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Into the Woods
by Mija

Discipline is important.

Geology is always tedious, but Fridays it's unbearable. I take meticulous notes, forcing my brain to focus on my notebook and the professor's monotone.

When the class is finally over, I grab my backpack and cram the notebook inside, not allowing myself a glance at what else is in there.

Behind the labs, there's a nature trail. I shoulder my backpack and walk the trail briskly. To anyone watching, I'm just a student out for an afternoon stroll.

Exactly 567 steps later (yes, I count them -- that's just the way I am), I turn off onto a small deer trail that ends in a meadow. There, in the green-lit sunlight, I strip off my shoes, my jeans, my tee-shirt and socks. My pale blue panties.

Everything. I fold everything carefully.

Stones in the grass feel sharp under my feet, but I dance anyway, naked in the clearing under the afternoon sunlight. My dance has to circle the clearing twice before I can open my backpack. Sometimes I can't help myself and I cheat, peeking inside before my dance, but he always checks and punishes.

Sometimes, I think he watches.

Finally, breathless, I open my backpack and take out the uniform. It's very simple. A stiff-collared white cotton shirt, navy games skirt, white knee socks, black gym slippers. And navy blue knickers. Fastening the collar makes my knees feel weak. Going from nakedness to my uniform makes me aware of the collar.

I leave my pack and folded clothes at the edge of the clearing, taking only a towel and pocket knife with me. As I walk this second trail, I'm eager but walk carefully, looking at saplings on both sides of the path before choosing and cutting three supple switches.

Almost there now.

Why there's a field stone wall in the middle of the woods, I can only guess. There's no other sign of human habitation, but there must have been a farmhouse here long ago. The wall is solid.

I fold my towel in half and lay it and then myself across it, rising onto the very tips of my toes, the shirt collar now cutting into my throat.

I think about him arriving, reading my notebook to find out about my week, lecturing me about discipline, obedience, submission. Imagine him slowly folding my skirt onto my back and tugging my knickers down, if I've been a bad girl.

I've always been a bad girl.

I whimper softly as I think of him taking each switch in turn and whistling it through the air, choosing the best. I always pray one will be acceptable. The alternative is unthinkable.

Finally, he'll lay one hand on my back, and slowly thrash my bottom and legs, each stroke leaving a single red lacy welt, the sting building until I can't cry hard enough and begin to scream . . . .

. . . I'm alone when I stand up and take my towel with me back to the clearing. The uniform is back with my notebook as I walk back to the university, counting each step.

I won't return until next week.

Discipline is important.

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