I don’t know where this reputation I’ve gotten as a thief came from. Sure, I may relocate the occasional spanking implement, but where’s the harm in that? I mean, these things are always returned to the rightful owner. . .once they’ve had a chance to consider the error of their ways (or more precisely, as I know how unrepentant some tops can be, they are returned only once we’re about to part ways).
It all started with a simple pact. A school-friend and I, (ok, it wasn’t really school, but we are good enough friends, and had good enough outfits (though teacher disagreed), to make up for that little inconvenience) had promised that we would cause mayhem together when in detention. The problem is, mayhem is a very difficult thing to cause when a cane-wielding teacher is no more than a few feet away. That didn’t stop us from trying, I have to say, though some of our plans were quickly and quietly ruled as too risky to be worth pursuing- this time at least.
Other plans. . . well, let’s just say that the two of us somehow wound up bent over the table side by side, while teacher attempted to make his displeasure known to our bottoms. There were two problems with this scenario, which I was quick to turn to our advantage. Firstly, focused on our bottoms, teacher had limited scope to worry about what the rest of us were up to. Secondly, we were bent over the very table on which he had stored his arsenal. To intimidate us, perhaps, though in this case it proved convenient. Besides, no teacher should need more implements than he has students.
And so I quietly began to resolve this situation, with the help of my jumper sleeves. Is it my fault that many of his tools were the exact length and thickness as my forearm?
I almost succeeded too, and may well have done if not for an inconveniently timed and innocently phrased question from my classmate on the whereabouts of a particular paddle. . .. Just goes to show that no one can be trusted where these things are concerned! And, moreso, just goes to show that I was on to something all along- that paddle certainly has no business in his hands, I can personally attest!
But I’m not the type of girl to be disillusioned after a single failure- if anything this first experience had convinced me of the importance of my sacred duty.
“Stay in that corner, young lady, if you know what’s good for you.” What sort of sense does that make? This statement, I submit, is the prime example of the fallacy of top-logic. I can most assuredly assert that the worst thing for me, at that moment, would be to stay in the corner. What good could possibly be done from a corner?
Instead, I see it as my duty as a citizen of this planet to make good use of what time I have been given to make this a better place for everyone. Therefore, as soon as he is out of the room, I set about my noble work.
He has way too many things. That is a fact not disputed by any of the other girls who have had the pleasure of his company. He could stand to lose a few; he might not even notice (in point of fact, in this instance he didn’t- not until hours later, anyway). It was a simple enough business- a strap slipped under the corner of the rug, a couple of paddles stashed in a cabinet, and a nasty spoon tucked behind the wine rack. In less than a minute I was back at my post, keeping a lookout for cobwebs as I awaited his return.
(One might argue that this bit of service was primarily for my own good, but isn’t there some saying about how one must take care of one’s self first if one expects to be of any use in the world? I’m going with that.)
In any event, when he returned he was still left with an overly impressive arsenal with which to continue my (mis)treatment, albeit with the less-ouchy of the things he had planned to use. What followed was a quite amicable evening. I squealed and howled at his treatment, but this was merely positive reinforcement, you understand. It is important to teach tops that even a gentle spanking is sufficient to deliver a message. Sterner measures are far from necessary, and I see it as my duty to produce the reaction they are seeking before they think to resort to such things.
It was almost a perfect evening- almost.
My downfall was a rather distinctive strap. Jet black with a red stripe- a stripe that has left a similar colour on my behind and one that I feel is entirely too harsh for such use. I had, of course, recently relocated this item somewhere out of sight and, I had hoped, out of mind.
But then, he had to go looking for that particular strap. I struggled not to giggle as he rooted through his bag, muttering to himself that he must have remembered to pack it, that he distinctly remembered putting it in the bag. In hindsight, I might have struggled a bit more before I let the giggles take over.
So now it seems I must pay for this supposed “error of my ways.” He is returning, you see, and doubtless with a detailed inventory of his arsenal, not to mention a detailed plan for retribution. He has shared bits of this plan with me, he has told me that I can expect to touch his things again, albeit briefly through a series of short, sharp, swats on my palms. He has also promised that my bottom will feel the proper usage of these same items in an effort to instill in me the importance of their intended use.
But, even in these desperate times, I still have faith. Perhaps one of my sisters might follow my example . . .