OOOPS! Sorry, didn’t mean to take this down. I was writing the next post on my phone while lying in bed and I must have accidentally moved this one to the trash while I was ordering my drafts :/ It’s those tiny smartphone keyboards what does this sort of thing!
“I try,” you say with a sad little smile. “I hope Boris is okay.”
“We’ve got a crack surgical team here. He’s in good hands,” Grisham reassures you. “And I’ll make sure you see him before he leaves,” she adds. “I think he’ll be awake before they transport, they usually are.”
“Thank you,” you nod. There’s a brief moment of silence in which you think about maybe just letting what happened between Grisham and Terra go, but you can’t. “She’s not normally that bad,” you say. “Terra, I mean.”
“You don’t have to defend her,” Grisham says, stiffening slightly. “And you don’t have to apologize for her either. This isn’t your problem to worry about.”
There’s a long silence in which Grisham does not reply. She looks at Terra with her jaw set, her strong arms crossed over her chest, and a stony expression on her face. Grisham is taller and much broader than Terra, and though you can’t imagine her being easily provoked into a physical confrontation, she has to be sorely tempted.
Terra looks at you, as if to gauge your reaction. You look back at her, deeply unhappy. You don’t know what happened to the Terra you knew at the academy, but you’d like her back. The Terra you knew was gracious, composed, and above all, kind. This Terra is snarky, mean and domineering. Somehow that sentiment must be manifesting itself in your expression, because it seems to snap her back to reality.
You shrink back a little in your seat and shake your head almost imperceptibly. As much as you’re happy to see Terra, what has happened to Boris, not to mention how much care Grisham has shown you makes you reluctant to leave her side. What if you’re whisked off somewhere else and never see her again?
“I think you and I should talk first, ma’am,” Grisham says.
“Oh, you do?” Terra turns to Grisham, holding herself tall and speaking in an icy tone.
“Yes, ma’am,” Grisham says with taut professionalism. “You left your cadet in my care and I’ve done what I could for her over the last day or so, but she needs a lot more than what I can give her in twenty four hours.”
“There’s something I need to tell you,” Terra says, blithely unaware of, or uninterested in Grisham’s expression. “Sit down.”
She guides you into the arm chair with a serious look on her face. There’s a heaviness in the air you’re suddenly aware of and really don’t like. You start to feel worried.
WWEEEEEOOOOOOOOO EEEEEEEEOOOOOOOO EEEEOOOOOOOO
A siren erupts across the base, loud enough to penetrate the inner walls and rooms. You lift your head, eyes wide.
“I didn’t do anything, I swear!”
“That’s the alert for an inbound med evac,” Grisham says dryly. “Nothing to do with you.”
“Oh,” you lay back down again. “Good, I guess.”
“Not talking to me, huh?” You can hear a smile in Grisham’s voice. “You’re such a brat, I swear to god.”
“Am not,” you mutter into the bedding.
“Oh yes you are. You practically beg for a spanking and when you get it, you pout. Well you can cut out the sulking, because it’s not going to work with me. I gave you a choice. Ask me nicely to make it feel better, or you can go stand back in the corner again.”
You let out a little whimpering whine. Grisham really doesn’t let you get away with anything. It’s so unfair. And it makes you squirm where you lie, your hips moving in a little wriggle dance you really can’t seem to contain.
After what seems like another small eternity, you hear Grisham clear her throat.
“Alright,” she says. “Turn around and face me.”
You do so slowly, keeping your hands on your head. Facing her is worse than facing the wall. The wall doesn’t sit there looking at you with an expression that makes you want to melt into the floor. Looking at the wall doesn’t remind you that you’re at risk of being taken over its hard lamp and spanked to tears. The wall doesn’t make you feel seven kinds of squirmy and embarrassed.
I now return you to your narrative of misbehavior and its consequences…
Whipping girl for everyone on the island? Goddamn. As sore and miserable as you are, that paints a hell of a picture. Grisham’s harsh words echo in your ears as she stands over you, casting a shadow over your red bottomed form.
“Toxic dump? It makes this place sound bad when you say it that way,” you mumble.
There’s a pause and you risk a glance over your shoulder. Grisham is trying not to laugh, you can see it in the way her cheek twitches.
“You’re a fucking smart ass,” she snorts. “But it’s only going to get you in a world of hurt. Now get your nose back in that corner already before I start over with you.”
You get good results 🙂 As promised, here’s the non-canon alternative outcome to PT 62 of the tale.
“Yes, ma’am, I understand.” You stammer the words, snapped out of your stressed out rebellion by her intensity. Grisham is nobody to mess with. You get the distinct impression that she will take things as far as they need to go in order to get your obedience, and you don’t want to play that game of chicken with your ass – or any other part of your body.
Your democratically elected discipline session begins now… (alternative version for those capable of behaving themselves in polls still to come.)
“No, I don’t understand, that’s the whole damn problem!” You yell the words at her, throwing caution to the wind.
Grisham’s brow lifts with a hint of incredulity. “You’re really going to push this, huh? Okay, little girl,” she says. “Let me help you understand.”
Your feet hit the ground and her hands go from holding your shirt, to pulling it open. Buttons pop off and fly across the room as she tugs the garment from your arms and then goes to work on your pants.
“What the hell!? What are you doing?” Your squeak of protest hits a new register. Continue reading
I don’t know about you all, but I’m really enjoying the current series here on SB. Writing in the second person isn’t exactly common for most kinds of stories, but this is based on the choose your adventure tales I loved reading when I was younger. To make this work and add some choice for the readers, I’ve added regular polls, some of which direct the outcome of a scene, some of which represent a turning point in the story, and others of which are like that extra switch in the spare room that you have no idea what it does.
Watching the voting on the polls is always fun for me, and it’s no surprise that there’s a certain amount of rebellion and bratitude on most of ’em. It’s fun, but I’m starting to feel a little bad for the people who consistently vote for options that won’t lead to stern punishments and never really end up getting to see their options played out. (Except when I write a little clemency in of my own accord.)
So for the next post, following on from PT 62, I’ll be doing two options, one for the marginalized 30% whose desires will forever be unattended to in our current semi-democratic process, and one for the 70% who are in deep, deep trouble now. (Seriously, you lot, so much trouble. Don’t say you weren’t warned.)
“You’re scaring me,” you say, squirming off Grisham’s lap. “What are you trying to say? What’s happening?”
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she replies in pseudo-calming tones as she stands up. “I’m just wanting to take precautions in case something does happen. I’ll talk to Surnow and we’ll decide if we need to take any other measures. For now, let’s get you into a less obviously out of place uniform.”