Ms. Smith’s School for Wayward Catholic Girls

There’s a strip club on the 23rd floor of an office building in midtown. It has a name that’s something like Ms. Smith’s School for Wayward Catholic Girls, and it’s exactly what you would expect it to be. One stage has two long rows of lockers with an open shower at the peak. The other has two rows of desks leading up to a blackboard. There’s one large desk in the middle with an old wooden chair where the teacher sits.

They tell me all the uniforms were bought at auction from the Academy of the Holy Angels in New Jersey, but I can’t verify that at all. All I know is they’re plaid and they’re more real than anything you’d find at the sex shops in the West Village. The girls wear saddle shoes and knee socks, and if they put on too much makeup they get punished.

We walked in one Thursday night, and as enticing as the it was, we passed by the cheerleaders stripping off their clothes and jumping into the shower. We walked into the backroom where a ridiculously handsome man in glasses and bow tie was writing something on the blackboard as six pig-tailed girls sat in near attention.

My date and I sat down on a thick leather couch, and I pulled her onto my lap before ordering drinks. Two minutes into she show, Jessica raised her hand as she sipped her cocktail on my lap. I shook my head, amazed at how quickly she cut to the chase.

“Father James, Stephanie was totally texting under her desk.”

One of the girls looked over her shoulder at us with a grin that was somewhere between evil and adorable. She snapped back to attention when she heard the loud whack of a ruler hitting her desk. The bow-tied teacher looked down at her and before we could start to applaud he hauled her up to the front of the room. She trembled as she looked over her shoulder, and with a sheepish grin she placed her phone on the desk.

“This is my favorite part,” Jessica whispered in my ear.

The girl on stage was quickly turned around and bent over the desk. Father James circled her three or four times as the other girls fidgeted with their hair and played with the buttons on their blouses.

“How many does she deserve?” he asked the audience. There were shouts of ten, twenty, and fifty, as the room was suddenly full of filthy expectations.

“Over or under?” he asked even louder.

The audience was in total agreement on that one, and seconds later Stephanie reached beneath her skirt and slid her white cotton panties down over her knees and onto the ground. She kicked them off one leg, picked them up and folded them carefully on the desk.

“And the skirt,” he said as he smacked the ruler against his open palm. The poor girl lifted her plaid up onto her back as she leaned over the desk; the room went crazy.

“He’s going to bruise her, I know it,” Jessica whispered between kisses. “He’s the mean one.”

The first smack lead to more applause from the crowd and a loud cry of “one” from Stephanie. By the time she counted five her ass was crimson, and the audience was a pack of feral dogs. He pushed her thighs wider with his knee as he ran his hand over her, and suddenly the rest of the class was shifting in their seats.

“They’re being naughty” Jessica whispered in my ear, and we watched the other five girls gently slip their hands up beneath their skirts. I could see one of them pinching her nipples and another clearly had at least two fingers inside herself.

At fifteen, the cries from Stephanie’s mouth were somewhere between ecstasy and misery, and not one person cared which it was. Her skin was red up and down both thighs, and more than once Father James ran his fingers between her legs before showing the audience his soaking wet fingers.

By the time he got to eighteen the whole crowd was counting, Three of the girls had lost their shirts, and Father James was clearly hard in his pants. Jessica was rubbing against me as I slipped a hand beneath her skirt, and the room smelled like the ocean. Everyone counted the last five together, and at least two of the girls on stage were coming as they watched.

When Stephanie finally reached thirty she nearly collapsed onto the desk. She was panting and moaning as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and the teacher had sweat running down his cheek.

“Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?” he asked, his voice deep and loud.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“I mean yes Father James,” she quickly corrected herself.

“Now be a good girl and go back to your seat.”

She stood up slowly, straightening the back of her skirt as she did, and when she finally turned around her cheeks were flushed. She trembled as she took the smallest of bows, and then walked slowly back to her desk. The other girls in the room watched her in wonder as she sat down, their own clothes a mess on the floor.

When she finally sat down the lights went out and the audience burst into applause. Jessica kissed me again, her own breathing finally returning to normal as I pulled my hand from her skirt.

“I love this bar,” she said as she collapsed against me.

“And I love you,” I whispered.  

Guy New York

(If you enjoy my writing, you might like my new novel, The Island on The Edge of Normal, now available on Kindle and in Print.)