BIG THANKS to Monty, J
and t'Larien for ploughing through this story and picking
out mistakes and typos.
This story is for J, on the first anniversary of our online friendship
One of the reasons Jamie always wore running shoes to school was that even in empty halls, even under those quasi-mediaeval vaults, nobody would hear your steps as you were walking down the corridor in the middle of the first period. Whether you were late, sent on your way out of the classroom for talking or chewing gum, or just taking a walk to clear the morning mist in your brain -- in running shoes there was practically no danger of getting caught by a stray teacher, attracted by the sound of your feet on the parquetry.
Jamie dutifully loaded herself on the bus every morning, and waited for her mom to pick her up after classes. She never accidentally took wrong turns, ending up in the movies or shopping centres, like many of her classmates did. However, having walked into the door of school building, she would sometimes disappear from view and never show up in class.
The reason for it was that a little inner voice (which proved itself to be the silliest part of Jamie's personality) clearly sounded in her head: "I need a walk". Or, say: "I need to think". Or simply: "To hell with Maths".
Even though sometimes the inner voice said nothing, she still found herself sitting on the windowsill in the bathroom until 10 minutes after the tardy-bell, and then walking down the empty halls under quasi-mediaeval vaults, taking long sliding steps, noiseless, pretending she was a black panther with black, smooth, glistening back and graceful habit.
Sometimes she would also pretend she was a ghost of these halls, a little merry apparition, noting everything, but never seen; or a sad apparition who would loiter about, disturbing everyone with downhearted sighs and leave pieces of her white robes in the guise of spider's web. And sometimes she pretended she was just a girl; not exactly herself, but a pretty thing with sparkling eyes and coquettish dimples, the kind of girl whose name was known to everyone, who was a star of every boy's naughty dream and a joy of her parents' lives.
Jamie has always despised girls like that.
Empty, quiet corridors held an unusual attraction for her. Sitting on the floor, leaning back against the row of lockers, was the only time when she could feel unique - not one of the crowd, nameless among her peers, a colourless girl whom no one ever remembered meeting. She would drop her bag on the floor, sit down and stretch her legs, resting her head against the locker, and smile contentedly, thinking that nobody else in the whole school knew this secret recipe of being one of a kind. All you had to do was wear old running shoes to school, roam along the corridors, unseen, and there would be no one like you, because no one would be there at all.
A school reform fell on the pupils' heads, unexpected and unwelcome. It was painful; the changes were hard to grasp at once. There were many minor variations in the rules that Jamie wasn't too bothered with, but she found that some of the changes carried potential danger to her, as they were bound to influence her usual routines.
Introduction of school uniform for everyone, from tiny 11-year-olds to seniors, meant black shoes with low booming heels that would make her an easy prey for corridor patrol. Triumphant return of corporal punishment meant getting caught was a thing not to be aspired to.
Jamie was too used to her silent walkabouts for common sense to interfere. She soon found out that wearing running shoes with her uniform wasn't considered a deed seditious enough to warrant even a reprimand from one of her teachers - or was it her namelessness that was saving her? - so she ignored loud black shoes, and continued her walks. Missing so many classes appeared a more serious offence though. At the end of the week Jamie found herself one of eight girls sitting in line to the new headmaster's study, waiting to be punished.
She wasn't first or last in line, she wasn't the oldest, or the youngest, or the tallest, or the smallest, or the one with the worst offence. Even among the girls who somehow distinguished themselves, ending up in the head's office, she remained anonymous. After another girl emerged from the study, tearful and wearing the most miserable face one could imagine. Jamie was called in.
The head took the yellow slip from her, and studied it with a concentrated look. "Right," he then said. "Four with the tawse, I think. I expect better from girls like you, really."
Jamie obediently bent over when told to; she suffered through her punishment without being especially brave or especially noisy. She sniffled a bit, shifting from foot to foot, hands on her head, while the headmaster made an entry in a punishment log.
"Taylor, Germayne," he wrote, after checking the name on the slip she had given him. "Truancy. Tawse. 4." Jamie let herself admire his features a bit, and imagined asking him for a dance at a masquerade.
"I hope you have learned your lesson, young lady," the headmaster said sternly.
She confirmed that she had.
"You may go," he said, and called: "Next, please!"
The young, good-looking headmaster expected better from girls like her; and since he was the first person who mentioned expecting something from Jamie at all, even not individually, she tried not to cut classes again. Besides, the tawse had hurt.
As she soon discovered, though, addictions were hard to fight. Not that she knew of anyone else being addicted to walking down school corridors in soft running shoes - but soon Jamie missed being a black panther, and a little apparition; in full classrooms she desperately missed being one of a kind, a queen of empty halls. Her determination for providing the headmaster with "better" lasted a week; then she was again alone in the corridor, dangling her legs on a high windowsill. She dreamt she was at a masquerade, dancing with the headmaster himself.
She was turning the corner on the second floor, a merry ghost making rounds in her property, when she heard:
"Hold it right there, Miss!"
Caught?
She turned and saw the headmaster walking purposefully toward her, the gown moving in the draught. Her stomach felt suddenly tight.
"Do you have a hall pass?" the head inquired, giving her an odd look.
"No, sir."
"I see. What is your name?"
"Jamie Taylor,"
she answered, fighting the tears. He didn't recognise her. Even after having
tawsed her backside and saying he expected better, he still didn't remember
her.
Was there anyone on this Earth who would know her name?
"Come with me," the headmaster said, and laid a hand on her shoulder. He led her to his study, and left her stand before his table, while he sat down and leafed through the punishment log.
"Ah," he said as he found her previous entry. "Not the first offence then, is it, Taylor?"
Jamie managed a "no, sir". Suddenly she realised that for the first time in years she was having a teacher's full attention. And what a teacher!
"You are developing a habit, young lady," he said. "It is bothersome to say the least. I will not stand for it."
He stared. Jamie stared back.
"Did you not pay attention to my introduction speech last month?" the head finally said after studying her for a while. "I said this school needed a short sharp shock. And it seems that you are the girl who needs a short sharp shock more than anyone."
Would he ask her for a dance if they were at a masquerade, or would she have to do it first? Maybe if she were wearing a mask, he wouldn't know that he didn't know her?
"Six with the tawse this time," announced the headmaster, and rose. He silently walked around the table, and looked her over from the top of her head to the tips of her running shoes.
"This isn't the regulation footwear, is it, young lady?"
"No, sir." Jamie was getting scared now, suddenly remembering how much four strokes of the two-tailed tawse had hurt.
"And this," said the head, lifting the knot of her tie with a finger, "isn't the proper way to tie your tie, either. Let me see your hands."
She raised her hands, palms up, to have them turned over.
"Hmm, no rings or nail varnish, glad to see that. Turn your back to me and lift your skirt."
There was too much attention all of a sudden. Jamie knew he wanted to check if she was wearing the regulation knickers, but she pretended that he wanted to see her bottom. She pretended she liked the idea. Oh, no, she suddenly remembered, her panties weren't regulation at all!
"I see," she heard from the back. "Not only you think that attending your classes is unnecessary, but you seem to assume wearing correct uniform is below you either. Not good enough, young lady. Not good at all. I can see that you are begging to be caned, my dear, and so be it"
Jamie stupidly thought that the girl he was describing wasn't even her; the head was talking about an apparent rebel, impudent enough to ignore classes and disregard uniform. Jamie, a quiet nameless conformist, never intended to break the rules - she was acting on instincts alone when deciding to cut the class; as for faults in her appearance - she just didn't pay attention to it since no one ever noticed her in any case.
For a moment she was even glad to be considered a shameful rebel, if only it would mean that the head would remember her. (And dance with her at a masquerade.) But then she heard about the cane.
Oh, no. Ohhh, no.
"I will have you bent over this stool, please," the head said pleasantly, as he brought a high three-legged stool out of the corner, and placed it in front of his desk. Jamie very obediently bent over. Then, when told to, she stood up and bent over again, this time facing away from the window. Suffering a deja vu from the events of the previous week, she endured the ritual of the hem of her skirt being raised and neatly tucked in the waistband. She couldn't feel, but could visualise a sheaf of light falling from the window on her upturned backside, making the lines of her body stand out against chestnut and mahogany of the office's interior. This was the moment when Jamie could bask in exclusiveness; she even felt the sweet "one and only" feeling of the empty halls returning for a split second - but it was immediately replaced by sharp embarrassment and acute need to hide, for it was the kind of exclusiveness she never wanted.
Her palms sweated, and she tried to wipe them off on the legs of the stool that she was gripping amenable to the instructions that the headmaster was giving her.
"You are to keep this position all through the caning," he was saying, sounding very much like he was reciting by heart a speech written in advance; very probably it was even borrowed from a textbook for headmasters in the making. Had Jamie been able to abstract herself from the situation, she would have been reminded of the flight attendants' speech during a plane's take-off - well learned, and identical every time.
She gripped the legs tighter at the threat of extra strokes for losing position, and told herself to never let it happen. She wouldn't miss count either, she reiterated, more a prayer than a promise.
"And you will thank me after the punishment is over, and apologise," the head concluded. "I'll expect it to be sincere, young lady."Then his hands suddenly appeared at her waist, and with a quick, deft tug the teacher lowered Jamie's non-regulation panties to the middle of her thighs."Let this be a lesson to you," he lectured, paying no heed to the gasp of horror she gave at the sudden uncovering. "You are developing a habit of truancy, as I can see. This isn't something I'm prepared to ignore."
Jamie never noticed when the cane appeared in his hands, but she noticed immediately when it was laid against her bottom. The simple fact of the implement resting in her bare skin made the lecture sink into the misty background, along with any dreams of a distant masquerade where she would ask the beautiful headmaster for a dance. Again she envisioned the curious rays of light graze her bottom - it had to be the highest spot in the room, attracting stray lightning; Jamie felt like it was. This feeling heightened when the headmaster started tiny menacing taps. Every inch of flexible wood met its appointed inch of skin, as if getting acquainted with it before attacking.
"You will learn," the head assured, and drew the cane back.
Each time that Jamie felt it rush forward with scarcely audible whoosh that you could only hear if you've been a school apparition for so long, she cried out even before the contact was made. Then she would freeze, eyes empty and mouth agape, as the pain registered, and then she would moan quietly, almost secretly, while the cane started tapping again.
"I hope you are already making plans on shaping up," said the headmaster, walking back and forth after the fourth stroke. Jamie dared a peek at him, but only could see the cane being bent between his hands into an arch. "It does hurt, doesn't it?" he lectured. "And undoubtedly serves its intended purpose in most cases."
Jamie was ready to agree. She screamed at the new cuts, eight in total, and tearfully repeated "yes, sir" at every question regarding her future study habits and attention towards the rules about uniform. The lecture stung, all the more so as for some reason she got a peculiar feeling that the head's words were directed at someone else; a bad girl that he saw in her place. The lectures like that were usually designated to really naughty girls who ended up in the head teachers' offices - Jamie felt like she was taking someone's place. He was treating her just like one of those bad girls in trouble, not at all like herself.
Or did she herself exist at all?
She didn't care about exposure any more by the time she was told to put her panties back in place and stand facing the table, heads on her head."You are lucky I didn't confiscate this appalling undergarment," the head scolded. "This is exactly what they would have done in the old days, if the girl showed up at school dressed in such manner."
Jamie's eyes got big, and she thought he was either joking or raving mad - he didn't look crazy though. Just like someone to dance with. Or maybe to walk down the hall with...
With great care the headmaster made an entry in the punishment log, contemplating Jamie for several long minutes before finally closing the book.
She, meanwhile, was weeping
harder and harder with every minute, thinking about how many more caning rituals
she would have to endure, because now that she knew what being the one in
the centre of attention was, she would be unable to resist the temptation.
What painful attention it was.
"Come, come,"
the head said rather sympathetically. He even smiled at her a little.
"You were brave for your punishment. Now, don't you want to tell me something?"
Oh. She had to thank him. And apologise.
She did, and the tears made it sound sincere.
"Good girl," the headmaster said. "And you'll be a good girl now, won't you?"
"Yes, sir," Jamie said, even if she didn't feel she was ever a bad girl. She was just a good girl who sometimes did wrong. Bad girls had attention, they had their stories and history, they had the names that other people recognised - even if only to rail at them. Good girls like Jamie didn't have anything except their colourless anonymity, and their little secrets like running shoes and dream masquerades.But was it the case now? The headmaster caught her doing the deed of a bad girl; he took her to his office, and punished her, and had her promise to be good - was she a bad one in his mind, then? Would he remember her?
The Geography teacher ran off with a boyfriend, the rumour was, so the substitute came in, an old creepy man with rusty voice. Jamie spent the morning choosing between her worn running shoes and stiff patent-leather regulation monstrosities. Dare she transgress again so soon? For the first time in her life she contemplated breaking the rule because she wanted to break the rule, not because she wanted to do things her way. And she wore the uniform shoes: even though the cane didn't leave any visible traces, it still hurt to think about getting it again, even after a week has passed.
But she was late to the bus, and to the first class.
"No, you may not," said the substitute, when she timidly asked if she could come in. "You are fifteen minutes late. Go to the headmaster at once."
She was happy and scared. And felt a little guilty for being bad so soon, and a little guilty for the eagerness to be in that office again. The only stop Jamie made on her way was to check her bottom in the mirror again, and see if there were really no traces left from the cane. What if they would appear by the magic, making the punishment she would next get so much worse?
The receptionist told her to wait, because the headmaster was dealing with another girl. Jamie was offended. Did she have to be one of the crowd again? Even here, in the only place, beside the empty corridors, where she was unique once? But she didn't hear any yelps from the office, and wasn't jealous for long.
The other girl left, and Jamie was let in.
"Well, what is it?" asked the headmaster from behind the desk. He had new spectacles with delicate silver rims, and looked so young. At the masquerade where she would ask him for a dance, the spectacles would have to go over the mask, and she would recognise him.
"I was late today, sir," Jamie said, blushing slightly, expecting to hear "you really are hopeless, young lady".
"I see," he said, and reached for the punishment log. "Well, you know what it gets you. Remind me of your name and form, please."
He didn't remember.
Woodenly Jamie came up to the head's desk, took the ink-pot, and before a word could be muttered, she emptied it on the surface of the table, all the time looking in stunned eyes behind the glasses. Ink formed dark beads on the black polish.
"Jamie Taylor," she pronounced in mindless, calm rage. "Taylor, Germayne, like you write it here," her finger pushed the cover of the punishment log. "What does it take to make you remember someone? You cane one's bare butt, and scorch their ears, and forget in five minutes. Do you know one girl from another, or do they all look the same for you, you freaking spanking machine? Or maybe you only know them by their butts?
Jamie wept. He tricked her into believing that she wasn't invisible any more, and now he didn't remember her name.
"Calm down at once," the head commanded. He came up to her in two big strides and by the shoulders pushed her to sit down on the couch. He grabbed some paper from the printer and dropped it over the inky puddle on the table. Then he came out of the room, and quickly returned with the glass of water.
"Drink," he ordered to the hysterically crying girl.
Jamie drank, splashing a little, and the headmaster sat down on the couch by her side, stroking her shoulder.
"Why is it so hard to remember me?" she wept. "Am I so much like everyone else?"
"I wouldn't say you act much like everyone else," dryly said the head.
She didn't, she realised. That's where the deep shame hit her. Jamie blushed in horror, as she remembered what she did, and what she said, and that she was now worse than any bad girl in whole school.
"You don't look like anyone else," he said much softer. "I never forgot you."
"You didn't know my name," she sniffled.
"Do you know mine?"
Stunned, Jamie looked at him, and whispered:
"No."
Didn't she? How come she hasn't ever thought about it, even dreaming about the masked ball, even choosing the shoes for the day?
"It doesn't matter who is punishing you, then," he said.
She shook her head. "It's not the same... I remembered you! I knew your face. You are the headmaster.
"Yes, I am. Sadly, I am."
"Sadly?" she
forced out.
For a moment he frowned, silent, and then nodded.
"It's indeed sad. Because there are duties I'd rather pass over to someone else." With these words he took her by the upper arm and tugged over his lap, not waiting for tearful protests. Jamie felt his one arm reach for the plaits of her skirt, pulling it to her back, another hand with a quick jerk on each side of her panties yanked them down her weakly protesting legs right to her knees.
"So you think that throwing a tantrum is a good way to introduce yourself," he said, and landed a sharp smack on her very bare bottom, that once again was pointing on the ceiling. The first swat was followed by the fast volley of equally sharp, equally stingy loud smacks. The rapidity of the spanking alone made her squeal, and the speed with which the fire and pain were building up made her cry.
"Cleverly done, my dear, congratulations." His skin lighting up hers didn't feel like anything else had, or would. His arm around her waist and his warm knee pressing into her stomach made the spanking feel like it was addressed directly to her, from one person to another, without any usual ritual of school punishment standing between them.
"It's really very like a girl as big as you, isn't it, - going into hysterics, throwing fits..." he was probably especially displeased about the fits, as the sturdy palm fell several painful times on the same spot of her bottom with a meaningful delay after each smack - to let the echo die down, her yelp reverberate from the walls, and the pain sink in. Then he picked up the speed again. "Tell me, how old are you?" he questioned, assiduously peppering her backside.
"Seventeen ooooowwwww!!!" howled Jamie in tormented voice.
"That's right, seventeen! Not seven," rapid fire - right on her sit spot, "and not seven months old. Tantrums! A truly wonderful way to be different. A great way to be remembered. Is that what you think?" he pushed her shoulder blades to bend her further down, as she was arching up in pain, and readjusted his grip.
"Nooo it's not what I think, I wasn't thinking, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she wailed, totally embarrassed and ashamed. "I was just angry!"
"Oh, I could see that," the headmaster said ironically, concentrating the swats on one spot again, but not losing the speed. "And I hope you don't think it's an excuse...because it's not!"
This lecture didn't sound to Jamie as if it was rehearsed in advance; complete with energetic spanking it evidenced the headmaster's real indignation at her behaviour - it was painful and comforting at the same time.
But then Jamie with horror realised that it was that awful childish behaviour, so vehemently disliked by the head, that finally gave her what she needed - some personal attention. It served as a proof that only bad girls could hope to be recognised - the thought scared and disheartened Jamie so badly, that she momentarily stopped struggling and wriggling, and went limp, hiccuping with tears, only gasping at the smacks.
The head didn't continue for long after that though. He finished the spanking with several crisp swats; and for a second Jamie felt his warm palm resting on her scorched skin.
Then she was helped up and sat down on the couch. In her memory she was replaying the shameful outburst; and knew that she would remain unnoticed for the rest of her life. Because she would never be bad enough to do anything like that again. She wasn't made to be a bad girl. They sat in silence for several minutes as she was suffering with shame, and the headmaster was apparently deep in thought how further punish her.
"I never forgot you," he then said quietly, putting one arm around her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Oh, I know... Don't worry, I won't think less of you."
"I really am sorry," Jamie said again and then stiffened, perplexed. Did he say "think less of you"? Did it mean he thought anything of her at all?
"I appreciated the fact that you didn't play truant any more. I had to be harsh, but it's often the only way. If I want to help a good girl like you."
"Good girl like me," she repeated.
"That day, in the corridor, I could swear that for several seconds you were transparent...shining on the edges. Like a little phantasm in trainers," the head said almost to himself.
What?
"I get visions of
the masquerade every night," he said. "I come up to you and take
off your mask."