Carrie’s stomach tightened and she felt a lump grow in
her throat as the words drifted towards her, garbled
and distorted, as if struggling through some thick
haze before reaching her ears.
“…will have to be put straight… rules… right
this instant… 10 strokes.”
As if in a dream, she stood, her muscles reacting to
some involuntary command from the section of her brain
that still maintained some element of control.
Before we go any further in our story, some background
information seems necessary. Carrie had been at St.
Anne’s for two months now, transferring from her old
public school at the end of the first semester. Her
parents felt that the discipline and academic emphasis
of a catholic school might help raise her grades so
that she could follow her father’s footsteps through
Harvard’s hallowed gates. And, in part, they had been
correct. Carrie’s grades had improved dramatically, as
had her attitude. It looked as though she might finish
her junior year with an A-average. But two months is
too short a time for someone to change completely, and
Carrie had not yet succeeded in exercising the imp
that had gotten her into so much hot water throughout
her life.
Today, for example, it had emerged with a vengeance
born of being suppressed for so long, and had caused
her to drop a cube of ice down her classmate’s blouse
while Mr. Burns had been writing on the board. It was
meant as a joke between friends, but the recipient of
the chilly gift, Susan, had been taken off guard and
responded with a loud shriek, instantly drawing the
instructor’s attention.
Susan tried to cover up for Carrie, claiming that she
had caught her finger in the desk hinge and shrieked.
It was amusing to watch her face as she squirmed in
reaction to the ice, still lodged neatly in the cleft
of her young bosom, releasing droplets of liquid cold
to trickle down her midriff to her waistband.
Eventually, however, her loyalty to Carrie succumbed
to her self-interest and she reached into her blouse
to extricate the icy cube.
Mr. Burns quickly deduced that the ice cube had been
placed there by someone else, and his gaze lit upon
Carrie, which brings us up to date.
Carrie moved to the front of the classroom, aware that
she was doing so but feeling separated from her body,
as if watching the events on a movie screen. She had
seen girls get paddled before, and knew the routine,
but nevertheless she paused in front of the large oak
desk, behind which stood Mr. Burns. “Ms. Tyler, I
assume you know what to do,” he intoned.
Carrie noticed that he seemed to have grown during her
long journey from desk to the front, so that he now
seemed a giant. His face blurred as her eyes began to
dampen, and she registered, somewhere in the back of
her brain, that she must be blushing furiously — she
could feel the heat radiating from her cheeks. She
swallowed, and took a step back, so that she now stood
about two feet from the front of the desk.
She let herself fall forward until her breasts were
pressed onto the surface of the desk, and stretched
her arms forward. She was not a tall girl, and her
fingers barely reached the opposite edge. The forward
edge of the desk cut sharply into her waist, and in
this position her ass was prominently displayed,
awaiting the paddle’s fury.
A tear snuck from her right eye and dropped silently
onto the desk. As are most 16 year old girls,
especially those who have enjoyed a sheltered
upbringing, Carrie was a modest girl, and was
mortified to find herself so deliberately and
helplessly exposed. She felt light-headed as it
occurred to her that this was only the beginning.
At the very moment that this thought entered her mind,
she felt the back of her blue, pleated uniform skirt
being lifted. She involuntarily clenched her hands
into fists and shut her eyes as she felt the fabric
continue to rise, revealing first her thighs, then her
buttocks. She was horrified as she remembered the
panties she wore.
The tears begin to flow freely with the realization
that she had chosen today to wear her tightest pair —
pink satin, with hardly a quarter-inch of fabric on
either side. Dammit, she thought. I put these on to
make myself feel good!
Mr. Burns rolled the fabric of her skirt up onto
Carrie’s back, making sure it would stay. “Open your
legs a bit, Ms. Tyler,” he commanded. She cringed at
these words, but obeyed, shifting her feet so that
they were a good two feet apart. Now, she knew, the
distinct pouch of her vulva could be seen by all, and
she fancied she felt a breeze blow between her legs,
heightening her feeling of exposure. This isn’t fair,
she thought; but she knew it was.
She remained there, bent over at ninety degree angle
as Mr. Burns walked to the back of the classroom to
retrieve the heavy wooden school paddle, worn from
years of use. She tried to concentrate on his
footsteps, trying to judge where he was, but found her
thoughts drifting. She wondered how her panties were
arranged. These tight ones had a habit of riding up,
and she hoped they weren’t like that now. She fought
with all her energy to avoid reaching back to adjust
them.
Indeed, as everyone in the class knew, they had ridden
up, so that the majority of the shiny fabric was
curled into a ribbon just covering the crack between
each cheek. In a way it was almost cute, the manner in
which her panties were so randomly arranged. Scarce
protection from the paddle, one girl thought. Carrie
listened as Mr. Burns loafers clicked their way back
towards her. She stared straight ahead as she heard
him shuffling about behind her, arranging himself to
afford the best leverage with the paddle.
“Ms. Tyler. You know the rules — count off each blow,
keep your chest to the desk and your feet where they
are. If you move, it will mean five extra. Ready?”
She was amazed that she found the strength to whimper
out a yes. No sooner had she shut her mouth than the
first blow came, pushing her forward across the desk,
and causing the sharp edge to cut into her stomach.
“One!” she grunted.
There was a pause as Mr. Burns repositioned himself,
then she heard the rush of air as the second landed.
“Two!” she called out, her voice involuntarily jumping
up an octave.
By the last one a pool of tears had accumulated on the
desk in front of her, and Carrie’s knees felt weak.
She waited for the order to stand. When she did, she
was grateful to feel her skirt fall into place, though
she knew the relief would be short-lived. Without
turning to face the class — she didn’t know how she
could _ever_ look at them again, least of all now —
she moved to the front corner of the room. She found
that her legs were shaking violently, and that she
couldn’t stifle the sobs that kept emerging from deep
down inside her.
“Ms. Tyler, you’ll remain there until class is over.
And with your skirt rolled up — you know that.”
Yes, she did, but she had been hoping to forestall the
re-revelation of her posterior. Resignedly she reached
back and worked her skirt back up, displaying, to all,
her flaming cheeks, nicely complementing her pink
panties. In one or two spots, the girls in the class
could see the beginning of bruise marks. Susan
realized that Carrie would probably not be sitting
down for a few days.
Carrie only knew that she would have to work even
harder at keeping that imp under control!