Private School Ch. 05

Author's note: This is the last chapter in the "Private School" series. Please do not ask me to write any new chapters. I'm serious about the writer's block. I appreciate all of the compliments that I received, but some stories just have to come to an end sometimes. I hope you enjoy this last chapter. I love my fans and I love the fan-mail and all of the compliments, but this is where it all ends.

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Heather had been enrolled at Miss Porter's School for Girls for seven months now and she hated it. It seemed more like seven years what with all the harsh discipline and the punishments for even the slightest infractions of the rules. And the rules were just much worse than any other school she'd even been to (or ever even heard of)! She wasn't allowed to leave school property, she wasn't allowed to wear any clothing or any kind, she wasn't allowed to use the phone, she wasn't allowed to masturbate, she wasn't permitted to have any pubic hair between her legs and she wasn't allowed to use her hands to cover up her nudity!

And then; of course; there were the visits to the receiving room.

Well, the teachers referred to it as the receiving room. Heather referred to it as the repenting room. It was true that she received guests there, however those guests were always people whom she'd pissed off in her younger days and now they wanted retribution for all the wrongs (both real and imagined) she'd inflicted on them in the past.

Heather had been spanked and strapped and slapped and yelled at and lectured and berated and pinched and forced to apologize over and over and over again to those she'd offended. Most of these people visited just once. They explained to Heather what she had done to make them so outraged and then they inflicted some sort of horrible punishment on her naked flesh and made her cry. Heather always ended up apologizing profusely at the end and then Heather's guest would subsequently leave and never come back.

Well, most of the guests would never come back.

For some reason Tracy was far more resentful and unforgiving about all the verbal injuries and personal attacks and childish practical jokes Heather had inflicted upon her. Every week Tracy kept coming back and punishing her. And every week Heather apologized profusely to Tracy, but Tracy's fury and resentment against the penitent never seemed to diminish. She was still just as angry at Heather as she was seven months ago.

On this particular morning Heather was being escorted to the receiving room by one of the school's uniformed security guards. Heather was afraid of the security guards and she would go wherever they told her to go. Honestly the tight grip on her arm wasn't even necessary. Heather wasn't brave enough to disobey or run away. She did what she was told to do, simply because she was afraid of the consequences if she disobeyed.

Heather was escorted naked into the receiving room and she let out a heavy sigh. The receiving room looked suspiciously like a police interrogation room and the things that happened in here weren't any more pleasant than being interrogated by obnoxious detectives that were relentless in their attempts to get you to confess to some sort of serious criminal infraction.

Heather looked down at her naked body. The soft skin of her naked thighs, breasts and abdomen were currently unmarked and smooth. She anticipated with dread the likelihood that they would soon be covered with reddish-pink marks from a riding crop or a leather belt or a leather strap or some other unforgiving instrument of punishment.

When Heather looked up from her naked body, she was surprised to see that the "guest" in the receiving room was not Tracy, but rather some middle-aged blonde woman. Heather couldn't recall having ever seen her before. Up until now, everybody who came to visit Heather in this room had some sort of grievance they wanted to settle with her. Heather's spirits lifted slightly, as she was reasonably certain this woman had no reason to punish her.

"Come on in, Heather," the blonde woman said. "I thought it was time that you and I finally meet."

The security guard pushed Heather forward, considerably harder than was necessary and then closed the door behind her. Heather could hear the lock click after the heavy door was slammed shut. A stern reminder that whatever was going to happen in this room today, there was no way Heather would be able to escape it.

"Come closer," the blonde woman beckoned while making a gesture with her right hand that basically indicated the same thing. "I'm not going to bite you."

Heather had been bitten several times before in this room, usually on her poor, abused nipples. The phrase, "I'm not going to bite you" held more meaning here than it did most places.

Heather's hesitant feet took eight cautious steps forward, until her naked, vulnerable body was within an arm's reach of the fully-clothed woman with her shape-skimming black blazer and black dress pants. Being constantly naked made Heather jealous of anybody who got to wear clothes and this woman made it even worse by flaunting her stylish all-black fashion choices. Heather knew that she could rock that outfit if the school would just allow her to wear some clothes.

When Heather was standing close enough, the blonde woman gestured to her laptop computer. The computer confused Heather. When she met people in the receiving room, she was accustomed to them bringing in handcuffs or a riding crop or endless lengths or rope to tie her up, but nobody had ever brought in a computer before.

"Do you know what that is?" the middle-aged woman asked.

The answer to the question seemed obvious. "It's a computer," Heather responded. She couldn't imagine why the question was ever asked in the first place.

The woman gave Heather an enigmatic smile and took one of Heather's hands in her own. "It's where you were born," she said to Heather as she pulled her closer.

At this point Heather concluded that this blonde woman must be crazy. However, that was okay with Heather. A sane woman would most likely be mercilessly swatting Heather's naked ass with a riding crop by now, so crazy was a welcome respite from all of the sane women she'd been dealing with.

"Take a closer look," the blonde woman coaxed, as she gestured at the computer screen.

Heather looked at the computer screen and saw a directory of stories by somebody named "Schlank". The blonde woman directed Heather to pay special attention to the stories entitled "Private School". There were four chapters in that series so far.

"I'm the author who wrote those stories," the blonde woman announced. "I created you. I also created this school and everyone in it. Everything I write about you comes true."

Heather read the synopsis for each installment in the story. Every chapter centered on a girl named Heather. In chapter one, Heather is enrolled in a very different kind of school. In chapter two Heather is examined by the school doctor. In chapter three Heather learns more about her school, and in chapter four Heather is punished in front of the entire school.

The chapter descriptions sounded quite a bit like what Heather had gone through even since she got to this school. Heather was now wondering if this crazy woman was some sort of stalker. Maybe she knew somebody who worked at the school and told her everything that happened here. That seemed like a security leak, but if this woman was writing about her and everything she wrote was accurate...

Just as Heather was thinking this, the crazy woman clicked on chapter one and Heather saw the text on the screen. It chronicled Heather's first day at this school exactly. It even recalled word for word the conversation Heather had with her mother before they arrived.

Heather's mouth made an O shape and she looked at the blonde woman with a look of shock on her face. She couldn't understand how this woman knew so much about her.

"You should never play poker," the blonde woman observed. "You show all of your emotions on your face. You're totally readable."

"Mistress," Heather said inquiringly, forgetting for the moment that she hadn't been given permission to speak.

"From that look on your face, you're incredulous and wondering how I was able to write with such striking detail about your first day here. You haven't yet accepted the fact that I created you or that I have the power to control your fate."

"Mistress, it's just not possible. Human beings can't just create other human beings. And nobody can make things happen just by writing them down."

Heather reflexively covered her mouth after blurting that out. She'd been punished in this school for giving her unsolicited opinion before, and she wasn't eager to be punished again for telling this woman what she thought of her crazy ideas.

Heather was actually filled with trepidation about what the crazy woman might do next, however when she made eye contact, the crazy woman was simply looking at Heather with an expression of thoughtful interest.

"I suppose it was somewhat presumptuous for me to assume that you'd believe I could create you and your parents and this school. I suppose I'd ask for some sort of proof, if someone had said that to me."

"Mistress, I apologize for saying that I doubted you," Heather blurted out. "Obviously it isn't my place to say or do anything that implies that-."

"Its okay, Heather," the blonde woman said. "I'm not here to punish you. However I do need to speak with you, and until I've established my credentials, you're not going to give my words the credibility that they deserve."

Then the smile on the blonde woman's face changed from enigmatic to predatory.

"Watch this," she suggested and then opened up Microsoft Word on her computer.

Heather had never learned to type and was amazed at how fast the crazy woman's fingers flew across the keyboard. Within seconds, sentences became paragraphs and paragraphs became entire pages. The crazy woman typed faster than Heather could read.

Although, Heather couldn't read all that fast, so maybe it wasn't all that impressive.

Heather noted that her name appeared several times in the pages that the crazy woman had written. She also noticed that the crazy woman made a rather disturbing and unhealthy sound several times as she was typing. Heather eventually realized that the sound was laughter and a chill ran down her spine as she calculated that nothing good could result from that sort of laughter.

Then, suddenly and without warning, Heather's hands moved from her sides and up to her naked breasts. The thumb and forefinger of each hand closed in on each of her nipples and gripped each of the sensitive pink nubs firmly and painfully. Heather yelped in pain and attempted to release her poor nipples, however she no longer seemed to have any control over her hands. The pain in her nipples was excruciating and her fingers pinched down on her poor, sensitive nipples with a fierce strength that she didn't even know she had. Her face turned red and screwed up with pain and intense concentration, but nothing that she did helped. She had no control over her hands. It was if they had a mind of her own and they were intent on torturing her poor, defenseless nipples.

"So, Heather," the blonde woman calmly interjected, "You were saying that I couldn't make things happen simply by writing them down. But look what I wrote just before you began pinching yourself."

Heather sobbed and tried to ignore the pain enough to walk over to the middle-aged woman's computer and read the first paragraph that the crazy woman had written. Heather was somewhat shocked and disturbed to read the words,

"Heather's hands raised up of their own accord and tightly gripped Heather's unprotected nipples in a tight, painful grip and caused Heather to yelp in pain. Heather valiantly attempted to take control of her hands and release her sore, abused nipples from the vicelike grip, but it was to no avail. It seemed as if her hands were controlled by somebody else and she was helpless to do anything about it."

The blonde woman looked up at Heather's face as tears welled up in her eyes and asked, "So, do you believe me now when I saw everything I write about you comes true?"

"YES! YES! I BELIEVE YOU," Heather shouted.

"Are you sure? I could provide you with more proof, if you like."

Heather screamed in pain as her hands now began to twist her nipples at sharp angles. Her nipples were jerked painfully to the left, and then painfully to the right. Tears were flowing freely down Heather's face as she screamed, "I'M SURE!! PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!! I BELIEVE YOU!! EVERYTHING YOU WRITE ABOUT ME COMES TRUE!! EVERYTHING!!"

The middle-aged blonde rapidly typed something at her keyboard and suddenly Heather had control of her hands again. Heather relished her newfound control over her arms and fingers and wrists and then gently cupped her breasts and attempted to sooth the ache in her poor, abused nipples.

"So, why are you here?" Heather asked when the pain had diminished enough for Heather to think coherently. "You can apparently control me from a distance. You can probably control all of my teachers and fellow classmates from a distance too. So why come to my school and make a personal appearance? Is this some sort of religious thing? Am I supposed to worship you now?"

Heather had never met a god (or goddess before), but she was reasonably certain how meetings between humans and gods were supposed to work. The human was supposed to acknowledge the innate superiority of the god and then build temples to the god and recruit converts and such. Heather guessed that most likely she was supposed to speak with her fellow students and educate them about whom they owed their existence to. Perhaps there were sacred rites that she could teach to the other girls.

However; all of Heather's preconceived notions about what the writer-goddess wanted were thrown out the window with the writer-goddess's next words.

"From your perspective, Heather, I suppose I would be a god. I did create you, after all. However I didn't come here with any religious purpose in mind. I came here to let you know that I have writer's block. I sit at my computer and I try to write about you and the words just won't come. So, I just wanted you know that after today I won't be writing about you anymore. It's over."

Heather got a confused look on her face and blinked several times. Heather had never been very religious, but even in her mind it sounded rather disturbing when the god who created you suddenly decides to abandon you.

"So, what does that mean for me?" Heather inquired. "Does that mean that I'm going to get out of here? Or am I stuck here forever, repeating the same day over and over again? Or am I going to die as soon as you quit writing about me?"

The middle-aged writer seemed to ponder that for a while. Apparently she had never considered the topic before.

"Die?" the writer asked somewhat incredulous. "Heather, you're a fictional character. You can't die. You were never really alive to begin with."

"Maybe from your perspective I can't die," Heather blurted out. "But I feel alive! I'm self-aware! I have self-preservation instincts! I'm afraid of what happens when my god decides to throw me away like an old shoe!"

There was a long uncomfortable silence as the writer didn't seem to know how to respond to that.

"And what makes me so horrible that you can't write about me," Heather continued, "but you can write about other people? You haven't written about me since 2007, but I saw about half a dozen stories you've written about other people in 2014! What makes those other people so much better? You don't seem to have writer's block when it comes to writing about these other literary creations!"

The writer seemed to be somewhat taken aback by all of this. At first she didn't have an answer. She had to consider the question for a while.

"I dunno, Heather," the writer finally responded. "I suppose you're just not a very likable character. You're basically selfish, homophobic, vain, inconsiderate, and immature. And you also tend to be vindictive and petty and unforgiving when you don't get your own way. You also have an under-age drinking problem. The other characters I write about are much more likable than you."

In response to these words, the look on Heather's face changed. She had heard a number of the teachers at this very school say similar things to her without ever managing to care. However those teachers didn't create her. She was appalled that the goddess who created her would speak of her in this manner.

"Wait, wait, wait," Heather blurted out. "You're saying that you created me, and now that you're unhappy with your creation, you're just going to kill me off? What sort of creator-god does that?"

"Didn't you ever read the Bible?" the writer asked. "Genesis, Chapter six, the Christian Creator-god drowns the world and kills off millions of humans...almost the entire human race because he's unhappy with his creation."

Heather made an exasperated sound and stamped her bare feet. She had never read the Bible before, although she'd heard of the story of Noah before. She knew the basics, even if she didn't know all of the fine details of the story.

"But," Heather stammered, "but if you created me...and you wrote my past and you control my every action, couldn't you make me a more likable person? Okay, I'm homophobic and selfish. But aren't I that way because you wrote me that way? Wouldn't it be an easy to...I mean, you could easily change my character! You could rewrite my character! You could make it so I have a dozen gay friends! You could make me a lesbian! I could give thousands of dollars away every year to charity! I could be a doctor who volunteers at a free clinic! I could be a lawyer who does pro-bono work! I could do the Heimlich maneuver at restaurants and save people from choking to death! The only reason I'm not the sort of person who does these things is because you haven't written me that way!! And you know what else? Some of the students here actually like being spanked and whipped and sexually abused by lesbians! You couldn't even give me that much!! For them it's foreplay! For me it's just painful and traumatic!"

The writer leaned to one side and rested her face on her hand. She didn't seem to be impressed with Heather's argument. In point of fact, her reaction seemed to be something in between boredom and annoyance.

"Yeah, Heather I could make you a more likable person, but that would be lazy writing. If I take a homophobic, nasty, self-centered, selfish, hedonist and change her so that she's suddenly and inexplicably an unselfish, friendly, caring lesbian, with a propensity for helping her fellow man, it would be awkward and jarring and the readers would wonder what the hell happened."

"So, that's it then?" Heather asked flabbergasted. "You think that it's better to just kill me off, than be thought of as a 'lazy writer'? What about being thought of as a lazy parent? I mean...from what you've told me, you're more responsible for my upbringing than my mother or my father. You're the reason that I grew up to be such an unlikable character! Now, that I'm unlikable, you're just going to abandon me? It seems to me that a responsible parent would take a more direct hand in my development at this point!"

Again there was a long, uncomfortable silence, and the writer stared at Heather with a very annoyed look. The writer drummed her fingers on the surface of the desk and stared at Heather with an angry, yet contemplative look.