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Chapter 1

Chelsea Winter had been smacked on the ass for the last time. She was livid. She burst into the washroom, red-faced, grinding her teeth. The door banged loud against the wall, rattling the mirrors in their frames. Then it closed again behind her with an impotent swish. The washroom smelled of stale cigarette smoke and that pissed her off even more. She waved her hand around and walked over to a sink, bracing herself against it in an attempt to calm down, get her bearings, steady her nerves.

Angry, angry, angry. Her ass was stinging and hot where Clark had smacked her for the fifth time that week. She felt violated, humiliated, and most of all, powerless. That was the most frustrating thing of all. There was nothing she could do about it. Not a damn thing. She'd tried going to the teachers about it. Even the principal, but she was told in a roundabout way that perhaps her wardrobe had something to do with it.

"I can dress however I want!" Chelsea snapped. "That doesn't give these assholes the right to assault me."

"Maybe not, but they are assholes," Mrs. Gormund told her. "If you don't want attention from assholes you best not draw it with the revealing costumes."

Mrs. Gormund, from a generation where skirts that came above the knee automatically made a woman a whore, all but asking to be raped. Chelsea had stared at her with eyes like cold daggers, and then simply walked out.

"Be thankful I don't impose a dress code around here, young lady."

"Fuck you, you old hag," Chel had muttered under her breath.

Now as she looked at the glowing red handprint on her naked ass she was even angrier at her. She was wearing tight white cotton stretch pants. Thin. Very thin. And a thong. She did have a marvellous ass, and she did enjoy showing it off, but having it groped, pinched, and especially smacked by every arrogant prick who walked passed her in the school hall was making her wonder if the freedom to dress how she wanted was worth the trouble.

She was stubborn though. If she started dressing down, wearing baggy clothes, drab colours, unflattering styles, they'd win. She simply had to find a way to beat them.

She rubbed her right ass cheek with her hand, cooled from a splash of water from the sink, and then patted it dry with a paper towel. When she pulled her pants back up she could barely see the faint red glow of Clark's hand, like a faded tattoo through the thin fabric of her pants.

"Asshole," she muttered again, only mildly calmer.

When he'd first smacked her, she wanted to deck the son of a bitch with everything she had. She restrained herself though, and simply tore into him with a screaming insult.

"Cock-sucking faggot!" she said, louder than she should have. The sudden stinging pain knocked her off balance. She'd been walking along thinking about an upcoming chess tournament she had, what ranks her opponents would probably be, stuff like that. There was this one guy named Darren. Very dark, brooding eyes inside such a cute, little boyish face. He was ranked at 1659 after the last tournament, and he always beat her, but she liked playing against him. He gave this little cock of his eyebrow when she realized he had her pinned or forked and it always turned her tummy to hot steamy water that seemed somehow to leak down to-

-SMACK!-

Her ass jiggled once, twice and snapped into a tense mass of stinging muscle. Clark Anderson had hurried up behind her and given her a full swinging underhand smack that almost lifted her off the floor. Jiggle, jiggle, snap! That's when the pain hit her. That's when she almost punched the fucker, right in his arrogantly smirking face. She screamed at him, and he just laughed.

"You love it, baby. Don't pretend you don't."

"Fuck you!"

"Nice comeback there. Glad to see I got you all flustered."

And then she burst into the bathroom. If someone had been behind the door right then, they would have been knocked the fuck out. She was alone in there though, angry, angry, angry. Almost ready to cry.

She was stubborn though. She refused to let pricks like Clark Anderson win, even if she was the only one who ever knew about it. But in a way, he was already winning, wasn't he? He'd gotten her swearing. He'd gotten her angry. He'd gotten her thinking about kicking his fuckin' nuts right out from under his shrimpy little dick and launching them into orbit, or at least crushing them into a messy pulp inside his jeans. She sat there on the heater, stroking the little glass queen she carried in the pocket of her sweater, thinking about the blood soaking through his pants as he writhed around on the floor like a wounded animal. She grinned, still gnashing her teeth.

Then she stopped, and she felt like crying again. She hated him for making her hate. He wasn't worth hating. He was an arrogant little prick, not worth a second thought. How she wished he would just go away.

And then, much to her surprise, she found herself incredibly horny for some reason. She had no idea why, but all of the sudden her panties were damp, her pelvis was tingling, her nipples were stiffening. The back of her neck was tingling too, and she shivered. The shiver went all the way down her spine and when it got to her privates, they tensed with it, riding the wave of the shudder, and suddenly there was more wetness. She could feel it flowing out of her and she got hot all over.

"What the fuck?" she whispered. She closed her eyes hard, pressed her fingers into her eyebrows, trying to will the feeling away, but it only got stronger. For reasons unknown she was suddenly fully aroused. But at the same time — angry, angry, angry. Her hands shook. Her face got hot. Her nipples tingled.

Worst of all, she had a class in five minutes.

She stroked at the glass queen in her pocket, thinking with her eyes tightly shut, and then rushed into the bathroom stall. She shut the door, leaned against it and thrust her hand into her panties. There she found a sweet responsive little nub of super sweet tingling flesh, and she rubbed it until it exploded a little over a minute later. Everything went all shaky and gooey and all the tension and anger inside her suddenly drained away. She climaxed in total silence, barely releasing a sound louder than a whispered gasp, but even that sounded loud in the quiet of the echoing bathroom.

She drew her hand from the apex of her femininity and looked at the shining wetness on her fingers.

"Checkmate," she whispered. Then she washed her hands and went to class.

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