Fifty Lines

Short but sweet, from Blushes 7

Fifty times: I must treat my teachers with respect. Chalk scratching on matt black paint on a blackboard fixed to the front wall of an empty classroom; empty, that is, but for the writer and the begowned figures of he who has inflicted this imposition upon the unfortunate at the blackboard.

Treat-my-teachers. The girl’s fingers are dusted with chalk and there are specks of white down the front of her grey cardigan. Her blouse, longer than the cardigan, edges it with white, both garments rucked up to waist level. With-respect. Plumped out navy knickers below the white-bordering blouse are streaked with chalk dust across the fullness of both cheeks, the scrabbling, groping traces of fingers palely evidenced on the dark blue knap.

‘Come —’

Firm-cheeked bottom bobbing snugly inside the knickers, slow and hesitant steps and a scuff of polished black shoes against dark-stained floorboards.

‘How many’s that, hmm?’

‘Er — d-don’t know sir,’ timid, quiet, breathless voice. Knickers tight round soft peachy pubic mound.

‘Go and count them then.’

‘Yes sir —’ More slidey, hesitant footsteps, more demure waggling of navy-knickered buttocks. She goes back to the board and counts the lines down from the top.

‘Um — Seventeen, sir.’

‘Come on then —’

Her face is a picture of not wanting to. Her hands clutch at her blouse and cardigan and pull them up a fraction and she makes herself stand between his legs as he half-sits, half-leans on a desk in the front row. Her thighs brush then press against the inside of his left leg; he puts a hand in the hollow of her back and coaxes her into bending forward a little. Her bottom pushes out saucily behind, the knickers tightening around the shapeliness beneath. Rosy-hued fingers, each about an inch wide where the individual ruler marks can be seen, spread in a fanned-out swathe across the unknickered underbits of her bum and impinge too on the pale beige skin of the backs of her thighs, close up under the buttocks. Sixteen strokes all told, but half of that number hidden under the pants; the seventeenth about to be delivered.

‘Ooooooghooooo!’ Her bum jerks forward a fraction of a second after the heavy, eighteen-inch ruler impacts on her knickers and part-bare bum. Without a steadying hand against her tummy, nudging up close under her breasts, she might have toppled across that left leg. As it is she just about keeps her balance; her hands squeeze frantically at her bottom, fresh chalky streaks adding to the finger marks already there on her knickers, except that a stripe has now been spanked across the chalk-dusted pants which the new finger-marks only partly occlude. A haze of white powder raised in a thin flurry by that last stroke, sifts down upon knickers and shivery bottom and trouser legs and all.

‘Right — number eighteen.’

‘S-sir —’ she goes back to the blackboard, bum still tweaking from the ruler’s sting. Chalk squeaks dismally on the board. I-must-treat…