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Carrie
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
"Carrie"
by The Strict Professor
at The Chateau BBS; 714-455-2790
Carrie's stomach tightened, and she felt a lump
grow in her throat as the words drifted towards her,
garbled and distorted, as if struggling through some thick haze
before reaching her ears.
"...will have to be put straight....rules....right
this instant....10 strokes."
As if in a dream, she stood, her muscles reacting
to some involuntary command from the section of her
brain that still maintained some element of control.
Before we go any further in our saga, some
background information seems necessary. Carrie had been
at St. Anne's for two months now, transferring from her
old public school at the end of the first semester. Her
parents felt that the discipline and academic emphasis
of a catholic school might help raise her grades so that
she could follow her father's footsteps through
Harvard's hallowed gates. And, in part, they had been
correct. Carrie's grades had improved dramatically, as
had her attitude. It looked as though she might finish
her junior year with an A-average. But two months is too
short a time for someone to change completely, and
Carrie had not yet succeeded in
exercising the imp that had gotten her into so much hot
water throughout her life.
Today, for example, it had emerged with a vengeance
born of being suppressed for so long, and had caused her to drop
a cube of ice down her classmate's blouse while Mr.
Burns had been writing on the board. It was meant as a
joke between friends, but the recipient of the chilly
gift, Susan, had been taken off guard and responded with
a loud shriek, instantly drawing the
instructor's attention.
Susan tried to cover up for Carrie, claiming that
she had caught her finger in the desk hinge and
shrieked. It was amusing to watch her face as she
squirmed in reaction to the ice, still lodged neatly in
the cleft of her young bosom, releasing droplets of
liquid cold to trickle down her midriff to her
waistband. Eventually, however, her loyalty to Carrie
succumbed to her self-interest and she reached into her
blouse to extricate the icy cube.
Mr. Burns quickly deduced that the ice cube had
been placed there by someone else, and his gaze lit upon
Carrie, which brings us up to date.
Carrie moved to the front of the classroom, aware
that she was doing so but feeling separated from her
body, as if watching the events on a movie screen. She
had seen girls get paddled before, and knew the routine,
but nevertheless she paused in front of the large oak
desk, behind which stood Mr. Burns.
"Ms. Tyler, I assume you know what to do," he intoned.
Carrie noticed that he seemed to have grown during her long
journey from desk to the front, so that he now seemed a giant.
His face blurred as her eyes began to dampen, and she
registered, somewhere in the back of her brain, that she
must be blushing furiously -- she could feel the heat
radiating from her cheeks.
She swallowed, and took a step back, so that she now stood
about two feet from the front of the desk. She let herself fall
forward until her small breasts were pressed onto the surface of
the desk, and stretched her arms forward. She was not a
tall girl, and her fingers barely reached the opposite
edge. The forward edge of the desk cut sharply into her
waist, and in this position her ass was prominently
displayed, awaiting the paddle's fury. A tear snuck from
her right eye and dropped silently onto the desk. As are
most 16 year old girls, especially those who have
enjoyed a sheltered upbringing, Carrie was a modest
girl, and was mortified to find herself so deliberately
and helplessly exposed. She felt light-headed as it
occurred to her that this was only the beginning.
At the very moment that this thought entered her
mind, she felt the back of her blue, pleated uniform
skirt being lifted. She involuntarily clenched her hands
into fists and shut her eyes as she felt the fabric
continue to rise, revealing first her thighs, then her
buttocks. She was horrified as she remembered the
panties she wore. The tears begin to flow freely with
the realization that she had chosen today to wear her
tightest pair -- pink satin, with hardly a quarter-inch
of fabric on either side. Dammit, she thought. I put
these on to make myself feel good!
Mr. Burns rolled the fabric of her skirt up onto
Carrie's back, making sure it would stay. "Open your
legs a bit, Ms. Tyler," he commanded. She cringed at
these words, but obeyed, shifting her feet so that they
were a good two feet apart. Now, she knew, the distinct
pouch of her vulva could be seen by all, and she fancied
she felt a breeze blow between her legs,
heightening her feeling of exposure. This isn't fair,
she thought; but she knew it was.
She remained there, bent over at ninety degree
angle as Mr. Burns walked to the back of the classroom
to retrieve the heavy wooden school paddle, worn from
years of use. She tried to concentrate on his footsteps,
trying to judge where he was, but found her thoughts
drifting. She wondered how her panties were arranged.
These tight ones had a habit of riding up, and she
hoped they weren't like that now. She fought with all
her energy to avoid reaching back to adjust them.
Indeed, as everyone in the class knew, they had
ridden up, so that the majority of the shiny fabric was
curled into a ribbon just covering the crack between
each cheek. In a way it was almost cute, the manner in
which her panties were so randomly arranged. Scarce
protection from the paddle, one girl thought.
Carrie listened as Mr. Burns loafers clicked their way
back towards her. She stared straight ahead as she heard
him shuffling about behind her, arranging himself to
afford the best leverage with the paddle.
"Ms. Tyler. You know the rules -- count off each
blow, keep your chest to the desk and your feet where
they are. If you move, it will mean five extra. Ready?"
She was amazed that she found the strength to
whimper out a yes. No sooner had she shut her mouth than
the first blow came, pushing her forward across the
desk, and causing the sharp edge to cut into her
stomach. "One!" she grunted.
There was a pause as Mr. Burns repositioned
himself, then she heard the rush of air as the second
landed. "Two!" she called out, her voice involuntarily
jumping up an octave.
By the last one a pool of tears had accumulated on
the desk in front of her, and Carrie's knees felt weak.
She waited for the order to stand. When she did, she was
grateful to feel her skirt fall into place, though she
knew the relief would be short-lived. Without turning to
face the class -- she didn't know how she could _ever_
look at them again, least of all now -- she moved to
the front corner of the room. She found that her legs
were shaking violently, and that she couldn't stifle the
sobs that kept emerging from deep down inside her.
"Ms. Tyler, you'll remain there until class is
over. And with your skirt rolled up -- you know that."
Yes, she did, but she had been hoping to forestall
the re-revelation of her posterior. Resignedly she
reached back and worked her skirt back up, displaying,
to all, her flaming cheeks, nicely complementing her
pink panties. In one or two spots, the girls in the
class could see the beginning of bruise marks. Susan
realized that Carrie would probably not be sitting down
for a few days. Carrie only knew that she would have to
work even harder at keeping that imp under control!
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