Shorty

I’d hardly spoken to her before. At seventeen and still at an all-male boarding school, I was a bit shy, and Betty, a year older, had seemed too adult and remote for me.

So when she leaned over the garden fence and spoke, I was a bit overwhelmed.

She was very friendly, though, and soon had me at ease. So much so that when I heard myself say, “My folks have gone away for a couple of days . . . why don’t you come round for a chat this evening?” I could have bitten off my tongue – I didn’t talk to girls, let alone take the initiative like that.

So when she said easily, “Hey, yes, I’d like that. Be with you about eight,” I was amazed.

I was a lot more amazed when I opened the door that night. What a vision! As she stepped over the threshold I gawped at her mini skirt. I didn’t know it was legal to wear anything so short. My heart was thumping.

We chatted for a couple of hours and I opened a Coke for her. My heart continued to thump as I tried not to look at her skirt, nor at those long hockey-player’s legs. My inexperience ensured nothing remotely improper happened, and when she announced she’d better be getting back I walked her round to her front door and watched her go straight in.

Before she could shut the door I heard a scream. “BETTY! What ARE you wearing! I TOLD you not to wear that skirt EVER AGAIN. How DARE you!”

There was a scuffle, and Betty’s mother shouted, “Dad! Come here! Just LOOK what Betty’s wearing! Sheer disobedience!”

I stood rooted to the spot. The hairs at the back of my neck stiffened.

That same angry voice again. “Dad, take your belt off . . . Give it here . . . Right young lady, you’re for it . . . Lift her skirt . . .

The sound of a scuffle. “BETTY . . . Where ARE your knickers . . . You evil girl . . .

Almost straight away there was a noise like a pistol shot. And another. A flurry of pistol shots, and pained cries from Betty. The cries rose to a scream. I imagined the scene on the other side of the door. But what if they caught me listening outside?

I fled.

Back home I locked the front door and went up to my bedroom. I lay on my bed and tried to reason out what had happened. Why had Betty worn that skirt? Why hadn’t she worn knickers?

I tried to visualise the scene. Betty bending over, the skirt being lifted. My first glimpse of an unadorned female bottom. The belt rising and falling. The mother’s shouts and Betty’s screams of pain. Marks appearing on that delicate white skin.

It had an extraordinary effect on me. I took my trousers off and put my hands on my own bottom. My emotions were on the rampage. Was it my fault? Should I have gone inside and told them it was my fault? Would they have punished ME instead?

I began to wish I’d done just that. They would certainly have belted me. I bent over and imagined the belt slashing over my rump.

If only I HAD gone back! If only! First Betty thrashed, then me. Both with bared bottoms. Side by side, enduring together.

My emotions overcame me, messily.

More guilt! One day I would get what I deserved.