The chest was surprisingly light; even so, Brittany found it impossible to move quietly. Whether or not the resulting sounds carried to the other room she didn’t know; still, even the thought of being heard — unlikely as it was over the screams and the noise of the machine as it operated — filled her with dread.
Once the chest was moved, the peephole was exactly where she’d been told to expect it. Crouching down, well aware of her pinned skirt and the sight she presented of her full behind in her too-small panties, Brittany squeezed herself as close to the wall as she could and peered through the hole in the plaster to the scene on the other side.
Much to her surprise, there were two girls in the room; a situation not unheard of, but still one that she found distressing, for it suggested the punishments the Head was administering that day would have witnesses, something that every girl in the school particularly detested. The view through the peephole was too narrow for her to see the girl astride the apparatus of correction; however, she was able to see the girl kneeling with her nose in the corner well enough.
Her uniform was the usual black sweater and pleated skirt; the underpants white and, as she could clearly see, positioned far south of their usual location. That too was normal; when you waited for correction you were invariably bared, and the Head apparently preferred the underpants down to the thighs so that the “target area” (as he liked to call the tight fleshy buttocks of the young ladies) was nicely framed.
And then there were the white kneesocks, fine for the more juvenile girls but dreadful for the older ones, whose fashion sense — while still puerile — had nonetheless matured to the point of detesting anything they had worn as mere children.
But there it was — or rather, Brittany corrected herself, there she was, the girl on the other side of the wall, head down, bared-behind up, quivering at the sounds of the machine as it operated behind her, out of Brittany’s view, the girl shaking as she knelt, waiting her turn.
The girl knelt, Brittany watched. Who was it, she wondered, but the girl cradled her head in her arms — sobbing quietly, Brittany was sure — so there were no clues that would provide an identity. It didn’t look to be one of the usual miscreants, who were legendary for their determination not to show fear (although there could be no doubt that at some point they broke; but not, Brittany presumed, at the point of merely waiting to be chastised).
No, it had to be someone new to the process, perhaps as new as Brittany herself, for Brittany could see that the girl’s shaking had become more pronounced, perhaps rising in synchrony with the pitched cries that were now coming from the culprit being forced to ride astride the mechanism.
The kneeling girl shook; the noises from the girl on The Bicycle reached a fever pitch; and then, suddenly, the handle on the door to Brittany’s waiting room began to turn.
Brittany looked up, frozen in her crouch, unable to move as the door swung abruptly open and several faces looked in at her from the dank corridor outside …
(To Be Continued …)
© mrstrict1@aol.com. This material is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any form without the explicit permission of mrstrict1@aol.com.