Missy looked up from her desk and slowly blinked her lovely blue-gray eyes. The cane, which had so recently resided in the cabinet on the wall, was now loose in her hand. With it’s curiously curved handle, some might mistake it for a walking stick. I knew better; it was too thin to bear weight.
Nodding to herself, Missy stood and stepped around her desk. Her lush lips were set in a firm line and neither of us spoke when she placed one hand on my shoulder. She pushed me forward, until I was bent across the old, wooden desk. I reached for the far end and gripped it tightly with my fingertips. My bottom was high in the air.
I felt a cool breeze as Missy lifted my skirt over my bottom. Gently, she hooked her fingers in my panties, and slowly tugged the delicate fabric to my knees. I lay my head sideways on the smooth desktop and closed my eyes. The room was silent, and I was vulnerable.
Finally, Missy broke the silence. “How many strokes do you think you deserve?”
There was no right answer. I bit my lip and single tear slid from the corner of my eye.
“Okay,” she said, as if that was a number that could be counted. And then I heard the cane whistle as it cut through the air before landing on my bottom with a sharp crack, as loud as a pistol shot.
“One!” I screamed, dancing on my toes.