"You shoved me on purpose," Kaylee hissed, her fingers digging into the locker beside my head. The sharp scent of her strawberry gloss mixed with sweat hit me as she leaned in, close enough that I could see the smudged mascara under her eyes.

I rolled my shoulders back, letting my own pom-poms swing against my hips.

"Maybe if you weren’t in my way during the routine, I wouldn’t have had to."

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow that made her flushed cheeks look even redder.

Kaylee smirked; her tell when she was about to snap. Her hand shot out, grabbing the strap of my tank top and twisting it tight enough to pinch skin.

"You’re such a bitch," she spat, voice low like she was trying not to let the hallway stragglers hear.

I shoved her back, hard enough to make her stumble into the lockers. Metal clanged, and someone down the hall whistled.

"Touch me again," I said, stepping in so our noses almost brushed. "And I’ll make sure Coach benches your ass for nationals."

Her eyes flickered; doubt, then fury. She lunged, fingers tangling in my hair as she yanked my head to the side. Pain shot down my scalp, but I grinned through it.

"Miss Holloway!" A teacher’s voice cut through the noise, sharp as a whip. We froze mid-scuffle, Kaylee’s grip still twisted in my ponytail.

The walk to the dean’s office was silent except for the squeak of our sneakers on waxed floors. My thigh burned where her nails had dug in, and I could see the red crescents she’d left on my arm. Kaylee adjusted her skirt with jerky movements, chin high like she hadn’t just tried to scalp me.

Dean Whitlock’s office smelled like stale coffee and old paper. He barely looked up from his laptop when we slumped into the chairs across from him.

"Ladies," he sighed, rubbing his temple. "Again?"

Kaylee crossed her legs, the ribbon on her sneaker trembling. I wiped my palms on my shorts, sticky with adrenaline.

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping, and walked to the cabinet behind his desk. The paddle made a hollow thunk when he pulled it out; maple, polished smooth from years of use.

"Both of you across the table facing each other," he said, like he was asking us to pass the salt. "Hands. And eyes on each other." Kaylee’s fingers were cold when they laced with mine, her nails pressing half-moons into my skin.

The vinyl skirt flipped up easily when he lifted it, exposing the red lace I’d bought just to piss her off last game. Kaylee’s matching pair peeked from under her uniform; same shade, same store, the unspoken rivalry screaming louder than anything we’d said today.

Dean Whitlock snorted. "At least red won’t show the bruises," he muttered, lining up the first swing.

The paddle cracked like a gunshot, and Kaylee’s whole body jerked forward, our linked hands pulling taut.

"One," she gasped, voice already breaking.

I watched her toes curl in her sneakers, the way her thighs trembled as she fought to stay still. The second landed lower, and she whimpered, actually whimpered, her grip crushing my fingers now.

"T-two," she choked out, eyes watering but locked on mine like she was daring me to laugh.

Dean Whitlock moved behind me, his shadow swallowing the light. Kaylee smiled when the paddle tapped my shorts, her smirk flickering for half a second before the first sting exploded across my ass. I bit down on my tongue, tasting copper. Her nails dug deeper into my palms as the second strike landed, hotter, meaner, and I couldn’t stop the groan that clawed up my throat.

"Two," I gritted out, hating how shaky it sounded.

He circled back to Kaylee without a word. Her shoulders tensed before the third swing even connected. A high, thin noise escaped her; the kind she made during tumbling passes when the landing knocked the wind out of her.

"Three," she whispered, but her eyes stayed on mine, dark and defiant. The fourth cracked harder, and her knee buckled, our linked hands the only thing keeping her upright.

When it was my turn again, I braced for it, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the white-hot agony that seared across my ass. My vision blurred at the edges.

"Three," I spat, teeth clenched so tight my jaw ached.

Kaylee’s smirk was gone now, replaced by something raw and open; a flicker of understanding as the paddle came down again. We both gasped in unison this time, her fingers lacing tighter with mine like an anchor.

"Four," I choked out, then hissed an obscenity under my breath before I could stop myself.

The room went dead silent except for Kaylee’s sharp inhale. Dean Whitlock froze mid-swing, the paddle hovering in the air. His sigh was almost amused.

"Bonus stroke for language, Madison," he said, and I felt Kaylee’s pulse jump against my wrist. Her thumb brushed my knuckles, quick and secret, like she was telling me to hang on.

The bonus strike landed lower, right where my thighs met my ass, and I nearly came up off the table. My knees buckled, but Kaylee’s grip held firm, her fingers locking tighter around mine like she knew I’d collapse otherwise. Through the tears blurring my vision, I saw her lips press into a thin line; no smirk left now, just something tight and urgent.

"Five," I gasped, voice cracking like I’d screamed myself hoarse at a game.

Dean Whitlock moved back to Kaylee, and her whole body went rigid before the paddle even touched her. The fifth hit made her jerk forward with a choked-off cry, her free hand slapping the tabletop.

"F-five," she forced out, cheeks wet and shining under the fluorescent lights.

Her chest heaved like she’d just stuck a landing, but her eyes never left mine, not even when the sixth swing came down with a snap that echoed off the walls. Her knees gave out completely that time, our linked hands the only thing keeping her upright as she sobbed, "S-six."

The paddle hovered over my skin again. I braced, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the white-hot fire that erupted when it connected. A ragged noise tore from my throat, and suddenly my face was wet too; tears or sweat, I couldn’t tell.

"Six," I ground out, voice shattered. Kaylee’s fingers twitched against mine, her thumb pressing into my pulse point like she was counting the beats.

Dean Whitlock exhaled through his nose, tapping the paddle against his palm. "That’s five for you," he said, nodding at Kaylee, "and six for Madison since she earned the bonus."

The words hung between us, sticky with implication. Six strokes meant I’d lost, again. She gasped, but when I risked a glance, her smirk was gone. Just her lower lip trembling, raw as the sting radiating across my ass.

The last strike cracked louder than the rest, splitting the air like a starter pistol. Pain exploded in sharp, blinding waves, and I didn’t realize I’d screamed until Kaylee’s free hand clamped over mine, her nails biting into my skin. Tears streaked hot down my cheeks, dripping off my chin onto the table between us. The paddle clattered onto the desk behind me, and I sagged forward, forehead pressing into the cool laminate.

Dean Whitlock cleared his throat. "Out," he said, like we were dismissed from class.

Kaylee wiped her face with the back of her wrist, smearing mascara, and stumbled toward the door without looking at me. My legs burned as I stood, shorts sticking to the fresh welts. The hallway lights buzzed louder now, a mocking chorus to the throbbing in my ass.

The bathroom tiles were cold under my sneakers. Kaylee slammed a stall door open with her hip, her reflection flickering in the mirror as she twisted to see the damage. I leaned against the sink, catching my breath before hiking up my skirt in the mirror. Red welts striped my skin, already darkening. Kaylee hissed behind me; her own reflection showed the same, her perfect tan marred by angry lines.

She turned suddenly, her ponytail whipping across my cheek.

"Happy?" Her voice was hoarse.

My fingers twitched toward my own bruises, pressing just hard enough to make my breath catch. Purple bloomed under my skin like storm clouds; hers were pale, almost translucent against her thighs. The contrast pissed me off. Even in pain, she looked prettier.

Kaylee grabbed her bag from the sink, her shoulders tight under the thin straps of her top. The door swung shut behind her hard enough to rattle the mirrors. I waited exactly three breaths, long enough to hear her footsteps fade, before following.

The End

© Steve Watson 2026