A Crisp White Shirt

The story you are about to read is fiction.
It has been posted with the consent of the original copyright author.
Please do not repost or republish without the express written consent of Mija.

The senior schoolgirl plugs in the iron, lays her shirt on the board and glances at her watch.

Four minutes.

The iron wastes precious seconds heating. She waits in her blue plaid skirt, socks -- her tie and blazer thrown on the unmade bed. Her ponytail still drips. She sprays starch on the snow-white sleeves and collar.

Three minutes.

The girl can feel time slipping away as the iron smoothes and steams and sticks. Yet it is important the shirt be done right. Wrinkles aren't acceptable. The collar must be just so.

Two minutes.

The time! Students are arriving at class. Still the girl struggles; it must be right.

What had he said last week?

"You've had your last detention for uniform violations miss. Your next infraction means a hard--"

"Ohowowowwow!!"

A blister-burn rises on her hand.

Sixty seconds.

No more time. She shoves her arms into newly-ironed sleeves, throws on her blazer, fastens her shirt while tying her tie. She slips on her shoes and rushes to class with undone laces. The girl’s halfway down stairs as the last bell rings.

Her classroom door’s now shut, locked. She starts to knock and feels a tap on her shoulder. It’s him of course.

"You're late."

He hands her a pink demerit slip. Her heart sinks as he looks at her uniform.

"Sir? . . . I . . . overslept?"

She bends and ties her laces, tries to knot her tie, realizes her shirt's one button off.

He says nothing, but leads her down the hall to his office. There, he first puts ointment on her blistered hand, carefully bandaging the burn. Then he itemizes aloud her uniform violations.

- Hair wet.

- Tie and shoes untied.

- Shirt incorrectly buttoned.

Her apprehension rises.

"This school's dress code is supposed to teach students attention to detail. After three years you have less and less. Your class work and appearance reflect this carelessness. Young lady, I made you a promise. Didn't you think I meant it?"

"Sir, I --"

"No more. Remove your blazer."

She does.

My hands grasp the chair's rung. My head's low; I can smell the shirt's starchy cleanness, feel it mis-buttoned at the collar. There's an unfamiliar coolness as my skirt is folded up, my panties lowered. The paddle, cold, smooth, pats my bottom. It swats hard: once, twice, six, twelve.... more than I can or want to count. *Swat*-*swat*-*smack*.

I can't believe I'm being spanked.

I hear someone -- me -- crying, sobbing. Blinded by tears, my eyes squeeze shut.

Over. Gradually I realize it's over. Sobs fade back to gasps. His gaze's kind, fatherly as he wipes my eyes. His gentle hands adjust my collar, re-button my shirt, re-knot my tie, make it all right. My hands try not to rub. He walks me to class.

The girl in her neat uniform sits gingerly, wearing a crisp white shirt. Her head bends over her assignment.

She remembers that "the personal-pronoun 'its' has no apostrophe."

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