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For Pablo, whom I will e'er blame for my uniform
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.
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
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
"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
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
"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
"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
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.
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 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 . . ."
"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?"
Which asked and whom answered is unimportant.
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