Copyright 2002 to <mijita@newsguy.com>. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

For Pablo, whom I will e'er blame for my uniform fetish.

Shading
by Mija

Mija dashed the grey pile of fabric to the floor before throwing herself on her bed crying. The grey shirt, skirt, and socks were a study in institutional bland and stared back up at her, oddly dignified in their monotone tangle.

She thought back on the day. So she was a tiny bit grouchy, maybe a tad difficult? So what? Everyone has bad days! And so what if she'd missed some imaginary deadlines he'd imposed? Why would Mr. Bailey think a school with uniforms like this would be the answer? They certainly weren't going to make her feel better!

"I hate you," she yelled at Mr. Bailey via her pillow. "I hate grey! It looks dreadful on me. Why this school? Why this uniform?"

Horrible things. Seeing the grey shirt staring at her, she kicked it and the skirt across the room, swearing never, ever to wear them. They were just far too awful.

He wants to punish me, Mija thought. She could still hear his voice ringing in her head. He doesn't want her to like her uniform, doesn't want her to feel vain and proud or cute in it. Damn him anyway! Mija paced the room, stomping hard, knowing he could hear her downstairs and not even caring. She even felt rather glad, in a scary, defiant sort of way.

"I hope he's mad too. So there!"

Crossing her room, she opened the wardrobe, pulling out a red and black jumper, crisp white uniform shirt and striped tie. Finally, her favorite uniform lay piled neatly on her rumpled bed, contrasting with the shades of grey strewn across the floor. Mija smiled with satisfaction and gave the hated shirt another kick for good measure. Then she quickly stripped to her snow white knickers and re-dressed in the striking plaid, smoothing the kilt carefully. This was a smart uniform, the sort a good girl at a very good school would wear. Much more my style, she thought. Much more me.

Mija left the grey uniform scattered across he floor and sat on her stool in the corner, waiting just as she'd been told to.

This should be enough, Mija decided. Wearing this uniform should be enough for him.

Some people, she knew, would be glad for a girl who'd wear a strict uniform like this red one and like it. They'd be okay with that and not try and force her into wearing something she hated.

"Mr. Bailey will just need to accept that he doesn't always get everything his way. Sometimes I get to decide what's right for me.

With that, Mija folded her arms across her chest and stared still harder at the corner. Rarely had corner time been this satisfying. Time passed, and she almost giggled, pleased by her own defiance.

The door opened and she sat up straighter, very carefully not looking back. Mija imagined she heard an intake of breath, but maybe not. In an instant, she wished she was wearing the other, horrid grey uniform. But it was too late for regrets so she was silent, eyes fixed on the point where the two walls met. Not turning as he stood next to her. Not turning, until his hand grabbed her ear and pulled her right off the stool.

"Ow, ouch, ow!" Mija yelped in comic book school girl. "Let me go! Please, you're hurting me!"

Quick as a wink, Mr. Bailey was sitting on the edge of the bed with Mija turned over his lap, her long ponytail brushing the floor.

"That is not the uniform I set out for you, Mija."

A great deal of hard-learned lessons caused Mija to restrain the "like Duh" from crossing her lips. But it was a challenge and she certainly wasn't feeling like apologizing. She would of course. But she promised herself not to mean it. She wasn't even a little bit sorry!

His hand whacked into her knickered bottom as though underlining each word. She kicked up hard, trying to knock away his hand and escape in the same movement. That his hand was hurting so much over her knickers wasn't a good sign at all. Clearly an apology was in order, though it was at least two or three minutes before she'd planned on being contrite. Mija took a deep breath, preparing to yelp her 'sorries'.

Instead, she heard a snide, almost-laughing, not-at-all-contrite voice say, "How very observant of you. Quick too."

Mija's eyes widened as the words left her mouth. Surely she hadn't said that, not those words, not in such a snarky voice. Much harder whacks, one to each unprotected thigh, made it clear she had indeed said just that. Still she bit the inside of her lips, unable and unwilling to apologize.

She felt like such a bad girl.

A few more whacks and Mija was set on her feet. She stood between Mr. Bailey's knees, tears shining in her eyes.

He looking into her eyes, his hand under her chin preventing her from looking away. "I thought you were a big enough girl to put on your uniform by yourself. Apparently, that isn't the case."

Mija shuffled from one foot to another, blushing with a need to look away from Mr. Bailey's serious green eyes. Could he see the humor in this? Was he actually amused deep down? Surely he couldn't really take all this uniform stuff as seriously as he seemed to. She focused on his forehead, trying to seem like a good girl but still not obedient.

"Such a fuss," he finally said as he looked deeply into her eyes. There was a longish pause as he seemed to wait for an answer.

"I - I - I don't like the grey one," she explained miserably, a single tear sliding down one cheek.

He seemed slightly moved by her dislike, nodding slightly and tracing his finger around the collar of her white shirt. She trembled slightly as he pushed his finger into the space between her shirt and throat.

"I don't expect you to like it, Mija. But I do expect you to obey me. You know that. Schoolgirls don't get to choose their uniforms and neither do you."

He pushed his finger deeper inside her collar, pulling it tighter against her throat.

"You know that, don't you? I'd set out the uniform I expected to find you wearing."

Breathing shallowly, Mija nodded and swallowed hard.

"Yes, sir."

"So, miss, bring me that uniform. Right now - no discussion. You're already in big trouble." The phrase "big trouble" was said with special feeling. "You don't want to make me ask you twice."

Mija thought of a response but, glad for a brief reprieve from his gaze, she instead scrambled to pick up the scattered grey uniform, hoping the wrinkles would shake out as she hurried back. She shoved the pile of grey into Mr. Bailey's waiting lap.

He looked at her. She blushed, looked back and then down.

"Give me your foot."

Mija stood uncomfortably while he removed her right t-strap shoe followed by her left. She tried to help, but he slapped her hands away, then smacked her thighs.

"You had your chance to change into this uniform yourself, miss. When I want your help, I'll ask you for it."

Her right and left white ankle socks were carefully tucked in the shoes. Mija's toes curled into the carpet as he unpinned and unwrapped her kilt. The air felt cool on her bare thighs and she closed her eyes and shivered, even before she felt his cool fingers slide beneath the strong elastic of her white knickers.

"Step," he ordered after he pulled them down to her ankles. Mija stepped out of them. Her hands rose involuntarily in a vain attempt to protect her modesty. Her shirt and tie followed, removed like the kilt, and were carefully set aside.

"Hands behind your head."

Mr. Bailey looked down at his lap and then up at Mija. Her gaze followed his back to the many-shaded grey tangle. Slowly and deliberately he put them in order, first pulling out the dark grey knee socks, folding them and setting them on the bed beside him. The light grey heavy cotton knickers followed. Mija rolled her eyes, the wait agonizing. Mr. Bailey then carefully shook out the pearly grey pleated skirt, folding it and setting it beneath the socks and knickers.

He then turned his attention to the shirt, prompting Mija to wrinkle her nose in distaste. It was really the worst. She could tolerate the rest of the uniform if only she could somehow get rid of that shirt. But wishing it away didn't make it vanish. When it was neatly folded, Mr. Bailey set the crisp, smoke grey shirt on its own beside the other grey pile.

"Go hang up your other uniform. Otherwise it'll end up needing to be washed."

Mija was in agony. Being naked in front of him made her feel huge and awkward. Made her long to pull the covers from the bed and fold them around her as a tent. But she did as she was told, hastily putting her beloved red uniform away and coming back to stand before him.

"Good girl. Now, let's get you properly kitted in your proper uniform."

Mija shivered, still more dismayed by her bareness. The hated grey knickers, pulled on in an easy motion, were a huge relief. At least she had something on now. And no one could claim these things didn't cover as much as knickers possibly could.

"Sit please." The two words, though phrased as a request, were an order.

Mija sat, hoping the horrid grey shirt would be the next thing on, but not daring to offer any suggestions. She didn't need to hear again that she'd had the chance to get ready on her own.

Mr. Bailey knelt beside her, gathered a grey knee sock and pulled it onto Mija's right foot. Then left, carefully folding both over so the tops formed a clean band under each knee. The addition of the knee socks, while warming, did little for her feeling of bareness. She wanted clothes. Any clothes, even the hated grey school uniform, were better than staying like this.

Mr. Bailey sat beside Mija and picked up the grey shirt, once again crisp and folded. He shook it out and unbuttoned it. Stiff with sizing, the shirt crackled slightly in his hands.

"Stand in front of me, Mija."

She stood, sliding her arms into the proffered shirt, the smooth, stiff material brushing her arms. Mija felt self-conscious and useless as he carefully buttoned her up, the starched material practically creaking around her. A fleeting image of a shirt made of grey cardboard rather than cotton passed through her mind and she coughed to cover her nervous giggle. Laughter at this point would be bound to be misunderstood.

He looked up and gave her a frown before he stopped buttoning, leaving the top collar one undone. Mija's skirt came next, then finally lace-up black shoes. She tried not to scowl, but there was nothing in this uniform she found appealing. Mr. Bailey brushed her hair hard and plaited it into a single braid down her back, tying the end with a black ribbon. She hated having it all pulled back in a big clump, but didn't need to hear again that this wasn't about what she did or didn't want. So she sat still and let him continue to fuss over her.

Finally, Mr. Bailey stood up and looked down at Mija.

"Much better. As always, your hair wasn't brushed properly either. Now lift your chin so I can button your collar." It was a bit too snug, so he had to tug a bit, making the starched cotton dig into the back and sides of her neck. Mija would have sworn the starched button hole made an audible 'pop' as the button slid home. She swallowed hard, feeling the collar press into her throat.

He looked her up and down appraisingly.

"Much better. Don't you feel better now?"

Mija looked down at her skirt and shoes before a hand under her chin raised her eyes to his.

"Don't look away again unless you want to find yourself over my left knee." He tapped it, for emphasis she assumed. "You look into my eyes when you're talking to me and give me full and complete answers. Is that clear, miss?"

Mija swallowed hard, resisting the urge to jerk her chin away. "Yes, sir." No more defiance, she told herself. She didn't need any more 'pre spankings'.

"Good, now answer me. Don't you feel better now that you're dressed as you should be?"

Mija looked into his eyes. She felt better for being dressed rather than not. But she liked the other uniform better. Come to think about it, she liked all of her other uniforms better. Still, she gave a partly honest answer.

"Yes, sir."

He was quiet for a moment and she realized he was waiting for an apology. Something which was so hard for her to give when his gaze was so intense. Her desire to look away seemed to dry her throat.

"Sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

Mija tried to keep her eyes on his, tried hard not to stamp her foot against the floor.

"I'm very sorry, sir, that I wasn't dressed in the uniform you laid out for me."

There was a pause. What more could he want?

"And for making you wait?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

She sighed, but only in her head. "I'm telling you I'm sorry for making you wait, sir."

How much more unbearable could this get? Still, since she was sure this conversation was all that stood between her and a very sore bottom, Mija tried to think of something else to say.

"Um, it's just . . ."

"Yes, Mija?"

"It's just that, well, you know. I'm sorry for doing it, but it's only because this uniform makes me feel ugly." She tried to stop, but felt her voice break on the last word as she started to cry a little. Crying like this when she was talking to him was something Mija just hated about herself. And, she knew, it happened all too often.

Still, there was a good response. Paul reached out and wrapped Mija in his arms for a moment, letting her hold on tight to him while he squeezed her to his chest.

He murmured: "You always look adorable in your uniform. You know I think so."

And she did know. But it was still so hard. Mija felt her tears fall against his shirt and reached up to try and rub them away.

Finally he moved her to arms length. Mija's throat closed and she felt light-headed with the combined dread and relief that almost always washed over her at these moments. Still she didn't break eye-contact (except for some longer-than-usual blinks) when she felt his hands under her skirt, tugging her knickers to mid-thigh. Before Mija fully realized it, she was reaching out to hold on tight to the chair rungs, shivering a bit at the cool air that seemed to brush like feathers against her warm bottom.

There was nothing more to say. She felt the tap-tap of the hairbrush as it seemed to measure her bottom for the tenderest spots. Not that it needed to, she thought for an instant, just before it crashed like fire into her right sit-spot. After that, Mija thought of nothing, instinct keeping her hands tight against the chair rung, as she wailed with each brush stroke. Only his arm wrapped tight around her waist kept Mija's struggles from landing her on the floor.

It seemed like hours, but it was perhaps only minutes before Mr. Bailey set the brush aside only to continue with his hand. Mija's wailing didn't cease, but she'd stopped struggling and was simply crying - a contrite child now.

"I don't expect this to ever happen again, miss."

"No, no," she agreed. "No, it won't, I promise."

"Good girl." And this with a last flurry of spanks.

Two hours later, her bottom still glowing, Mija went to Mr. Bailey with her promised work schedule and the first few pages of a new essay.

He read them over carefully, asking questions and making notes. And making only a few clucking noises over her always-creative spelling.

"Good girl," he said again. And sent her to put the papers away.

Mija did so, practically skipping. The world felt bright and new and so did she. Perfect, a good girl again. And always. Discipline and limits always had that effect. There was no inner brat, no struggle, no little voice in her ear urging her toward naughtiness.

She was free to be obedient.

She returned to find Paul seated on the edge of his chair, motioning her to kneel between his knees. As she did, tipping her head up to look him in the eyes, his fingers traced around and slipped inside the starched collar of her grey shirt, tightening it against her throat. She swallowed hard, the pressure making her aware of the action.

"Who do you belong to?"

"You."

Which asked and whom answered is unimportant.

Back to stories about us

Back to the treehouse