In the sterile, echoing classroom, Ms. Evans stood with her arms crossed, a length of bamboo cane held loosely in one hand. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her glasses slipped down her nose as she regarded Timothy through them. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the empty desks save for one at the front where Timothy sat, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge.
Timothy had been summoned earlier by the stern-faced headmaster, who had informed him of his transgression—tossing an eraser at a classmate—and the consequent punishment. The boy's stomach churned with nerves and humiliation, but he knew better than to argue or plead. He was here because his parents,
in agreement with the school's disciplinary policy, had signed off on it.
Ms. Evans, barely out of her twenties herself, seemed almost apologetic as she regarded Timothy. She wore a simple dress that accentuated her curves and a pair of low-heeled pumps that complemented her slender ankles. When she shifted her weight, the sunlight caught her feet, highlighting their delicate arches and neatly painted toenails—a detail that didn't escape Timothy's notice.
"Really? Oh that's interesting," she replied when Timothy had voiced his opinion on corporal punishment during their brief wait for the headmaster to leave them alone in the classroom. "You see, I don't really believe in it either."
Timothy looked up at her, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "Then… why do you do it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ms. Evans sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Because I'm just a temporary teacher here, Timothy," she explained, her voice soft yet firm. "I don't make the rules any more than you do. The school has its ways, and as long as I'm under their roof, I'm bound by them."
She held up the cane, examining it as if seeing it for the first time. "This… this is not something I enjoy wielding," she continued, her gaze shifting from the cane to Timothy. "But you're here for a beating, and I'm here to beat you, so we'd better get on with it."
As Timothy stood up and pulled down his shorts, revealing pale skin that would soon be marked by red welts, Ms. Evans began to unbuckle her shoes. "I'm afraid I need to maintain my balance while administering this punishment," she explained, slipping off her pumps and setting them neatly aside. Her bare feet looked surprisingly delicate on the worn classroom floor.
Timothy hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest as he realized what was expected of him next. Ms. Evans held out one foot, her toes curling slightly as if in anticipation. "It's customary to kiss my foot before we begin," she said softly, almost apologetically. Timothy leaned down, pressing his lips briefly to the top of her foot—a gesture that seemed absurdly intimate given their circumstances.
Ms. Evans directed Timothy to bend over one of the old wooden chairs, its seat worn smooth by years of use. The room seemed unnaturally quiet, save for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall behind them, each second stretching out like an eternity.
As Timothy bent over, his arms crossed on the backrest, Ms. Evans tapped the cane against her palm thoughtfully. "All the strokes on the bare," she said,
her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm afraid it's… barbaric, really."
Timothy felt a shiver run down his spine at the word 'bare,' feeling the cool air of the classroom kissing his exposed skin. He gripped the chair tighter, knuckles turning white as he braced himself for what was to come.
Ms. Evans began with the first stroke, swinging the cane back and bringing it down sharply across Timothy's upturned backside. The boy gasped at the sudden sting, his eyes widening in shock. That hurts, he thought, his mind racing. Why did I ever think this would be a good idea?
Ms. Evans, meanwhile, winced empathetically as she watched the red welts rise on Timothy's skin. This is awful, she thought, her heart aching for the boy despite her resolve to uphold the rules of the school. I wish there was another way.
The second stroke followed quickly after the first, and Timothy grimaced at the fresh wave of pain that washed over him. One more and then it's just a matter of getting through, he told himself, clenching his teeth against the sting.
Ms. Evans brought down the cane for the third time, her own teeth gritting in sympathy as she watched Timothy's backside grow redder with each stroke. Three down, three to go, she thought, trying to focus on the end rather than the pain they both had to endure.
Timothy gritted his teeth against the fourth stroke, determined not to cry out despite the growing heat on his skin. Just two more, he told himself, his breath coming in ragged gasps now. You can do this.
Ms. Evans paused briefly before delivering the fifth stroke, her eyes locked onto Timothy's backside as she prepared herself for the sound of the cane meeting flesh once more. Almost there, she thought, steeling herself for the final two.
Timothy hissed through clenched teeth at the fifth stroke, feeling like he was on fire now. Just one more, he told himself, his resolve beginning to waver. You can do this.
Ms. Evans brought down the cane for the sixth and final time, her heart heavy with relief as she watched Timothy's backside bear the last of its welts.
Done, she thought, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. Let's never have to do that again.
As Timothy stood up, rubbing at his sore backside, Ms. Evans slipped her feet back into her pumps and regarded him solemnly. "You may go now, Timothy," she said softly. "Remember this feeling next time you think about breaking the rules."
Timothy nodded, his eyes downcast as he tugged his shorts back up. He hurried from the classroom, leaving Ms. Evans alone with her thoughts—and her bare feet, still tingling from the unexpected intimacy of their ritual.
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