Friday, 16 March 2012

Friday fiction

“And we’ll have these down.” Neatly-manicured fingers slip under the waistband of his underpants, which are tight and very white. The cloth clings to well-muscled, athlete’s buttocks like a second skin. So tight that it takes a tug or two to get them down far enough to bare his pale cheeks just the way she wants them.
“I’m very disappointed with you, Coleman. Very disappointed. You’ve been a very disobedient young man this term, haven’t you? I’ve given you chance after chance, haven’t I?” There’s a pause, which he knows means the question is one that she expects him to answer. Most of her questions are meant to answer themselves, but this last one is clearly one of the ones that isn’t. An answer is expected.
It’s a dilemma. If he doesn’t come up with one quickly he will be even deeper in trouble than he already is. But he’s a little preoccupied with the weird feeling of hyper-sensitivity that he’s been experiencing since he entered the room.
His over-stimulated nervous system is focussed almost entirely on his butt. In a normal day how often are you aware of your behind? It’s just there isn’t it, usually between you and whatever you are sitting on?
Not just now though. At this precise moment Jay time is in go-slow and every nerve ending in his butt cheeks vibrates with anticipation about what is about to happen.
From the moment she took the strap out of the desk drawer the air has seemed electric. In the slight chill of the room the surface of his lily-white bottom and sun-browned thighs have turned to goosebumps.
He has to say something. The Vice-Principal (Pastoral) is waiting for something, but the best he can do is to mumble: “I don’t know... I guess I’m sorry...”
The fact that his face is pressed into the polished teak surface of the desk top doesn’t help. “Speak up young man, I can’t hear you,” Mrs Flood says. Her voice is cool, steely edged and rather husky.
“I’m sorry...” he says again, lifting his face a little to free a little more sound. Almost too much.
“No need to shout,” she answers sardonically. “Save your voice for later. You have had your chances, but still you’re disobedient. So I think it’s time for a long-overdue punishment...”
Jay screws his eyes shut and holds his breath waiting for the swish-crack of the punishment strap. But it doesn’t arrive and after four or five seconds he opens his eyes again to see that Mrs F has crossed to the far side of the room.
She’s standing by the window looking out and running the dark, aged strap slowly through her fingers as though she’s testing its weight. Looking over surrounding roofs to a quiet road – it is Sunday morning – and to rolling countryside beyond she is counting slowly to ten in her head. Anticipation is all part of the experience, she feels, and so he should wait just a little longer.


  1. Just realised that I've posted twice today an used the word 'anticipation' in both. One track mind, I think.

  2. Miroir, miroir, dis-moi qui est la plus belle.