nursing her flaming bottom. Her hands struggled against her imagination and the reality of her situation. In the end, she stayed in place, fingers stretching toward her toes. He patted her bottom with the cane and swung it hard, rewarding her effort with another throbbing line. “Five,” she said, sniffling.

Salty tears dripped off her nose onto the carpet between her feet. The cane rippled into bulging buttocks once more and she cried out. Her bottom shook from side to side in an embarrassing, desperate display. It was a futile attempt to ease the burning throb of the cane’s aftermath. He coughed, reminding her to count. She said, “Six.”

He lowered the cane and stepped back from her bent form. “Stand up,” he ordered. Her limbs shook as she rose in compliance. He said, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, here.” She nodded.

His guest interjected himself. “Certainly that’s not all.”

Her gaze lifted momentarily to appraise the intentions in his face. She lowered her eyes before she was certain. He said, “Until the marks fade, you’re grounded.” She nodded and he continued, “Naturally, you’ll remain dressed as you are for the duration or you can wear less of course.”

She nodded. His guest nodded. He gestured toward the door. “There is a corner waiting for you in the living room. I’m sure my other guests are curious to know what happens when a young lady misbehaves in my house. Your bare backside should adequately explain, don’t you think?”

Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. Hot blood, refreshed her blushing features with the glowing red of embarrassment and shame. She hesitated until he cleared his throat of impatience. The first step was the hardest, the rest came in a daze. The others gasped at first. Then there were the quiet murmurs as she took her place facing the corner. She stared at the joining of the walls and wondered how the shadowy little spot had become the bright center of the room.

Foxum Hall: The Empty Drawers

On the fourth floor of Foxum Hall, Michelle Embers stood naked in a shower stall. She stepped into the steamy spray cleansing herself of the soapy lather coating her skin. Her eyes drifted closed and she drowned herself in the moment, leaving behind the chaotic sounds of the morning rush. The tension washed away from her muscles and she inhaled the clean scent of a fresh day. She snapped her eyes open, turned off the shower and wrapped herself in the crisp starch of an over-sized towel. Michelle exited the showers thinking it was the beginning of another drab school day.

Inside their dorm room, Chelsea Wolfe sat on Michelle’s unmade bed. She glanced at her watch and then at her bag sitting beside her. There remained just enough time to make her escape or to return everything to its proper place. Her gaze turned to the picture sitting atop their shared chest of drawers. It reminded her of friendlier days and she hesitated a moment longer. Wistfully, she wondered if things could have turned out different, but every avenue of their past had led to their present and more importantly, to Ryan Bircham. Chelsea grabbed her bag and left the room.

Michelle arrived to find Chelsea closing the door. “I thought we were going to have breakfast,” Michelle said.

Chelsea faced her roommate and forced a smile. “Mr. Bircham wants to see me first, but I’m sure I can meet you there after,” she said, holding her large bag close to her side and hoping Michelle would not notice.

“Don’t tell me he caught you running in the halls again?” Michelle tried to hide her amusement with a stern face, but the quivering corners of her lips betrayed the image. Mr. Bircham had threatened a spanking of epic proportions for the next girl he caught running inside the confines of Foxum Hall.

“Nothing so glamorous,” Chelsea said. She forced a friendlier smile onto her lips and walked backward along the wall toward the stairwell door. She held the door open with her shoulder. “I’m sure it’s nothing really. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.”

“I’ll save you a seat,” Michelle said. She recognized the deception in her friend’s smile. Chelsea had a habit of landing in messes others could only imagine in their wildest daydreams. Sympathy tugged at Michelle’s heart, but deep down she knew Mr. Bircham’s strict consequences were never given without cause. She opened the door into their room and stepped inside, keeping an eye on her friend. “Hopefully, you’ll be able to sit in it.”

Chelsea laughed. “I’m sure one of us will be sitting,” she said, disappearing into the stairwell. Her smile transformed into genuine glee as the stairwell door slammed closed, cutting her off from Michelle. The echo of her footsteps on the metal stairs resonated with her laughter as she descended to the bottom floor.

Michelle closed the dorm room door and laid down on her bed. The temptation to drift back into sleep was strong, but the consequences for being late or worse, missing a class, were far from worth the luxury of a few minutes extra rest. With a sigh, she pushed herself back up into a sitting position and let the towel fall off into a puddle around her bottom on the crumpled bedsheets. In her typical fashion, Chelsea had left the closet door open. Michelle’s gaze focused on the pieces of her school uniform hanging inside, waiting for her.

The school’s uniform policy had been an irritant in her early days. Michelle had rebelled against it with stunts consisting of shortening her skirts and rolling up the sleeves on her blouses. Mr. Bircham had been tolerant at first, issuing only verbal warnings, but when Michelle continued with her rebellion he had turned to more forceful measures. After three trips over his knee, she decided to view the uniform in a new light. Instead of seeing it as a symbol of conformity, she chose to appreciate it as an attribute of honor and respect earned and awarded. It was Mr. Bircham’s perspective and shared by Michelle after seeing the glowing light of his conviction.

Pushing aside the embarrassing memories, Michelle stood and walked to the chest of drawers. She pulled open the top drawer and reach inside to find it empty. Rising up on her tiptoes, she looked inside and blinked at the emptiness. She pushed the drawer closed and pulled open the next one down. It too was empty. She turned to the closet and the clothes hamper inside. Empty.

Chelsea’s parting words and laughter rang in her ears: I’m sure one of us will be sitting.

Michelle pulled open the remaining two drawers, each in turn. Chelsea had left her with no panties, no bras, just a single pair of white uniform socks. She looked at the door to the outside as if it embodied her roommate. Bitch!

She searched the rest of the room, under the beds, between the mattresses, in the trash and the desk drawers. There was nothing to be found; Nothing of any use to her as either leverage against Chelsea’s plans or undergarments to avoid the almost certain repercussions of wearing none. Frustrated and without options, Michelle donned the available pieces of her school uniform. She exited the room, intent on finding Mr. Bircham and trying to head off the trouble as best she could. Descending the stairs, she was particularly self-conscious of the shortness of a skirt she customarily thought of as too long.

Chelsea watched from behind a corner as Michelle exited the stairwell on the bottom floor. Michelle headed up the corridor toward Mr. Bircham’s office at the far end. Chelsea grinned at her roommate’s receding back, pleased at Michelle’s easily predictable behavior. Chelsea waited until Michelle disappeared from sight into Mr. Bircham’s office and then stepped out from behind the corner. She rushed into the stairwell, fingers crossed with the hope she would not encounter anyone on her way.

Mr. Bircham was sitting at his desk filling out a summons for Michelle Embers when she walked into his office. He had been the administrator for Foxum Hall long enough to know that the odds of her presence being a coincidence were minimal to non-existent. The faint flush of color on her cheeks told him the report he had received concerning her lack of undergarments was accurate enough, but it also suggested the reason behind it was something other than a new streak of rebelliousness. They were being played.

“Miss Embers, what brings you here on this fine morning?” he asked, turning over the summons to hide its contents from her.

“It’s rather embarrassing,” she said. Her hands twisted together in front of her plaid skirt. She focused on his hands sitting atop his desk. They were deceptively benign, folded together. She knew first hand their strength and harshness when applied to a nubile backside.

“I would remind you that you can trust me, but you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know that,” he said. Studying the nervous girl before him, Mr. Bircham caught the faint protrusion of bare nipples pressing against the crisp contours of her white blouse. The anonymous report was at least partially true, but her presence in his office defied the logic behind its reasoning. “However embarrassing your situation might seem, Allow me to assure you that being open and honest with me here and now is in your best interests.”

Michelle nodded, careful to keep her gaze away from his discerning eyes. Her mouth went dry and she gulped at the dryness, wistful for a glass of water. “My roommate,” she said, hesitating as her harried mind attempted to put the thoughts coursing through it into some sort of coherent order. “I think my roommate stole my undergarments.”

“Why?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He frowned. He despised the phrase, the shrug, the attitude it represented. He said, “I should hate to think you go around shoveling accusations without cause.” He was disappointed. He had better expectations of her. He had expected the truth.

“She was acting peculiar this morning,” Michelle said. Her voice trembled with the fear of further upsetting Mr. Bircham. She struggled to find the words to convey the things she knew without landing herself in more trouble than Chelsea’s scheme had intended. “I didn’t understand at the time, she was leaving the room early. If I had been any later coming back from the shower I would have missed her entirely. She was nervous and eager to leave, but as she left she intimated I would be getting a spanking before breakfast. I thought she meant it for herself at first, but now I see she meant me.”

“Peculiar behavior is hardly proof of wrong doing, Miss Embers.” He stood and walked around his desk until he stood only an arm’s length away from Michelle. Reaching out, he lifted her chin with his index finger and forced their eyes to meet. She blinked and tried to look anywhere, but into his gaze. He nodded. “What did you come here for? Did you think you could just walk in here, give me a name, no proof, and I would just punish another girl on your whim?”

Michelle clenched and unclenched her fists. Her jaw set and she ground her teeth together searching for the words to extricate herself from his wrath. “I’m telling you the truth,” she said.

“No, you’re not.” He turned his back on her and lifted the folded note from his desk. It was computer printed in easy to read block letters. Michelle Embers is a liar, a thief, and a cheat. She thinks of herself as above the school rules and repercussions and to prove it to everyone, she is going without undergarments beneath her uniform. Some of us do not think this is appropriate or fair. Do you? “You’re telling me a version of it, but it’s decidedly short on rationality.”

She stared at his back. Her thoughts wound through the fogginess of her situation and the things he was not saying. Realization sank in her stomach. “You knew before I arrived,” she said.

He faced her, holding the note up for her to read. “I don’t like being manipulated,” he said.

Michelle’s eyes raised from the note to meet his gaze with confidence. “Then don’t be,” she said. Her back straightened tall and her hands abandoned their nervous wrestling to rest peacefully at her sides. “That note may not prove Chelsea is behind this, but it definitely proves I’m being setup.”

“Does it?” He turned the note back to himself. He studied the page and the young woman before him. The truth was somewhere between them. “How do I know you didn’t write this note yourself?”

She regarded him disdainfully. “That doesn’t even make sense. Why would I?”

Sitting on the front edge of his desk, Mr. Bircham laid the note beside him. He said, “Allow me to walk you through the logic; You have a fight with your roommate. Maybe she caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing. She threatens to turn you in, but you bully her into believing no one will believe her because she has a much worse disciplinary record than you do. Just to make sure she knows you’re in control, you hatch this plan to land her in trouble and prove just how well you can manipulate things.”

She shook her head and continued to meet his gaze. “You’re way off base,” she said.

“Maybe,” he said, watching the angry flinching of her cheeks, “but you and I both know there is more going on between you and your roommate than missing underwear. If you expect my help, you’re going to have to come clean with the whole story.”

Michelle huffed. “I’ve already told you everything I know.” She threw her arms up and sighed. “I don’t know what you expect from me, but I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. My undergarments were stolen and I don’t fancy running around campus all day without them.”

He shook a finger at her. “Watch the attitude young lady,” he said. Michelle swallowed the protestations rising up inside her. Mr. Bircham pushed off the desk to stand in front of her, finger still raised. “You came here because you thought it would keep you out of trouble for running around without underwear.”

“Yeah, maybe I did,” she said, nodding her head. “It’s not like I had a real choice. Someone took them. You can’t punish me for that.”

Mr. Bircham stepped closer, forcing Michelle to crane her neck back to continue meeting his gaze. “Let me make your situation clear, Miss Embers. My job is to administrate this dormitory and insure you and every other student residing here, complies with the rules and polices of the university. Right now, you are in violation of those rules for not wearing appropriate undergarments. The only reason you aren’t already laying over my lap getting your bare bottom spanked is the mitigating circumstances of the theft you are alleging.”

She gasped. “Alleging? Really? Why else would I even be here?”

“I don’t pretend to understand the devious nature of a college girl’s mind, but so far, all I have is your word that your undergarments were even stolen. What I do have is a note that suggest you are trying to make a fool of me, your fellow students and the university. Your attitude thus far is making the allegation difficult to simply dismiss.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “If you don’t believe me, why don’t you search my room? The drawers are empty and I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Mr. Bircham nodded. “That’s an excellent suggestion, Miss Embers. Let’s go.”

A few minutes later, Michelle stood outside her dorm room with Mr. Bircham standing beside her. She opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Mr. Bircham to enter without her in his way. He walked inside, stopping at the chest of drawers and pulling open the top drawer. He looked inside and shook his head.

Michelle watched him from the doorway, hands planted on her hips. “I told you,” she said.

Mr. Bircham reached inside the drawer and lifted out a white bra for Michelle to see. She gulped. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes searched his face, desperate to find some sense that he understood what was going on. “I swear those drawers were empty when I left,” she said.

He sighed and dropped the bra back in the drawer. “It seems you have a problem, Miss Embers.”

“You can’t possibly believe I made this up!” Michelle stared wide-eyed at Mr. Bircham. He walked to her work desk and pulled the chair out, turning it to face the center of the dorm room. She said, “You know this isn’t fair.”

He pointed at a spot on the floor beside the chair. “Over here, Miss Embers,” he said.

She stomped her foot in the doorway. “You can’t,” she said. Her head shook back and forth, throwing strands of hair in her face as tears welled up in her eyes.

Mr. Bircham inhaled sharply and he adopted his sternest face. “You don’t want to make me drag you over here, young lady.” He snapped his fingers and pointed once more at the spot on the floor.

“I’m being setup and you’re being manipulated,” she said. Mr. Bircham flinched as if to take a step toward her, but before he could move, she began scuffling across the floor toward the spot he had indicated. She stood beside the chair and him, head lowered, downtrodden by the firmness of his stance. He sat in the chair.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her closer. “Over,” he said, patting his lap with his free hand. She looked for compassion in his eyes and finding none, laid herself over his lap, closing her eyes and sniffling back tears of injustice. He lifted her skirt high onto her back, exposing her naked bottom. She flinched at the touch of his hand resting against the bubbly flesh. He said, “You can think of this as unfair all you like, but I think we both know you’ve been less than completely honest with me.”

The first spank came before she could formulate a response. She gasped. Her bottom quivered in the absence of his hand. Michelle gripped her hands together, bracing for the next spank. Mr. Bircham delivered it and more in a flurry of slaps, bouncing her white bottom on his lap until the white globes glowed pink. She breathed through the sting and humiliation, choking back her tears. Her body trembled against the building discomfort. Her hair fell around her face, masking the outrage in her eyes.

Mr. Bircham rested his spanking arm. He pinched her globes and cheek at a time ensuring the sting he had already built would not interfere with the sting he had yet to impart. Michelle sniffled as the first tears slipped from her eyes at the humiliation of insensitive touch. She breathed through the objections swirling in her head and remained mute over his lap. Comfort came from future intentions; there would be revenge, cold and sweet. Chelsea would rue the day. Mr. Bircham would see to it, just as he was seeing to her.

The spanking resumed. Mr. Bircham struck her bottom with his open palm, alternating his assault from cheek to cheek. Michelle kicked and squirmed, but he held her tightly in place with his left arm, wrapped over her back. His arm blurred through the air, using every inch of available space to add momentum to every spank. She squealed. Her bottom burned and reddened. Michelle cried.

He laid his hand on her bottom. “Now that we’ve got a nice, hot blush back here, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

She shook her disheveled hair away from her lips, brushing the right side behind her ear with trembling fingers. He patted her bottom firmly, but short of the power of real spanks. She sniffled and said, “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

Mr. Bircham sighed and lifted his hands from her body. “Stand up,” he said. She pushed herself off his lap without hesitation. The ruffle of her skirt kept it up behind her despite gravity’s downward pull. She wiped tears and stray hairs from her face. He stood and pushed the chair back to its place under the desk. “Fix your attire and get yourself to class,” he said and left her alone with the door still open to the hall.

Michelle nursed her hot bottom with both hands, oblivious to the open door and anything not directly related to the aftereffects of her spanking. Chelsea stepped into the doorway, a tickled smile on her lips. She said, “I saved you a seat at breakfast, but it looks like you wouldn’t have needed it even if you had made it.”

Michelle glowered at her roommate. “Bitch.”

Chelsea pointed at herself. “Me? You might want to look into the mirror when you say that.” Chelsea turned and started walking away, but turned back as she reached the stairwell door. “Oh, and you might want to remember this moment the next time you think about blackmailing me to do your homework. Because if you try it again, I’ll make sure Mr. Bircham sees fit to use something more than his hand.”