Yes, I know. We're a disgrace. In fact yes, I agree, we are fools. As if drinking at our age wasn't bad enough, we had to go to the Red Lion where everyone knows Mr Benson and Mr Thomas spend their lunchtimes.
No, I don't enjoy getting the cane. Do you think I'm some sort of pervert? Well, not that sort of pervert anyway. Yes, I know I have been here week after week. None of the other lads come anywhere near the number of times I'm here. No, I can assure you I really do not like getting the cane. But that's not the point why I'm always here.
Mandy is sobbing slightly. She's never been in this kind of trouble before. She's heard the tales about what happens from other girls, of course, but this is the first time she's been here. I can vouch for that.
He's told her to go and stand facing the wall while he deals first with me. She stands with her hands behind her head so she can't see anything of what will happen to me. I step forward and lean across the desk. I feel my blazer being lifted, and the cane tap-tap-tapping across my now stretched trousers as he lines it up.
Six of the best. He's on form today. Sometimes when he's had a whacking session in the morning he can be quite weak. The other week the whole of form 3C incurred his displeasure meaning that I got off quite lightly. But the Force is with him today and it's six absolute stingers.
I get up and walk a little gingerly across to face the wall, taking Mandy's place as she is summoned forward. Well, not quite Mandy's place. Just one step to the left actually. One small step for man etc. But an important one for me.
Because that one step angles me nicely in front of the glass-fronted bookcase. The one that enables me now to see the reflections of Mandy and the Headmaster. It couldn't be clearer if I was turned round facing them. And the Headmaster has never noticed all these times.
He does what he always does. Tells her to lean forward across the desk, and with a little flick of the wrist hitches her skirt up across her back. He always does that to the girls. I know. I make sure I accompany every single one of them. It's usually easy enough to get them to commit some misdemeanour that will bring a whacking, and then even easier to ensure we are caught. A little carelessness is so easy to slip into. Without any hint that it is anything other than bad luck.
I can see Mandy's white knickers reflected in the glass door. They complete my set for the whole year group. I've now seen every girl in the year displaying her knickers while bent across his desk.
Every single girl's knickers, white ones, and blue ones, and pink ones, and yellow ones, plus of course that memorable occasion when Shona Brien said the F-word as she received stroke number four. She apologised profusely of course immediately, but it was already too late. He had heard. That was a truly memorable day as her round, pink, totally bare bottom received a further six, her equally pink knickers dangling round her knees. Although she knew I'd heard what happened, she of course had no idea I had actually watched and seen her not so little bum as bare as the day she was born.
Now it was Mandy's turn, and she shook and whimpered as the cane did its work, six times across her pretty knicker-covered bottom.
And then it was done. I watched her stand, give a rather stimulating little rub that made her cheeks jiggle when she thought the Headmaster couldn't see while he put the cane back in the drawer, and straighten her skirt down. He didn't see the rub - but I did.
I then turned to face the Head when told to. He was telling Mandy that he was surprised to see her there, and wouldn't expect to have to do that again, but that he fully expected to see me again. He just doesn't know what to do with me. He tutted, and I looked contrite.
It's all right, sir. You're doing fine. There's a few I might try to get a second time round, now I've completed the collection. I wonder if he collects them as well. I think he does actually. I wonder if he keeps a little notebook too.
Yes, I might try to get some a second time round. Helen Small had pants that definitely matched her name. I might try to get her back here and have another look. Or Shona maybe? Lightning wouldn't strike twice, would it? Could be worth a try. And I'm sure the Head will be laying it on and listening out, hoping for the opportunity again.
We walk out of the room past the bookcase.
Goodbye for now, old friend. I'll see you soon.
One very hot, long day when Suzette and her friend Genevieve were chatting together in Genevieve's garden - watched indulgently by Genevieve's blonde, cheerful mother, who was basking under the shade of some ancient oaks - Suzette mused:
"I wonder what it's like to be whipped at school?"
Genevieve said: "I can tell you - it hurts."
"No," said Suzette, almost to herself, "I don't mean that."
"Then what do you mean, you vacant creature?"
"I mean...all that goes with....being hurt there and in that way."
"Be precise," said the older girl, who had by now adopted a leader's and mentor's role in the friendship.
Suzette fell silent.
Genevieve watched her curiously for a few moments. A sudden breeze shook the branches of the chestnut tree above their heads and a stray twig, broken off in a recent gale but as yet unfallen, slithered down from above and lay on the grass between them, shapeless yet significant.
Then: "Wait here," said Genevieve. She rose swiftly to her feet and crossed the lawn to the house. In a minute she was back, holding a book, which she arranged on her lap after resuming her cross-legged position opposite Suzette, and began to peruse carefully, turning briskly from page to page. After some moments she found what she was looking for and then passed the book to her friend, indicating some words with her finger.
Suzette obediently took the book and glanced at the appointed page. It was a poem called "La Tour d'Orleans" which Mlle Lambercier had read to them a a few weeks earlier, and it dealt with the St. Bartholomew Massacre - a subject in which the Protestant Lamberciers, whose ancestors had been involved, took a deep and abiding interest. Suzette remembered it only slightly.
"Now," said Genevieve, "you ought to know this poem already, but just to be fair I'm going to give you ten minutes to refresh your memory."
"Then what?"
"Then I'm going to test you on it. Errors will be punished." She looked, and sounded, quite calm and purposeful. Suzette, her thoughts racing, obediently bent her attention to the poem.
Of course it was quite useless - this concentration on a dry-stick collection of words in the light of the pendant implications.
"Question one: who was the Mayor of Orleans?"
Suzette didn't know. "One error," said Genevieve. "The Mayor was Phillipe Barzac; it says so, here, in the second verse. Who fell at the door of the Tower, blessing God?"
Suzette didn't know that either, and was awarded another error. Then she rallied - her best instincts overcoming her worst - and answered three questions in succession. Even so by the end of ten minutes interrogation, she had accumulated a total of thirteen 'errors'. Submissively she waited for what came next.
"Come with me, miss," said Genevieve, whose face was now faintly flushed with excitement. Suzette followed the older girl past the basking Mama, up the stone steps, through the hall, and up the stairs to Genevieve's bedroom.
Then Genevieve faced her. "Errors, I told you, would be punished. Are you sorry for your inattentiveness?"
Suzette began to giggle, despite the enormous intensity of the other's manner.
"Are you sorry?" repeated Genevieve sharply.
Suzette hung her head and nodded. And now curiously, at the very moment she relinquished the last shreds of reality and entered Genevieve's fantasy (or was it the other way about?) with a whole heart, she really did begin to feel sorry and regret her slack scholarship.
The matter then proceeded to its pretty conclusion. Suzette's 'errors' were 'punished', all thirteen of them, by blows from the palm of Genevieve, who took her young friend across her lap in best maternal style and carried out all other functions with a style that Mlle. Lambercier could not imitate. The uncovering of the target itself took more than five minutes, from first grasp of hem to final fold, tuck and pat. The delivery, slow, solemn and beautifully paced in order to extract the maximum psychological weight from every stage of the proceedings, took another five minutes. Then Genevieve introduced a further inspired refinement. She ordered the culprit to spend some minutes standing in the corner of the bedroom, displaying, under compulsion, the chastised area (a delicate rose hue, no more, for Genevieve's slaps had not been severe), holding her own skirts aloft in order to do so.
The consequent glow in the adolescent heart of the impressionable Suzette far outshone the glow in her nether regions.
After this the two friends frequently played such games together, when opportunity afforded. In a comradely way, they explored the lower reaches of this vast and multi-faceted stream of ideas, discovering for themselves certain basic principles, as well as a multitude of incidental details. Genevieve's inspiration of the Ritual Aftermath - which of course placed the actual execution where it should be, at the climactic point two-thirds of the way through the experience instead of at the end - was matched by Suzette's methodical exploration of the various possibilities afforded by the instruments of correction.
Remember, theirs was the age of the birch-rod's unchallenged ascendancy in matters of this sort - that is to say, in affairs of domestic and pedagogical discipline. A birch-rod, of course, need not be made of birch wood, nor must it conform rigidly to any given pattern of length, weight, number of twigs, suppleness or method of binding.
All these things absorbed Suzette's attention, as soon as the birch became a regular feature of the games she played in secret with Genevieve. Noticing this, the more psychologically attuned older girl hit on the idea of requiring Suzette to furnish the rods with which she would then be whipped - always on the gentle side of severity with vast attention to ritual. On the whole, Suzette did not want to whip Genevieve, and the other girl indeed showed no sign of requiring a role-reversal. Instinctively they both realised that the 'authority' with which Genevieve imposed her will on Suzette would be forever blighted were it to crumble, even temporarily. So, in their frolics, the two girls soon settled down to an accepted pattern, varied certainly in detail but never in basic premise.
The scenery, props and stage directions altered constantly, but the cast of characters never. Suzette the meek, inattentive, frequently chastised girl-pupil; Genevieve the authoritative, firm yet kind, self-controlled administratrix of nursery-schoolroom justice. No other actors ever joined their company while these blissful months lasted.
They grew older, and the shared obsession evolved with delicacy, precision and the occasional inspiration. Close though oblique questioning of adults, chiefly Genevieve's amiable if vague mother, unearthed new material. For example, it was from this source that they learned that, in the days of her childhood, when she had been brought up by Huguenot nuns, the favoured corrective instrument had been a short whip made of a stock perhaps ten inches long and up to a dozen leather tails - what later generations would refer to as a 'Martinet' after the French army captain who decided on its suitability for use in juvenile military institutions. Mme Rheinhardt was sadly under-descriptive about the actual mode of use - referring to it as "most indelicate" when questioned - but they soon found out for themselves. Suzette made one, Genevieve used it on her, and both pronounced it inferior to the two-foot bundle of fine twigs which was their usual instrument.
The only rival to the birch in their stock of props and tools was, perhaps not surprisingly, the open hand. It was somehow more intimate than the rod and, although the physical feelings it induced were at first dissimilar to those of la verge, these nonetheless accumulated to a similar pitch of voluptuous pain. The secret was to apply the spanks at a brisk pace, never varying, sharply but not severely, continuing the punishment until the heat and the exquisite discomfort slowly built to a pitch where immediate relief became a cardinal essential.. at which point the grip on the culprit tightened, the force of the blows increased, and their tempo likewise doubled.
Then Genevieve, the dramatist, introduced a new and exciting theme. She presented her friend with a new and unused book of blank sheets, explaining that this was to be their record of proceedings. She, Suzette, was to write in it. Sometimes Genevieve would give dictation. More often Suzette would be required to compose her own wording. It was a diary-cum-punishment book.
Once she made Suzette compose a poem to order, which task Suzette failed to achieve within the alloted time. So she made Suzette disrobe entirely, then lie across some pillows in the middle of the bed. She then spanked Suzette crisply, twenty times with her hand, commanded her to stay still then went away and returned with a small, lithe birch with which she proceeded to administer eight sharp strokes upon the willingly offered fundament of the younger girl, Suzette's bottom already suffused in rich colour from the warming-up process, now glowing briefly red in linear designs as the supple twigs made their hissing descent at unhurried intervals.
Both of them were nearly fainting with pleasure when the castigation drew to a close, but still Genevieve retained enough self-control to compel Suzette to sit at a writing desk, still naked as the day she was born, and write a short essay on the experience while its imprint was still fresh on her mind, and other places too. Then - the crowning touch - she made the naked girl stand upon a stool and read her work aloud. Only then did she bring the curtain down. Despite the graceful diminuendo, both girls were flushed in face and body, eyes alight, breathing hard.
They gazed in each other's eyes with deep satisfaction, sure in their relationship for eternity, sharers of a secret joy like lovers who have been consumed by a fine lust and are now sated - relaxed, happy and grateful. And, after all, that's exactly what they were.
Emily was running late again. She was one of the oldest students in her class, having celebrated her fiftieth birthday several years before. Emily had always been interested in writing and telling stories and was excited at the chance to take writing classes at the local community college. She was so happy when she was offered an early retirement package, giving her extra free time, though she didn’t realize how much of it her classes would take.I have the feeling that Emily's tutorials will result in some uncomfortable sitting afterward.
Emily loved her class, but thought her professor, Mr. Murray, was too picky.
“When I get my papers back from him they have more comments from him than what I wrote,” she complained to Anita, her young classmate and friend. “This is supposed to be a beginner’s writing class but he expects us to write like we’re professionals. If I get lower than a C on the last assignment, I’m going to lose my scholarship and have to pay for these classes myself and I can’t afford it. He is so pedantic about everything; you would think he invented the English language and was the father of grammar. Ugh!”
“Maybe you will get an A on your last paper; you spent a long time on it, didn’t you?” Anita said, trying to encourage her. “You told me you were determined to work on it all week and get an A.”
“I really planned on it, but the dog got sick, and then the neighbor needed me to babysit. It was one thing after another. I just ran out of time. I think it was pretty good though. Uh oh, here he comes.”
The following week before dismissing class Mr. Murray asked Emily to see him in his office. Anita looked at Emily, who looked panic stricken.
“Why do you think he wants to see you?” Anita gaped. “You didn’t!”
Speechless, Emily could only nod. She was nervous about being called into Mr. Murray’s office and felt like there were huge butterflies flying around in her stomach.
He can’t possibly know it was me; he probably just wants to talk to me about my grade. Yeah, that’s it. He probably wants me to take an incomplete and try again next semester instead of failing me, she thought.
She found the professor’s office and knocked softly, hoping he wouldn’t hear so she could leave. But he called out for her to come in. Emily took a deep breath, smiled, and entered the room.
“Good afternoon, Professor Murray, you wanted to see me?”
The man stood at his desk arranging some papers. He was tall, sixtyish, with clear blue eyes and light brown hair that was beginning to show signs of gray. Emily never noticed the color of his eyes since she always chose to sit in the back, hoping he wouldn’t notice her. She also never noticed how distinguished he looked, but annoyed that men look distinguished as they gray and get older, while women just look old.
“Yes, Emily, and do you know why I asked to see you?”
“I figure it is about my grade,” she said nervously.
“Your grades are part of why I asked you here, but there is a bigger reason. Do you see that bag on my desk? I want you to look inside and tell me what you see.”
Emily walked over to the desk and looked inside. Her heart dropped. “Um, it looks like a bag of Oreos all split in half.”
“Yes, and do you know where I found them, Emily?”
“No, how would I know?”
“They were stuck all over my car this morning. It took me over an hour to scrape all of them off and get my car washed.” The professor sounded very annoyed.
Picturing her professor outside, in his suit, scraping Oreos off his car, Emily couldn’t help but begin to giggle.
“I’m happy you find this amusing, young lady. I was almost late, which is trait I find rude and disrespectful.” He gave her a look that told her he noticed she sometimes came to class late. “Are you going to tell me the truth or not? Just to warn you, I will go much easier on you if you tell the truth; I don’t tolerate anyone lying to me.”
Emily stopped giggling and stood staring, not knowing what to say. She knew she was the one who put the Oreos on his car, but she was positive nobody saw her. How did he know? Why did I listen to Anita? Emily groaned inwardly, thinking back a week to when Mr. Murray returned their papers. She couldn’t believe her eyes. He had failed her! Emily was furious; she could see her scholarship fly out the window.
“He makes me so mad. Just look at the grade he gave me,” said Emily, showing her paper to Anita. “I wish there was some way I could get back at him. Maybe my paper wasn’t an A but it sure didn’t deserve an F.”
Anita got a mischievous look in her eyes and said, “Do you really mean it? You want to get back at him?”
“Yes, but nothing dangerous, more like a prank. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” Emily remembered some of the stories Anita told her of her younger days and got nervous. Anita laughed. “Have you ever heard of Oreoing a car?”
“Oreoing? What the heck is that?”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. You get Oreos, twist them a part, and stick them on a car. We used to do it at home all the time. If you do it to a red car it looks like a ladybug when you are finished.” Anita laughed.
The professor raised his voice, but only slightly. “Well, young lady, are you going to answer me?”
Startled out of her reverie, Emily jumped when he spoke. “N-No, I don’t know anything about Oreos on your car. I’m over fifty years old; do you really think I would pull a childish prank like that? I am appalled that you would even consider that I would do such a thing. I thought you called me here to discuss my grade, not make ridiculous accusations.”
Emily was annoyed and so caught up in defending herself that for a minute she totally forgot she actually was guilty. The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Murray to find out that it really was she who stuck all those cookies on his car, because, although he frustrated her, she really did like and respect him and would be humiliated if he knew.
Professor Murray sighed. “Is that the story you are sticking with?”
“It’s not a story; it’s the truth, whether you believe me or not.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Fine, have it your way. Did you know that the college’s student handbook states that vandalism to a professor’s possessions is punishable by expulsion with no reimbursement of tuition, and noted in the student’s records, in addition to being reported to the police? This is serious, Emily, and I know it was you.”
Her mouth went dry and she started perspiring. “H-How, how do you know it was me, Professor?”
He walked to his desk and said, “Did you purchase the book I suggested everyone read for extra credit?”
Emily was puzzled by the question. “Yes, you said to read To Kill a Mockingbird and do a book report. I bought it the same day.”
“What did you do with the receipt, Emily?”
Confused, she looked at him and replied, “I guess I stuck it in my jeans pocket or left it in the bag with the book. What difference does it make what I did with the receipt?"
Mr. Murray looked at Emily straight in the eye and said, “Because I found it next to my car the morning after you put Oreos all over it. Look, see for yourself; it has your name and credit card information on it.” He took the receipt from his desk and handed it to Emily. “Is this your receipt?”
The guilty woman was very embarrassed and knew it was time to tell the truth. She already was in big trouble and decided not to add to it.
“Yes, sir, the receipt is mine. It must have fallen out of the pocket of my jeans when I took my car keys out,” she groaned. “I am so sorry, Professor, I don’t know what came over me. I was just so upset and angry that you gave me an F on my paper. Honestly, I’ve never done anything like this before in my life. I am really sorry; you aren’t going to report me to the dean or police or anyone, are you? I would be humiliated.”
“First of all, missy, I did not give you an F; you gave yourself an F. You are capable of doing a much better job than what you handed in. I gave you a week for that assignment and it looks like you wrote it in less than an hour. Secondly, you lied to me after I told you I don’t tolerate liars. A person is only as good as her word; do you want people to distrust you?”
He looked right into her eyes the entire time he spoke. She felt as if he was looking right into her soul.
“No, Professor, I was so scared, that’s why I lied to you. I don’t normally lie and I am really sorry for lying, and putting the Oreos on your car, and handing in a crappy assignment, and blaming you for my grade. I really, really am sorry. Can you please let me go? I promise never to do anything like this again. I will do better in class, too, if you give me another chance, please, please, please.”
The tears in Emily’s eye trickled down her cheeks as she looked at him, waiting for his answer.
Mr. Murray was not angry at Emily. He thought the prank was amusing but he knew he couldn’t let Emily know. He felt she needed something to teach her a lesson and had just the idea.
“Emily, what you did was wrong and you need to be punished. If you are in agreement, there is a way we can take care of this without involving the dean or police; it will be between just us.”
Emily felt nervous, “What kind of punishment do you mean?”
“I mean a spanking. Have you ever been spanked at school, home, or maybe by a boyfriend?”
Shocked, Emily couldn’t believe she heard correctly. Spanking was fairly common in school when she was growing up but that was a long time ago; they surely didn’t do it anymore. And he said it so calmly, like he was suggesting tea.
“I remember being spanked a few times at home and a couple times at school, but that was a very long time ago. I’m a middle aged woman, Professor Murray, almost as old as you, not one of the young kids that attend here. Maybe there is something I can do for you, like help you grade papers, or tidy your office or something like that?”
“No, young lady, I don’t need help with those things; I have students who volunteer for that work. Besides, you need to be taught a lesson.” He stood with his arms folded staring at her. “What will it be? Do I call the dean or are you ready to take your spanking?”
“Y-You aren’t serious, are you? Y-You mean now? I’m not ready. I-I don’t know what to do. Can I have a few days to think about it?” Emily babbled, trying to stall.
“Yes, I mean now, and no, you may not have a few days to think about it. You should have thought about putting Oreos all over my car for a few days. Now, what is your decision, expelled or spanked?”
Emily sighed and looked down at the floor and whispered, “Spanked.”
“Louder, Emily, I can’t hear you.”
Oh, my God, she thought, he wants me to say it out loud.
“I can’t say that out loud. Please don’t make me; it’s embarrassing. I said what you did, not the expelled thing, the other. OK?” The naughty girl could feel her cheeks burning.
Professor Murray sat on the wooden armless chair he reserved just for occasions such as this.
“Come over here, Emily.”
He unzipped and lowered her jeans, patted his lap and instructed her to lie across his thighs. She did as she was instructed and he adjusted her so she would be comfortable, at least part of her.
“Don’t do it too hard, OK, Professor?”
She couldn’t see him smiling as he answered her. “A spanking has to hurt if it is going to teach a lesson, little girl.”
“Oh, my,” she squeaked and felt a cool breeze as he tugged her panties down. He can see my bare butt, she thought, and then she had another thought. Oh, no, he can see my big bare butt; he is used to the young girls and mine looks huge. Then suddenly she heard a slap and felt a burning in her posterior. “Ouch! That hurts.”
“Like I said before, it’s a spanking, it’s supposed to hurt, now hush.”
Another slap to the other cheek followed and stung as much as the first.
“Ow!”
The spanks kept coming, sometimes alternating cheeks, sometimes several in the same spot. Emily was so embarrassed she wasn’t sure which set of her cheeks were redder, the ones on her face or her bottom ones. When the Professor smacked the tender spot where her bottom and thigh met Emily yelped and almost jumped off his lap so he locked her legs between his so she wouldn’t fall and get hurt and continued working on her sit spot never missing a spank.
Emily wriggled and cried out, “Please, sir, stop, I am sorry, I promise to be good. I’ll never play a prank on you ever again, I mean it.”
The spanking continued for several minutes, leaving no part of her bottom forgotten.
He stopped for a minute and Emily started to get up.
“Hold on now, we aren’t finished yet, that was just the warm up.”
The naughty girl looked up in disbelief. “Just the warm up? You mean there’s more?”
Her professor looked at her sternly and reminded her, “Remember, I gave you fair warning about lying to me. I told you I would go easier on you if you told the truth, but you chose to fib.”
The next thing Emily knew the professor was smacking her behind with a small wooden paddle and her bottom felt like it was on fire. Emily kicked and hollered at the new fire being applied to her bottom. After delivering a couple dozen swats with the paddle he asked, “Are you sorry for putting Oreos all over my car?”
It took a minute for Emily to get her breath from crying. “Yes, sir, I am very sorry.”
“Are you ever going to do it again,” he asked, punctuating each word with a smack with of the paddle.
“No, sir, never,” Emily cried and stretched her free hand to protect her burning bum.
The professor held her hand behind her back and told her, “Don’t try to cover your bottom with your hand. You could get your hand injured. “Are you going to try harder with your assignments?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” He added a couple extra smacks with the paddle to impress upon her the importance of addressing him as ‘sir’ during her punishment.
“Yes, sir.”
“OK, you can get up now; go stand in the corner and think about what you did.”
I am not going to stand in the corner, she thought. As she was ready to open her mouth, she spied the paddle on the desk, thought better of it, and headed toward the corner rubbing her sore behind.
“No rubbing, young lady, or we will start over.”
Hearing that, she quickly locked her hands together behind her back and faced the corner. As Emily stood thinking, she realized what the professor said had made sense. She never should have lied to him or blamed him for her poor grades. And she should never have played that prank; she was very lucky he was such a kind and reasonable man. The spanking really hurt and was terribly embarrassing but not as embarrassing as getting kicked out of school. She couldn’t put her finger on it but she felt more at peace with herself and not at all angry, especially not at Professor Murray.
He sat at his desk trying to grade papers but couldn’t help admiring the shades of pink and red covering the full bottom staring at him. It had been some time since he had a mature bottom to spank; most of his students were young, recent high school graduates who needed a little old fashioned guidance.
Emily’s sniffling had mostly stopped.
“You may come out of the corner now.”
She put her clothes right and turned; her eyes were red from crying. He put his arms around her and gave her a hug. “I really am sorry, sir.”
“I know you are, Emily. You are forgiven and this will all be behind us now.” He smiled at her.
“Thank you, sir.” Emily’s bottom was still very sore but she couldn’t help but smile back at the professor.
“Emily, I want to help you make a clean start. I want you to come to my office for tutoring after every class. We will extend it to the weekend if it becomes necessary. But one thing you must know is that you will be spanked if I am not satisfied with your work. Do you understand, young lady?”
Emily was so happy and gave him an excited ‘yes, sir’ and a big hug. “Thank you so much, sir, you’re so kind.”
As Emily walked out the door Mr. Murray called to her. “I forgot to tell you; you owe me ten dollars for the car wash.”
Emily laughed and asked, “Hey, Professor, have you ever heard of bisquiting?”
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