Chapter 6: The Infirmary Deception
The infirmary cot’s thin vinyl covering crinkled with every slight shift of Lucy’s weight. Each sound was a sharp, mocking reminder of the pain beneath, a deep, throbbing heat that the cheap mattress did nothing to cushion. She lay on her stomach, face buried in the sterile-smelling pillow, trying to disappear.
“See? Told you it would work,” Miranda whispered, perched on the edge of the neighboring cot. Her eyes were bright with a conspiratorial gleam. “You look properly pathetic. No way they’ll make you sit through a lecture like that.”
“It doesn’t feel like a win, Mir,” Lucy mumbled, the words muffled by the pillow. The memory of the paddle, of Miss Robbins’ calm, disappointed voice, was a fresh brand. “It just hurts.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Miranda leaned closer, her voice dropping. “The after-heat. It’s… proof. Makes you feel real.”
The door opened with a soft click, and Miss Robbins stepped in, her sensible heels silent on the linoleum. She carried a small tray with a digital thermometer and a glass of water. Lucy flinched, instinctively trying to make herself smaller.
“Nurse is at lunch. I’ll assess you myself,” Miss Robbins said, her tone devoid of its usual classroom warmth. It was all clinical efficiency. She placed the tray on the side table. “Open.”
The plastic tip of the thermometer felt invasive under Lucy’s tongue. She stared at the wall, at a faded poster detailing the circulatory system, and tried to regulate her breathing. She could feel Miranda watching, a tense, excited energy radiating from the other cot.
The thermometer beeped. Miss Robbins read it, her expression unchanging.
“98.6. Perfectly normal.” She placed the thermometer back on the tray. The click of it against the plastic was accusatory. “Sit up, Lucy.”
The command brooked no argument. Lucy pushed herself up, wincing as the movement pulled at the tender skin of her backside. She avoided Miss Robbins’ gaze, focusing instead on the teacher’s hands as she uncapped the water glass.
“Drink.”
Lucy took the glass, her hands trembling slightly. The water was cool and did nothing to quell the fire in her cheeks. She took a small sip.
“All of it.”
She drank, the water feeling like a lump sliding down her throat. When she finished, Miss Robbins took the empty glass.
“Feeling better?” The question was a trap.
“A little,” Lucy whispered.
“Good.” Miss Robbins moved with a quiet, deliberate grace. She sat on the edge of Lucy’s cot, the vinyl sighing under her weight. She was close, too close. “Then you can explain why you are attempting to malinger. The punishment from yesterday was meant to encourage responsibility, not deceit.”
Lucy’s mind went blank. She could feel Miranda’s stare like a physical pressure.
“I… I wasn’t feeling well,” she stammered.
“Your temperature suggests otherwise. And your posture suggests you are experiencing discomfort specifically in your seat. Which is the intended consequence.” Miss Robbins’ voice was low, for Lucy’s ears only. “This is a very disappointing follow-up, Lucy. It seems the lesson needs to be reiterated. More immediately.”
Before Lucy could process the words, Miss Robbins’ hand snapped forward, a quick, sharp smack against the leg of her soft cotton shorts. The sound was like a firecracker in the quiet room.
Lucy yelped, more from shock than pain.
“Over the cot. Now.” Miss Robbins’ voice left no room for negotiation. Her gaze swept over to Miranda. “You will watch. Perhaps you’ll learn something about the cost of poor advice.”
Tears of humiliation already welling in her eyes, Lucy shuffled forward and bent over the edge of the infirmary cot, her head and shoulders dipping toward the floor. The position was horribly exposed, even through the fabric of her shorts.
The first spank was a stinging warning. The second, third, and fourth fell in a rapid, blistering succession, lighting up the already bruised territory. Lucy gasped, her fingers clutching at the vinyl. It was so much worse than yesterday, the pain amplified, layered over the existing ache.
“Please,” she choked out.
“Why are you here, Lucy?” Miss Robbins asked, her hand pausing in mid-air.
“I faked it!” Lucy sobbed, the confession torn from her. “I’m not sick!”
“And whose idea was this performance?”
The words tumbled out in a desperate, betraying rush. “Miranda’s! She said it would work! She said you’d feel sorry for me!”
The spanking stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than the blows. Lucy stayed bent over, crying softly into the covers, too ashamed to move.
She heard Miss Robbins stand. Heard her footsteps cross the small room.
“Is that true, Miranda?”
Lucy dared to lift her head. Miranda was still sitting on her cot, but her posture had changed. The teasing glint was gone, replaced by a wary, almost eager tension. She didn’t look scared. She looked… focused.
“Maybe,” Miranda said, a slow smile playing on her lips. “She was whining about how much it stung. I just gave her a creative solution.”
“I see.” Miss Robbins’ voice was dangerously calm. “Then you are equally complicit. You will share in the consequence. Stand up. Lower your jeans and bend over this cot.”
Miranda moved with a fluid lack of hesitation that stunned Lucy. She stood, unbuttoned her own jeans, and pushed them down to her knees with a practiced ease. She assumed the position beside Lucy without a word of protest, her expression one of intense anticipation.
The sound of Miss Robbins’ hand connecting with Miranda’s bare skin was different. Sharper, wetter. Miranda let out a sharp, gratified sigh, her body arching into the blow rather than away from it.
Lucy watched, mesmerized and horrified, as her friend received a spanking that was, if anything, harder and faster than her own. Miranda didn’t cry. She breathed heavily, her knuckles white where she gripped the cot, a faint, ecstatic smile on her face throughout.
When it was over, Miss Robbins stepped back. “You may both get dressed.”
They rose slowly, two contrasting portraits of aftermath. Lucy moved with stiff, pained embarrassment, pulling her shorts up as gently as she could. Miranda tugged her jeans up with a wince that seemed performative, almost delighted, her skin flushed a triumphant red.
Miss Robbins stood by the door, her composure unbroken. She looked at Lucy, then at Miranda, her gaze calculating.
“The arnica gel,” she said to Lucy. “I trust you used it?”
Lucy could only nod.
“Good. You’ll need it again tonight. As for you, Miranda,” she continued, her tone shifting to one of cold understanding, “your enthusiasm for discipline is noted. And misguided. We will be discussing that another time. Now, get back to your dorm. The infirmary is closed.”
She held the door open. They shuffled out, past her, into the bright, indifferent light of the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them, the sound final.
Lucy leaned against the cool wall, trying to catch her breath, the fire on her skin a brutal confirmation of her shame. Miranda leaned beside her, a dreamy, satisfied look on her face.
“See?” Miranda said, her voice a low, thrilled whisper. “Now that was a proper lesson.” She touched Lucy’s arm, her fingers warm. “And you finally got to see how it’s really done.”
Lucy shoved herself away from the wall, the movement sending a fresh wave of heat radiating across her backside. “See? That’s what you call it? That was a disaster.” She limped down the hallway, every step a sharp reminder of Miss Robbins’ efficiency.
Miranda kept pace, a spring in her step that seemed to mock Lucy’s pain. “Oh, come on, it was brilliant. She used her hand. Bare. You got the full experience, not just some impersonal paddle.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “And you confessed. That was a really nice touch, by the way. So dramatic.”
“I’ll give you a lesson for giving me that bad advice,” Lucy snapped, stopping so abruptly Miranda almost bumped into her. She glared, rubbing her sore butt through the thin cotton of her shorts. “My backside is burning because of you. When we're home I'll spank you as hard as I can.”
Miranda’s eyebrows shot up, a flicker of genuine surprise quickly replaced by a look of deep, appraising interest. She leaned against a row of lockers, crossing her arms. “Is that so?”
“I don't have a paddle but I can use my wooden hairbrush,” Lucy continued, the words tumbling out in a furious, embarrassed rush. The idea felt both absurd and terrifyingly right. “That should give some thud. Just have to give you more like 50.”
A slow, wide smile spread across Miranda’s face. She looked utterly delighted. She pushed off the lockers and stepped closer, her voice a low, challenging murmur. “Why not try to double it?” she asked, her eyes locked on Lucy’s. “100 sounds much better.”