[Continued from Part 1.]
I looked at the principal blankly as I tried to make sense of his words. Over his knee? How…?
Reading my hesitation, he explained, “Your hips on my knee, your hands and feet touch the floor. Yes, it’s awkward — it’s meant to be.”
Oh hell. This skirt was so short, I’d pretty much be flashing him as soon as I got into position. Was it my imagination, or was he starting to look a little flushed too? I took a deep breath, stood beside the chair, then tipped myself forward over his legs — awkwardly — while trying to minimize the physical contact, utterly in vain.
“Mhmm,” he murmured, as I pointlessly attempted to get less uncomfortable.
He flipped the skirt out of the way and I froze. Then I flinched when the first stinging slap landed, though I’m not sure if I was reacting more to the feeling, the sound, or the idea of it. He started by scattering smacks all over, and after a few moments they began to land more heavily. My bum was feeling warm now and must have been getting red. Then he started to rain smacks down on one spot and I squirmed from the pain and tried to avoid the blows. But resistance, as they say, is futile. My breath caught as I felt a stirring in my gut and my abs clenched. I was breathing heavily and heard myself whimpering, as if from a distance. Between my legs it felt warm and sort of, I don’t know, swollen I guess, like blooming.
Suddenly he stopped and tugged at my panties. “Lift, girl” he growled, and tugged them down below my bum. Oh god! How much could he see? Was he looking? I imagined I could feel his gaze and I squirmed — to get away, to stop the spanking, to ease the feeling in my gut, to do something. I was mortified, but the nervous fluttering had connected with a throb low in my belly, and further south.
“Mmmm,” he purred. His legs were warm under me, and was that his…? Oh.
I wanted… I don’t know what. But, oh god, I wanted.
More slaps, and getting harder. More whimpering. That must have been me. Occasional low groans. Those were from him. Then I suddenly let go, my mind taking a step away from the pain to where the pain was still there but somehow didn’t really matter. Still breathing hard. I relaxed into it, ceased struggling, stilled.
After a moment, he stopped.
He began stroking my bum and thighs, gently, gently. Caressing. A squeeze.
Somewhat hoarsely, he said, “Right. That’s that. Up you get.” He hauled me to my feet. I was lightheaded and red-faced, tears prickling at my eyes from the pain and embarrassment. My bum throbbed hotly. I was self-conscious and started to pull up my panties but stopped, unsure, and looked at him, then flicked my gaze away. I waited, frozen.
“Yes, you can pull them up now.” He moved the wooden chair back to the corner, wheeled the black office chair back to the desk and sat down.
“Have a seat.” I put my jacket back on and sat on the cool, smooth chair, trying to catch my breath and not make any noise, while I tugged my clothes back into place while moving as little as possible. If it had been hard to look at him before, it was doubly difficult now. After this. My hand jerked towards my hair when I realised it must have been a mess too. Everything about me was a mess.
His voice, when he spoke, was still a little gruff. “So that’s the skipping dealt with. Now, your marks, awards and extra-curricular activities clearly demonstrate that achievement is important to you. From this moment you have a clean slate as far as I’m concerned, but you may be thinking that isn’t enough to make things right, in your own mind. In fact, you might prefer to go above and beyond to impress me that you really are well behaved, but you might be at a loss as to how to do so.
“Well, I know a way. The punishment you just got was earned in full, but you can bank credit by taking punishments that you haven’t earned. It could be spanking, or maybe the strap. Do you know what a tawse is? No, you wouldn’t, I suppose. Anyway, there are options. Think on it.”
The bell rang.
“Ah, end of the first period. You’re done now. You had better get going — I know you won’t want to be late for your next class.” One corner of his mouth lifted.
I stood, and he walked me to the door. He put one hand on the knob, the other very lightly on the small of my back, and his mouth was close to my ear as he murmured, “Do think on the extra credit option, Alexandra.”
I walked out of his office — past the door to the still-humming photocopier room and the still-bustling secretary, into the tumult of the hall while everyone was rushing to their next class — feeling disheveled and spaced out, and wondering just how much of an overachiever I actually was.