Beauty at Long Odds

While they waited for the walk signal, he said, “See the girl across the street?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied.

“What is she doing?”

It seemed too obvious, but all she could think of was, “Waiting to cross?”

“What is her left hand doing?” he asked, patiently.

“Holding her skirt, because it’s windy, and she doesn’t want it to blow up and show her panties to everyone.”

“Yes. ‘Clutching’ is my shorthand for the grip and the reason.“ He led her away from the corner, so there would be more time to talk. ”It’s extremely rare for a skirt to fly up that high,“ he continued. ”If it’s a tight skirt, or one below the knee, that won’t happen. If the fabric is heavy, like the lined wool skirt of a business suit, it won’t blow up. If she’s carrying something like a purse or a briefcase, the skirt won’t have enough freedom to move. And if it’s just plain windy, rather than full of unpredictable, swirling currents, the skirt won’t have enough lift.

“Now, if all the right things come together: length, style, fabric, freedom to move, blustery breezes… there’s a very small chance that her skirt will fly up and anyone who happens to be looking at that exact moment will get a nice view.

“In that event, a good girl yields to nature, and allows herself to increase the beauty of the universe.”

She took in every word with perfect attention, and felt her cunt grow wet and slippery, the inevitable, submissive reaction to his voice, words and tone alike. “I understand, Sir,” she said.

Having missed a few cycles of lights, they returned to the corner to wait.

“If all the right factors combine, against the odds, then you will allow your beauty to be shared. If you clutch, I’ll spank you then and there, in public, and continue when we’re home.”

His mention of discipline had its usual effect: her cunt-honey overflowed; she felt it meandering down her thighs.

He hadn’t allowed her panties that day. She felt the strong wind swirling around her legs.

— Frenulum

P.S. All of the above is my own stance on the matter of clutching. For the record, the wind-blown revelations I have seen amount to roughly 1.5 per decade. So, ladies, if it happens, consider it a message from the universe that you were chosen for your beauty.

Proctor

One of two proctors at the Seniors’ comprehensive examination, Mr. Acer alternated between scanning the room from the front, looking for unusual movements or turned heads, and strolling along the rows and columns of desks, looking for cribs or, now more likely, cell phones with dimmed screens. He varied his path to keep it unpredictable.

The girls were silent. Most were bent over their blue-books, writing in great haste; a few were staring at the ceiling as if inspiration could be found there, or rubbing eyes tired by all-night cramming.

He had just strolled between two girls, Kenzie and Celine, who had been vying all year for Most Likely to Get in Trouble. They were both quite familiar with the effects of a maple paddle on a bare bottom.

They seemed attentive to their writing. Mr. Acer passed the next pair of desks, then turned about-face without warning.

Just in time to see a piece of paper, folded repeatedly until small, pass from one girl to the other. He snatched it in transit before either girl could react.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the other students, he said, “You two, in my classroom, in five minutes.” Kenzie started to reply, but he hushed her. “No arguments. Go now, without any disturbance.” As they stood up, he collected their blue-books.

As the girls left the hall, Acer asked the other proctor to cover the exam for a while. When that was settled he left as well, and headed to his classroom.

Celine and Kenzie were standing side by side, facing the door, when he entered. They looked discouraged and anxious, which Mr. Acer expected, and embarrassed, which he had not.

He tossed the exam books onto his desk, and took the note from his pocket.

“Please don’t read that!” Kenzie exclaimed.

“Please!” echoed Celine, “It’s super private.”

“We know we’re in big trouble already,” Kenzie added, “So just assume that whatever we wrote was the worst thing it could be. Then you won’t have to read it before you punish us.”

“Please, Mr. Acer, you can paddle us every day for a week,” said Celine, beginning to cry. “Just please don’t open that.”

Their distress and pleas had, naturally, the opposite of the intended effect. Acer unfolded the note as the girls watched in horror.

He read it; his face was expressionless. Celine and Kenzie looked at each other, mortified, sick with worry.

Mr. Acer picked the blue-books off his desk, and flipped through them. “A page has been torn out of this one, which is…” Back to the first page. “Yours, Kenzie. So presumably the first message is from you.”

The girls, blushing, wishing fervently to wake from the nightmare, heard him read what they had written.

“Kenzie: would you fuck Mr. Acer?” he read.

“Celine: OMG yes yes yes!!! he’s so hot!!! you?”

“Kenzie: I would let him do anything to me.”

“Celine: like what?”

“Kenzie: IDK, but he would.”

Acer put the note down and looked at the girls: heads down, contemplating their toes, silent, squirming from shame and dread, anticipating the horrible meeting of maple paddle and bare ass.

“Are you young ladies aware that, if a teacher files an excused absence report, it’s possible to re-take the exam?”

The girls looked up at him, and then at each other. “Would you do that, Mr. Acer?” asked Kenzie, a hint of hope in her voice.

Acer took in the sight of two pretty schoolgirls, desperately pleading, ripe for the picking.

“Well,” he replied, “That depends.”

— Frenulum

Independence day

It started as some griping among a few Senior girls, about the uniform dress code. Specifically, the requirement that they wear plain, white, brief-style panties. No colors or patterns, no lace or frills, no bikinis or cheekies or boy-shorts or, god forbid, thongs. The general theme was: we should be able to dress how we want to, where nobody can see anyway — completely unaware of how often they casually exposed themselves.

The first plan for rebellion was to set aside a day when the whole class would wear their prettiest panties. That was received enthusiastically, until one girl pointed out that they would all want to show off their choices and see what their friends wore, which would certainly lead to detection and discipline.

So the plan was changed: a day for everyone to go without panties. Nobody would have anything unique to show off, and the faculty would be none the wiser.

Word spread around the Senior class, and a day was named.

Perhaps, when the day arrived, some of the staff noticed some extra whispering, giggling, or blushing faces. I imagine that most were oblivious.

I teach science. My students do lab projects quite often — I think the hands-on learning lasts longer than lectures. The lab tables are not particularly high. To look at a specimen, a scale, a graduated cylinder, a microscope, or anything else on the table, requires the girls to bend over.

They wear their kilts as short as possible.

I took in the view with the greatest pleasure. So much beauty! So much variety! My mental notebook filled with details.

I didn’t report the uniform infractions. I’m hoping that the rebellion calls for defiance to be repeated regularly and often.

Ah… here come my second-period students.

— Frenulum