On the Bare

by Fiona Locke

‘What about you?’ Carly whispered to Pamela.

  ‘Oh. I don’t know either,’ she replied, not sounding entirely convinced.

  ‘I can’t imagine what he wants me for,’ Carly said. ‘I was just –’

  Suddenly the door opened and Mr Fortescue peered out. ‘Ah. Miss Whiteley,’ he said, addressing Pamela. ‘Come in, please.’

  Pamela followed him into the office and the door swung shut behind her. Jocelyn edged into the empty space and leant close to the door. She listened for a few moments, then shook her head. ‘Can’t make it out,’ she told Carly.

  Carly was about to get up and stand by the door to listen herself, but the silence was broken by an awful swoosh-crack!

  From within, Pamela cried out.

  Carly and Jocelyn looked at each other in horror.

  The sound was repeated and again Pamela yelped.

  Frozen with fear, the girls held their breath for the third stroke and wilted with relief when there wasn’t a fourth.

  After a few moments, Pamela emerged, sniffling and rubbing her backside. She scurried past the waiting girls without a word.

  Mr Fortescue was at the door again. ‘Drake,’ he said sharply. ‘You’re next.’

  The office swallowed Jocelyn the way it had Pamela, and Carly held her breath in the long silence that followed. She could hear the murmur of voices, but she couldn’t make out what was being said. Finally, the sound of the cane penetrated the thick oak door and she winced in sympathy with each stroke, imagining poor Jocelyn bending over in her gym kit, touching her toes. What had she done? Was she lying about not knowing?

  Pamela had got three strokes. Jocelyn got five.

  When the door opened again Carly’s stomach seemed to plummet into her feet. She felt ill as she watched a tearful Jocelyn hurry past her, clutching her bottom. Carly could swear the angry red cane wheals shone through the tight white cotton of her gym shorts. She shook her head to rid herself of the image.

  ‘Watson,’ said Mr Fortescue without preamble, ‘your turn.’

  At least the suspense was about to end, she told herself. Not that it was much comfort.

  Mr Fortescue stood beside his desk and directed Carly to stand in front of him. ‘You are aware of school policy on cheating, are you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, bewildered, ‘but I haven’t cheated on anything, sir, honest!’

  The Headmaster’s lips curled slightly in what seemed a mockery of a smile. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But you will.’

  Carly stared at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘That is, you would have,’ he corrected.

  ‘Sir, I – I don’t understand. I’ve never cheated in my life.’

  Mr Fortescue nodded. ‘I know it’s hard to accept, Watson. But it seems that some of the parents were beginning to find St Bartholomew’s too old-fashioned. They asked for some modernisation. Therefore, the Governors have instituted a new discipline policy. It has proven effective in other schools and I’m sure it will prove just as effective here.’

  He seemed to be waiting for Carly to ask what it was. When she didn’t, he continued.

  ‘The Pre-Misbehaviour Programme catches misbehaviour before it occurs. And we know that, without intervention, you would have cheated on Friday’s Latin exam.’

  Carly gasped.

  ‘Yes, Watson,’ he said, nodding. ‘Fourth declension nouns are difficult, aren’t they? And you’re barely keeping your head above water in Mr Balfour’s class. Abigail Holland sits just to your right. And she can be careless about not covering her work.’

  As he spoke, Carly knew he was right. The thought had crossed her mind on the last exam. And today, trying to keep straight the twelve forms of senatus, she couldn’t help but consider it again. As a last resort, but nonetheless …

  Mr Fortescue turned to his desk and picked up the evil-looking length of rattan. With a sigh he gestured to the armchair in the centre of the room. ‘Cheating is a serious offence, Watson. And I can’t award you fewer than six strokes.’

  Carly thought she would faint.

  ‘Raise your skirt, lower your knickers and bend over.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t have cheated, sir,’ she offered feebly. ‘It just crossed my mind, but I wouldn’t really have done it.’

  The Headmaster shook his head. ‘That’s what every girl says. But it isn’t true. The Programme doesn’t concern itself with what you may have considered doing; it only acts on what you will do. Now that you know your future you can choose to change it. But only because you know it’s what you will do. Now, assume the position, please.’

  Her head was spinning with the paradox, but she didn’t dare disobey. Not after hearing what had happened to Pamela and Jocelyn. And she was to get six strokes! With shaking hands, she raised her pleated tartan skirt. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her white cotton knickers and tugged them down until they pooled at her ankles. Then she bent over the back of the chair, her hands on the leather seat. It was slick and warm, no doubt from the previous girls’ hands and tears.

  Mr Fortescue adjusted her skirt and shirttail so that they were high up over her back. Then he rested the cane against her bottom. The rattan was also warm. ‘I expect you to stay in position. If you move it will earn you an extra stroke.’

  She trembled.

  Then she felt the air stir behind her as he drew back his arm and delivered the first terrible stinging stroke.

  Carly yelped and squirmed in place as the sting intensified and became a hot throbbing blur of agony.

  The next stroke seemed to cut her in two and she cried out, resisting the urge to reach back and protect her burning flesh. She forced herself to stay in position, however.

  The third was even worse and she howled with pain, writhing over the chair. She was only halfway there.

  Number four caught her low, just beneath the cheeks. Tears flooded her eyes and she seemed to wilt over the chair, helpless against the onslaught of the savage implement.

  Another stroke and she was sobbing and gasping for air. Her bottom felt as though it was being sliced apart, but there was only one more stroke.

  Mr Fortescue didn’t make her wait long. He gave her the final stroke and Carly howled. Then she abandoned herself to helpless crying. It was over.

  ‘You may get up, Watson, and adjust your uniform.’

  Stiffly, she obeyed, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve like a little girl. She inched her knickers up her legs, uttering a little hiss of pain as they made contact with her burning backside.

  ‘Very well,’ said Mr Fortescue. ‘You may return to class. And I trust I will not need to see you back here again.’

  ‘N-no, sir,’ she whimpered, her head down.

  She left his office in the same disgrace as Pamela and Jocelyn. And there were two more girls waiting outside now. They had heard her punishment. Carly hurried past before they could speak to her.

  Carly Watson attacked the Latin with renewed vigour, determined not to be bested by dead Romans. They’d already got her caned. And for something she hadn’t done … yet. Well, she would have done, though. The caning was meant to stop her doing it. It was bizarre, this new discipline policy. It made St Bartholomew’s seem almost as modern as the outside world.

  Several girls were summoned to Mr Fortescue’s office in that first week. Finally, when the gossip mill had made the rounds, an announcement was made in assembly about the Pre-Misbehaviour Programme.

  Carly translated the sentences in the book, concentrating hard. She was so focused on the task that she didn’t even hear the knock at the door. It was Jane Rossiter again. The girl’s voice made her jump. Then Mr Balfour was looking at the note she had handed him and glancing in Carly’s direction.

  No, Carly thought, the dread making her light-headed. No, I’m not going to cheat now. It’s a mistake.

  Mr Balfour read aloud the name on the paper and it took Carly a moment to register that it wasn’t hers.

  Beside her Abigail Holland went
pale and rose shakily to her feet.

  (This story was inspired by the film Minority Report, which takes place in a futuristic society. The public is kept safe by a special division called Precrime, which apprehends criminals before they commit crimes. I couldn’t help but find it an irresistible idea for a school CP story.)

  Escape to Alcatraz

  IS THERE ANYTHING worse than sightseeing with your parents? Their presence is a constant reminder of my childhood, which they haven’t seemed to notice is over. I’m eighteen, not eight. I don’t need to be told to come away from the railing, especially not in front of the cute English boy in ripped jeans who’s been watching me all afternoon. The older man he’s with has the same features – clearly his father. The boy and I share a weary eye-rolling glance about the burden of chaperones.

  With my mom it’s the same old nagging. When are you going to college? When are you going to meet a nice boy (emphasis on ‘nice’)? What are you going to do with your life? Jesus.

  My dad is only slightly more tolerable, with his droning history professor voice, quizzing me on names and dates about the island prison. Bor-ing. If I do decide to go to college I definitely won’t be following in his footsteps.

  I really couldn’t care less about the tour of the Rock. Or the view of San Francisco from the ferry. I mean, it’s a cool city and all, but like, I’ve seen it in a million movies. I’m only interested in one kind of scenery: the male kind.

  And there are some cute guys on the tour. There’s the English boy. And another one whose accent I can’t place. Hungarian? Oh, and the guy who raised and lowered the gate to let us stampede onto the ferry. Though he’s too clean-cut for me, really.

  But best of all were the three prison guards. Well, they’re not really guards. Just tour guides in uniforms. They looked convincing enough. And they were hot. Aaron, Jack and Michael. I made sure to read their name badges.

  I sucked in my breath when I saw the handcuffs dangling from Jack’s belt. He’s the youngest, probably in his mid-twenties. Blond, boyish and sorta cute. Totally fuck-able. I made sure to squeeze past him at one point – really close – and brush against his crotch. He couldn’t take his eyes off me after that. My mom was scandalised.

  Then we were in D Block – solitary confinement. The prisoners called it Sunset Strip, to go with the other corridors between cellblocks: Broadway, Park Avenue, Michigan Avenue… Well, there was some old guy, an ex-prisoner, who used to pull a button off his prison outfit and throw it in the air and hunt around in the dark for it. I looked straight at Jack and with a flick of my red hair said I could think of much more interesting ways to amuse myself, all alone in the dark. He actually blushed!

  Aaron flashed me a warning glance that went straight to my cunt. He was clearly the one in charge. Fortyish. Tall, lean and wiry with jet-black hair shot through with grey. Wicked goatee. His stern look inspired even raunchier thoughts and it was all I could do not to ask him to demonstrate how the handcuffs worked.

  It was chilly in the prison, but I had dressed to impress in a white ballet wraparound top. No bra, of course; I don’t really need them. The top showed off my belly and the little gold ring in my navel. And the cold air showed off the peaks of my nipples.

  I waited until Aaron and Jack were behind me and then I bent over to tie my shoe. My tight jeans sit so low on my hips they nearly come off when I do that, but it’s worth it. If the view of my hot pink thong above the waistline wasn’t enough, they got to see the cleft of my cheeks too. And I know I’ve got a nice ass. They weren’t complaining.

  The third one, Michael, was describing how the cells locked when I did it and I heard his voice catch in his throat. Just for a second. But it was a meaningful second. He didn’t seem like the easily ruffled type. He’s probably not much older than Jack, but the glasses add distinction.

  The rest of the tour was totally boring, but I managed to have fun anyway. I always do. Especially when it’s at the expense of my uptight parents. I’m a merciless tease and I enjoyed getting the three guys worked up. Perhaps they’d all jerk off in the bathroom later. Thinking about me. I’d certainly be thinking about them.

  But now that we’re back on the ferry, my parents have to go and ruin the mood.

  ‘Why do you always have to embarrass us, Sara?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mom, like you were never my age.’

  ‘I had too much self-respect to flaunt myself like that in front of strangers,’ she says with a sniff.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Whatever.’

  Now it’s my dad’s turn. I try to tune him out, watching the little drama unfolding on the ferry gangway. A child has dropped something in the water and from his screams you’d think the world was coming to an end. Boo-hoo-hoo.

  My dad is still pontificating and I decide I’ve had enough. If they don’t give me some room to breathe I’m gonna start screaming myself. The ferry’s just about to leave and I suddenly have a brilliant idea. Ours was the last tour of the day. And this is the last ferry to the mainland.

  ‘I have to go to the bathroom,’ I announce. For my dad’s benefit I add, ‘Female trouble.’ He looks away and my mom sighs dramatically.

  Then I make my escape. I slip past the cluster of stragglers on the gangway, back onto the island. I stand at the end of the line, as though I’m just having a last look at the prison. Then I inch away from the crowd until I reach the dockside buildings. It’s ridiculously easy. No one even notices; they’re too focused on the bawling child. The evening sky throws convenient shadows and I duck behind a dark clump of bushes and crouch down to wait. The kid’s father finally manages to rescue the toy and the ungrateful brat snatches it away. I smother a laugh.

  Within moments the ferry sets off across the black velvet bay, taking my parents with it. There is a moment’s surge of childish fright, but the sense of freedom soon replaces it. I’m alone! They’ll be panicking very soon, searching the bathroom and peering overboard to see if I’ve jumped.

  I have no idea what will happen when they discover I’m gone, but they’ll probably have to turn the ferry around and come back for me. That will be a-whole-nother lecture and a major guilt trip, but at least for now I have the precious gift of some time to myself. The entire island is mine.

  I smile and begin winding my way up the switchback path towards the dark hulk of the prison. It looks even more foreboding under the deepening sky. It’s cold and blustery and I’m starting to shiver in my skimpy outfit. No problem. I’ll be inside soon. Maybe I’ll explore some of the areas they didn’t take us to on the tour.

  ‘Hey, you!’

  I jump like I’ve been shot, my heart pounding wildly. I can’t tell where the voice came from. And the shadows make it impossible to see very far. There’s the sound of running boots and I don’t know which way to turn. Terrified, I run towards the ruins of the warden’s house as the voices shout to each other over the wind.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Over here!’

  ‘Get her!’

  ‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’

  With a little cry I skid to a halt, covering my head and closing my eyes. I’m in deep shit now. The boots slow to a walk, crunching on the gravel, and I cower as they draw nearer.

  ‘Get your hands where I can see them!’

  Imagining a policeman’s gun trained on me, I raise my trembling hands, spreading my fingers to show I’m unarmed. Me and my stupid ideas.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I start to say. ‘I missed the ferry and I just –’

  ‘Quiet! Down on your knees, hands behind your neck.’

  Tears well in my eyes. I’ve never been arrested before. My voice cracks. ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘She doesn’t follow orders very well, does she?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. But then she wouldn’t be trying to escape if she could follow orders.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have been sent here in the first place.’

  What the hell are they talking about? I wince as I kneel on the hard ground,
blinking back the tears and wondering how much trouble I’m in. And how I can get out of it.

  There is a metallic clink and the cold feel of steel around my right wrist. A rough hand repositions my arm behind my back and secures my left wrist beside it.

  ‘On your feet, girl.’

  I stumble up awkwardly, still formulating excuses, when I find myself face to face with Aaron. My mouth falls open and I see Jack and Michael off to my left.

  Before I can speak, Aaron turns me towards the prison and plants his hand firmly in my lower back. ‘March,’ he says gruffly.

  A surge of heat floods my groin as I take in the situation. It warms to an insistent little throb as they lead me back to the cellhouse. I had my fun earlier. Now it’s their turn to play.

  I jump at the clang of metal as Jack unlocks one of the Broadway cells – C Block, I think. He slides the door open and I peer inside at the hard wooden bed on the left. The rooms are only five by nine feet, like a cage in some ancient zoo. On the tour, everyone had filed into them for the geeky experience of being Al Capone for a few seconds. Now the thought of being locked in fills me with perverse excitement.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Michael demands.

  ‘Sara.’

  He laughs scornfully. ‘Your surname, girl. Or weren’t you paying attention when we explained the rules? Prisoners are addressed by their surnames only.’

  Blushing, I whisper, ‘Delaney.’

  Jack is leaning against the bars of the open cell with a cocky smile, his arms crossed over his chest. ‘I don’t think she was listening to a word we said earlier.’

  Behind me, Aaron unlocks my left wrist and leads me towards the cell. ‘Obviously,’ he agrees. ‘Or she’d know that unauthorised absence means disciplinary action.’

  His words make me light-headed and I can barely stand. I’m expecting him to shove me inside and slam the door, locking me in. But he stops just outside the door and looks back at Jack. ‘Give me your cuffs,’ he orders.

  Jack obeys, relinquishing them without question while I wonder what Aaron has in mind. He locks the second pair around my left wrist. Then he pushes me backwards roughly, against the cold bars.