Chapter 3

When Elara awoke on Monday morning, the first thing she felt was the persistent, throbbing ache in her backside, a stark, painful reminder of the weekend’s atrocities. The memory of ballet class, the public humiliation, the violation at her mother’s hands, brutal spanking at home, the clinic, Dr. Schmidt’s cold, clinical fingers, and the subsequent sensation, washed over her in a suffocating wave. Her body felt sore and tender everywhere, but it was the deep, insidious shame, a core-deep humiliation, that truly paralyzed her.

She heard the familiar clatter of teacups and the scent of brewing coffee wafting from the kitchen. Vivienne was already up, a beacon of unrelenting routine. Elara burrowed deeper into her pillow, tears pricking her eyes. The thought of facing school, of facing anyone, was unbearable. She just wanted to disappear, to vanish into the folds of her duvet and never re-emerge.

Slowly, she dragged herself out of bed, each movement a protest from her protesting muscles. She pulled on her oldest, most comfortable sweatpants, the softest material she owned, hoping to cushion her tender skin. She padded down the hallway, her steps hesitant.

Vivienne was, as expected, at the kitchen island, meticulously arranging a plate of fruit. She looked up as Elara entered, her gaze sharp, assessing.

“Good morning, Elara,” Vivienne said, her voice devoid of its usual morning lilt, now holding a cool, expectant edge.

“Morning, Mom,” Elara mumbled, avoiding her mother’s eyes, shuffling towards the pantry.

“Are you planning on going to school dressed like that, darling?” Vivienne’s voice was suddenly sharper, cutting through the silence. “And what is that slumped posture? We’ve discussed grace, even in repose.”

Elara’s shoulders slumped further. “Mom, can ... can I just stay home today? I don’t feel so good.” She forced a cough, hoping it sounded convincing. Her voice was thin, fragile.

Vivienne set down a perfectly peeled orange segment with a deliberate click. Her eyes narrowed, fixed on Elara. “Oh? And what, precisely, is ‘not good,’ Elara? Are you running a fever? Do you have a cough that sounds more convincing than a dying cat? Or are you simply attempting to avoid your responsibilities?”

Elara shifted her weight, the pressure on her bruised backside making her wince. “My head hurts. And ... and my stomach.” She avoided her mother’s penetrating stare.

Vivienne rose from the counter, walked slowly around the island, and placed a cool hand on Elara’s forehead. “No fever,” she stated, her voice flat. She then leaned closer, sniffing lightly. “No tell-tale signs of stomach upset. And your color, while a little pasty from apparent self-pity, is not that of a truly ill person.” She straightened, her arms crossing. “Unless you are genuinely unwell, Elara, which you clearly are not, you will be attending school today. Your studies are as important as your ... development. And I will not tolerate malingering.”

Elara’s shoulders sagged in defeat. She knew it was useless. Her mother saw through every pretense, every excuse. “Yes, Mom,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Good. Now, go and change into something appropriate. And quickly. You are already cutting it fine. We wouldn’t want another ... disciplinary action ... so early in the week, would we?” The veiled threat hung in the air, cold and menacing.

Elara trudged back to her room, her heart sinking with each step. She pulled on her school uniform, the stiff fabric of the skirt a harsh contrast to the gentle sweatpants she longed to wear. Every movement was a chore, every thought a painful reminder.

Vivienne drove Elara to school, just like every other morning. The school itself was smack-dab in the city center, a hub of bus routes and public transport, easily accessible to anyone not living in their godforsaken, middle-of-nowhere village. But for them? Forget it. The school board, in their infinite wisdom, refused to shell out another dime for a proper bus route out to their neck of the woods. Or so they claimed, Elara thought, it was such a load of crap.

The journey was quiet. Elara didn’t dare speak to her mother. She was still afraid of saying something that would give her even more reason to punish her. So while they drove, Vivienne hummed a happy tune. After what felt like an eternity, they finally arrived. Vivienne pulled into the school parking lot and let Elara out.

As she entered the school gates, the familiar buzz of teenage chatter felt like a roar. She instinctively hunched her shoulders, pulling her backpack tighter, trying to shield herself from the world. But it was already too late.

She heard the whispers first. Low, hushed, then growing louder. “Is that her?” “Oh my god, it is her!” “Look at her, she actually came.” Then, the flashes.

A group of girls, some from her ballet class, some simply classmates, were clustered near the main entrance. Their phones were out, their screens glowing with familiar, horrifying images. The video. The one taken through the viewing window at the dance studio. The moment Vivienne pulled down her leotard. The spanking. And then, the sickening, intimate act that followed. The camera had been angled to capture the full, devastating humiliation, not just of her bare bottom, but the tell-tale movements as Vivienne’s fingers delved, the flinches, the subtle arch of her back, the desperate cries, and the final, shuddering collapse. The sound quality was poor, but Elara’s whimpers and moans, and Vivienne’s chilling whispers, were sickeningly audible.

Elara’s stomach churned. Her face flushed a deep, painful scarlet. She could feel every eye on her, every whispered comment, a fresh stab wound. Some girls averted their gaze quickly, a flicker of pity in their eyes. Others stared, wide-eyed, a mixture of shock and morbid fascination. And then there were the snickers, the outright laughter from the meaner girls.

“Oh my god, look! Her mom totally got her off!” one girl shrieked, pointing at the screen, her voice loud enough to carry. “And in front of everyone! That’s messed up!”

A couple of girls, classmates Elara sometimes exchanged pleasantries with, approached her tentatively. “Elara, are you okay?” one whispered, her eyes wide with concern. “That’s ... that’s horrible. We’re so sorry.”

Elara could only shake her head, unable to form words. She was trembling, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. For a fleeting moment, she felt a glimmer of hope, a tiny flicker of human kindness.

But then, the atmosphere in the hallway shifted. A shadow fell over the small group. A ripple of fear went through the crowd as three figures sauntered towards them. Brittany, Chad, and Marcus. The school bullies. Brittany, with her perfectly straightened blonde hair and a sneer that could curdle milk. Chad and Marcus, two burly boys, her ever-present, menacing shadows.

“Well, well, well,” Brittany purred, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “If it isn’t little ballerina Elara. Heard you had quite the performance on Saturday. A real showstopper, wasn’t it?” Her eyes glinted with malicious amusement.

The two girls who had approached Elara instantly recoiled, their faces paling. With mumbled apologies, they melted back into the crowd, leaving Elara utterly alone, exposed. The whispers picked up again, but now they were tinged with fear. No one dared to cross Brittany and her cronies.