by Lisa Grant
How Chrissie Caresco, or 'C.C.' to her closest friends, hated Monday mornings. She was eighteen, a grown woman, and still at high school, albeit her last semester. She'd been desperate to leave school ever since her sixteenth birthday, with her dreams of being a model or, better yet, a movie star, but her parents had infuriatingly insisted she stay on to 12th grade, to get "a decent education."
So getting up for school was bad enough any day, but Mondays were the pits! To make matters worse it was American History first period, and C.C. for one found it impossible to imagine what difference it could possibly make to her future modelling career whether she knew which president followed George Washington, or what year The Battle of Little Bighorn took place.
Consequently, as usual, C.C. was slinking in at the back of the classroom, late. The pretty blonde girl was somewhat out of breath as she really hadn't meant to be quite this late - twenty one and a half minutes to be precise!
"Christina Caresco! Don't even bother sitting down! Turn yourself right back round and go to the office," Mr Garstang, the 12th grade history teacher sighed wearily. "This is your third tardy in as many weeks young lady. Time to face the consequences of your utter selfishness and total disregard for myself and your classmates."
C.C. froze in her tracks. "Awww Jeezus!" she blasphemed under her breath, blushing involuntarily at all the sudden attention. Normally the stunningly attractive girl revelled in being the centre of attention, but just at this moment she wished she was invisible.
"Go on! Run along! Ask for Mr Crompton... and tell him why I sent you. He'll do the paperwork. I've wasted enough time on you to last me a lifetime!"
An excited and expectant murmur went round the mixed class of hormone-pumping 12th graders, because it was universally known that it was an automatic punishment for a third tardy reported to the office: three days after-school detention or three licks of the paddle. There was always a certain frisson when someone in the class just might take licks as their preferred option, especially when that someone was a sexy blonde girl, and they didn't come much sexier than C.C.
She stood there for a moment, with a petulant look on her pretty blushing face. The boys drank in the alluring picture she presented. As usual she was turned out more like a supermodel than a high school girl: fashionably low-cut retro pink gingham top which made the most of her firm young breasts and also displayed an inch or two of flat, tanned midriff; plus tight white leggings which moulded themselves perfectly to her pert round butt-cheeks and clung to her long shapely thighs like a second flawless pale skin. The whole ensemble was rendered to perfection by the lift of her high-heeled strappy white sandals, which tensed all the right muscles to make her long legs look even sexier. She was a taller than average girl anyway at five foot nine, but those heels made her look positively statuesque.
Her features were those of the classic all-American beauty: high cheek bones, toothsome smile, full lips, big limpid blue eyes, and her crowning glory of wavy dark honey blonde tresses casually bounced on her slim but square shoulders.
There wasn't a heterosexual boy in the class that hadn't fantasised about dating her at some point in his school career, but none of them got beyond fantasising. Her boyfriends were all real men, not snot-nosed school kids. In fact C.C. had quite a thing for older men, but she had decided to keep that to herself until it might prove useful in the future...
They knew it was highly unlikely, but a good few of her fifteen male classmates were already getting quite hot under the collar at the thought that C.C. just might opt for 'licks' in that jaw-dropping outfit. What a thought!
C.C. pouted for a moment and then, with a truculent toss of her long blonde hair, tutted loudly, and flounced out of the classroom.
It was C.C.'s turn to be hot under the collar suddenly, because she just loathed that long walk to the office when she was on a disciplinary referral, so she was blushing an even deeper red now. The involuntary crimson flush was even spreading down from her slender neck, and making the slightly freckled bare chest above her low-cut top go pink and blotchy. C.C. hated it when that happened.
She was eighteen years old for Chris'sake! A young woman, old enough to be married. It wasn't right for her to be spoken to like that! Then have to face the indignity of reporting to the office like some shame-faced naughty kid and, even worse, face some unavoidable juvenile and deeply humiliating punishment.
She didn't want after-school detentions. What a god-awful way to waste precious social time with a bunch of sad losers in a stuffy room, writing some meaningless assignment about self-discipline, only to have it to torn up into so much confetti by a smug teacher straight afterwards.
BUT! It was infinitely more acceptable than the alternative - the darned paddle! There was one absolute 'given', and that was that there was no way she was going to suffer the pain and embarrassment of a spanking at her mature age. The local education authorities may think that it's acceptable for a girl to receive corporal punishment at eighteen, but C.C. most certainly didn't!
The blonde girl kept reminding herself over and over of her long-standing and intractable stance against all the usual forms of persuasion and entreaties to 'be brave, take the licks, and get it over quickly.' It was almost like she was worried she might forget, or make a slip of the tongue when being presented with that inevitable and diabolical choice: "Detentions or licks?"
There were three Assistant Principals, and the Principal himself of course, who were authorised to take disciplinary referrals, and they were all men, so there was no way on earth C.C. was going to assume the humiliating position in front of any of them, and let them feast their eyes on her butt, one of her best features, let alone whack unsightly bruises on to it with that goddamn painful board.
Her butt was now an important part of the package that was her personal passport out of 'Hicksville' Oklahoma, and into stardom, so there was no man going to look at it without paying a massively appropriate modelling fee for the undoubted privilege.
And it was widely known that Mr Crompton had a reputation for being able to swing a particularly mean paddle. It was said that he could have a 6 foot, 200 pound football jock up on his toes, grinding his teeth, with a single swat, so there was certainly no way she was having him put ugly great bruises all over one of her most treasured assets.
Still angry with herself for the tell-tale scarlet flush that betrayed her lack of customary 'cool', C.C. arrived at the office and sullenly told the duty admin assistant that she was here to see Mr Crompton.
"Is he expecting you?" the young and not unattractive female assistant enquired.
"Not unless he's psychic," C.C. muttered under her breath.
The girl seemed quite new. C.C. had certainly never seen her before. C.C. guessed she must only be about two or three years older than herself. What an unacceptably ludicrous and humiliating situation - to be telling this new girl, almost a contemporary, that she was reporting for discipline for being a bad girl.
Without making any eye contact, or betraying any signs of warmth whatsoever, C.C. mumbled about having been sent to see the A.P. in question.
"Thing is, er... he's not here right now... and well, errmm..." Just at that moment the phone next to the assistant rang. "I guess you'd better take a seat until he gets back."
"Suits me," mumbled C.C. And it did suit her not to have to go back and listen to more of Garstang's historical drivel. It also suited her to have some more time for that darned flush to subside a little before she had to face the meanest-looking A.P. in the whole school. Absent-mindedly smoothing her skin-tight white leggings down her thighs the wannabe model sat down, still in a petulant sulk at her predicament.
Opposite her was another girl, another blonde in fact, only maybe a year or so younger than herself. C.C. eyed up her up and down critically. Kinda pretty in an or'nary kinda way, she mused to herself. The girl looked even more agitated than C.C. felt, which helped, in a funny kind of way. She was doing that thing where one leg, up on tiptoes, rhythmically jiggles up and down, like some kind of nervous spasm.
Though C.C. conceded that the blonde girl was undeniably attractive, she knew that her own looks put her in a higher league altogether.
"Rachel Peters please."
C.C. hadn't noticed A.P. Parker stick his head out of one of the office doors. The blonde girl opposite whipped round and froze for a moment, all the colour suddenly draining from her cheeks. Hastily she scooped up her books and scampered into the A.P.'s office.
C.C. smiled smugly to herself. The girl's jeans, trainers and top were definitely more K-Mart than cool! This girl was no rival whatsoever. She was certainly not going to be a model or a movie star. She just didn't have what it takes.
With Rachel Peters out of sight, and out of mind, C.C. began reading the posters, out of sheer boredom. There was one poster advertising cheerleader trials. She smiled to herself again, even more smugly this time. They had approached her about becoming a cheerleader, but what would she want with such a bunch of sad losers? It was hardly a step on the road to stardom, contrary to what the Coach would have them all believe. She couldn't blame them for asking. After all she was clearly the cutest girl in the whole school, but she took great pleasure in telling the Coach she would rather stick needles in her own eyes than be part of such a sad display.
A couple more boring minutes slowly passed, then there was suddenly a loud CRACK! which rang out from behind closed doors. Dumb Rachel Peters is taking licks! smirked C.C.
She looked up at the admin assistant who had stopped what she was doing and was staring at A.P. Parker's door with a curious look on her face.
A second loud CRACK! rang out, followed by a short shrill girlish yelp.
C.C. couldn't decide whether to feel contempt for Rachel Peters for being so dumb as to accept licks in the first place, or whether to feel sympathy for the highly unpleasant time she was obviously having just at this moment.
There was a third CRACK! and another involuntary girlish squeal of extreme discomfort.
C.C. knew exactly what she was going through. A.P. Parker had in fact been the last person to paddle her, almost two years ago. Her first and only time at high school. Four swats for smoking. So unfair! Once she'd realised that her destiny was to be a model or a movie star, smoking became almost essential to curb her appetite and help keep her weight down. What business was that of the school?
She'd foolishly opted for licks because she'd had a date which clashed with the alternative punishment, Saturday school, and she wasn't going to admit to her 21-year-old boyfriend that she was being kept in school at the weekend like some little kid. In any case she'd figured it wouldn't be too bad as she was wearing jeans. But she'd been wrong. She'd hated every moment of it, right from the moment she was actually ushered into the office and saw that determined gleam in A.P. Parker's eye...
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