fiction: The New Principal 1

This is my first fiction piece on the blog, and I might be jumping into the deep end by starting with a very specific genre: the schoolgirl spanking story.

It all started with a skirt. I’d been thinking that I could use a little pleated skirt, then remembered I had one in the pile of clothes to get rid of that, with alteration, might work. After I hacked off 7 inches, I found it surprisingly schoolgirlish. A back-to-school themed play party motivated me to cobble together the remainder of a school “uniform”, which sparked my imagination…

Ten minutes into first period, the intercom crackled to life with the high school secretary’s familiar voice saying words no one had ever heard before: “Alexandra King, please report to the principal’s office.”

My stomach lurched. Shit. Shit. I’d started skipping a class here and there. That must be it. But this was only the second week of school, and I’d been strategic so no one teacher would notice a pattern. And since they all liked me, I figured they’d give me the benefit of the doubt for a while at least. Assuming that getting a handshake at the end-of-the-year award ceremony didn’t count as “meeting”, I was about to meet the principal for the first time. Shit.

I felt the weight of everyone’s gaze as I stood and gathered my books. I usually sat more or less front and center, but in Calculus my friends all wanted to sit in the back corner. I slouched towards the door at the front of the room, trying vainly to disappear. Even the teacher’s eyebrows were headed for his hairline. Out in the empty hallway, I relaxed a bit.

This year, my last in high school, was going to be really different from the previous years. The new principal, Mr. Martin, liked to call himself “Headmaster”. Or rather, “Headmahstah.” I guessed on the basis of the accent that he was from somewhere in England.

New uniform. Dorktastic.

The uniforms that we now wore were his doing. I live in jeans and T-shirts. I hate skirts. And bloody blouses. Blazer, tie and knee socks. Ugh. And now all the guys are always looking at all the girls’ legs. How exactly is this supposed to make for an “environment conducive to learning”?

At the office, the secretary showed me to a chair and then bustled off to the photocopier room, which immediately started to hum. After a few moments, the Headmahstah’s door opened and he called me in. Despite the suit and tie, he looked too young to be a principal — mid to late 20s maybe. Sarah, who sat next to me in English, had a boyfriend who was 25. (She was nearly 18, while at 16 and three quarters I was about the youngest in the class.) But then Mr. Martin acted way older than 25, so I guess it balanced out. I could just see over his shoulder that the walls behind him were cluttered with class photos (from his previous schools, I assumed) and the metal filing cabinets were topped with an assortment of travel curios and a few houseplants.

“Sit down.” There was one sturdy straight-backed wooden chair facing his desk. I sat and studied my knees.

“Do you know why I called you in to see me?”

I was pretty sure I knew, but I didn’t want to say anything. Like my brother told me, if you get pulled over and the cop asks if you know why he stopped you: don’t confess anything, don’t make it easy. I shook my head.

“When I started at this school over the summer, I familiarized myself with the files of some of the more noteworthy students.” He crossed from the desk to the window and surveyed the grounds while I surreptitiously studied the room. “Your file stood out: straight As, awards, the whole lot.”

The dates on his degrees put him at 33 or 34. Huh.

“Imagine my surprise when I checked the attendance records of your various classes and found that you had been skipping. That seemed out of character.”

He turned toward me, his eyebrows raised imperiously during the pause, as though he were peering over reading glasses. Half-moon glasses, I thought, and then I had to stifle a smile when an image of Dumbledore in robes and long grey beard popped to mind unbidden. “You’re only harming yourself with that behavior. So now we’re going to correct it. It’s for your own good, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess,” I said.

Giving me a penetrating look, he said, “The correct answer is ‘Yes, sir.’ Try it.”

I took a breath, raised my head and looked into the middle distance, not towards him but vaguely over his desk. “Yes, sir.” Fine. I’ve said the words, but you can’t make me mean them.

“You know your behavior must be punished. Skipping classes is foolish and childish so your punishment will be too. I’m going to give you a spanking.”

My eyes flew up to meet his. I gaped. Shit.

“Now, Miss King. Stand up.” I couldn’t remember ever having been addressed that way before. The title and last name should have sounded grown up, but in this context it felt like a rebuke.

He wheeled his black leather office chair to the side and replaced it with another chair from the corner, which was straight-backed and wooden, like mine. He sat. “Take off your blazer and come around, now.”

The photocopier in the next room was still humming. What was the secretary copying? The phone book?

“Over my knee.”

[Continued in Part 2.]

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Edit: Marie Rebelle chose this post as one of her Top 3 for the week.

Sinful Sunday: yes, pleats

The other day it was hot. I wear pants all the time so it has to be really hot before I remember that I even own skirts and that some of them are nice to wear in hot weather.

The skirt I chose to wear was one I’d made a few years ago, and while I like it and find it flattering, these days the just-below-the-knee length feels a little… stale. I’m more comfortable with my body than I was when I made it and now wearing it feels a little like hiding.

As I considered whether to raise the hem a little, I remembered that I had another iteration of the same style of skirt. Even though it was the most recent make, I liked it the least, and it was in the pile of clothes to get rid of. I could alter it without fear, since even if I mangled it I wasn’t really out anything but time. I dug it out and performed surgery, shortening it by 7 inches!

It’s now well into the realm of girliness. I feel like I might be channeling a Japanese schoolgirl in half of her sailor uniform. And as costume-y as that sounds, I think I’m going to get way more use out of it like this.

yes pleats

Funnily enough, this shirt spent some time in the pile of stuff to get rid of too.

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Sinful Sunday: anasyrma

In The Soul of Sex, Thomas Moore (no, a different Thomas Moore) discusses a few poses in which Aphrodite/Venus is commonly portrayed. I thought those poses would make an interesting theme for a series of images, and when I saw the February Sinful Sunday prompt, I knew it was the perfect time to get cracking.

So, “A is for…” anasyrma (ἀνάσυρμα), “lifting the skirt”.

This was done to display the genitals or buttocks in connection with religious rituals, eroticism or lewd jokes. The purpose is not the sexual gratification of the subject (i.e. exhibitionism), but the effect on onlookers. Here’s a classical example of front anasyrma, so you know what I’m on about:

Ägyptisches Museum Leipzig 206
Isis-Aphrodite, 2nd to 1st c. BC, Hellenistic Egypt
And here’s my slightly more demure take on it:


Lifting the skirt is a powerful act in a number of cultures, especially for its apotropaic effect (warding off evil). It connects with the sheela na gig, who scares away the devil with her vulva. Take that!

Pliny the Elder wrote in the first century AD that a menstruating woman who exposes herself can scare off hailstorms, whirlwinds and lightning. This is echoed in the Catalan saying “La mar es posa bona/ si veu el cony d’una dona” (The sea calms down if it sees the cunt of a woman).

As I was doing a spot of research for this post, I came across an interesting and powerful website called Raising the Skirt, which is “constructing a community of courageous and fearless women to join me in the act of Raising the Skirt and reclaiming our Cunts.”

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Sinful Sunday: skirt symmetry

Sinful SundayI prefer to post new photos but occasionally that doesn’t work out. I got back from my trip with Gawan recently and found that I was too busy settling in at home to feel like doing a shoot this week, so I rifled through the unused photos file.

The image below comes from the same shoot as slinky skirt and slinky skirt, rear view. Like so many other photos of mine, in this one I’m square to the camera and the pose is symmetrical. I’m not sure why I like these elements so much – like the black and white, I suppose they speak to simplicity (which I know I like) and formality (which surprises me because the notion doesn’t ordinarily appeal).

But beyond that, the image just seemed to match my mood today. Wolf and I have been dealing with some challenges lately and today it bubbled up and overflowed. It wasn’t an argument – we don’t do arguing. But there was negativity, frustration and sadness. Awareness of problems without knowing how to begin to solve them. I shed some tears, and though we reestablished closeness and some equilibrium by the end of it, the emotional heavy lifting that I’d done left me feeling leaden.

skirt symmetry

Sinful Sunday: get a grip

Sinful Sunday

I have been at least a little self-conscious about my tum since about age 9, when I picked up on my parents’ (unfounded) concerns about their weight. And then, of course, the top-down view of one’s own body causes foreshortening and exaggerates curves.

This is probably the only photo I’ve taken so far that deliberately makes a point of emphasizing that bit of softness rather than merely ignoring it or trying to downplay it.

get a grip

Sinful Sunday is a weekly meme featuring sensual and erotic photography. Click the icon at the top of the post to go to the homepage and check out the other links.