I’d never been good at waiting.

But his instructions were quite clear: “Stand still, be quiet and don’t turn round”

So I stare at the wall and listen to footsteps walking away. He stops after 10 steps. Behind me, a hinge creaks. There’s some clattering and some rustling. What is he doing?

I dimly remember the large wooden cupboard in the corner of the classroom. The one that’s kept locked, like some ancient reliquary, that no student has ever looked in. He must be looking for a suitable implement to punish me with. What will it be? I wonder. The suspense mounts, but I dare not turn round. That would be asking for trouble. But my curiously is an itch that must be scratched. Maybe just a peek, he won’t even notice me.

I can’t hear him, he must be still looking in the cupboard. So I take a chance, quickly turning my head to see him looming over me; his voice chastises me:
“I told you not to turn round”.
His voice was commanding rather than angry, reminiscent of summer sailing holidays and how the skipper would scold me when I was behaving recklessly.

I blush furiously as I try to explain myself.  
“But I…”  
One look from him is all it takes to silence me. Now I know it will be worse. Caught peeking, it’s so childish. I stare at the floor in embarrassment, willing it to open up and swallow me whole.

I await his next instruction in silence. I hear my own shallow breathing and a clock ticking in the distance. A distant door slams, just loud enough to hear above the roar of my own ears. Silence is indeed deafening. And tense. And awkward. And boring. Get on with it, I urge. This waiting is almost worse than punishment.

Out of the silence emerges a soft tapping noise.
“Come here”, I am summoned.
I hesitate before I meekly take two steps forward.  My eyes still gaze at the floor as I dare not meet his stare. In one hand he’s holding something, tapping it against the other.

“Bend over the table”
A finger points at the large, imposing teacher’s table at the front of the room.
I stare at it, not daring to move, like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
Now he speaks more loudly.
“I’m waiting. Don’t make this any worse”

I hurry over quickly and hesitate for just a second before bending over the table. The table looks old; its worn, slightly uneven surface is mottled with splots of ink. It also feels old, as I reach over it my fingertips rub across gaps in the grain. And as I lower my head, I can smell its age, its fresh wood smell is long gone, now it smells of old wood polish, like a musty wax.

It is a sturdy table, it would protect me, I wish I could somehow hide underneath it. But it’s too late now; so I just close my eyes and listen to his heavy footsteps, and that soft tap – tap – tapping. Getting louder, and louder…

* * * * *

I approach to within two paces of my prone young student. I see her legs tremble, and I know she is afraid. I know her heart is fluttering, her primal instincts telling her to run away from the imminent discomfort. Yet here she still is, compliant and submissive, lying across my sturdy old oak table, waiting for the spanking that will wipe all her transgressions away. At heart she’s a good girl, sometimes a bit reckless, impulsive even, she’ll benefit from a lesson in patience.

I am scolding now: “I am very disappointed in you, young lady. Your teachers consider you a gifted student, but your casual approach to your studies must be corrected.”

Now my voice softens, as if to emphasise my sadness at her disobedience.
“And I gave you explicit instructions not to turn around, yet you still disobeyed me.”

A meek voice peeps, “I’m sorry, sir.”

But I have punished too many recalcitrant minxes to be sure of her sincerity. At first, most I punish are only really sorry they’ve been caught. But by the time they leave this room, their bottoms glowing, their sorrow tends to be genuine.

“Let us begin. Place your hands on your head.”
She complies without complaint, a good sign.

Next, my fingers grasp the hem of her skirt. She emits a shallow gasp as her upper thighs and panties are exposed. Moments later I’ve folded her skirt and tucked it into her waistband.

She is holding her legs tightly together, clenching her bottom in anticipation of what’s to come. I reach down to correct her stance.
“Legs apart, please. Point your toes inward. I don’t want to see you clenching your bottom.”

Now I can see her globes stretching the material of her white school knickers.

“Good girl. I expect you to take your discipline with grace. No shouting or pleading, or I shall take down your panties. We’ll begin with a session with the leather paddle. Then you’ll discover the special punishment reserved for impatient peepers.”

I begin to rub the paddle over her taught underwear and the bare skin of her upper thighs. It’s less shocking that way. I start spanking slowly and gently, alternating between her cheeks. My spanks increase in force until she begins to wince with every smack. A pink glow begins to develop underneath her panties. Her breath is ragged, as she struggles to keep her composure.
One last flurry of smacks, accompanied by yelps. Then silence.

Now to do something about that peeping, I think I have just the answer.
I walk back to cupboard and retrieve two special items, one is a plastic, mechanical timer, shaped like an egg. I wind it up, twist to set it and it begins ticking: it emits a hollow, metallic clink-clink-clink, like two teaspoons jangling together. She gasps as I pull back her panties, slipping the egg timer between her warm rosy cheeks and onto the gusset of her underwear. I position it carefully, against her perineum, and she begins to feel its ticks.


“Stand up.” She gingerly eases herself off the desk.
Now I pick up the second item, a black silk scarf.
“This will stop your urge to peep”, I explain.

I place the scarf over her eyes and wind it three times around her head, before tying it in a bow. Once blindfolded, I take her hand and escort her back into her naughty corner.

“Hands on top of your head again, please. Good.”
“Now young lady, what you feel between your legs is an egg timer. You will feel the passage of every second you spend in the corner. But this time you have no distractions, and no way of peeping, so you may spend your time contemplating your behaviour and your sore bottom.”

I save the surprise until last.

“You shall learn patience, and come to appreciate waiting. Because when the egg timer rings, your bare bottom has an appointment across my knee…”

She gasps a syllable of complaint, but manages to stifle it.

I return to my desk, to admire the view.
What are you thinking, I wonder, as you stand silently in the corner, skirt lifted, bottom glowing, a ticklish ticking against your most sensitive spot? Do the tiny vibrations echo through your body,
amplified by your anticipation?

I leave her to wait.

* * * * *

As I stand there in that corner, staring at the blackness of the blindfold and listening to the tick, tick, tick of the egg timer, I imagine myself in another place.  The ticking seems to be getting louder, now a sotto voce rather than a whisper. The vibrations are becoming more insistent – less easy to ignore, they’re almost beginning to feel good.  

My mind runs wild with the possibilities of what will happen when the ticking finally stops.  Will he tell me to pull down my panties? Or will he do it? Will he drag them abruptly whilst scolding me? Or lower them slowly and compassionately? What will he spank me with? His bare hand perhaps, or a wooden ruler?  Will that pink glowing bottom of mine change to a darker shade of red? How will I feel? What if I get excited? My head spins, the scenarios seem endless…

I should be contemplating my bad behaviour and the punishment I have received so far, but I find myself relishing it and wanting more. Why is that egg timer still ticking? Surely, he must want to punish me by now. Is he still watching me? Patience, I tell myself. Soon, all will be revealed.

The tense silence is broken by the din of the school bell. My heightened hearing intuitively locates it on the other side of the wall behind me, in the corridor I’d trudged down to report here. That feels such a long time ago now. The bell rings for 30 seconds, filling my head with noise. The bell signals the end of the school day. The school will be emptying, and here am I, alone with one of my teachers.
About to have my knickers pulled down.


I allow my mind to wander, imagining I’m feeling a lover’s gentle touch massaging me rather than an egg timer. I absorb every vibration it emits, and slowly feel myself getting more and more aroused.  My spanked bottom no longer aches, but feels like it’s emitting a pleasurable glow. I feel damp between my legs. I feel thrillingly naughty. I long to rub myself, but don’t dare. I sense him still sitting behind me, watching. Being caught touching myself would be so humiliating. But the anticipation of what will happen next slowly eats me up.

Seconds pass, minutes pass, and still the ticking continues. I concentrate on the ticks, trying to mentally amplify the vibrations – but they’re so frustratingly weak. If only they were stronger, I’d come quietly, he’d never know.

The interval between the ticks seems to be getting longer and longer, as my arousal gives way to frustration. When is this infernal ticking going to stop? Surely this is long enough. The vibrations continue and feelings of unfulfillment start to envelop me. More minutes pass. I feel tetchy, I long to move that egg timer but know I’m in enough trouble already.

I think about my pink sore bottom which is still smarting and my frustration turn to that of indignation. Who is he to be doing this to me?  What right did he have to spank me and leave me standing a corner, waiting for him? Does he think he controls me? I am in control, I have every right to walk away if I wish. Maybe I will, that will show him. He’s probably wandered off to another classroom to deal with some other naughty pupil, thinking I’ll still be standing here obediently waiting for him when he returns.

Well, if he thinks he can just make me wait here while he goes off, he’d better think again. I’ll walk away and find some other way of relieving myself. I don’t need him and his silly games.

Feelings of discontent and frustration fill my mind. I’ve lost track of time, it must be at least half an hour. I’ve heard those stories of naive apprentices being sent to the storeroom to fetch A Long Weight. Yes, I bet he’s sitting behind me, reading a paper, waiting for me to catch on. God, I’m a fool! This is silly just standing here.

I can’t stand it any longer. Impulsively, I decide enough is enough. My hands reach back and I feel a bow, it is easy to undo. I half expect to hear his voice scolding me for my indiscipline, but I don’t. So I pull off the blindfold. Light floods my eyes.

Blinking, I look round the room.
There’s no one there.
Just as I suspected, he’s gone and left me! Probably in the staff room, having a cup of tea and good chuckle at my expense. Grrrr! I feel like swearing, but realise the virtue of keeping quiet, and channel my anger into clenched fists instead.

I look about the room, it’s relatively empty. It’s dim, no windows, only skylights. I see the sturdy old desk at the front, his empty chair. The mysterious cupboard – now closed again. There’s three other desks with chairs. There’s a blackboard, now more grey than black, filled with the chalky white swirls of repeated erasings – inside which I can just about read the faded word ‘Detention’. This room’s purpose is obvious. There are also two doors at the front of the room on opposite sides.

A-ha. Escape routes.

I reach down to take the egg timer out of my panties. Through my fingers I feel one side is slightly damp to the touch, raising it for a closer look, I can smell my own arousal. The timer is egg-shaped, with a notched and numbered ring at its widest part that clearly sets its duration. Below a small triangular arrow is the number 6. With a jolt of panic, I realise its significance immediately.
The timer will ring in 6 minutes.
He knows it will ring in 6 minutes.
He will be back within the next 6 minutes.

I don’t have much time, I yank my skirt down with as much dignity as I can manage, the queasy ache of fear spreading from my stomach. I’ve broken the rules again, what awful punishment awaits me now? I need to get away.

Gingerly I place the egg timer on the floor, like I’m setting down a hand grenade. It continues to tick away. Valuable seconds pass as I stop, and briefly consider staying to face the music. Then, somehow, I’ve decided. I’ll make a dash for it. I know I’ve done wrong, but I’m an impetuous girl, and my instinct is to run.

Of the room’s two doors I think I recognise the one I entered. He might be behind the other one, but I didn’t hear him move. Maybe he moved when the school bell rang? If so, I’ll need to be quiet. I take a step forward, stepping ever so lightly, lest a treacherous footboard betray my escape with a squeak. Silence. Another step. Silence. I tread more confidently now, feeling like a burglar as I creep light-footedly towards the door. I take a deep breath and turn the handle. It clanks. It’s locked.

I feel trapped and anxious. Did he lock me in? Or was I mistaken? Did I enter through the other door? No matter, I only have one option left. I walk quietly to the other side of the room, breathe deeply and try the door handle. It’s unlocked. In one quick movement I open it and stride purposefully through it.

I stop after one step.
This is a room, not a corridor.
My jaw drops. Lining all four walls are canes, paddles, whips and straps of every imaginable size, colour and shape. Each on its own tiny hook, like some bizarre cloakroom.
And in the middle:
Seated on a straight-backed chair.
My eyes widen when I see what he holds in his hand.

He does not seem at all surprised to see me.
“Ah young lady, I’ve been waiting for you.”

* * * * *


As it happened, I took down my own panties.

SpankingTheatre at gmail . com 2012