They Came For Me In Math Class free porn video

THEY CAME FOR ME IN MATH CLASS

CRYSTAL SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

11 NOVEMBER 2013

Violet Fahy was, as usual, bored. There were only fifteen minutes left in the hour-and-a-half calculus class, although to be fair she’d been bored as soon as Mr. Koncewicz had started talking. A few years ago she’d been enrolled in a private school to the south in Gulfport, although that had been shut down due to an ‘ideologically contaminated syllabus’. In the seventeen-year old schoolgirl’s opinion St. Alban the Martyr’s School for Catholic Girls wasn’t quite in the same league. Well, that was sweetening it. Violet had spent the past two school years bored out of her mind, racing ahead of the curriculum and spending most of her school hours either reading whatever picked her fancy or simply willing the minute hand to tick faster.

While most of the other schoolgirls were struggling over binomial theorem, Violet was working through Trusting Our Fate in the Hands of God – an early-20th century critique of capitalism – in the original Dutch. She’d fired off an application to the University of Amsterdam in the Netherlands and was desperately hoping they’d accept her. The academic reputations of American universities had gone straight for the gutter ever since President Palin’s Educational Reform Act went into effect. And besides, she’d spent the past fourteen years of her life in Mississippi. Anymore and she’d either go crazy or worse – settle down.

?Ms. Fahy,? said Mr. Koncewicz, blocking out the light with his towering figure. Violet scrambled to cover the library book with her calculus textbook, although the move was largely symbolic. Unlike many of the other teachers, Mr. Koncewicz didn’t particularly care that Violet was breaking school policy by reading during class, but he still had to pretend so.

?Sorry, sir. My humble apologies,? sputtered Violet, her voice filled with emotions she didn’t feel. She normally kept her tone relatively subdued compared to the borderline-hyperactivity or nauseatingly high pitches some of her classmates had, but she put on the startled schoolgirl mask at the drop of a hat, which was quite a useful skill, she’d discovered. In a few second’s the mathematics teacher would walk away, and she’d resume her readings....

?Ms. Fahy, it appears you have visitors,? he murmured, in a person-to-person tone teachers rarely used when addressing students. A kind of personal empathy that overruled professional detachment. Violet bit down on her tongue without thinking, but otherwise maintained an indifferent appearance. She slipped a glance over her shoulder through the window beside the classroom door and saw.... shit. Vice Disciplinarian White himself, glaring back at her through a pair of wire-frame glasses. If there was something every student in the United States knew by now, it was that you wanted to avoid the attention of the Disciplinarians. The fact that one was calling to collect her could only mean trouble.

Violet calmly stood up, taking time to collect the shamrock-green blazer across the back of her chair and slide it on, buttoning it up and quickly brushing off the most obvious clumps of dirt. She quickly collected her various books and slipped them into a transparent backpack – by rule, students weren’t allowed to have any other kind. Brushing a few loose strands of her black hair out of her face, Violet quietly slipped out of the classroom.

?Sir,? said Violet in greeting, trying to consciously keep her body from locking up in fear. Her fingers curled around the edge of her skirt and she flexed her knees in a deep curtsey, bowing her head as she did so. She drew the motion out to a few long, eloquent seconds, before straightening up and clasping her hands together behind her back. ?Student Violet Fahy reporting, sir.?

The Vice Disciplinarian’s expression had not been visibly softened by her display of submissiveness, although then again, nothing seemed to. The title vice disciplinarian was something of a pun. Officially, it referred to Disciplinarians directly beneath the Head Disciplinarian, ? la the Vice President. Unofficially, of course, it referred to part of the job description involving cracking down on any vices – or pleasures, apparently. Inappropriate music (just about everything produced since the late 1800s), boisterous games, improper uniforms, non-cafeteria food – all of these were threats the Vice Disciplinarian was supposed to respond to. And Mr. White took his job was unflinching professionalism.

?Ms. Fahy, you are to report to the Headmaster’s Office immediately,? instructed Mr. White, in the same tone a judge read a sentence of execution. He looked like he was about to say something else, but stopped mid-thought. Violet attempted to capitalize on this mental hiccup.

?Did they say why, sir?? Violet knew she was breaking school policy by speaking in the hallway without answering a direct question from a staff member (Rule 20.3, Students’ Handbook), but the information could be well worth the risk if it gave her an edge in the upcoming situation

There was an awkward silence for five rapid heartbeats.

?Ms. Fahy, perform fifty punishment burpees immediately for your violation of the Academic Code.? Evidently, it hadn’t worked.

Disciplinarians were the experts of corporal punishment, with at least one assigned to every school in America to ensure proper punishments were meted out for transgressions. What precisely constituted an appropriate punishment was left up to the individual Disciplinarian, and they were often disturbingly imaginative. Mr. White was something of a fan of physical exercise punishments, and while Violet was by no means out of shape, fifty punishment burpees were still more than she could handle comfortably...

Violet walked out to the middle of the hallway, glancing down at the dirty, well-scuffed linoleum floor tiles. Best to get this over with...

Violet raised her hands over her head, jumped in the air, dropped down into a squatting position, placed her hands on the floor, kicked her feet back, did a push-up touching her nose to the floor, pulled her feet back into the squat, and finished with a full jumping jack. One. It was by no means an easy exercise, combining push-ups, squats and jumping jacks into one fluid motion. Two. The Disciplinarian was walking in front of her, giving Violet a good view of his black leather shoes a few inches from her face every time she dropped down. Three. Her blazer and skirt brushed against the dirtied floor, and some part of Violet’s mind idly wondered if she’d be further punished for that. Maybe you should spend more time in the gym, Violet mentally muttered, as her own leather shoes began to chaff her ankles...

...

Fifty.

Violet struggled to regain her composure, which was no easy feat when her lungs and various muscles ached, her heart was pounding like an overcharged metronome and her white dress shirt was visible stained with her sweat. Violet hated losing her cool demeanour.... which was probably why Mr. White had chosen that punishment in the first place. Miserable old fuck. Rather than risk further penalty for dirtying her blazer’s sleeve with her sweat, Violet simply clasped her hands behind her back as she had before, letting the beads of sweat trickle down her cheeks.

?You will not speak in the hallways unless asked a direct question by a staff member. Understood??

?Yes, sir,? replied Violet curtly, mustering every ounce of willpower to keep her heavy breathing from interfering with her cool tone.

Without another word Mr. White turned on his heels and began strolling down the hallways. Violet followed a few paces back, sponging up the worst of her sweat with her woollen blazer sleeve and re-adjusting her necktie before Mr. White could glance back. The walk to the Headmaster’s Office took about three minutes, during which time they encountered only bland-faced staff members. Without a pass students were not allowed outside the classrooms, and nobody had broken that rule since Wendy Chan back in September. Everyone had heard what happened during that Discipline Session......

Mr. White showed her into the Headmaster’s Reception Room, where a middle-aged secretary typed away on an Apple desktop computer. There were a half-dozen chairs in a row for persons waiting to see the Headmaster, although Violet knew better than to take one. Those, after all, weren’t for students. Violet slipped into a corner of the room where she stood with her hands behind her back. The Reception Room was empty apart from the secretary and Mr. White, although that was hardly unusual. The Headmaster wasn’t known for his public appearances. Which was why waiting for his attention was such an unsettling experience.

All students had been required to memorize the Uniform Code section of the Students’ Handbook, and she ran through it in her head. Uniforms had been mandatory in all schools since the 2011 academic reforms – the same reforms which brought in the Disciplinarians – and St. Alban’s wasn’t one of the Northern schools which took the new reforms lightly.

SECTION 3        -        UNIFORM CODE

THIS SECTION RELATES TO HOW SCHOOLGIRLS ARE TO DRESS AND MAINTAIN THEIR PHYSICAL APPEARENCE AT ALL TIMES. ANY DEVIANCE FROM THE RULES WILL BE PUNISHED. NO RULES ARE OPTIONAL OR FLEXIBLE. CONSULT DISCIPLINARIAN BEFORE ATTEMPTING ANY ALTERATIONS.

Classroom Attire (Default) Schoolgirls are to wear white brassieres, which do not draw any unnecessary attention to the breasts, or enhance cleavage in any manner. Schoolgirls are to wear white cotton panties in the style of briefs. Schoolgirls are to wear white dress shirts. The shirt must be properly starched, with special emphasis on the collar and cuffs. All buttons must be buttoned at all times. This refers to buttons on the cuffs, collar and neck. The shirt must be tucked into the skirt. Schoolgirls are to wear the official St. Alban the Martyr’s blazer. All buttons on the blazer are to be done up at all times. Schoolgirls are to wear a school tie (shamrock green). The tie is to be knotted in a Double Windsor knot, and knotted at the collar. Schoolgirls are to wear a school skirt. The skirt is to be three inches above the knee. Schoolgirls are to wear a black leather belt. The belt must be fastened around the skirt, and tightly buckled. Schoolgirls are to wear shamrock green ankle socks. Schoolgirls are to wear black leather dress shoes. The shoes are to have a heel two inches in height. The shoes are to fasten over the top of the foot. The shoes are to be polished at all times. No dirt, lint, ink, graphite or other material is to dirty any of the garments at any point. Failure to keep the uniform clean will be considered a violation. All material is to be kept free of wrinkles, creases, or other distortions.

Violet was pretty sure her uniform was spot-on. She tried to smooth out any rumples in her blazer and hoped her sweat was no longer visible. The uniform manufacturer was based in Colorado, which was unfortunate, as they’d decided to make all their clothes out of a heat-trapping wool. While that might do well for the mountainous winters further west, it had sent more than one schoolgirl to the brink of hyperthermia.

Violet spent another twenty minutes waiting patiently in the corner, letting no sign of annoyance or impatience express itself. She idly wondered whether this was an intentional stalling tactic to unease her, let her worries and panic gnaw away at her. Probably. On the up side, it gave her enough time to ensure her sweat was no longer visible. Hopefully its scent didn’t stand out. Were there any regulations in the Students’ Handbook about smell? There had to be, but why couldn’t she remember....

?Ms. Fahy, the Headmaster will see you now,? declared the secretary, snapping Violet out of her mental ramblings. The administrative assistant gestured to a large oak door which Violet had never actually passed through. A bronze nameplate was carefully hung on the front, although it read only THE HEADMASTER. Violet put one hand gingerly one a large golden door handle, pressed it down, then pushed the deceptively-heavy door open.

The Headmaster’s Office was perhaps ten by thirty feet in dimensions and fifteen-odd feet high. The walls and floor were all wood-panelled, light reflecting off their well-polished surfaces through four towering windows on the opposite side of the room. Ornate Persian carpets covered the floor, while a handful of large sofas and chairs adorned the room. Seated behind a titanic wooden desk was the Headmaster himself, a man in his mid-fifties wearing a well-tailored Italian business suit that probably cost more than most teachers made in a year. Three other men in slightly cheaper suits sat on a large couch slightly off to the side, their eyes obscured by the kind of sunglasses issued to police officers and other government officials.

Shit.

Violet’s mind blanked for a fraction of a second, before she recovered herself, walking forward through the room until she stood a half-dozen paces from the Headmaster’s desk. Her mind raced as she struggled to think of what to do next. She contemplated curtseying, but Mr. White had followed her in and she was worried the gesture might appear cheap. Instead, she simply dropped to both knees, pressing her forehead into the Persian rug. She was sure Mr. White just got an impressive up skirt glance. She hoped the move unnerved somebody, as a full-out prostration was considered excessive even at St. Alban’s.

Violet heard the Headmaster get to his feet and walk over to her, spotting his shoes in the corner of her vision. He crouched down, extending one hand as if to pat her.... before grabbing a handful of her black hair and savagely yanking her to her feet. Violet let out a short yelp of pain and she struggled to relieve the pressure on her scalp. The Headmaster was a good foot taller than her, and standing on tip-toes she could barely relieve the pain.

?Violet Fahy, you have brought dishonour onto this school. Your recklessness has compromised the reputational integrity of this Institution, and forced me to take drastic measures to ensure we remain out of the media.? He slacked his grip on her hair, allowing Violet to drop back to the soles of her feet, but still kept a few thick strands clutched in his palm.

?I’ve reached an agreement with your Headmaster,? said one of the men in sunglasses, standing up from the large couch. The Headmaster released his grip on Violet’s hair as the man approached. He extended a long, bony finger, which caressed Violet’s jawbone. ?We will videotape your punishment and use it as a demonstration video to deter further problems at other schools across the country, in exchange for not alerting the local press. After you have been punished, you will be taken into custody and transferred to the Public Chattel Office.?

?But what have I done?? asked Violet, in a tone that was somewhere between an angry demand and a desperate plea. Before she could wince the Headmaster’s hand sailed through the air, slapping her hard across the face. Her cheek stung, but she refused to bow her head. The Public Chattel Office? The only reason I’d be sent there...

A nauseous realization swept her subconscious mind as one of the agents fitted a high-definition camera onto a tripod directly in front of the Headmaster’s desk. Another agent grabbed her by the forearm and pulled her about a dozen feet back from the camera, ensuring her entire body was in the shot. Somebody must have flicked a switch, as automatic curtains began descending, covering the large windows that were letting what was left of the October sun into the room. Since none of the room’s lights were on, the only light came from through cracks in the blinds, which struggled to illuminate the cavernous office.

The Public Chattel Office (PCO) were responsible for overseeing America’s economy for indentured servitude or slavery, depending on how you saw it. The Indentured Servitude Act had been signed into law a few years earlier in an attempt to deal with the late-2000s economic recession. In short, it allowed individuals who were impossibly in debt to sell themselves into temporary slavery, in exchange for financial aid over a period of years. Initially only the most indebted of people were indentured, but what was left of the banking industry supported it with a passion. Now a period of slavery was written into many legal contracts as penalty for missing a mortgage or rent payment.

?Ms. Fahy, you will now strip to your underwear,? instructed one of the PCO agents. Violet blinked slowly, before dragging herself back to the reality of her situation and forcing her to deal with it. Don’t let them fluster you she willed herself, taking a slow, deep breath and consciously relaxing her muscles.

Violet slipped off her blazer and tossed it onto a nearby chair. She loosened her tie off, unbuttoned her blouse and let the garments form a small pool around her feet. She undid the leather belt around her waist and slipped out of her skirt, unlaced her shoes and slowly peeled her socks off. She stood there in a pair of snow white panties and bra, staring into the unflinching lenses of the camera recording her every action.

One of the agents lumbered forward bearing what looked like an oversized X, and it took Violet a few seconds to figure out what it was. The device was metal and painted black, and was known in some circles as a St. Andrew’s Cross – an X-shaped device designed to hold its occupant in the spread-eagle position while standing upright. She’d seen it used only a handful of times before on some of the School’s worst offenders. Whose noble ranks she was apparently about to join...

The agents grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her towards the cross, so that her back was facing the camera. Each wrist was strapped into a leather cuff, in such a manner that it was impossible for her to slip out. They proceeded to spread her feet wide apart, making her feel even more exposed and vulnerable. The cross was firmly supported and heavy, so there was nothing Violet could do to knock it over – or move, really. She felt the cold metal against her bare skin, and her body was already beginning to protest the discomfort of being pulled four ways at once.

?This schoolgirl’s father,? said one of the PCO agents, speaking as if to an audience, ?became so indebted and financially dependent that he was forced to sell his daughter into public servitude. See to it that this doesn’t happen to you.?

He was talking to the camera, but Violet’s head spun with the realization. The man was her adopted father, not her biological father, but the difference was unimportant right now. For all legal purposes she was his property, which meant that when the casino debts got a little too high, all he had to do was sign a few forms and she’d be sold to the State. Fucking bastard though Violet, infuriated.

The anger she felt was quickly replaced with apprehension, however, as she felt two soft taps on her buttocks. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, as she was unable to turn around and see what was happening. She felt more exposed than a blonde girl in a zombie movie.

Then, without warning, there was a sound of a swish in the air, and a thin bamboo cane collided at high speeds with Violet’s ass, causing her to let out a brief yelp of pain.

?Ow.?

?The schoolgirl has been sentenced to receive twenty strokes of the cane for wasting limited public resources. The first strike is a practice strike, as it ensures the cane is performing its function adequately. We will now begin the punishment.?

Violet bit her lip, slightly more prepared for the following strikes. The first one had caught her completely off-guard, sending waves of pain through her ill-prepared butt cheeks.

Smack.

The second – or first, officially – still stung, although at least she was slightly more prepared for it.

Smack.

Smack.

Violet wanted to yell, wanted to cry out in pain. The undisciplined parts of her mind had a volley of pleas and begs to hurdle at the men, asking for mercy before the punishment began in earnest. Violet dug her fingernails into the palms of her hand.

Smack.

Smack.

Violet tried to concentrate on something – anything – other than the bamboo cane that was striking her ass. Her cotton panties weren’t doing much to soften the blows. She tried to focus on the feel of the leather cuffs binding her wrists in place, or the cold metal touch of the cross.

Smack.

Smack.

She let out a subdued gasp of pain, but that was all. Her hands strained in their restraints, desperately trying to free themselves and caress her inflamed buttocks. She instinctively tried to bend her knees, trying to cover her ass with her feet, but the restraints around her ankles were just as effective. There would be no shielding herself from the blows.

Smack.

Smack.

?Ah!? Violet cried out in pain, she couldn’t help herself. The cane felt impossibly thin, almost blade-like, and each blow seemed to cut into her un-calloused buttocks, although some part of her brain knew it probably didn’t look as bad as it felt.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

Violet lost track of the blows as her eyes welled with tears. She was crying softly, while the rest of her body attempted to thrash in its restraints in order to avoid the blows. She let out a short shriek of pain after every blow, desperately wishing there was something she could say, something she could do to make the pain stop. But she knew there wasn’t.

Smack.

The last blow was the worst of all, although in absolute terms that didn’t mean much. They were all painful. Violet’s body was still tense waiting for the next blow when she felt two agents undoing the leather cuffs binding her wrists in place. Her cheeks were wet with tears, which she hurried to brush away with her bare forearm. The agents undid the restraints around her ankles, and spun her about-face so she was facing the camera. Everyone would see the expression of a girl in pain. Violet desperately wanted to massage her ass, to let her hands rub her cheeks and alleviate the pain, but each agent maintained a firm grasp on her wrist. She felt her knees buckling a little.

?Schoolgirl, are you deeply sorry for wasting public resources?? asked the third agent, his voice devoid of any empathic emotion. Violet struggled to regain control of her vocal chords.

?Yes, sir, very sorry, sir,? she muttered. Still, it was in a more controlled tone than she would have thought possible, and that pleased her, however slightly. She still sounded more submissive than she actually was.

?Now, I believe your Headmaster has some further grievances with you,? said the agent, and Violet’s jaw dropped like a cartoon character.

?Wait, what-? she sputtered as the two agents dragged her back to the cross, this time so she faced the camera.

?In the past few hours, you’ve committed more violations of the Students’ Handbook than most of your peers commit in a year,? chided the Headmaster, as he strolled towards his desk. ?You honestly don’t think we could let such offenses go unpunished, do you??

?Sir, I.... wait, this is-? but her protests were in vein, she knew, with a sickening feeling in her stomach, as the agents tightly buckled the cuffs around her wrists and ankles once more. At least she had the cold metal pressing against her swollen ass for the moment....

Violet watched with a mixture of apprehension and dread as the Headmaster opened up a drawer and withdrew – to her horror – a two-foot long thin leather bullwhip. If her wrists hadn’t been bound above her head Violet would’ve dropped to her knees in either shock or despair. After her earlier experience during the caning she knew her pain tolerance wasn’t as good as she’d believed it was. She didn’t know if she’d be able to handle this....

The Headmaster strolled forward, curling the long whip into a circle in his hands. She was what might have been a small grin on his face as he locked eyes with her for a fraction of a second. He then uncurled the whip, and took a few steps back, in order to make sure he was at a distance where the whip would have maximum effect.

?Schoolgirl, you have brought dishonour onto our school through your criminal acts and gross negligence. You will be punished with thirty lashes across the chest, fifteen of which will be on bare skin. You will serve as an example for future would-be transgressors.?

Violet let out a small whimper as the bullwhip unravelled to its full length. She tried to curl up, but that was impossible while she was bound tightly to the cross. Her eyes instinctively tracked the whip as it was drawn back, then sung through the air at speeds impossible to follow-

Crack.

?Ahhh!? Violet screamed in pain as the bullwhip flew horizontally and struck her across her breasts, sending waves of pain reverberating through her chest. Before her brain could properly recover from the sensory overload the whip was moving again.

Crack.

There was nothing she could do to mitigate the pain. The blows struck her chest with more force than she’d experienced in her life, and on such a tender, sensitize area as well.

Crack.

Well, which is worse some voice in the back of her head nagged. Seeing it or not seeing it?

Violet’s eyes were locked onto the leather bullwhip as if hypnotized, unable to detach from the device inflicting pain upon her. As the Headmaster drew back the whip she felt every muscle in her body tense up, and she squeezed her eyes shut only a fraction of a second before the blow hit.

Crack.

Seeing it she decided. Definitely worse.

Crack.

Crack.

Tears poured from Violet’s eyes over her cheeks, she yelped and cried in pain as the Headmaster whipped her breasts. She looked up at the Headmaster between waves of pain, tried to concentrate through blurred vision on the man inflicting this upon her. He was smiling.

Crack.

?Ow you fucking son of a bitch!? cursed Violet, as her breasts screamed in agony.  ?Goddamned fucked-up-?

Crack.

She began swearing like a kid with Tourette’s Syndrome on a sugar high. She didn’t care anymore, the pain had washed away those inhibitions.

There was a pause in the whipping, and Violet’s body took the opportunity to try to recover from the pain, even for a few moments. Violet knew she should have been worried, but strapped up on the cross as she was she could only focus on the sensation of burning on her breasts.

The Headmaster drew a large white handkerchief out of one his pockets and walked up to Violet’s helpless figure. She knew what he was trying to do, and but didn’t care. The logical part of her brain could barely keep her from spitting on the man. The Headmaster firmly grabbed her jaw with one hand and stuffed the handkerchief into mouth. Just as he turned away Violet spat it out onto the floor. What am I, some fucking idiotic damsel in distress? The Headmaster let out a soft sigh, went back to his desk, returning moments later with a large roll of industrial grey duct tape.

He stooped down, retrieved the handkerchief, and stuffed it back into Violet’s mouth. The taste of cloth filled her mouth, but just about any sensory input was preferable to what she was feeling on her chest. The Headmaster took the roll of duct tape and placed one end on Violet’s right cheek, before proceeding to wrap it around her head several times. The duct tape coiled around her skull like a boa constrictor, getting entangled in her hair and almost tightening around her head. There would be no spitting out of gags anymore.

?Now, shall we resume?? asked the Headmaster, once he’d retrieved his whip and returned to his position. ?I believe we were at.... five??

Violet shouted in protest, but it came out as little more than a loud mmmmmmghf. The handkerchief was large, and caused her cheeks to bulge out, muffling the sounds as they came from her lungs and preventing her tongue from shaping sounds. Also, she realized, she now had to breathe only through her nose. Great.

Crack.

The strike was worse than before, as her body was not expecting it, although her skin was still tender from the previous strikes. Her yells of pain were thoroughly muffled to others, but the pain was no more subdued to Violet.

Crack.

Crack.

The next handful of blows passed in a blurry haze, as Violet struggled to maintain any mental cohesion. Tears wetted her face, her cheeks were red, her expression pained. When the bullwhip stopped its song through the air a few strokes later, Violet was being supported only by the cuffs around her wrists.

?That was the first fifteen lashes,? said the Headmaster, ?administered on a clothed chest. We will now administer the remaining fifteen lashes on a bare chest.? He nodded to one of the PCO agents, who walked over and unclipped Violet’s bra, allowing it to fall to the floor. Her reddened breasts were being recorded on the ever-watching tripod-mounted camera, visible for all to see. A half-dozen red streaks were visible over her breasts already.

Crack.

Violet tried to yell in pain without avail as the sixteenth official blow struck her bare chests. She hadn’t realized how much of a difference the cotton bra had made until now. Her body was able to record the feel of the leather against its skin, a new layer of sensitivity sending her to new heights of pain.

Crack.

Crack.

Violet’s nipples seemed to burn in pain as the whip fell across them, striking some of the most sensitive areas of her body with reckless abandon.

Crack.

Crack.

She thrashed on the cross, unable to move, although this only caused her breasts to jiggle a little more than normal.

Crack.

Crack.

Violet just wanted to draw her arms over her chest like a naked girl in a movie, to cover herself, to shield her breasts from the pain. But it was a pointless wish. The leather cuffs were as unforgiving as always, and the schoolgirl remained just as helpless.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of pain and suffering, the whip fell upon her bare breasts for the last time. Violet’s face and chest were both a scarlet red, her breasts criss-crossed with thin lines where the bullwhip had struck. She was sweating profusely, and some bizarre part of her brain was telling her she needed water. But it was, for now, over.

Two PCO agents undid the cuffs for the second time, letting Violet drop to her knees at the Headmaster’s feet, who was standing just to the side so he didn’t block the camera’s view. One of the agents grabbed the edge of the duct tape and began unravelling it, painfully separating Violet’s hair from the sticky tape. The pain of that, however, was barely noticeable. The saliva-drenched handkerchief dropped out of Violet’s mouth, and the schoolgirl dared gingerly bring her hands up to her breasts, massaging them in a desperate hope to dissipate the pain.

?You will now kiss the whip,? instructed the Headmaster, holding the coiled bullwhip a few inches from Violet’s face. Violet didn’t even contemplate a demonstration of resistance this time, instead simply pressing her lips against the whip. ?Very good. Now get dressed.?

Violet saw her clothes had been kicked hastily against the wall, and crawled on all fours over to them. She was still breathing heavily, completely exhausted in mind and body. She surveyed the pile of clothing as if it was some archaeological artefact of a long-lost civilization, before finding her bra and putting it on. She winced in pain as she fitted her reddened breasts into the cups, barely able to handle the cotton-to-skin contact.

Once her bra was on, however, she felt a little more self-control returning. She picked up her blouse and put it on, doing up the top button and those on the cuffs. She tightened her tie around her collar, tucked her shirt into her skirt, fastened the leather belt over that. She slipped her socks back on, laced up her shoes, and brushed some unseen dirt of her blazer for putting that on, too. She brushed a few sweat-covered hairs out of her eyes, trying to remember how she used to keep her poise in tense situations.

She turned around, and saw one of the PCO agents was dismantling the tripod, its job fulfilled. The Headmaster was already leafing through some paperwork on his desk, as if nothing had happened. Violet spotted another PCO agent walking towards her, a pair of titanium handcuffs dangling from one of his fingers.

?Ms. Fahy, I am instructed to place you under arrest and keep you restrained until you are properly processed.? Violet sucked in her lips, before pressing her wrists together and offering them to the agent. He shook his head. ?Turn around, ma’am.?

Violet did so, presenting her back to the agent, who strolled up behind her, grabbed her wrists, and pulled them behind her back. He tightened the titanium cuffs around each wrist with her palms facing outwards, so there was no way she could get enough slack to slip them around to the front. The sound of a click-click-click seemed to echo through the room as they were tightened around her bare skin, the agent careful not to trap either her blazer or blouse between the skin and cuff. The cool metal dug into her skin, ensuring there was no way she’d be slipping out them.

The agent, of course, was not done. Crouching down, he tightened a pair of shackles around her ankles, which were cuffed equally tight. The chain between each ankle was perhaps only a foot long, so even walking would present a challenge. The agent fastened a metal chain around Violet’s waist, just above her own leather belt, which he proceeded to lock into her handcuffs, ensuring she couldn’t move her hands away from her back.

Spinning her about, the agent proceeded to fasten a leather muzzle over Violet’s face. The muzzle was made of black leather and completely covered the schoolgirl’s mouth, preventing her from potentially biting or spitting on anyone. A black leather strap wrapped around the back of her head and was tightly buckled above the nape of her neck. Two straps went around either side of her nose before merging in a Y-shape over the top of her head, while another strap was buckled tightly beneath her jaw. The muzzle gag formed something of a harness over her head, ensuring it would be near-impossible for her to yank off even if her hands were free.

Finally, the agent took out a steel iron collar and fastened it tightly around Violet’s neck. The collar had a three foot-long bar attached to the back, allowing the officer to ‘steer’ Violet in whichever direction he wanted, or simply keep her at arm’s length. The agent nodded to his coworkers, who gathered up their remaining possessions before the agent marched Violet out of the Headmaster’s Office, the steel bar in the back of her beck forcing her forward. Violet stumbled as she walked, her feet racing to compensate for the short chain of the shackles.

The agent steered Violet through several long hallways on his way out of the school. Schoolgirls and teachers alike paused to gape and stare at the spectacle. Violet was wearing her full school uniform, accessorized with handcuffs, shackles, a waist chain, a prominent muzzle and a steel collar. Violet shuffled out of the school and into the parking lot, where a black SUV with the seal of the Public Chattel Office emblazed on the sides.

An agent opened the trunk of the large SUV, which ad obviously been modified to handle detainees. Inside was a small steel cage with bars on all sizes, a tight cube only three feet long in every direction. The agent unlocked the cage and beckoned for Violet to enter. Violet struggled to climb into the SUV – a task remarkably difficult with shackled feet – curling herself up into a tight ball inside the steel confines of the cage. The agent closed the grated door of the cage, two heavy locks making a loud clunk as they ensured the door could not be improperly opened.

A few seconds later, the trunk door was closed, and Violet was left in the quiet darkness of the SUV’s trunk, feeling the reverberations through the cage bars as the agents drove her away......

This story was written by Prataaraka, who can be contacted at:

[email protected]

Please feel free to contact the author for story comments, criticisms, feedback, etc., or for story requests.