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“I was… I just…” she stammered. I couldn’t even tell if she was racking her brain for a plausible lie or just scared out of her wits. I tried to tell myself I would have managed to pretend I didn’t care, but a crawling in the pit of my stomach told me I would probably have reacted the same way Frannie was. The guard, a very big black man with muscles bulging out of his uniform, had an expression on his face that seemed to make clear just how serious his threats had been.
Frannie didn’t give him the phone; he plucked it from her hand. Then we all watched in horror as he dropped it to the ground and smashed it with his heel. I saw a shudder of terror go through the blonde girl’s curvy body. Another girl let out a little gasping cry, and I couldn’t help sympathizing; the wanton destruction of a phone seemed an act of brutality that guaranteed more to follow.
“But—” Frannie started. The guard ignored her entirely.
“You can call me Mr. Garrison,” he told her. “Go over to the wall there and stand with your nose against it. Then pull down your jeans and your panties to your knees. You’re going to wait while the rest of the girls finish up their business. Then I’m going to whup you until I think you understand your si-tu-a-tion properly, and you’ve helped these other girls understand theirs, too.”
He pronounced situation in such a distinct way that it sent a thrill of terror through my body. I felt as if until that moment I hadn’t really understood my situation either. I looked over at the wall next to the restroom door where the guard had pointed. My own heart had started to pound at the thought of the other girl having to take her pants down that way, in the open. It was a warm April day, wherever in the Midwest we were—Iowa, maybe, by this time—but obviously that didn’t make much difference.
“Do you understand, Frannie?” Mr. Garrison asked, his voice thunderous. Over by the pump, I saw a middle-aged man turn his head in curiosity to see the scene unfolding at the bathroom.
Frannie’s jaw had gone slack. She seemed frozen in place.
“Do you understand, Frannie?” the guard repeated. “Say Yes, Mr. Garrison.”
“I-I—” the girl stammered.
Mr. Garrison pulled her around and she let out a little cry of discomfort. He marched her to the brick wall and stood her there, facing it.
“Are you going to pull down your own pants,” he growled, “or do I have to do it for you?”
I felt my face pucker into a mask of distress. As the guard clearly intended, I had no choice but to see my own ‘situation’ in Frannie’s. If I had managed to smuggle a phone, I would have tried to use it, too. Not that anyone would have cared too much, let alone come to save me or anything. But being able to text one of my dorm mates just to let them know how hard my life sucked at the moment would have represented an irresistible temptation. And I would have ended up with my face against the wall, faced with Mr. Garrison’s impossible question.
Frannie had seemed pretty tough, a few moments before—the way we all did, or at least I thought I seemed tough, and the other girls certainly seemed that way to me. She lost it completely, though, at this point. She turned to the guard with a sob, tears seeming to spring from her eyes.
“Please… I… you smashed it. I won’t… Mr.… Mr. Garrison…?”
The guard’s face took on an expression of disgust that made my heart race and my stomach churn.
“Put your hands against the wall, girl,” he commanded.
Frannie blinked at him, her eyes going wide, but she obeyed his instruction tentatively. I could tell that she had grasped at the order as some kind of compromise from Mr. Garrison, but I could also tell that it really was nothing of the kind. Still, she reached out and laid her palms against the brick, then turned to the guard with a pleading look, as if to say, See, I did it. Now can I just get back on the bus?
But the next thing he did was to reach around to the front of her waist so that he could unbutton her jeans. Then she started to struggle—not in any really defiant way, but clearly out of sheer panic. The rest of us, still standing in the lines in which Mr. Garrison had put us, one line of the girls who needed to go into the restroom and the other of those who had finished, looked at each other uneasily. I swallowed hard when I saw that every face seemed to have the expression I knew mine wore: a mixture of distress for the girl getting her pants taken down and helpless but guilty gratitude that it wasn’t us.
“Don’t make me get the others to hold you in place, Frannie,” the guard told her coldly, his breathing completely unaffected by the effort required to hold her in place with one arm across her chest, covered by a black concert t-shirt from some long-ago band, and the other around her waist. “You’re not gonna sit down for a week, if I have to do that.”
“You can’t!” Frannie yelled, as Mr. Garrison showed her just how incorrect she was about that, easily using one hand to unfasten her jeans and pull down the fly. Her arms flailed out, but the guard clearly had training, or experience, or maybe both, in doing this, and Frannie’s little fists made contact with nothing but air.
He shoved her up against the wall, his left hand on the small of her back to keep her in place while he dug his right into the waistband of her jeans and panties and pulled them down to the middle of her thighs. Frannie kept yelling and struggling, but Mr. Garrison’s strength overcame hers as if he barely noticed her resistance. Then, without further ado, he started to spank her with his huge open hand.
CHAPTER 2
Grace
I let out a little cry of my own, and so did at least one of the other girls. Frannie herself just kept sobbing.
“Let me know when you’re ready to follow my instructions,” Mr. Garrison said, his voice as calm and even as if his arm weren’t moving steadily back and forth, his hand sending sharp slaps through the open air around the gas station as it made contact with Frannie’s quickly reddening ass.
I felt as if I must be dreaming. I looked over at the guy at the pumps, who had obviously finished filling up his car’s tank but now stood watching, as if it were, like, okay to watch a young woman get punished with her pants down. A shudder went through my whole body as I found that as much as I didn’t want to watch it myself, my eyes just had to turn back to the mortifying scene of the enormous black guard spanking the curvy blonde girl, his hand moving from left to right and back, distributing the blows evenly between the two sides.
“I…” Frannie sobbed. “I… I… just…” Her body heaved with every spank, and her words rose in pitch with each broken attempt to protest. She still struggled against Mr. Garrison’s tight grip around her waist, but her resistance looked more and more like it came from a rag doll rather than an actual young woman. Her backside had turned a bright pink now, and she clenched it and unclenched it in a way that made my stomach flip over and my chest fill with some emotion I simply couldn’t name.
“Okay!” she screamed. “Okay! Please… please, Mr. Garrison…”
He stopped spanking her and he made sure she would balance securely on her feet before he took his arm from around her waist. The guard’s movements seemed somehow more gentle, now that Frannie had yielded. I bit my lip, feeling my forehead crease very hard. More of that unnamable emotion rose in my body at the sight of the big black man suddenly taking care of the blonde girl he had punished that way.
To my dismay, the sight sent a sensation through me, too, an urgent, practically electric tingle that traveled through all my limbs. I found that part of me seemed to envy Frannie, even as I couldn’t stop looking at the fiery evidence of the humiliating lesson the guard had delivered. I swallowed hard, and looked over at the other girls. I thought I could tell that they had just been looking at Frannie’s whipped bottom too—and, like me, had turned their eyes away only an instant before.
