On the Bare (12 page)

He hadn’t placed me at all.

‘I assume you’ve come to ask me for an extension on the essay, but if you can’t be bothered to come to tutorials, I’m afraid I don’t grant extensions. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

I stood there, stunned. Here I was, taking the trouble to come to him so I could do what he’d told me I should do all those years ago – apply myself. Hell, he’d made me promise five hundred times that I would – in writing. I was offended.

‘No,’ I said.

He looked up. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No, I won’t excuse you.’ I crossed my arms over my chest, appalled at his arrogance. ‘I may be a spoiled ex-colonial, but I’m not the only one whose attitude needs “smartening up”.’

There was a flicker of curiosity, then of recognition. He peered at me as though through a microscope. At last he smiled.

‘Little Jenny Adams,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Yes, I remember you now.’

He laughed and got up, shaking off his Professor Snape persona. To my surprise, he hugged me instead of shaking my hand and a little thrill ran through my limbs as I recalled all the times I’d heard his voice inside my head and fantasised about even more intimate contact with him.

The years had been kind to him and I instantly felt my body responding the way it always did to attractive guys. I wanted him: I was lonely, bored, depressed, frustrated and starved for attention. England wasn’t the paradise I’d envisioned. University was harder than I’d expected. And the solitude I thought would be freedom was merely isolation. Here was my fantasy come to life. It was not an opportunity I would let slip away.

I held him as tightly as I dared, not wanting to be too subtle. The English boys I’d dated were so different from Americans. They were slow to warm up and I had been frustrated more than once by their inability to pick up my hints. Then again, maybe they were just being ‘gentlemanly’. Brits could be so charmingly clueless.

But Mr Sheridan wasn’t clueless. He had no trouble reading my body language, as he returned my tighter embrace.

I closed my eyes and pictured him pushing me down on his desk, reaching under my skirt and ripping my panties away. Pinning me down with one arm while he wrestled himself free of his trousers and penetrated me, rough and nasty, telling me what a dirty little girl I was. I melted under the image.

I had never actually seduced a teacher before, though I’d certainly fantasised about it. Here was the classic scenario right in front of me. The cheesiest cliché.
Please, Professor, I’ll do absolutely
anything
for that A!
I giggled again, relishing my teen memories.

‘About this essay,’ I purred, classic coquette. I pressed my pelvis into his, rotating my hips ever so gently.

He pushed me out at arm’s length. ‘You
are
incorrigible,’ he said, but he was laughing.

‘You had your chance to fix that,’ I reminded him. ‘Now it’s too late.’

A serious look crossed his features. ‘Oh?’

‘Perhaps we can work something out,’ I said.

There was a gleam in his eyes, sinister and sexy all at once. ‘Perhaps we can.’

I was ready to strip off then and there. I had never wanted a man so much.

But instead he calmly looked at his watch. ‘Come back tonight,’ he said, shocking me into silence. ‘At seven.’

I must have looked stung or spurned because he gave me a reassuring pat on the backside.

‘Now, now, none of that, my girl.’ His tone was affectionately patronising. ‘You suggested “working something out” and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. But you’re not going to get out of doing your assignment, you know.’

I closed my eyes and his words took me right back. It was the old Mr Sheridan speaking to me now, the English disciplinarian who had so terrorised us at school. I felt my crotch begin to pulse, practically screaming for him to touch me.

‘Do you remember what my detentions were like?’

Did I ever. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes
what
?’

I thought I would wet my panties. It had been five years since I last said that word and this was the man I last said it to. It came back to me like a forgotten foreign tongue, making my legs feel like rubber. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I told you once that you were squandering your potential, that an English school would get more effort from you than you gave in America.’

I remembered that tone well. I used to imagine him kidnapping me and spiriting me away to England, imprisoning me in some gloomy manor and giving me private lessons like Eliza Doolittle.

‘I still think you would benefit from some traditional English discipline. If you accept it, you will be allowed to submit your essay. But you’re free to decline. The choice is yours.’

My face was scarlet and I couldn’t look him in the eye. I stared at the floor, squeezing my legs together. I could never resist a challenge, but this was beyond any I’d ever been given. He was going to cane me. I knew it. After all the years of wondering and fantasising, it was actually going to happen. And my pride wouldn’t let me back out. I’d show this Brit what American girls were made of.

I raised my head and it took everything I had to keep my voice steady. ‘I’ll be here.’

The smile that spread across his face was slow and deliberate. Like the almost sensual way a snake has of coiling around its prey. ‘Good. Then let me tell you what will happen. We will structure this as the punishment detention you deserved all those years ago. I’m sure you can find something suitable to wear as a school uniform. And I think the orthodox “six of the best” should make a salutary impression on you.’

This wasn’t going to be easy. I’d thought all I had to do was come on to him and he’d fall prey to my feminine charms. He’d screw me and I’d get my way. But no, this promised to transcend my adolescent fantasies. I dropped my gaze to the floor, but he wasn’t finished.

‘Then you will have one hour to write your essay. You will remember that work produced in detention periods is judged by much higher standards than ordinary homework, and it will not be easy to satisfy me.’

How many times had he spoken to me like that in the past? In high school it seemed fitting; now it was surreal. It was also presumptuous, inappropriate and unbearably erotic. I silently prayed he would just throw me down on the desk and ravish me.

He was looking at me expectantly and I managed to squeak out another ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. I shall see you at seven, then.’

It took me an hour to decide what to wear, but I was happy with the final product. It was the closest thing I could find to a school uniform – short green tartan skirt and white midriff blouse. The blouse had a wide splayed collar and those sassy French-style cuffs that turn back. I unbuttoned it enough to show a hint of cleavage. I winked at the saucy tart in the mirror and set off.

Of course I had no problem getting a taxi, but the traffic wasn’t so obliging. I was fifteen minutes late and it wasn’t my fault, but I knew that would make no difference to the implacable Mr Sheridan.

The cathedral bells were ringing out a peal as I raced through the cobblestone streets to Hallgarth House. They seemed to be delighting in my lateness. I could easily think the change-ringers were in on the game with Mr Sheridan – wanting to see me dig myself an even deeper hole. But that was silly. Paranoid. I had no one to blame but myself. After all, he’d said it himself; this was a pattern with me.

I knocked and he made me wait, then looked up as I came in. ‘Ah. Adams,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘Nice of you to turn up.’

I was startled to be addressed by my last name. Was that what they called you at school in this country? I offered him a sheepish apology, surprised by the teenage tremble in my voice.

‘Your tardiness will be addressed in due course,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘After you dress.’

‘Huh? But you said –’

‘I said you were to report to me in school uniform.’

‘Yeah, and I worked hard to find something uniform-like.’

Again that sinister smile. ‘Yes, but in my school you wear a
uniform
, not provocative adult clothes that are “uniform-like”.’

Silly me. ‘But I don’t have –’

‘I do.’

I was starting to catch on.

Warmth was spreading through my limbs. I was stepping straight into a fantasy, into another world. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

‘Now, young lady. I realise you were accustomed to a different way of life in Boston. American girls tend to be spoiled, taking for granted the privileges that English girls are expected to earn. I also know that you have never been required to wear a school uniform before, but I am not prepared to be lax on that account.’

I was mesmerised by his little speech.

He reached down behind the desk and retrieved a shopping bag. ‘You may change next door, in Mr Wilson’s office. You have ten minutes.’

Was he serious? I knew Wilson. A bookish man who taught Romantic poetry. What if he came back and found me there? But unless I wanted to forfeit this little game, I knew I had to do it.

I took the bag from Mr Sheridan and left his office in a daze.

Once next door I emptied the bag and grimaced at the uniform. It was hideous! I’d expected a cute tartan skirt at least. This one was plain navy blue with starchy pleats. There was a simple white shirt and blue striped tie. White cotton knee socks. White cotton panties. And a navy blue blazer with a large patch on the left breast pocket. It said something in Latin. I never took Latin.

This was not frivolous. This was the Real Thing.

I managed everything easily but the tie. I knew what it was supposed to look like, but I couldn’t figure out how to do it. And after four attempts I saw that I only had one minute left. My fingers trembled as I undid it and tried again. It still wasn’t right, but it would have to do. Besides, I was terrified that Mr Wilson would appear at any moment. That idea was mortifying, but it was also hot as hell.

I looked at the schoolgirl in the mirror. The uniform was a unique sort of bondage. I felt restricted and uncomfortable. It stripped me of my sexual power. All my assets were under tight control and I couldn’t use them to get my way. The vulnerability was overwhelming.

I had never been so turned on in my life.

Mr Sheridan stood right in front of me, assessing my uniform.

He didn’t have to tell me he expected me to stand straight and still, but I just couldn’t. The bells had no doubt stopped ringing long ago, but only now did I notice the heavy silence. It hung in the air like the early dark and I shuddered in the cloying absence of sound. I shifted my feet and smoothed down my skirt with my hands.

‘Do you think
this
,’ he asked, lifting my tie with disdain, ‘is adequate?’

‘I tried, sir. Really. But I’ve never worn a tie before and –’

‘Disgraceful.’

With that, he untied my tie and did it up properly himself, pulling it snug beneath my collar. He also fastened the top button, which I had deliberately left undone. I felt like a child being dressed for school. It was intensely humbling.

‘Right, young lady. Let’s get on with this, shall we?’ With that, he strode to the closet behind his desk and took out the dreaded cane.

I was surprised. It looked pretty harmless – just a thin whippy length of polished rattan about three feet long, with a crooked handle. After all the build-up, I couldn’t believe this was it.

Then he sliced it through the air and the sound alone told me what it was capable of. I paled and took a step back.

My heart was pounding in my ears and a delicious thrill of fear raced through me as I realised I was truly at the point of no return. The roller coaster’s big plunge.

He flexed the cane in his hands. ‘Discipline,’ he began, his voice low and measured, ‘is essential to education. And I am a firm believer in the efficacy of corporal punishment.’

I flushed and wrapped my arms around myself, eyeing the cane with dread.

‘Hands at your sides, Adams,’ he said sharply.

I obeyed.

But then he laid the cane on the desk and took a straight-backed chair from behind it. He set it in front of me and sat down.

‘Before I cane you, I shall address your tardiness. As I recall, you were often late to my classes in Boston. And after all these years, you haven’t changed. But now I can deal with the matter. Remove your blazer and hang it up.’

My feet were glued to the floor, but Mr Sheridan eyed me sternly until I finally forced myself to move. There was a coat hook on the back of the door and the blazer just covered the little window, a perfect curtain.

‘Now come here.’

At last I stood beside him, fidgeting and trembling.

‘Tardiness,’ he said, ‘shows a childish disregard for rules. As such it warrants a childish punishment. A spanking.’ He patted his lap. ‘Over my knee.’

I thought I would faint. My legs were incapable of holding me up and I felt like a limp rag as I stretched myself across his lap.

‘Naughty girls must be punished,’ he said, placing his left hand in the small of my back to hold me in place. ‘And nothing teaches a girl a lesson better than a good sound spanking. Skirt up. Knickers down. Right on her bare bottom.’

I hadn’t known it was possible to blush so deeply. The throbbing between my legs was nothing short of agony. My body was screaming for release. I pressed my hands
against
the floor as he lifted my pleated skirt and tucked my shirttail high up over my back. Then his fingers were in the waistband of my white cotton school knickers and he took his time pulling them down to expose my bottom. He rested his hand on my back and I shivered with fear and delight.

He scolded me in a soft voice and I felt like a little girl again. My face was so flushed I felt feverish and my ears burned with each word. I had no idea embarrassment could be so exquisite. He cupped my cheeks as he spoke and I thought I would drown in the anticipation. His touch held both authority and affection. Claiming and caressing.

Then his hand fell, sharp and purposeful, and the sting made me gasp. I couldn’t believe this was actually happening. It was intoxicating.