College Behavior Advisor

Note to Readers

Under the conventions of serialized storytelling, the reason for beginning with Zia's 'final consequences' will be clearer if you read the preceding chapters.

Everyone at Margaret Thatcher College, from students like Merri and Zia to faculty, staff, and their loved ones, is 18 years of age or older.

This is a fantasy. I don't recommend this disciplinary regimen for colleges, judicial systems, or any young woman near you. May it turn on the movie theater projectors in your mind.

I appreciate comments and suggestions about where Merri might apply her professional skills next.

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Zia's Next Consequence is an Unmentionable

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"Zia, there is a second, final consequence you must face today. It's something that I find uncomfortable," I begin, trying to choose my words carefully.

"The College accepted a grant from the Department of Innovative Corrections to study the feasibility and effectiveness of a new form of judicial punishment gear. Their working name is 'punishment underwear,'" I explain. Zia's eyes widen and her shoulders tense up. Immediately, I pull her into a comforting hug, allowing her to bury her face in my chest.

Zia stammers, "Ma'am? I don't..."

"I'll get you through this. We'll do it together.

"Scary, I agree. I'll support you. We'll face it together. I'm part of the experiment, too," I reassured her. I sense what I believe is her determination and acceptance.

"What... what exactly is 'punishment underwear'?... A corset, ah, Ma'am?"

"Well, panties of course. Made of burlap. Not the kind advertised on the internet as organic or translucent, mind you. You grew up in farm country, didn't you Zia? This is itchy, coarse, wheat-sack burlap. There must have been a few wicked clever women on the design team to provide the intimate know-how to make clothing so utterly miserable for women to wear.

"There is spandex in the panties, too, to make them mold to your, or my, bottom. The label on the box they came in reads 'Long-leg, compression panty-girdle. Pull-up style.'"

"Ma'am, I don't understand." While hugging Zia, I sense her heartbeat and the rhythmic, bobbing movements of her toes and chest.

"You will, Zia. Unfortunately, you will. I will explain. We're going to have a show-and-tell.

"First, what size panties do you wear?"

"I wear a small, Ma'am."

"What panty-size number, if you remember Zia?"

"Size 4, I think."

"That was my assumption. Size 4 typically has a 26-inch waist. So, I brought two tiny punishment panties. An extra-small size 2 with a waist of 24 inches and an extra, extra-small size 00 with a waist of a mere 23 inches. The extra-small one should fit sufficiently snugly -- the designers use the word 'constrictingly,' Zia -- on your bottom for this experiment. They could simply have used the word 'strict,' don't you think?"

"Experiment?"

"Let me explain next what this is all about, Zia. Then, if you have questions, I'll answer them before we get you fitted and on your way.

"You know that the College has a master's program in Applied Corrections? It does, and I'm a graduate of our program. It was started two years ago, the year before the nation switched to using judicial corporal punishment for minor crimes.

"As you probably understand, the prison system was both hugely expensive and lacking in efficacy. Scientists claim, and some studies prove, that such punishment is less costly, represents more of a deterrent, and is more humane than long-term incarceration. All without lasting physical harm."

"Yes, Ma'am, but..."

"Let me continue, Zia.

"We research methods of deterring other people's misbehavior. Research on sufficiently retributive punishment for young offenders. And, Zia, on the best ways to change the future misbehavior of young women.

"As I've mentioned, a legislative committee is exploring new discipline techniques. Given the ongoing nature of our scientific research at the College, we chose not to reveal it to students to maintain the integrity and impartiality of the study.

"This is why you did not read about correctional garments in the materials the Board sent you.

"The College's ergonomics experts meticulously designed these correctional panties. Their purpose is to provide the wearer with a consistent and persistent reminder of her misconduct. Done right, and I'll explain that in a moment, the young woman's reminder should persist until we permit her to remove them."

"In your case, Zia, you will come to my office for release.

"That means, I'm afraid, the itchier and more uncomfortable the panties, the more beneficial they are for the punished student's future behavior. Because of your conviction by the Student Board, you are one of the test subjects.

"I'm so sorry, Zia. This is all TMI. All I've done is scare you. I promise you this. You will get through it. Just as I am.

"I'm going to guide you into the panties now. This girdle offers more than just tight compression, I must tell you. I've accepted the fact of them. That they are undeniably effective I can vouch for personally. Here are the two pairs I brought for you to try on.

"You see Thatcher's school colors? Anyone familiar with the experiment will immediately recognize them. And yes, I'm afraid you'll be seen wearing them. On the bright side, those colors suit you well.

"Uh, Ma'am..."

"Hush Zia. Let me finish, please." I hug her more tightly than I already am, briefly.

"This is your punishment panty, Zia. Notice it will confine you from barely above your knees to a high waist. This," my fingers highlight, "is a leather-reinforced outer layer sown over what a G-string would hide of your intimate parts. It will press your vulva. The rest of the panty inside and out is made of a burlap/spandex mix. The leather G-string's tongue is the 'string' part of a G-string.

"See, it reaches all the way back to your waist and threads through this loop at the back of the leather-reinforced burlap waistband and snugs up tight with these notches. It creates a wedgie.

"They purposely designed it to constantly remind you of its presence, in contrast to the usual sensation of regular panties that are feather light and barely there. Zia, the pressure on your princess parts will build.

"I owe you an apology, Zia. I find myself using euphemisms once more. What I meant is constant pressure on your mons, your clit, your labia lips, and your anus.

"Supposedly, these panties are manufactured by the straight-jacket company. Zia, the company's expertise lies in crafting lockable diaper covers specifically designed for adult women who must wear diapers as a disciplinary measure and who are forbidden from removing them. According to my friend, the pink faux leather material gives the wearers an 'adorable' appearance."

"The good news is the same as the bad news for both of us my potential young friend. Neither of us will look adorable in these ugly panties. Don't you agree?"

"I don't know... I get it, Miss Cradle. You would want me as a friend after this?"

I scold myself.

I'm not sure what she 'gets,' although I'm impressed she remembers my last name in this peculiar moment. But, 'Momma Spanks' time is now. Move on, Merri.

"Yes, I would, Zia.

"Touch the burlap."

She does, after my second urging/order.

"That's icky. I mean itchy. Both, I guess."

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Discipline By Punishment Panties Begins

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"Zia, the experiment protocol mandates you wear correctional panties at least one size smaller than your normal."

Because lingerie sizing in stores is haphazard, I tell Zia to hand me her panties from the pile of clothing she removed earlier. We hold up her chartreuse, loose-triangle cotton panties against the school-colors panty-girdle, a sage green festooned with cartoon rose-color bunnies. Cute. Visibly tinier, too.

"Please step in." Zia rests her hands on my shoulders, her touch providing me comfort.

I lower the scratchy burlap panties to the cool linoleum floor. Zia obediently points one small foot in at a time, her soft-cotton bluebonnet socks creating a visual and textural contrast against the rough fabric. The earthy, leather scent of the newly unboxed panty adds to the developing odor in the dorm room.

Assisting this normally responsible girl put on her new big-girl underwear creates a tender moment for me, similar to what I envision as a mother and daughter bonding while trying on the daughter's first adult panties.

With persistence, I inch the punishment panties' tight leg openings up Zia's legs. I feel the silkiness of her skin, which reminds me of the meticulous depilation I observed on her bare body this morning. Swimmer, of course! The texture of the burlap fabric rubbing against silky skin offers enough friction to hinder their ascent.

"'Horses sweat, men perspire, but ladies merely glow.'" Not true. Women swear and glow. Zia's bottom and thighs glisten with beads of sweat. Zia's bare skin, from below her waist to above her knees, is the beautiful, radiant glow of flushed, thoroughly warmed-by-spanking, skin. Such sights are one of the unique benefits of this odd profession of mine.

Once I have the 'long-leg, compression panty-girdle' over Zia's knees, I stop. The inside of her new panty forms a burlap bird's empty nest.

"You will hate this, Zia. I do."

"Ma'am?"

"Just a moment, Zia, and you will observe what I'm talking about. Don't move."

I pull a baggie of sand out of my bag and show it to her.

As part of the experiment, we're conducting tests to determine if the addition of coarse sand into punishment underwear intensifies abrasion. My conclusion from the two dozen girls I've punished this way so far? Or from my time at the beach in a one-piece? The rough texture of the sand creates a gritty sensation against the skin, causing a noticeable increase in friction. It works its mean way into the tiniest folds.

"Zia, I believe you deserve an explanation for our actions. We are conducting a cost-benefit analysis to determine the effectiveness of applying sand in girls' underpants. The crucial question is whether the discomfort and torment caused by this practice justify the allocation of resources and correctional employees' involvement. Additionally, we need to evaluate whether the time spent on renewing the sand multiple times a day, as opposed to just once or twice, is worth it."

"Multiple times...?" I ignore this new question. It will answer itself shortly.

Someone told the legislators that sanding panties is as much work as changing poopy diapers. I'm told some guys didn't understand what the person meant.

.

"Zia, I'm going to pour half of this coarse sand in your panties now."

"Why?"

"Hush, dear."

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Panty Sanding 101

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I bend over and pour her a sand gusset.

"Okay, Zia, let's ease these panties up in place," I say, clasping the rough texture of the fabric with my fingertips. As Zia pulls up from the waistband, I inch the leg openings up her bare, red, puffy, and spanked thighs and bottom cheeks. Warmth radiates from her skin. A small scent of her arousal mixes in the air. God, I hope she isn't whiffing me, I muse. Am I contributing to this?

Zia sniffles and mumbles, and I must encourage her to 'come on, let's get this done.' Finally, the panties are in place, although the tongue dangles below the crotch.

"There is a next detail to, in the words of the manufacturer, Zia, 'maximize your experience.'" I illustrate my words with air quotes. "You feel the sand here, right?" I cup her vulva over the panties and massage up and down, working the sand in. Not a task I welcome, I lie to myself.

"Yes. Yes, I do, Ma'am. Could you please stop?"

"I'm sorry, Zia. It is part of my responsibility to make sure your new panty is configured correctly, as per the experiment's explicit protocol. Now I'm going to pull out the panties' waistband." I carefully pour in half of the remaining coarse, dry sand. It trickles down her mons, coating her pubic hair, and works into her labia folds and pussy. Releasing the waistband to snap back, which I had not meant to do, I instruct Zia to turn around. She does, with reluctant slowness. I pull the rear waistband out as far as the leather stretches, so the remaining sand will filter down into the crease in her bottom cheeks and eventually over her inner thighs.

"There, dear, done with adding sand. Now I must massage."

I delicately place my fingers from my left hand on her crotch, while my other fingers rest on the base of the crevice that extends from the crease of her sit spots to the top of her bottom cheeks, effectively dividing them. I gently stroke up the crevice with my fingers, as if I were raking sand towards a hidden hole. Then I rub my thumb back down the cleft in her cheeks, turning it from side to side. In doing so, I mash the coarse, brown sand into numerous little pores, folds, and crevices. It's akin to spreading sand with a spatula, just like frosting on a warm baked cake.

I notice a pleasurable sensation in my groin. It's not the same as the tactile pleasure of my hands on her bare body transmitted while spanking. There is a thrilling, tingling sensation in my core when I massage her intimate spots beneath those burlap panties. It creates a sense of intimate contact for both of us, I think. These are sensations I must squelch.

The sensation of sand and burlap rubbing against her skin during the massage causes Zia to writhe in discomfort. My face floats just a few inches away from her groin, with my nose near the intimate areas of this punished princess. A faint scent of salt and fresh air mingles with the musk of girl-arousal and feminine sweat.

I should stop calling her a princess even in my mind. In a medieval world, Zia might fit as a jill-of-all-trades lady's maid with the potential for a governess. Or such is my unusually optimistic assessment of this first-year work in progress.

Placing my hand gently on Zia's left shoulder to keep her from moving away, I swiftly pull up the leather strap hanging from her fresh panties, guiding it back between her unsteady legs until it reaches the rear waistband. As I cinch this girth tight, reaching the sixth notch, Zia's pleas of pain fill the air.

"Oh, it's so painful. Please, no. Ma'am, please."

Desperately seeking relief, Zia levers up onto her tiptoes, the gritty sand scratching against her many bare, warm, moist crevasses. The heat of her spanked bottom intensifies the discomfort caused by the rough burlap fabric wedged tightly between her buttocks. With each motion she makes, whether it's lifting her fanny or adjusting her weight, the sand-coated fabric embeds itself more.

The weight of the wedgie shifts in sync with her body, which refuses to release its grip on her new panty.

"Jump up and down three times, Zia.

"Right now, young lady.

"Zia, you didn't jump high enough to miss an ant. Three... Full... Cheerleader... Jumps. Now."

"They're biting me, Ma'am. Oh. Oh."

I use the firm, repetitive voice we were taught in the program, and it proves successful. I need to slap Zia's thighs no more to enforce obedience. I know that when Zia jumps gravity causes grains of sand to shake into every pore. Despite, or really because of, my dislike for conducting this experiment, I pull her back into a hug, allowing her to cry. While still holding her close, I divulge the rest of the dismal news.

"They hurt."

"There are twenty-two women in this year's Applied Corrections program. Two dozen receptionists and administrative assistants in departments around campus. Eleven house mothers. All the College's phys-ed teachers. At least one teacher in each academic department. These women, and there are a few men in the group, Zia, know about the special punishment panties experiment. They are aware of the sand and its proper application. Then there are the forty-three women this semester who have had a behavior adjustment session with me or another disciplinarian.

"Everyone in the group, including your punished schoolmates, may approach you anywhere on or off campus and require you to show your special panties and evaluate the tightness of the cinch, making sure it is at size 6. You cannot loosen it for even a moment, Zia.

"Can I please just stay here? In my room? I won't go anywhere. Ma'am."

I continue to explain while holding her. "Each Vigil, which is the College's official name for that sorority myth, a <

> panty inspector, carries a supply of sand in small bags. They may visually and physically assess if your panties require additional sand to meet the prescribed standards.

"Hush, now, Zia. Wait. They may apply new sand in the same way I did. Gently, I trust, while massaging it into position. Then they will re-cinch you and determine with their fingers that your panty is sufficiently binding and wedged in your crotch. Make you jump up and down. A miserable prospect, I admit."

"Let me translate into a language you and I speak. These panty inspectors will find you anywhere and command you to show them your special panty. They will pull it open and stare in at your bare rump and vagina. They will reach into your panties, with latex examination gloves or warm fingers, explore your skin and the burlap, and assess whether you are sufficiently coated with sand.

"Uh, Ma'am. I'm so sorry. You can spank me again instead if you want to."

"Ma'am... I don't mean that. About not accepting the panties.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am...

"My mom moved here from Scotland to marry my dad. She used to talk about 'if the cap fits wear it, or something.' She says if I have a spanking coming, then I had better resign myself to taking it. 'Accept it and learn from it, dear,' she always added.

"Zia, touch the panty back here by the waistband, right above your left cheek." I push in on the spot. Feel the little square? That is a tracker. It will let me, and those inspectors, know where you are when I send out a notice. They will have your photograph, so you will be easy to find

"Done," I tell Zia, clicking the box on my computer.

"That is a lot to take in Zia. Now, do you have questions?

When Zia asks me questions, I give sincere answers. Before responding, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. Her anxiety is rooted in anticipated impending misery. Building on her present spanked misery. I am determined to temper her anxiety. Above all, I want her to recognize my approval for her accepting her punishments gracefully, and that I appreciate her potential for positive personal growth that lies within that acceptance.

But I do not wish to mislead her about the unpleasant experience of being constricted in punishment panties. Competently sanded and burlap-y, itching, humid, incessantly pinching panties.

"Ma'am, you said you know how much these... these 'panties.'.. hurt. How do you know?"

"Step back a foot and look at me." She does, one hand still holding mine, the other clutching tissues which have failed to halt tears.

Unbuckling my tan belt, I bend and shuck my wide-leg pants to my knees, then flick them with my fingers to rest on my duck boots. Zia just stands, crying, looking at me. Her processing is slow. I see her eyes blink before widening.

"Oh my gosh, Ma'am. Those are... those are punishment panties. The school colors... the cute bunnies... Aren't they?"

"Yes, Zia, unfortunately. Just like yours. I've had them on since 6 this morning. Why? I'm sure you want to ask me. The reason is simple. The Board mandates that each of us who enforce consequences for the College must personally experience the consequences that we administer to young women under the College's Level-system of discipline. For most, at least once each semester.

"Zia, these punishment panties, the ones I am wearing," I say as I point to the repugnant item, "are my personal and professional commitment to you. I will punish you no more than is necessary, safe, and appropriate.