Posted by Frodo on January 25, 2000 at 07:50
I'm snowbound, so what else is there to do but write Dump Buddy another story?
The Detention Hall
by Frodo
Ernie Whipple had earned himself a reputation in the first month that he taught at Ridgemont High. In his previous school, students had referred to him as Mr. WIMPle, and he set out to prevent that from happening here. He ruled his classes with the proverbial iron hand, establishing his authority that would not be questioned. He assigned hours of homework, gave out detentions for the smallest infractions, and was soon viewed as the most miserable bastard on the staff. But his room was always quiet and orderly, a rarity at Ridgemont, so the administration loved him.
Ernie was assigned to monitor the detention hall on Mondays, and he didn't mind, as it gave him one more opportunity to beat down erring students. "If those little shits think detention is just a game, I'll change that," he was heard to say.
On this particular Monday, a complaining parent had kept him in the conference room until the dismissal bell, so he had to hurry to get to the detention room before his charges escaped. He slammed his briefcase on the wooden desk, plunked down his coffee cup, and announced that, for the next ninety minutes, there would be no talking and no permission to leave the room. He glared at the dozen students scattered about, and then settled in to correct papers.
It was then that Ernie realized that he hadn't had a pee since mid-morning, and he really needed to go. He looked regretfully at the large mug that he had nearly emptied during the conference. That had been about his fourth cup during the day.
He shifted to find a more comfortable position and continued to slash at the papers with his red pencil, but the growing pressure became very distracting. He carefully let his belt out one notch, but that didn't help a whole lot. He looked at the clock, which showed there was still more than an hour before he could seek relief. Its hand crept in slow motion.
Forty-five minutes left, and little waves of urgency caused him to press his legs together. He glanced around the room, but no one seemed to notice his distress. He had no options. He could not leave the room without losing face and undermining his authority, so he would just have to hold it.
Thirty minutes remained, and Ernie was in pain. The waves had become more powerful contractions, and he was forced to grip his cock to maintain control. The big, wooden desk hid his actions, but he wondered how he would be able to exit the room with one hand clamped on his crotch.
One of the students was shifting in his seat and began to clap his thighs. Presumably, he, too, had to pee. Ernie called out sharply for silence, and the student sullenly complied. It may have been that minor distraction that allowed a hot squirt into Ernie's briefs, and he felt the cooling dampness seeping along the surface of his balls. He broke out in a cold sweat from the exertion of his efforts to contain the flood.
Fifteen minutes to go, and Ernie was in big trouble. No matter how firmly he clamped and squeezed, he sensed that his seat was becoming wet. When he looked down, a dark blotch was creeping along the legs of his trousers near his crotch. A feeling of panic made his heart pound and his thoughts reel. This simply could not happen!
His muscles tired, and the seeping became a trickle. Ernie dared not look down again, for he knew what he would see. Somehow, he would have to remain seated until all the students left, and then he would hope no one was in the corridor as he fled to his car.
And then, in the silent room, there was a steady dripping sound, and all eyes sought the source. The wooden panel might hinder the view, but there was no doubt that the sound came from beneath the massive desk at the front of the room. Ernie's ashen, sweating face and glazed expression supported that thought.
All doubts were erased when the teacher became deathly pale, and the drip became a series of splashes. A puddle seeped out from beneath the desk, and a glistening rivulet ran along the uneven floor. There were whispers, then murmurs, and finally a shout from one bold student. "Hey, Mr. Widdle pissed his pants!"
There was laughter and there were raucous remarks as the students leaped up to get a better look. Ernie sat in his pool of humiliation, silent and powerless, frozen in terror. After several minutes more of laughter and derision, the detainees picked up their books and wandered out. Ernie remained motionless long after the last coarse comment had faded from the corridor.
The name "Mr. Widdle" remained in the conversations of the student body for most of the year, though Ernie had immediately resigned to take a position as a teacher aide in another school. In the Ridgemont yearbook, some wag replaced Ernie's picture with that of a bedpan, and no one caught the substitution until all the copies had been printed and distributed.