Emily paused as she held the paint brush, dipped in bright red paint in her hand.
Her original intention was for the words painted across the green chalkboard to be “God is Dead.” But then she paused for a moment.
She realized she that if the phrase were to have its intended effects, it would need to sound less profound and educated. It would need to say something a bit calmer; a bit more teenage girl like.
She began painting the phrase “Jesus isn’t real!” instead.
This was a kind of brilliant finishing touch, she thought.
She had developed this plan for years, yet two things had been changed, in the process of carrying it out. She had skipped step one, by pulling her panties down for her first paddling.
She was now altering the final stage’s origin, by making her words more childish and naughty and less philosophical.
Each of these changes was based on what she had learned as she carried out “the dance.” It was as if the Dance was moving her, instead of her moving to the dance. She was learning the proper rythme, motions, and movements.
Everything fell into place in reality, and when it did, it clicked far more perfectly then in her mental blue print.
* * * * *
She had gotten into the school early with her can of paint, and headed into Mr. Berger’s class room. She was now vandalizing his chalkboard with atheistic propaganda. She had set the most important device in the plan inside the ceiling, concealed and ready to do its work.
Now everything was ready.
Now she just had to make sure she got caught.
She looked up at her art work, so perfect. It was painted all pretty like a cheerleader wrote it, in the kind of block letters used for signs at pep rallies before football games.
She would have to remember to lower her vocabularly.
She would also have to remember to act surprised when he walked in an entire hour before school started, like he did each Friday for the Athletic department meeting, which a normal girl wouldn’t know about.
The final motions of this epic dance were to take place.
* * * * * *
She pretended to be startled when he walked in.
His big chest and his face looked red. He was at first generally angry.
“What are you doing?” He thundered throwing the door open, and raising his voice, not to his normal tyrannical militaristic voice, but to a paniced and shocked one.
“What are you doing? What the heck and jesus Christ and hell and….”
He startled, as random expletives and attempted expletives flew from his mouth.
“Why would you do something like this… Emily!” He blurted out, as he looked at the perpetrator, with a paint brush in her hand.
When he said the final word in his sentence, her name, Emily, he slowed down.
Mr. Berger knew that despite the serious vandalism to his chalk board, and in addition, the serious offense to his religious beliefs, this situation still meant he would get to bust Emily’s teenaged bottom again.
Emily gulped for a moment. Then, she thought about a certain thing, and started to cry.
* * * * *
The thought that Emily pulled into her mind, to allow her to burst into tears at that moment had occurred when she was 13 years old, five years ago.
At that age she had been reading a book in her bedroom, as she did so often in her lonely childhood. It was a fairy tale book. It had used a word describe the villain.
The word had been “sadistic.”
She had not wanted to look it up the dictionary, so she had walked down the stairs of her house, to where her father was sitting in the living room.
She had then spoken to him, not suspecting the word had such loaded implications.
“Daddy, what does ‘sadistic’ mean?” She said.
Her father looked a troubled that she had said the word.
“Where did you the read that word?” He asked, looking down at her.
“It was in my fairy tale book upstairs.” She said. “They said one of the bad guys was ‘very sadistic.’”
Her father clear his throat.
“Well, I suppose you’re a big girl now. I can’t protect you from this world forever.” He had said.
Emily had been worried suddenly. Was this a dirty word?
“Emily,” Her father had said in his manner of fact, intellectual tone: “Sadism, or a Sadistic person is someone who likes punishing or harming other people. Some people out there for example, think that tying people up, raping them, burning them, spanking them, is fun, or sexual or something. Those people are sadists. They are sick people. Most serial killers and murders are sadists.”
Emily had gasped.
“What about people who like getting spanked or tied or something? Are they like the opposite?” She asked, in kind of nervous voice.
“Where did you ever hear about that?” Her father asked inquisitively.
“There has to be like an opposite…” She said nervously, not wanting to give away her horrible secret.
“Those people are called Masochists and they are also sick. They often strangle themselves with belts or do sick things. It’s a sexual disease, for dangerous, sick people.” Her father had said.
Emily tried her best to hold back her tears of fear and shock.
Her father interpreted this look differently.
“Yes, I know its shocking.” He went on. “But its important that you know there are creeps out there. Its because of these ‘sadists’ that we always lock our doors and night, and don’t let you stay out late. There are many dangerous, sick people out there, Emily. Your mom and I just want to protect you. We love.”
He had said these words to Emily, clearly becoming thrilled with himself toward the end, presenting himself as a protective patriarch.
“Thank you, daddy.” Emily had said, gulping as she went upstairs.
That day was one of the worst days of her life. She had gone up stairs and bawled her eyes out, and started thinking about killing herself.
This was what she thought of when she needed to pull the tears out for Mr. Berger.
But even in recalling this dark day, she was happy. Today was the day that would cancel out the hundreds of dark days before.
* * * *
“Why did you do this!” Mr. Berger said, his angry voice back.
Teary Emily replied.
“I don’t know Mr. Berger…. I just can’t accept Jesus. There’s a part of me that just keeps driving me to do these bad things… Its inside me…. Its growing… I want it to go away, but I can’t. I need to drive it out! I need you drive it for me… I need some kind of punishment that is worse than anything ever before… something so punishing that I’ll have the strength to say no… and …. And listen to Jesus!” She shouted, in her teary eyes, reciting a soap opera dramatic Christian speech.
“You’ll be punished.” Said Mr. Berger, almost drooling at his prey.
He hoped onto the front of his desk, and turned her over his knee, ripping her pants down, nearly tearing them in the process.
His hand came down upon her harder than it ever had. Her flesh burned with each stroke, as she felt herself against him, as his heart beat with excitement and his hand came down on her harder and harder than ever.
Soon, his hand was bright red.
“Stand up! Stand up!” He barked. “Bend over the desk! Bend over the desk!” He roared these words repeating himself, as he was in a state of sexualize berserk.
Emily was soon bent over the desk, with her bottom bare, and he was roaring the paddle down against it as hard as he could.
It thudding and booming. The air whistled through the holes like a rush of wind as it came down on her.
Soon, the paddle broke. Never had Mr. Berger swung it as hard as that day, and many times, and soon it cracked under the pressed.
Mr. Berger soon pulled his belt from out of his pants and began to thrash her with it until finally he caught his breath.
Emily stood up from her bent over position.
Her buttocks was black and blue, and bleeding. She had never felt so much intense torture as this crazed sadist had just thrown at her.
The belt at the end had made her next move eaiser.
In her pain, she turned to this middle aged, huge man, as he breathed. She stood up, with teary eyes, and put her hands on his erect, dripping member.
He was just like her, and now, she had him where she wanted.
“You know what you want to do, Mr. Berger… just do it…” She said as she massaged the tip of his penis.
She then lay down on the desk, but opened her legs for him.
Mr. Berger obliged, and thrust himself into her virgin body before bursting into an orgasm almost instantly.
His semen pumped into her, and then he pulled out, and paused staring at the room around him.
Then Emily smiled the biggest smile she had ever cracked in her life.
“Did you ever want to be a movie star Mr. Berger?” She asked.
“What?” He asked.
Emily, stood up, off the desk and walked over to the ceiling plank, and revealing the videocamera she had embedded in it.
She pulled it down and held before his trembling eyes.
“This is all on video.” She said, laughing to herself.
“What?” Said Mr. Berger still in shock.
“I know what you are Mr. Berger.” She said. “I’m one too. I love paddles, and belt, and switches, just like you…”
“I don’t… I’m just a good father and…” Mr. Berger blurted, presenting the usual excuses.
“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST DID!” Emily said as she found her voice, louded and powerful for once.
“You’re just like I am. You love spanking kids bottoms, it the thrill of your life. You’re a pervert just like I am!” She screamed. “But I caught you now!”
“What do you mean you caught me?” He said.
“You didn’t follow procedure here, Mr. Berger.” She said, in a smart aleky, sarcastic, yet angry voice. “You didn’t just paddle me, whip with me your belt, and do it all without any procedure, you fucked me! That’s statutory rape! 15 years to life!”
Mr. Berger tried again to catch his breathe, panicking.
“Why would you do this to me?” He asked, now nearly crying himself.
“Because we all have to put up with you.” She said, hatefully. “We all have to sit here and let you relish punishing us. We have to put up with you bullying us, and torturing us. We all hate it.”
“But you’re just like me!” He shouted.
“BULLSHIT!” She screamed. “I don’t torture innocent kids. I’ve never spanked a child or an innocent person. I like spanking, but I don’t like harming people. I’m not like you.”
Mr. Berger sat down and began to sob.
“You have two choices.” She said. “You can either let me take this directly to the police, right now, or you can do something else…”
Mr. Berger looked up hopefully.
“Your only other option is pay me a sum of $300 a month…”
“Gladly!” Mr. Berger blurted out.
“AND!” Said Emily. “You can never paddle another child again, ever! You can tell the world God appeared to you in a dream or something, but you can never do it again! Ever!”
Mr. Berger looked disappointed, but agreed.
Emily smiled, wiping her tears and pulling up her pants.
“I want your first months payment by the end of the day. You can go to the bank.” She said. “And… um… you might want to do something about the red paint on your chalkboard, its rather unbecoming. School starts in a half hour.”
Emily smiled, and walked out of the room.
The dance was over. She had won the best prize ever.
It had all started on a day she hung around a library, and read a book. The book told of a prophet who came to earth to announce the death of God. It had also told of how “one must be filled with chaos to give birth to a dancing star.” It had also told of there were men and supermen, and what distinguished was something called “the will to power.”
“The will to power” was the ability to see something was wrong, and empower yourself to correct it, despite the risks and persecution.
Emily pondered how she would spend her new income of $300 a month until the day Mr. Berger died. She thought about maybe sending away for some spanking novels, or saving up enough to go to a spanking party in the cities, like she had read about.
She would have fun, for sure.
But she would never be like this man who was destroyed in the classroom behind her. She would never be the kind of person who concealed who they truly were, hated themselves, and took the opportunity to abuse people for their own pleasure.
Old German philosophers meant a lot to her. Yes, the last man existed but could vanquished.
And it seemed “man was something to be overcome.”
She certainly had.