The Destruction of April - Ch. 01

"Face forward," Clint orders. I turn my face back to the plain white wall. He spends a long time fiddling with the shoe. I can hear him messing with the laces, pulling back the tongue, but he spends so long on it I can't help but wonder if he's actually looking at the shoe... or up my skirt. The cheer uniform is barely long enough to cover my ass, and even though I'm short I imagine he can still get under hem-level when he's on his knees like that. Faced with no other real choices I press my legs together, hoping I can at least ruin his fun this way. He doesn't say anything when I do.

Eventually I hear him set my shoes aside. I expect to hear him stand up afterwards, but he stays down instead. "Put your feet apart, shoulder width," Clint orders me.

"Why?" I question, a little bit outraged.

"Because I told you to," he growls back. "And what did I say about disrespect?"

"Sorry, Sir," I mutter, shifting into the position he asked for. What a douche!

I feel his hand on my ankles. "I'm going to search you for any other stolen property," he says next, and starts running his hands up my legs. My bare legs, not covered by the cheer uniform or anything else.

"Come on, Sir, I'm not even wearing pants," I protest, pulling my leg out of his grasp. "This can't be necessary."

"I know it's stupid, but it's company procedure to frisk the entire body including all limbs. Adults don't just follow the rules we agree with, April, we follow all of them. Now what did I tell you about disrespect?" he chides me.

I sigh, but turn back to the wall. If letting him get a quick feel of my legs is the price I have to pay to avoid a record, then so be it. It's not like I haven't done worse before. At least I'm not like Jade, sucking Kylen's dick in the bathroom at a party for some coke. Clint might be doing a very thorough job of searching my legs, but at least he's a professional, his touch light and warm and not just the overeager pawing of a horny frat boy who doesn't know what to do with a girl once he's got one.

His hands reach the top of my thigh. I freeze, but he switches to the next leg, working his way from ankle to knee, knee to thigh, thigh to - oh. Now his hands skim over my ass, beneath the skirt. Typical, I figure, tensing up at the unwanted touch. If he notices, he does not comment. But he does reach a hand between my legs, skimming across my panties. I shudder and feel goosebumps stand up on my thighs and lower back, but I don't move. What a perv! I can feel my cheeks burning in shame, but I don't say anything. It's just a light touch, there's no real harm done, or at least that's how I justify my lack of reaction.

Seemingly satisfied with his touch, he stands up. First he pulls my hair back, not gently but not forcefully either, and runs his fingers along my scalp. What stolen goods could I possibly be hiding there? This feels more like a prison contraband check than a legitimate frisking. He runs his hands down my neck, across my shoulders, and down my back, tracing my bra straps. It's a racerback, so it won't come off at practice. He reaches the band and traces that around, then his hands go down my sides to my hips.

For a moment he rests his hands in the dimples of my hips as though testing the fit, and I halfway expect him to grind his bulge against me, but instead he moves on to my arms, tracing his fingers over me from wrists to armpits. Then his hands move forwards and he starts to feel me from behind, from all the way down to my mons pubis up my belly to my breasts. They're not quite a full handful for Clint's massive hands, but he measures them anyway as he 'checks' them. I'm starting to wonder if this frisk is actually part of the real procedure at all, but what's the point in protesting now? He's already felt everything and it must be almost over.

Finally seeming satisfied, he steps back. "I need to check your bra for stolen goods. I felt something in the right cup," he says.

It's bullshit. I know it's bullshit. I turn around and know from that smug look in his eyes that he knows I know, but he doesn't care. If I back out now it means a criminal record, and likely no consequences for him for frisking me. I grit my teeth, frustrated. Am I really willing to sell my dignity like this? The price on offer is, well, my entire future. "Fine," I growl. "But I can't take it off without my hands behind my back."

"I didn't give you permission to turn around. And you forgot something," he reminds me sternly. I can tell he's getting tired of asking.

"I can't take it off like this, Sir," I repeat, humiliated more by my own compliance than his dumbass rule. As soon as I turn around,he cuts off the cuffs.

I hesitate, waiting for him to tell me where I can go to change out of the bra, but all I hear is silence. "Where am I supposed to take it off?" I ask, remembering a moment later to tack on "...Sir."

"Right here," he replies, and I want to groan.

"Don't you have to provide, like, a female officer, Sir?" I wheedle.

"We don't have one," he replies. "The city police do, if you want to wait for them?"

Actually fuck my life at this point. I stand there and think about my future for a minute, my dreams of medical school and making it big and never seeing my shitty hometown again. All of that goes out the window with a year in prison. I strip off the cheerleading top before I overthink it, still facing the wall. That's a good thing, at least he won't really be able to see my tits or my scarlet red face. Reluctantly I reach up and unclasp the bra, shrug it off, then hold it out behind me.

He leaves me that way a minute and I hear the sound of fabric rustling, the sound of a belt sliding - oh gross, is he really adjusting his package right now? I want to die of embarrassment, but he takes the bra before the floor can swallow me up. For awhile I listen to him messing with it, wondering how long it can possibly take to verify there isn't any stolen makeup inside a bra, but then I hear the distinctive sound of a knife ripping through fabric.

"Hey!" I protest, spinning around as I cover my chest. Now I'm actually mad. "That's expensive, you can't do that!"

He scoffs at me, tossing the bra aside and folding his pocket knife back up. "That's enough lip from you, young lady," he insists, grabbing my arm again. I try to fight back, but I might as well be fighting a mountain. He forces my hands behind my back and cuffs them again, marching me back to the chair. "You're going to sit right here in this chair until I finish my search, and if I hear another word out of you before then, I'll-"

The walkie-talkie on his belt crackles to life and I hear something about a fender bender in the parking lot. Clint sighs deeply. "I'm going to go take care of this. You are going to sit right here and think about your actions, little girl. You fucked up, and now you're paying the price. It's really that simple, but if you don't want it to be simple I can always call the cops instead. You just think about that, alright?" And with that he leaves.

I sulk for a minute, but then I notice he left his phone on his desk, the one he was using to take photos earlier! I know I shouldn't touch it, but the temptation is overwhelming. My hands are bound behind my back, but I'm a cheerleader, so that's not much of a barrier. I bring them over my head, glad there's enough room around my wrists that I can just twist them around inside the cuffs and bring my hands in front of me again and grab the phone. It isn't even locked! Thrilled at my luck I open the list of apps and start hunting for the gallery, but it's not in any kind of order. I begin to hunt through the full list, but before I find it I hear the doorknob turn.

Startled, I try to put the phone back but it clatters against the desk. Clint is across the room in two long paces, lifting me out of the chair and pinning me over the desk. "What the fuck was that?" he demands. "Now you're trying to interfere in an investigation? Tampering with evidence is a felony, you stupid slut! You really fucked up this time, I don't know if I can just overlook something like this-"

"I didn't mean it!" I beg. "Please, look, I know it was wrong, I just wanted to see what the pictures of me looked like, I wasn't going to delete anything, I promise Sir!"

"So it was vanity, then?" Clint scoffs. "I shouldn't believe you."

"You should," I wheedle, still pinned down but also now panicking. A felony? How have things gone from bad to worse just by looking at a cell phone? My head is spinning, but he doesn't give me any time to think critically or question what I'm being told. "I'm sorry, I promise I'm sorry, I'll do whatever it takes to show you that I'm-"

"Fine. Let's say I believe you, that you're a good girl who made a little mistake and not trying to destroy evidence," he says, clearly lost in thought. He's still holding me down, but not as firmly as before. "Where I'm from, we know how to set girls like that straight. A good spanking."

Spanking? I can't believe it. I'm not a child! But I also don't want to be a felon. I think about it for a moment, but only a moment. I really don't have a choice, and compare to what I've seen my sorority sister do to stay out of trouble...

"If that's really what you think best, Sir," I agree dubiously. A spanking doesn't sound like my idea of a good thing, but if it gets him to drop the whole cop thing then it's well worth it.

"It is. I don't know if I believe you, April, but I want to. I want to believe you're a good girl who just made some mistakes. Will you take your spanking like a good girl?" he asks.

"Yes Sir," I agree. He pauses, then picks up the camera.

"You'll need to say it for the camera. Just for legal reasons," he says. "And put your hands back behind you."

I blush at that thought. I'm still not wearing a shirt, my hands are in cuffs... I don't like the sound of this very much. But it's too late, I've gone in this deep, I can't back out now. "Okay," I agree shakily. He releases me and I'm able to relax a little, though not too much once I return my hands to behind my back. In this position my chest pokes out, my little pink nipples rock hard in the cold air of the security office. "What do I say?"

"Just repeat after me," he says, holding up the phone. "I, April Jenkins, give Clint McDermott permission to spank me."

"I, April Jenkins, give Clint McDermott permission to spank me," I repeat, my cheeks burning as I try to avoid looking directly at the lens.

"Look into the camera, April," he insists. "And say, I want to be spanked until I learn my lesson."

"I want to be spanked until I learn my lesson," I repeat, my cheeks bright red as I look into the camera for my humiliation.

"Good. Now say, I've been a bad girl, and I want to be better," he instructs.

Oh god. This is all getting too real, but why stop now? "I've been a bad girl and I want to get better," I say quietly.

"Louder."

"I'm a bad girl and I want to get better!" I say loudly, my stomach tying itself in knots as I do, but at least this seems to satisfy him as he finally puts the camera down and takes a seat by one of the empty desks.

"Very good," he praises me, and I release some of the tension from my shoulders, but that doesn't last long. He takes a seat on the side of the desk and curls two fingers to indicate I should stand. "Now bend over my lap, little girl."

I can't believe I'm doing this, but I don't question it. I can't question it, I've come this far. I just want it to be over with. I bend over his lap, feeling the warmth of him on my bare tummy through his scratchy polyester pants. He grabs me by the bound wrists and scoots me forward until my feet leave the ground and I'm balanced over his lap with my ass up. I can feel a breeze beneath my short cheer skirt and I know he can see my black panties now and the soft, round shapes of my puffy pussy lips beneath them. I want to die of humiliation, but at least when I'm faced down like this he can't see how red my face is.

I can hear his breathing get deeper as he looks at me and I cringe, but the first blow takes forever to fall. Then, suddenly, it does. He smacks my ass cheeks hard with his bare hand, hard enough to leave a stinging mark behind, and I yelp loudly. "Go ahead and shout," he invites me. "The security office is soundproofed, no one will hear you. You can scream as loud as you like."

I don't like the sound of that, but before I can question it he spanks me again. I've never been spanked before, unless you count a boyfriend smacking my ass, and they've never dared to hit me this hard. Every strike makes me cry out softly. I can feel the heat where he hits me, but not for long before the next blow rains down. He spanks me fast and hard, one smack after another, the left cheek and the right at random so I can't anticipate where the blow will fall. I wriggle in discomfort, but this only makes my skirt ride up more.

As the spanking keeps coming my cries turn to whimpers and tears fill in my eyes as the stinging, burning sensation just builds and builds. My ass feels like it's glowing, but still he keeps going until I start to cry. I can feel a growing bulge in his laps, a hard and hot one I don't want to mention, but worse than that I can feel it's having a similar effect on me. Between the knowledge that this older man is watching my ass bounce and redden, to his stern disapproval, to being completely helpless and at his mercy, my pussy is leaking like a faucet. I never knew this kind of stuff turned me on, but now I'm here and there's no denying what I've been feeling all along.

He finally stops and I relax for a moment, but he doesn't intend me any mercy. "What the fuck is this?" He demands, spreading my legs open roughly. I almost lose balance and tumble from his lap, but he holds me up and I can feel him looking at some of the wetness that's soaked through my panties and onto the leg of his uniform. "Are you aroused by this, April?" he demands.

"No!" I insist quickly. Too quickly. He smacks my ass again and I whimper, but I can't deny how my pussy clenches. It hurts, but the pain is tied in some way to pleasure, or at least arousal. I can't exactly say that I like being hit, but my pussy certainly likes it. My own body's betrayal is a level of humiliation I never imagined possible.

"Really, it's a coincidence that your pussy is sopping wet while you're getting spanked, shirtless, with your hands cuffed behind your back? You're telling me that this isn't getting you off in some perverted way?" Clint scoffs. His hand rests on my ass. Not groping, at least not yet, just feeling the heat rising from my red, stinging backside.

"I'm not a pervert!" I insist, trying to deny the obvious, trying to pretend like I don't know exactly what he's talking about. "My body is just reacting to something, it's not - I'm not -"

"To something?" Clint asks. He sounds almost... thoughtful. I don't know if I like the turn this is taking. "That's interesting. What could it be?"

"I don't know," I admit. I haven't really thought through this excuse, I was just hoping it would be enough to make him stop spanking me for a minute, and in that regard it's been a resounding success.

"Oh, I think you do know, you naughty little girl," he scolds me. "I think you're hiding more stolen goods in the one place you thought I wouldn't check. Now they're rubbing away inside you, and all that friction in your filthy cunt is making it leak all over the place!"

"What? No, that's not - I would never - what are you doing?" I demand as he picks me up and pushes me against the desk again.

"Stop resisting," he orders me roughly, his hand on the small of my back to push me down.

I try to wriggle away, panicked at the thought of what he's implying. A full body cavity check? Isn't that just for prisoners and really unlucky people at airports? "You can't do this to me, I have rights-"

"I can, actually, you signed a contract giving me permission. Remember, April?" he gloats. "All perfectly legal and already consented to. Of course, if you choose to withdraw consent, we can always just call up the police instead..."

I'm conflicted. This is definitely crossing a line, contract or no, and a part of me is starting to realize that he won't stop with just a cursory check. But then again, if that's true and he's going to do whatever he wants with me regardless of how legal it is, why would he stop just because I told him to? And if you did, if he did call the cops, I'm just fucked in a less literal way. God, there are no good choices here.

Before I have the chance to properly make up my mind, I feel him reach up my skirt and grab my silky black panties by the hem, yanking them down to my knees in one smooth motion. "Hey, wait a minute now-" I start to protest, but he's clearly had enough of this. He lifts my feet up off the floor, forcing me onto the desk, and yanks my panties all the way off. When he sets me down I dance away, my heart racing in my chest. I'm properly scared for the first time. I make my decision. "Help!" I scream, hoping that he was bluffing about the soundproofed office. "Somebody help me!"

Clint doesn't look worried, and that worries me. I glance at the door, not the one we came in through but the one that must lead back into the main area of the mall. Running back out there in only a skirt and socks is a humiliating thought, but better than whatever might happen to me in here. I sprint for the door, expecting to hear heavy footsteps right behind me. Instead he only chuckles as I make it to the door, fumbling to open it with my hands bound behind me, only to find it locked. "Help!" I scream again, kicking the door a couple of times.

Finally Clint approaches me. There's a roll of duct tape in his hand. "That will be enough out of you," he states, not sounding at all concerned, just vaguely annoyed. I cower against the door, nervous about what's coming next. To my surprise he reaches out and grabs one of my delicate pink nipples, and pinches it between his fingernails hard enough to make me cry out. He takes advantage of my open mouth and shoves my soaked panties in there, his hand moving from my breast to my throat to hold me still as he shoves every last bit of fabric in, then seals my mouth with a strip of duct tape.

I feel tears start to roll down my cheeks as the taste of my own natural lubricant fills my mouth. I've never tasted it before, not really, and while it's not an unpleasant flavor the humiliation of knowing exactly what's touching my tongue is worse than any taste. My ordeal does not stop there, though, as he marches me back over to the empty desk, pushing me over it again face-first. His hips pin me against the desk as he forces my hands up to between my shoulder blades. The position puts a lot of strain on my shoulders, but it's no more intense than some of the yoga moves I do to train for cheer.

"This position is known as the reverse prayer," he explains as he fits a second pair of flexi-cuffs on me, these just below the elbows. "Not many girls are flexible enough to pull this off, but you're flexible, aren't you April?" And with that he starts to tighten the cuffs, bringing my elbows closer together. This is much more than anything I've done for cheer and I scream into the panties filling my mouth as he pushes my joints to their limit, tightening the cuffs until I'm sure any more pressure would dislocate my shoulders.

He stands back to admire his handiwork as I sob quietly, feeling helpless. Then he flips me over so that my weight is on my bound arms and I scream into the gag. That helpless feeling only gets worse when he goes after my ankles next, flexi-cuffing the left one to one corner of the desk. When he grabs the right, he forces me into the splits, spreading me as wide open as possible there on the surface of the cheap, plasticy desk.