I often wonder to myself how few words it takes to craft an image of sufficient power to arouse and terrify. While I most often practice this art of conjury by phone as part and parcel of preparing someone for discipline or release (as I choose), I thought it would be worthwhile to see how it comes out as writing instead of talk. What you read below is the result — since this is the kind of short piece that really lends itself to reader participation, I invite comments, or additions, which I’ll have my webmaster pick from to put up.
She’s taken from the classroom by the matrons, they come to get her early in the afternoon just after lunch, just after she and the other girls have taken their seats and the teacher has begun to write on the blackboard at the front of the class.
They come in through the doorway of the classroom and make their way down between the rows of desks to where she’s sitting, the room going suddenly silent the moment they enter, the two of them, the two matrons, black-clad, silent and grim.
She has no idea they’d come for her, no idea what she’s done. Only the certain knowledge as they raise her to her feet and march her out of the class that she’s going to the place she’s heard so much but never visited: the basement room the other girls whisper about after the lights are out in their dormitory. The basement room with the heavy door and the soundproof walls from which not the slightest whisper will escape. Not the sound of the underpants being lowered, not the sound of the cane applied to bared cheeks.
Not the sound of a greased nozzle penetrating past two blistered buttocks into the tight aperture between, or the pleas and cries that accompany a larger entry, as the headmaster bends forward behind his charge and places himself at the entry to her schoolgirl rear.
She’s never experienced any of that, only heard about it with the lights out and the other girls whispering to each other in their beds around her. But now, as she’s escorted out the door past the watchful eyes of her fellow students, the images are in her mind.
There are butterflies in her stomach and her head is light as the door closes behind her, the other girls disappearing as it swings shut, only the long stretch of the usual corridor before her, the stairs at the other end marking the descent into the darkness beneath the school building that she’ll soon be dragged down into.
The basement room of the reformatory waits in the gloom, the door already opened, the punishment stool that stands bare and alone in the middle of its emptiness waiting to receive her.
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