The Janey and Michelle Stories
This next one may be the last of the Janey and Michelle stories that are already written, although I know there are a few floating around in my head, and I may have written them down somewhere… or I may be inspired to write some of them down sometime soon.
I can actually still remember the basement room in the library that inspired the story. I hope you’ll enjoy it.
Acting Up
“Come to my office after your last class,” Janey whispered as I followed my students out of the library classroom. I winced slightly, since I suspected that she didn’t just want company during her evening office hours. I managed to clear my mind before my next class started, and I had almost forgotten Janey’s expression when she suggested I visit her when I was finished with classes. And so I was almost surprised when she locked her door and pointed firmly at the straight-backed chair by the window. ”You can sit there and wait until I’m ready to deal with you, Miss.”
I didn’t bother asking what she meant, because I already knew. I felt slightly embarrassed about my behavior, but I knew that Janey would soon make more than my face red. I ran excuses through my head. ”It’s the end of a long week” didn’t seem appropriate. ”Max started it” wasn’t going to fly, even if it were true.
In honest truth, I’d behaved badly. Unprofessionally. Childishly. Max and I were the teaching assistants, and should have demonstrated a higher level of professionalism, rather than a lower one. I squirmed. Hopefully, Janey would have been the only one who noticed.
Drat Max anyways, I thought. If he hadn’t kept making snide comments, I wouldn’t have snickered. And Janey was a little to blame, too. If she were a more engaging speaker, we wouldn’t have been so bored sitting through the
presentation on library research methods for the third time that week. Yeah, I thought. Much as I love Janey, she’s not a very engaging speaker. So I wasn’t to blame for drawing puppet faces on my hands and making them do weird things in time with Janey’s presentation.
I glanced down at my hands and swallowed. The faces were still there.
I bit my lip, and watched the lights come on in the quad below me. I listened to the clock ticking. I listened to Janey’s keyboard as she finished up whatever work she was doing. I dared to glance towards the desk, and noticed the paddle sitting in the middle of the empty space. I looked back at my hands. I tried to rub the ink off. It faded just a bit, and left raw, red patches.
I folded my hands in my lap, and wondered when Janey would be ready to deal with me. I wished desperately that the paddle were on her desk for some other, unrelated reason.
The noises in the corridors outside Janey’s office faded away. She finally turned her chair and looked up at me.
“I’m sorry,” I offered, before she could speak.
She continued looking at me.
“It was unprofessional. It was a bad example for my students. Max started it.” Whoops. There went any pretense of me as responsible adult!
“It doesn’t matter who started it, Miss. You know how to behave, don’t you?” I shrugged. ”I’m sure you know how. I’ll just give you a bit of a reminder.” She stood up, and picked up the brush. ”Pants down, and over the desk,” she ordered.
I slowly complied, hoping that the building would be well and truly deserted at eight-thirty on a Friday night. Janey’s white noise machine might muffle voices, but I didn’t have much faith that it would mask the sounds of a bare-bottomed paddling.
As Janey walked around the desk, I had a sudden image of myself in my old school uniform, across a desk, with my teacher walking around the desk, slowly lifting my skirt. I squirmed.
Janey refocused my attention with the first SMACK!! of the paddle. Her left hand held me firmly down on the desk while the paddle in her right hand made me regret every bit of disrespect I’d shown during her presentation. Janey
was quiet, allowing the paddle to do all her speaking for her. She finally stopped smacking me when my bottom and the tops of my thighs were well and truly on fire. She put the paddle back onto the desk and allowed me to face her.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“Yeah,” said a voice in the room, “no matter how boring the presenter is, don’t make comments about what she’s saying.” I bit my lip before the evil spirit could use my voice any more.
Both of Janey’s eyebrows shot up. ”Well, hmmmm.. That was a request for something, and I don’t think it was bottom-rubbing.”
I looked desperately at the floor. Sometimes, my bratty mouth gets away from me. Why couldn’t it wait until my pants were back around my waist, and Janey was further away from me–like maybe across town?
Janey walked back around her desk, and opened the top drawer. She replaced the paddle, and looked to see what else she had available. ”In fact, I think that was a clear request for the strap.” I squirmed. I don’t like the strap, which is why I brought it here several weeks ago, when I knew that we wouldn’t have as much time to “play” as we’d planned. The strap had languished in Janey’s desk drawer, unused, for all that time.
Janey pulled the strap out of the drawer, and came to my side. She brought it down firmly across the backs of my thighs. I clenched my fingers on the far side of the desk as Janey brought the strap down, methodically moving from my thighs to the top of my bottom, and back down. I held my feet as still as I could, and I tried not to squirm. I suddenly had another flash of my old school uniform. We’d never been spanked at school, of course. At least not officially. But I can still remember the dreams I had for the whole month before my first day, featuring a variety of firm teachers and older students.
Finally, Janey decided I had gotten enough of the strap. ”Now have you learned your lesson?”
I studied the grain of the desk. ”Yes, ma’am.” My voice was contrite.
Janey swatted my bottom affectionately as she walked around the desk to put the strap away. ”You can get up, then.”
As we walked out of her office, she looked at me seriously and said, “And of course you remember what happens to girls who get spanked at school.”
I nodded remorsefully. ”Too bad you can’t make all the grad students behave,” I smirked.
“Perhaps I will offer a demonstration of what happens to disrespectful graduate students the next time you act up when I’m giving a presentation,” she suggested.
“On second thought…” I backtracked.
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