Chapter 5: Jenna and I
The smell of the museum—cold marble, stale humidity, and the ghost of Tanya’s indigo dye—clung to Charlie for days. It was a visceral reminder he couldn’t scrub off, no matter how hot the shower. The memory of his own nakedness in those grand halls, of Ms. Delacroix’s ruler snapping against his palm in time with the kinetic sculptures, was a raw, persistent sting.
So, when Jenna texted him on Thursday—“Meet me in Room 214 after last period. Or I start a group chat with mom and all your bosses about your magazine collection.”—the museum humiliation instantly curdled into a sharper, more immediate dread. The “collection” was a handful of embarassingly niche graphic novels he kept hidden behind his radiator, but in Jenna’s hands, they became evidence of high crimes.
Room 214 was a mostly-forgotten science lab on the second floor of the community college Jenna attended. The air was thick with the dusty, acrid scent of ancient chemical experiments and chalk. Late-afternoon sun sliced through grimy windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing over scarred black benchtops.
Jenna was leaning against the teacher’s large, solid desk, her pink hair a violent splash of color in the muted room. She’d changed into her soccer shorts and a tight tank top, looking effortlessly athletic and completely in command.
“You’re late,” she said, not looking up from her phone.
“I came straight from work,” he muttered, his bag heavy on his shoulder.
“Uh-huh. Drop the bag. Come here.”
He obeyed, the linoleum floor squeaking under his shoes. The room was deathly quiet, amplifying every sound: the rustle of his jacket, the slow thud of his heartbeat.
Jenna finally pocketed her phone and looked at him. “You know, after the whole museum field trip, I got thinking. Mom’s creative, I’ll give her that. But it’s all… grand gesture. I prefer something more personal. More classroom appropriate.”
She turned and opened a supply closet. Inside, instead of textbooks, were items she must have brought: a wooden yardstick, a thick, dusty textbook, a roll of wide, clear packing tape. She pulled out the yardstick, tapping it against her palm. The smack was crisp, authoritative.
“Since we’re in a learning environment,” she said, her smirk widening. “We’re going to have a lesson in cause and effect. Your effect is going to be a very red, very sore ass. The cause is you being a generally pathetic, syrup-wasting, magazine-hoarding pervert.”
“Jenna, come on—”
“Nope. Lecture over. Pants. Now. And underwear. Let’s go.”
The familiar, hot rush of shame flooded his face. Here, in this room that smelled of his own school day anxieties, it felt different. More intimate, somehow, than the vast museum. He fumbled with his belt, his jeans, pulling them down with his boxer-briefs to his knees. The air was cool on his exposed skin.
“Over the desk,” Jenna directed, using the yardstick to point to the heavy teacher’s desk. “Grab the other side. And don’t you dare let go.”
He bent, the laminate cool and unforgiving against his lower stomach. He stretched his arms out, gripping the far edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened. From this angle, he could see the dusty floor, a forgotten wad of gum, the legs of the desk bolted down. He was trapped.
“Count them,” Jenna said casually. “Out loud. And I want to hear gratitude.”
The first swing of the yardstick was a revelation. It wasn’t the heavy thud of a hand or the broad smack of a paddle. It was a sharp, biting, focused line of fire that seemed to cut directly into his nerve endings. He jerked, a gasp tearing from his throat.
“One,” he choked out. “Thank you, Jenna.”
“You’re welcome. Continue.”
Smack! The second landed just below the first, a parallel streak of agony.
“Two. Thank you, Jenna.”
She settled into a rhythm, not rushed, each stroke precise and deliberate. The yardstick whistled faintly before it connected, a tiny warning that did nothing to soften the impact. He clenched his teeth, his body tensing against the pain. The numbers climbed, each “thank you” becoming more strained. The humiliation burned as hot as the pain: bent over a school desk, pants around his knees, being disciplined by his stepsister with a common measuring tool.
At stroke ten, she paused. He heard her set the yardstick down. He dared a ragged breath.
Then he heard the rip of packing tape.
“What are you doing?” he asked, panic threading his voice.
“Creative punishment, remember?” she said. He felt her grab his wrists, one at a time, and securely tape them to the far legs of the desk with the clear tape. She did it efficiently, like wrapping a package. He was now properly fastened, bent over and utterly immobilized.
“Jenna, seriously—”
“Hush. The teaching aid is changing.” She picked up the thick textbook—Principles of Advanced Chemistry. It was easily four inches thick, bound in sturdy green vinyl. “Since you have problems with fundamentals, we’re going back to basics. Density. Mass. Impact velocity.”
The book was a different kind of punishment altogether. It was a deep, thunderous, shuddering impact that drove the air from his lungs. It wasn’t a cut; it was a broad, resonant shock that seemed to vibrate through his entire pelvis.
Whump!
He cried out, the sound strangled.
“That was an eleven, but we’ll let it slide since it’s a new method,” Jenna said, her voice bright with malicious glee. “Now, count properly.”
Whump!
“Twelve!” he yelped. “Thank you!”
Whump!
“Thirteen! Thank you!”
She used the book like a painter, covering the canvas of his backside with heavy, overlapping blows. The pain was immense, a blooming, deep-tissue ache that made the yardstick’s bites feel like surface scratches. He was sweating, tears of frustration and pain pricking his eyes, his gratitude reduced to a hoarse, automated chant.
At twenty, she stopped. He was panting, limp against the desk, held up only by the tape on his wrists.
He heard the flick of a lighter.
His head whipped around as much as he could manage. Jenna had lit a small, vanilla-scented candle she’d produced from her bag. She let a pool of wax form before tilting it carefully over his lower back.
A few hot drops fell. He flinched at the sudden, sharp heat.
“Just a little sensory addition,” she murmured. “To keep you focused.”
She wasn’t pouring it, just letting the occasional drop fall in a random, terrifying pattern. The threat of more was constant, a counterpoint to the throbbing pain from the book. He shuddered, completely at her mercy, every muscle taut with anticipation.
Then, the door opened.
Charlie froze. Jenna’s hand stilled, the candle poised.
Standing in the doorway, her key still in the lock, was a woman in her late twenties. She had a sleek, dark bob and wore stylish glasses and a sleek, professional pantsuit. She blinked, taking in the scene: the boy taped to the desk, his pants down, his skin fiercely marked, the textbook in Jenna’s hand, the candle.
Jenna, for the first time, looked momentarily off-balance. “Oh. Professor Vance. This isn’t… We were just—”
“Conducting a private tutorial,” the woman finished, her voice cool and analytical. She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. She set her leather briefcase on a lab stool. “I’ve had to retrieve some papers. Do continue.”
“You… don’t mind?” Jenna asked, a slow, relieved smile returning.
“Mind?” Professor Vance walked closer, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She circled the desk, her gaze clinical, assessing Charlie’s predicament, the results of the yardstick and textbook. “Discipline is a form of education. Perhaps the most foundational one.” She stopped near his head. “However, your technique with the paraffin is wasteful. And the textbook, while evocative, lacks precision.”
She reached out, her fingers surprisingly cool as they traced one of the pronounced welts raised by the yardstick. Charlie flinched.
“See these linear rises?” she said to Jenna, as if pointing out a fascinating specimen. “Clear boundaries. Defined consequences. The book creates a diffuse, generalized ache. It’s less instructive.” She looked at Jenna. “You have the right classroom, but the wrong tools.”
She walked to the supply closet and peered inside. From the back, she pulled out a long, flexible length of black rubber tubing, capped at both ends. A demonstration piece for siphoning. She gave it an experimental swish through the air. It hissed, a sound far more menacing than the yardstick’s whistle.
“This,” Professor Vance said, her eyes glinting behind her glasses, “provokes a more focused, immediate response. It encourages acute attention.”
She leaned down, her voice now speaking directly into Charlie’s ear, calm and utterly controlled. “You will resume counting. You will thank my teaching assistant, Jenna, for her foundational work. And you will thank me for the advanced refinement. Understood?”
He could only manage a weak, terrified nod.
“Begin,” she said, taking a step back.
The rubber tubing snaked through the air, landing with a snap that was both sharper and heavier than anything before. It wasn’t a line of fire; it was a lightning bolt.
Charlie’s whole body convulsed against his restraints. A ragged, uncontrollable sob broke from him.
“The count, please,” Professor Vance prompted, her voice still calm.
“Twenty-one!” he wailed. “Thank you, Jenna! Thank you, Professor!”
“Better,” she said, and the tubing hissed again.