I?d never been good at waiting.
But his instructions were quite clear.
?Stand still, be quiet ? and don?t turn around.?
So I just stare at the wall and listen to footsteps walking away. He stops after 10 steps. Behind me, a hinge creaks. There?s some clattering and some rustling. What is he doing?
There?s a hulking wooden cupboard at the back of the classroom. It?s always kept locked, like some ancient reliquary. What exactly lies within has been the subject of many speculative conversations among my peers, but no student has ever looked inside. He must be looking for a suitable implement to punish me with. What will it be, I wonder?
The suspense is building, my breathing quickening, but I dare not turn around. That would be asking for trouble. Yet, my curiously is an itch that must be scratched. Restraining my impulsiveness has always been my weakness. Maybe just a peek, I?m sure he won?t even notice me. I can?t even hear him, he must be still rummaging inside the cupboard. I take a chance, quickly turning my head ? only to see him looming over me. His voice chastises my disobedience.
?I told you not to turn around?.
His voice is commanding rather than angry, reminiscent of past summer sailing holidays, how the skipper would scold me when I fooled about on deck. A stern disapproval of my silly recklessness.
I blush furiously as I try to explain myself.
?But I??
One look from him is all it takes to silence me. Now I know it will be worse. Caught peeking! It?s all so childish. I swivel back to face the wall, staring at the floor in embarrassment, willing it to open up and swallow me whole.
I await his next instruction in silence. Now I can hear my own shallow breathing and a clock ticking in the distance. A distant door slams as school empties for the day, it?s just loud enough to hear above the roar of my own ears. Silence is indeed deafening. And tense. And awkward. And boring. Get on with it, I urge. This tedious waiting is almost worse than any punishment.
And then behind me, out of the silence, emerges a soft tapping noise.
?Come here.? I am summoned.
I hesitate before turning around, then meekly take two steps forward, my head still bowed, eyes still fixed on the floor. I dare not meet his stare, but see he?s holding something in one hand, tapping it against the other.
?Bend over the table.?
My eyes follow his finger, now pointing at the large, imposing table at the front of the room. I stare at it, hardly daring to move, like a startled animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. My hesitation prompts him to raise his voice.
?I?m waiting! Don?t make this any worse.?
Spooked, I hurry towards the desk, pausing for just a second before bending over it. The big mahogany table looks ancient, its worn, slightly uneven surface mottled with splots of ink. It also feels old, as I reach over my fingertips rub across coarse gaps in its grain. And as I lower my head, I can smell its age, its fresh wood scent long gone, now it smells of elderly wood polish, a musty kind of wax.
Yet despite its venerable age it is still a sturdy table, I feel it would protect me, I just wish I could somehow hide underneath it. But it?s too late now; so I just close my eyes and listen to his heavy footsteps, and that soft tap ? tap ? tapping. Getting louder, and louder?
I approach to within two paces of my prone young student. I see her legs trembling slightly, and I know she is afraid, her heart fluttering, her primal instincts telling her to run away from me ? her imminent threat. Yet here she still is, compliant and submissive, lying across the old oak desk, waiting for the spanking that will wipe all her transgressions away. At heart she?s a good girl, often a bit reckless, impulsive even, but I believe she?ll benefit from a lesson in patience.
?I am very disappointed in you, young lady. Your teachers consider you a gifted student, but your casual approach to your studies must be corrected.? I scold.
Then my voice softens, as I make known my sadness at her disobedience.
?And I gave you explicit instructions not to turn around, yet you still disobeyed me.?
A meek voice peeps, ?I?m sorry, sir.?
But I have punished too many recalcitrant minxes to be sure of her sincerity. At first, most of those I punish are only really sorry they?ve been caught. But by the time they leave this room, heads bowed and bottoms glowing, their sorrow tends to be genuine.
?Let us begin. Hands on your head, please.?
Her imminent punishment is no excuse for a lapse of politeness. She complies without complaint, a good sign.
My fingers grasp the hem of her skirt. She emits a shallow gasp as her upper thighs and panties are exposed. Moments later I?ve folded her skirt and tucked it into her waistband.
She is holding her legs tightly together, clenching her bottom in anticipation of what?s to come. I reach down to correct her stance.
?Legs apart, please. Point your toes inward. I don?t want to see you clenching your bottom.?
Now I can see her globes stretching the material of her white school knickers.
?Good girl. I expect you to take your discipline with good grace. No shouting or pleading, or I shall take down your panties. We?ll begin with a session with the leather paddle. Then you?ll discover the special punishment reserved for impatient peepers.?
I begin to rub the paddle over her taut underwear and the bare skin of her upper thighs. It?s less shocking that way. I start spanking slowly and gently, alternating between her cheeks. My spanks increase in force until she begins to wince with every smack. A pink glow begins to develop underneath her panties. Her breath is ragged, as she struggles to keep her composure.One last flurry of smacks, accompanied by yelps. Then silence.
Now to do something about that peeping, I think I have just the answer.I walk back to cupboard and retrieve two special items, one is a shiny plastic mechanical timer, shaped like an egg. I wind it up, twist to set it and it begins ticking: it emits a hollow, metallic clink-clink-clink, like two teaspoons jangling together. She gasps as I pull back her panties, slipping the egg timer between her warm rosy cheeks and onto the gusset of her underwear. I position it carefully, against her perineum, where she will feel its ticks most intimately.
?Sir??
?Stand up.?
She gingerly eases herself off the desk. Now I pick up the second item I?ve fetched, a black silk scarf.
?This will stop your urge to peep.? I explain.
Her eyes widen in surprise as I place the scarf over her brow, and wind it three times around her head, before tying it in a bow. Once blindfolded, I take her hand and escort her back into her naughty corner.
?Hands on top of your head again, please. Good.?
It is a rather unusual situation she finds herself in, I?d better explain the rules.
?Now young lady, what you feel between your legs is an egg timer. You?ll feel the passage of every few seconds you spend in the corner. But this time you?ll have no distractions, and no way of peeping, so you may spend your time contemplating your behaviour and your sore bottom.?
I save the surprise until last.
?You shall learn patience, and come to appreciate waiting. Because when the egg timer rings, your bare bottom has an appointment across my knee??
She gasps a syllable of complaint, but manages to stifle it.
I return to my desk, to admire the view.What are you thinking, I wonder, as you stand silently in the corner, skirt lifted, bottom glowing, a ticklish ticking against your most sensitive spot? Do the tiny vibrations echo through your body, amplified by your anticipation?
I leave her to wait.
As I stand there in that corner, staring at the blackness of the blindfold and listening to the tick, tick, tick of the egg timer, I imagine myself in another place. The ticking seems to be getting louder, a sotto voce rather than a whisper. The vibrations are becoming more insistent ? less easy to ignore, they?re almost beginning to feel good.
My mind runs wild with the possibilities of what will happen when the ticking finally stops. Will he tell me to pull down my panties? Or will he do it? Will he drag them abruptly whilst scolding me? Or lower them slowly and compassionately? What will he spank me with? His bare hand perhaps, or a wooden ruler? Will that pink glowing bottom of mine change to a darker shade of red? How will I feel? What if I get excited? My head spins, the scenarios seem endless?
I know I should be contemplating my bad behaviour and the punishment I?ve received, but I find myself relishing it and wanting more. Why is that egg timer still ticking? Surely, he must want to punish me by now. Is he still watching me? Patience, I tell myself. All will be revealed soon enough.
The tense silence is broken by the din of the school bell. My heightened hearing intuitively locates it on the other side of the wall behind me, in the corridor I?d trudged down to report here. That feels such a long time ago now. The bell rings for 30 seconds, filling my fevered mind with noise.
The bell signals the end of the school day. The school will be emptying, and here am I, alone with one of my teachers.About to have my knickers pulled down.Creepy.
But exciting.
When silence returns I allow my mind to wander, imagining the sensations emanating from between my legs are a lover?s gentle touch, massaging me. I absorb every vibration, slowly becoming more and more aroused. My spanked bottom no longer aches, but feels like it?s emitting a pleasurable glow. There is now a familiar dampness in my knickers. I feel thrillingly naughty. I long to rub myself, but don?t dare. I sense him still sitting behind me, watching. Being caught touching myself would be so humiliating. But the anticipation of what will happen next slowly eats me up.
Seconds pass, minutes pass, and still the ticking continues. I concentrate on the ticks, trying to mentally amplify the vibrations ? but they?re so frustratingly weak. If only they were stronger, I?d come so quietly, he?d never even know.
Somehow the interval between the ticks seems to be getting longer and longer. Now my arousal is giving way to frustration. When is this infernal ticking going to stop? Surely this is long enough. The vibrations continue and feelings of unfulfillment start to envelop me. More minutes pass. I feel tetchy, I long to pluck out that stupid device, but know I?m in enough trouble already.
I think about my pink sore bottom, still smarting beneath me, and my frustration turns to indignation. Who is he to be doing this to me? What right did he have to spank me and leave me standing a corner, waiting for him? Does he think he controls me? I am in control, I have every right to walk away if I wish. Maybe I will, that will show him. I bet he wandered off to the staffroom to put his feet up and read his newspaper, expecting me to still be standing here, patiently waiting when he returns.
Well, if he thinks he?s won my obedience, he?d better think again. I?ll walk away and relieve myself. I don?t need him and his silly games.
Feelings of discontent and frustration fill my mind. By now I?ve lost track of time, it must be at least half an hour. I?ve heard those stories of naive apprentices being sent to the storeroom to fetch A Long Weight. Yes, I bet he?s sitting behind me, reading a paper, waiting for me to catch on. God, I?m a fool! This is silly just standing here.
I can?t stand it any longer. Impulsively, I decide enough is enough. My hands reach back and I feel a bow, it is easy to undo. I half expect to hear his voice scolding me for my indiscipline, but I don?t. So I pull off the blindfold. Bright light suddenly floods my eyes.
Blinking, I look round the room.There?s no one there.
Just as I suspected, he?s gone and left me! Probably in the staff room, having a cup of tea and good chuckle at my expense. Grrrr! I feel like swearing, but realise the virtue of keeping quiet, and channel my anger into clenching my fists, until I feel my nails bite into my palms.
I look about the room, it?s relatively empty. The light of dull grey afternoon is seeping through the windows, each a drab bevelled lattice of olive-painted woodwork consisting of a dozen small square panes.
At the front of the class is the old sturdy desk and his empty chair. At the back, the mysterious cupboard, now closed again. The centre is occupied by six smaller desks, old-fashioned pieces of scholastic furniture with integral seats, all arranged in two neat rows. The epitome of conformity.
A few old yellowing prints and maps hang on the walls. Behind the teacher?s desk there?s a blackboard, now more grey than black, filled with the chalky white swirls of repeated erasings ? inside which I can just about read the faded word ?Detention?. This room offers little cheer to its occupants, merely somewhere recalcitrant pupils reside whilst waiting for their punishment.
I can only imagine how awful it would be to wait here with others. Being called to the front of the class one by one. Having to watch my partners-in-crime bending over, eyes wide as their skirts are lifted, and then witnessing their spankings. All the while waiting for my own turn to come. It makes me quite relieved to be here alone.
There are also two doors in this room on opposite sides.
A-ha. Escape routes.
I reach down to take the egg timer out of my panties. Through my fingers I can feel one side is damp to the touch; raising it for a closer look, I can smell my own arousal. The timer is egg-shaped, with a notched and numbered ring at its widest part that clearly sets its duration. Below a small triangular arrow is the number 6. With a jolt of panic, I realise its significance immediately.
The timer will ring in 6 minutes.He knows it will ring in 6 minutes.So he will be back within the next 6 minutes.
I don?t have much time, I yank my skirt down with as much dignity as I can manage, the queasy ache of fear spreading from my stomach. I?ve broken the rules again, what awful punishment awaits me now? I need to get away.
Gingerly I place the egg timer on the floor, feeling like I?m setting down a hand grenade. It continues to tick away. Valuable seconds pass as I stop, and briefly consider staying to face the music. Then, somehow, I?ve decided. I?ll make a dash for it. I know I?ve done wrong, but I?m an impetuous girl, and my first instinct is to run.
Of the room?s two doors I recognise the one I entered. He might be behind the other one, but I didn?t hear him move. Maybe he moved when the school bell rang? If so, I?ll need to be quiet. I take a step forward, stepping ever so lightly, lest a treacherous footboard betray my escape with a squeak. Silence. Another step. Silence. I tread more confidently now, feeling like a burglar as I creep light-footedly towards the door. I take a deep breath and turn the handle. It clanks. Bugger. It?s locked.
I feel trapped and anxious. Did he lock me in? Or was I mistaken? Did I enter through the other door? No matter, I?ve only one option left. I walk quietly to the other side of the room, breathe deeply and try the door handle. This one is unlocked. In one quick movement I open it and stride purposefully through it.
I stop after one step.
This is a room, not a corridor.
My jaw drops. Lining all four walls are canes, paddles, whips and straps of every imaginable size, colour and shape. Each on its own tiny hook, like some bizarre cloakroom.
And in the middle:Him.Seated on a straight-backed chair.My eyes widen when I see what he holds in his hand.
He does not seem at all surprised to see me.
?Ah young lady, I?ve been waiting for you.?
Epilogue
As it happened, I took down my own panties.
