The classroom had always felt like a cage. Bright fluorescent lights, stale air, and the low hum of indifferent voices--until that day, when something inside me snapped. I wasn't the type who usually drew attention. Slim, quiet, always the observer rather than the participant. But something about the way the others laughed, the way they looked at him--the confident one, the one who could make girls giggle with a glance--got to me.
So in history class, I tried to be funny. Tried to act like I didn't care. I made a crack at the teacher's expense, loud enough for everyone to hear. It worked, for a moment. A few chuckles. A few eyes on me. Then silence.
I was sent to the principal's office.
Everyone had their own version of the stories about her. Some said she was ruthless. Others whispered that she had an old-school way of dealing with troublemakers. No one knew for sure. She was new, very young, around 30 years old, and with ambition and desire for affirmation.
Her office door creaked open and the world shifted.
The room smelled faintly of vanilla and old wood, like a library hiding something secret beneath the surface. She stood beside her desk, calm, composed, and devastatingly authoritative. What struck me first was not her posture--but her outfit. It wasn't just professional. It was deliberate.
Her black pencil skirt was high-waisted and sharp, hugging her hips like a second skin. The fabric was thick and textured, with just the faintest sheen that caught the light as she moved. Tucked into it was a silky ivory blouse--sleeves cuffed neatly to her elbows, the satin clinging to her torso and whispering with every subtle breath she took. The top two buttons were open--not low enough to be obvious, but just enough to draw the eye. Her high heels were jet black, pointed, polished, and unreasonably high. Every step they took echoed a silent warning.
She wore power like a perfume. And she wore it well.
"Sit," she said, without looking up.
The silence stretched.
"So," she said at last, lifting her eyes to mine. "You thought you were funny. You thought making a fool of your teacher would make you... what, popular?"
I hesitated. I had no clever response now. No audience. Just the quiet intensity in her gaze, the slow tapping of a pen on her desk.
"I believe in discipline," she said calmly. "And when rules are broken--especially by someone trying to show off--I make sure it doesn't happen again."
She stood, walked around the desk, and closed the blinds. The light in the room softened, became more intimate. She locked the door with a soft click. My heart began to race.
"You want attention?" she asked, her voice low. "You'll get it. But not the kind you were hoping for."
She pointed at the desk.
"Bend over."
Something inside me froze. But my legs moved on their own. I placed my hands on the cold wood. Heard her footsteps move behind me. Then the quiet slide of a drawer.
"Hold still."
"Count", she said.
The first strike cracked through the room like a gunshot. Pain bloomed instantly across my skin, and a breath escaped my lips before I could stop it.
A sharp, slicing pain that lit my senses on fire. I gritted my teeth.
