A silhouette outside the pebbled glass window pauses before opening the heavy oak door into the Nurse's Office. Molly extricates herself from the surging traffic in the corridor. She bodily closes the door behind her and the passing period din all but disappears. Expecting to find the school nurse at her desk she finds instead Greta Roshmann working through a pile of paperwork. She's wearing Miss Higgins's white nurse frock over a flowery dress. Her shoulder-length blond hair is, as always, pulled into a tight bun.
Greta is a senior involved in a Work-Study program for students interested in medical careers. She has visions of becoming a highly paid plastic surgeon and has no doubts that she will. With drive, brains, and a kind, unassuming manner, Greta is a pet of Miss Higgins.
Molly, on the other hand, could care less if she makes it into the County Vo-Tech. Her goal is to graduate and spend the summer face down, either at a kegger or in her girlfriend's lap. Beyond that ... well, that's up to fate. An ever-changing poster child for rebellion, today she's wearing torn jeans, a low cut tank top under a studded leather jacket, and heavy army boots. A bandana covers most of her bobbed black hair, but her most striking feature is her silky smooth face, unadorned by any makeup or jewelry except for a stud pierced through her terminally pouted lower lip.
"Hi, Molly," Greta says cheerfully with a practiced hint of concern. "What's up?"
"Hey, Roshmann. Mrs. H. out?"
"She's at the Junior High today, but I can handle the basic stuff."
"That's cool." Molly puts her hands on her stomach. "My deal's as basic as it gets. My head hurts and I feel like a warm front of puke's in the forecast."
"Oh, goodness." Greta stands up and motions to a chair in the corner. "Here, sit down."
"Alrighty." Molly slumps in the chair. "Listen, can I call my old lady so she can pick me up?"
"Of course. I just need to check you out before I can send you off." Greta grabs a clipboard off the desk and scribbles down Molly's name, the date, and time. "Okay, headache and upset stomach. Anything else?"
"That's enough, ain't it?"
"When did this start?"
Molly thinks for a moment. "I guess the headache really started last night, the pre-hurl sometime after lunch. Go figure."
"Hmm, could be food-poisoning. Maybe a flu-bug." Greta scribbles. "Too bad you'll miss the big Chemistry test seventh hour."
"Yeah, too bad. I've been busting my ovaries all week studying, too."
Greta raises an eyebrow. "Wow. A whole week. Roll up your sleeve please."
Molly complies and Greta makes efficient work of obtaining her stats. "Well, so far everything seems normal. Just one more thing and you'll be set to go." She goes over to a tall metal cabinet against the wall and takes out a small plastic tube, some latex gloves, and a jar of Vaseline. "I need to check your temperature."
"Geez, what's with all the red tape? I just want to go home and crash."
Greta shrugs her shoulders. "Can't leave unless I sign you out."
Molly sighs heavily and takes off her jacket. "Fine. Mouth or armpit? I vote armpit 'cause I don't want to smoke anything that's been cranked up some sweaty-assed jock's skanky ol' pit. Know what I'm saying?"
Greta pulls the thermometer from its tube as she takes in the tight stretch of Molly's top. She can barely breathe. "Actually," she stammers, "the new district policy is rectal."
Molly snorts. "Shut the front door. Seriously?"
"It's more accurate." Greta tries to sound sympathetic. "Sorry."
"Listen, as far as I'm concerned, you can shove it that your own bung--"
"Can't go home without it," Greta interrupts brightly, waiving the little glass rod. "Again, Sorry."
Molly slouches deeper. Her eyes dance side to side, weighing the pros and cons. "Jesus. This is humiliating. Okay, let's get it over with."
Greta gets up and points to a small room off the office with a cot and chair. "Let's go in the Quiet Room. In case someone walks in."
Molly nods and follows Greta into the tiny room. Greta sits on the edge of the cot.
"Shouldn't I lay on that?" Molly asks.
"It's easier if you lay across my lap," Greta suggests and pats her thighs.
Molly's eyes widen. "Christ all-mighty, this is getting funkier by the minute." She undoes her jeans and lets them fall to her ankles. She slips her thumbs under the waistband of her pink cotton panties. "These, too, I suppose?"
Greta nods. "Please."
Molly self-consciously slides her panties to her knees and covers herself with her hands. "Man, this feels like I'm going to get a beating."
Greta smiles indifferently, but her pulse doubles. Greta has fantasized about this moment since freshman Biology when Molly used to bend over her best friend's desk two rows ahead to whisper giggly secrets. Her pert round bottom filled her view and, from then on, her fantasies. Now the queen of the burnouts is standing at her side, half-naked, about to present her fine ass over Greta's lap.
Greta crosses her legs just as Molly crawls over. Molly ends up further over than she expects and her head nearly hits the floor. Her bottom is arched high and her legs dangle in the air. She can't help feeling like she's in trouble again. It was just a week ago her Mom had her positioned in exactly the same position for yet another indiscretion.
Greta ceremoniously stretches and snaps on a glove. She opens the jar of Vaseline and hooks a fingerful. With her other hand, she spreads Molly's cheeks apart.
"Awkward!" Molly grumbles.
Greta stares at the crop of fine dark hairs on Molly's back that blossom into curls down her crack and fade to goose bumps at the twin summits. She smears the lubricant over Molly's puckered opening and twirls a dab around the bulb of the thermometer. She tries to insert the instrument but Molly involuntarily squeezes her cheeks together.
Greta slaps her squarely across the behind. "Relax," she barks.
"Ouch! Okay, okay."
This time Greta pushes the glass rod unhindered inside. Molly's hip rises slightly. A soft groan escapes. "You all right?" Greta asks.
"Um ... yeah. I'm good."
"Just be a few minutes." Greta looks at her watch, but can't focus from sheer delirium. After a minute, she says, "It's chilly in here isn't it? Let me warm you up." Greta glides her hand over Molly's round bottom.
"Mmm ... your hands are warm," Molly mews.
Greta drags her fingernails lightly from Molly's lower back to the back of her thighs. Molly responds with a slight push against Greta's lap. Emboldened, Greta slides her fingertips between Molly's thighs up to the light brown curls sprouting from her pink crevasse.
"I'm just going to help get the ol' blood circulating so you can get home. This okay?"
Molly responds by sliding forward and resting her forehead on the floor. Her ankles are bound by her jeans, but she parts her knees. Greta stops breathing. Her fingers work the inside and outside of Molly's glistening lips. The girl trembles as Greta gently slides the thermometer in and out with one hand while countering the motion with the long-nailed finger tips of her other.
A sudden burst of high-pitched, staccato gasps accompanies a surge of ripples rolling through Molly's tightened body. As the waves fade, Molly's body slackens like a wilting leaf. Her body drapes, inert, and she purrs.
"Let's have a look, shall we?" Greta slides out the thermometer, eliciting a squeak from Molly, and raises it up to the light, squinting. "Huh. Normal."
Greta pats Molly's round bottom. "We seem to have a problem here, Mol."
Molly moans groggily. "What ...?"
"I can't sign you out if your temperature's normal."
Molly turns her head and looks up at Greta. She grinds against Greta's knee. "Come on. I'm sick."
"Sorry."
Molly slides her hand up Greta's leg to her dress hem. She starts to slide her hand underneath. "Let me convince you."
Greta swats Molly on the behind sharply.
"Hey!" Molly yelps. "What's that for?"
Greta grasps Molly tighter against her lap with her arm and starts to spank her. "You're faking it. And we both know it."
"No. I am sick. Ow. Ow. I really am."
Greta's hand bounces from one cheek to the other.
"Bull. You just want to get out of the Chemistry exam." Greta attacks Molly's reddening hind end with each syllable, pleased with the jiggling reaction. "The rest of have been studying for weeks."
"No, ouch, no. I'm...oh, oh...ready for...ow...it."
Greta delivers a several dozen more swats until Mollies cheeks are bright red.
"Stand up and get dressed."
"Oh, thank God. My ass is on fire." She gets up awkwardly, switching back and forth between getting dressed and rubbing the peppery sting covering her backside.
"Okay, here's the deal," Greta says. "I'll let you go home, but you'll have to pay me a visit once a week for the rest of the school year. Just like today."
Molly's mouth drops. "Say what? Not just no, freakzoid." Molly pulls up her jeans, "Hell no."
Greta stands up without a word and goes into the other room. Molly hears her shuffling papers in the other room. She walks into the office and sees Greta open the hallway door.
"Hey, where are you going?" she asks, popping her head through the doorway while grabbing her jacket.
"Be at Mr. Vandenberg's office in two minutes." Greta turns sharply and disappears into the corridor.
"Wait!" Molly quickly grabs her jacket and mutters, "Asshole." She races after Greta, but she's already around the corner out of sight. She catches up with Greta just as they enter the main office. Molly grabs Greta's arm.
"Hey," she whispers. "Let's talk." Molly takes a deep breath. "Listen...what you did back there was...kind of...well, nice."
A doe-eyed, sympathetic expression softens Greta's face. "Really? That's sweet." Greta steps closer. "Know what though? Missed your chance." She turns to the school secretary. "I'm here to see Mr. Vandenberg."
Greta is motioned toward the office with the words "Vice-Principal" lettered on the translucent glass. "Sit," Greta commands Molly as she leaves her side. Molly sinks into an overstuffed chair and nearly leaps up from the prickly burn.
Shit, she thinks. I'm screwed.
Several long minutes pass. Finally, Mr. Vandenberg opens his door. Molly's stomach somersaults as he summons her. She shuffles into the office and shoots a deadly glance at Greta standing by his desk.
"Well, well, Molly. It seems we need to have another chat," he says dourly.
It's common knowledge around school that when Mr. Vandenberg wants to "chat" you're in for a conversation with the business end of a long wooden paddle. "Greta, thank you. You may leave now."
"What? But...but don't you want me to stay? For further information?" Greta fumbles her words trying to suppress her huge disappointment at not being able to watch the proceedings. The whole point of getting Molly down there.
Mr. Vandenberg shakes his head.
Red-faced and downcast, Greta leaves the room. She mills about the office checking her mailbox, chitchatting with the secretary, hoping to at least hear the punishment meted out, but there's only silence. After several long minutes, she runs out of things to occupy her self with and reluctantly heads for the door. Just as she grabs the knob, a deep voice booms behind her.
"Greta."
Mr. Vandenberg!
"Come back here, please."
He's going to let me watch!
She walks eagerly past him into the office and sees Molly facing the corner. A quick turn of Molly's head reveals a devilish grin that chills Greta to the core. She hears the door close and the lock tumblers roll. Huh? She turns toward Mr. Vandenberg but he's already at her side. He grabs her by the arm and drags her to his desk. In rapid motion, he grabs the infamous paddle, bends her over the desk, flips up her dress, and pulls down her panties. He swings the long rectangular implement and brings it crashing across Greta's creamy white bottom. Ignoring her tearful protests, he proceeds with a lengthy volley of rapid swats that make it impossible for Greta to remain still.
"I know what you did to Molly." Swat.
"Totally unacceptable." Swat.
"Her temperature? For God's sake." Swat.
"You have a position of trust." Swat.
"Had, I should say. Had." Swat. Swat.
He continues at length letting Greta know in no uncertain terms that she is out of the program and will receive a failing grade for the Work-Study course. When he's finished, Greta's behind is a deep crimson and she's a limp, sobbing wreck. She tries to stand up but sinks weakly to the floor, crying and rubbing her bottom furiously.
When her composure is regained, she stiffly restores order to her clothes and, with a single sniffle, goes out the door.
Mr. Vandenberg turns to a smirking Molly, whose face turns into an instant, stoic mask. He summons her with his finger as he points to the desk. "Alright, young lady, you know the drill."
THE END
