Copyright 2006 to <pablo@thetreehouse.net> 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.

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[Image of Mr Impossible] Jasmine, not Jasmine
by Pablo

"Yes, I've been looking forward to meeting this one for a long time," he said, overemphasised consonants biting the air.

Laura did her polite, making-the-assholes-feel-welcome smile. "Jasmine, this is David."

"Hello, David," I said, just as if I didn't doubt it for a second, good girl.

"David, this is Jasmine."

"Hello," he said. "Jasmine." Just as if he didn't believe it for a second.

"Jasmine has been a very naughty girl, David, but I'm sure you can show her the -", Jesus, Laura might as well be doing fucking panto, "- the error of her ways." She rolled her eyes at me, then moved quickly on to another introduction.

He smiled for his own pleasure, took hold of my chin and tilted it up. I let him. "And how has Jasmine been a naughty girl?"

"Jasmine has been doing bad things with very bad men, sir. And she likes it. Such a selfish, ungrateful cunt, Jasmine is." A tiny flinch of recognition in his eyes at those words, making me feel warm inside.

"I'm going to hurt you," he said. "And you're going to let me, and afterwards you'll be grateful. You'll be so very - professional about it."

"Yes, sir," said Jasmine. Fuck you, said someone else.

He tightened his grip on my hair, habit keeping his hand hidden, pulling me into the schoolroom, up to the space at the front.

"Toes," he said, and over I went, legs rail-straight, fingertips to my shiny T-bars.

And the thing is, it wasn't even hard. Even that long thin cane of his, the two-step into the stroke, placed exactly where he knew it would cut; not the first time, perhaps not even the second time, but by the third, the skin welting, giving way and releasing, Jasmine's feet still obediently together as blood ran slowly down her leg, a scarlet defiance rather than a defeat.

"I am so very, very grateful, sir," Jasmine said, a quietly snorted parody of submission.

Then steps backwards, faster steps forwards, and a fourth slicing stroke, this one across the backs of the locked knees, cutting them down. Jasmine fell to the floor, curling inwards.

"Jesus. Jasmine, what the hell?"

"It's okay, Laura. It's okay. I said it was okay. I'm okay. It's okay."

She helped me up, turned me around. "I think you're done for tonight, young lady." Then she pushed him out of the schoolroom, a small determined tug boat in the teeth of a gale.

I watched him pack away his things while Laura fetched something for the cuts.

"All these men," he said, baffled.

"Yes," I said. "All these men."

"I don't understand."

"I know. You'll never understand Jasmine. You can't hurt the person Jasmine used to be any more, and Jasmine is too strong. Power comes from knowing who you really are, and you haven't got a clue, have you?

"Now fuck off. David." Just as if I didn't believe it for a second.

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