I hightailed it to my second period class — French — and got my bum down onto my seat as fast as I could, which was pretty fast indeed. My desk was at the front of the class, closest to the door. You would have been forgiven for thinking I was playing a solitaire version of musical chairs to a tune only I could hear.
Once the general commotion died down and class began, I quickly noticed that getting comfortable on the hard seat with my bum still throbbing hotly was pretty much impossible. The uniform skirt was too short to really sit on — I would have to tuck it carefully under me to make it stay, and then I’d have a bundle of fabric right under where it hurt the most. No thanks. Staying still was bad, and shifting was worse, but I shifted anyway, with a desperate certainty that there must be some position that would ease my discomfort.
But I was wrong.
The throb of my bottom and thighs was surprising only for its novelty. Of course a spanking would hurt, that was its raison d’être. But the answering throb between my legs was something else entirely. Keeping up with notetaking wasn’t enough to keep my mind fully occupied; it kept slipping away to snapshots of the hour before (l’heure précédente). The smooth, cool wood (le bois) of the chair (de la chaise) under my bottom (au-dessous de ma derrière). Looking past my knees (mes genoux) to the terrazzo floor. Mr. Martin’s accent and the timbre of his voice (sa voix). The terrazzo floor now only inches (quelques pouces) away from my face (de mon visage). The uncomfortable constricting pressure as my body weight squashed my stomach (mon estomac? diaphragme?) and lower ribs into his lap (er, genoux again?).
I wrenched my focus to the lesson, scribbling more notes. The last thing I needed was to get caught not paying attention at the moment when she asked me a question, especially since she would expect me to know the answer.
I shifted on the damned unyielding seat, and the resultant ache drew me back again. The sting of that first smack. The pain (la douleur) as the smacks stacked up and he built up that throbbing heat (la chaleur)…
Suddenly the teacher was wrapping up the lesson, early, and generously giving us lots of time to work on homework. I sprang from my seat.
“Mlle Lamotte, I’m not feeling well. May I go to the restroom?”
“Oh, Alexandra, you’re looking a bit flushed. Do you have a fever? Do you want to go to the nurse’s office?”
Merde. “No, I think I just need to wash my face and get some air and maybe a drink of water. The restroom is fine.” Mostly I was craving solitude. How could it all have happened only been 40 minutes ago? It already felt like it had been days.
She gave me the permission I sought and I strode away briskly. When I turned in the hallway to quietly latch the door using both hands, we made eye contact briefly through the crack.