I closed the classroom door with a click then walked through the deserted halls, canvas sneakers echoing squeakily. I returned to the restroom where I’d freshened up before class, pushed open the heavy wooden door — empty! — and then was serenaded by the groaning hinges. The door clunked closed.
I was alone and unobserved for the first time since the spanking. I bent over slightly to get my hands on the backs of my thighs under the hem of my skirt while I walked. While I was in class I could certainly tell that the skin was tender, but somehow it didn’t seem fully real until I touched the heat with my fingertips, sensitive cool skin against sensitive warm skin.
As before, I went to the very end of the row, but this time I pushed open the stall door and turned to look at myself in the mirror from this makeshift blind. It was unlikely that anyone would come in during class time, but my instinct was to hide and I didn’t want to take even the slight risk of being seen.
I lifted the pleats of my skirt and looked over my shoulder at my reflection. The area from mid-thighs up to — gathering up the pleats with my left arm, I briefly pulled down the waistband of my panties with my right — mid-bum was tender and warm, and the mirror revealed it to be a splotchy pink. Pink? Not red? Hmph. It felt red. I had felt it throbbing distinctly redly.
Craning my neck was awkward. I heard Mr. Martin’s voice in my mind: “Yes it’s awkward — it’s meant to be.” My gut clenched. I tucked the hem of my skirt up into the waistband to free my hands, turned toward the toilet and held my phone up to take an ass-selfie over my shoulder, then examined the photo. Hmm, the panties hid most of the color. I tugged my panties down to mid-thigh, where they’d be out of the way and snapped another photo.
Back down to mid-thigh, rather. That’s where they were less than an hour ago, where Mr. Martin had put them. No, not put. Pulled. Tugged, impatiently. The gusset was now soaked through and I was dripping wet, like syrup. Had I been this wet earlier? Had he seen? Did he know?
I slipped my phone back in the pocket of my blazer, then ran my fingertips in light circles over the warm, abused skin. I touched myself delicately all over, raising goosebumps in places. Then I placed my hands flat on my backside, middle fingers nestled in the creases at the top of my thighs, savoring the throbbing heat against my cool hands.
He had smacked my bum, a lot. And it hurt, a lot. But sometimes he had touched me gently. Fairly often, now that I thought about it. The light squeezes, the caresses, they didn’t feel like punishment at all. And the times when he had stilled, I suppose he was looking, or rather, gazing. I know he had been hard, I hadn’t imagined that. Then afterwards, he had touched my back lightly, and murmured in my ear.
He had suggested that I might come back to him, that I might choose to take more punishment at his hands. I’d have to want it to be able to choose it. But want… what? To earn extra credit? To impress him? To feel his touch, whether gentle or harsh?
I felt that clench again, threatening to overtake me.
I latched the stall door.