Carrie's stomach tightened, and she felt a lump growin 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 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 aloud 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 18 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 where 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-there-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! 

Written by 'The Strict Professor'