Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 7.

by Melissa

Part 7. A phone call from the judge.

As the phone rang in the staff room, Mrs. Henderson's heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and dread. The head maid knew who was calling – Judge Thompson, the stern and unforgiving woman who had sentenced Melissa Jones, the delinquent school maid, to community service at Elmwood Academy.

"Mrs. Henderson," Judge Thompson's voice boomed through the receiver, her sharp tone cutting through the silence, "I'm calling to seek an update on the progress of Melissa Jones, the delinquent girl I entrusted to your care at Elmwood Academy. I trust you've had ample time to evaluate her behaviour since her arrival."

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat, her mind racing to recall the details of Melissa's behaviour. "Yes, Your Honour, absolutely" she began, her voice cautious, "Melissa has been assigned to various cleaning tasks and has consistently fulfilled them diligently."

"Really?" Judge Thompson's tone sharpened. "It's not like her to do that. What about her adherence to the rules and regulations of the academy?"

"She has generally followed the guidelines," Mrs. Henderson admitted, "but there is one particular aspect of her behaviour that concerns me."

"Enlighten me," Judge Thompson commanded.

Mrs. Henderson replied, her voice respectful. "Melissa is an obedient and hard-working young woman, always completing her assigned tasks to the best of her ability. However, she has a strange obsession with pretending to be a student at the academy. She claims to be a victim of an identity mix-up."

Judge Thompson let out a scoff, her disapproval evident. "That's precisely the problem, Mrs. Henderson. Melissa is a pathological liar, always trying to manipulate her way into a life she doesn't deserve. Don't let her fool you with her feigned obedience. She is a manipulative and deceitful individual. She is using her pretence as a student to avoid the consequences of her actions, and she will continue to lie and cause trouble unless she's treated harshly as she deserves to be. I'm familiar with girls like her, and I've learned from experience that harsh disciplinary measures are the most effective way to curb their disruptive behaviour."

"I understand, Your Honour," Mrs. Henderson replied, her voice laced with a hint of sadness. "I will ensure that Melissa adheres to the rules and understands the consequences of her actions."

"Good," Judge Thompson asserted. "Treat her harshly, Mrs. Henderson. She needs to learn the hard way that her lies and deception will not be tolerated."

"I have followed your instructions to the letter, Your Honour," Mrs. Henderson confessed, her voice filled with a mix of regret and resignation. "Against my own better judgment, I've been harsh with Melissa, slapping her in the face whenever I catch her indulging in her fantasies about being a student. But I can't shake off the feeling that I've done her an injustice."

The judge's tone remained firm and unyielding. "Mrs. Henderson," she stated, her voice resonating with authority, "I understand your concern, but I assure you, my judgment is sound. Melissa is a pathological liar, and she's trying to play you for a fool. Harshness is the only way to get through to her. Slapping her in the face was the right thing to do, but if she persists in her deception, you must take stronger measures to curb her behaviour."

"What do you suggest, Your Honour?" Mrs. Henderson asked, her voice laced with uncertainty.

Judge Thompson leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. "If Melissa continues to lie about being a student," she stated firmly, "you must make her understand the consequences of her actions. Make her bend over your lap and give her a good over-the-knee spanking in front of the other maids. This kind of treatment generally works wonders on the behaviour of this type of girl."

"Your Honour," Mrs. Henderson pleaded, her voice barely a whisper, "I fear that such a harsh and humiliating treatment might be excessive."

The judge's voice hardened, her patience wearing thin. "Mrs. Henderson," she declared, her tone laced with disapproval, "I am not here to debate with you. I am giving you clear instructions, and I expect you to follow them. If Melissa continues to deceive you, you must be prepared to impose even stricter consequences. Only then will she learn the value of honesty and responsibility."

"But, Your Honour," Mrs. Henderson protested, her voice tinged with doubt, "is this really fair? I have found Melissa to be obedient and respectful. She is always willing to help out and never complains."

The crisp lines of Mrs. Henderson's face tightened as she listened to Judge Thompson's stern voice echoing through the receiver. "I see, Mrs. Henderson," the judge stated, her tone laced with scepticism, "and what makes you think her obedience and diligence aren't mere façades?"

Mrs. Henderson sighed, her fingers drumming nervously against the desk. "I've observed Melissa closely," she explained, her voice laced with a hint of exasperation, "and I've seen no evidence to suggest she's anything but sincere in her efforts. She genuinely takes pride in her work and consistently goes beyond what is expected of her."

Judge Thompson scoffed, her disapproval palpable over the phone. "You're being naive, Mrs. Henderson," she declared, her voice sharper. "I thought I made myself quite clear when I assigned Melissa to community service. She's a menace, a bully with no regard for the well-being of others. Don't let her innocent façade fool you, Mrs. Henderson. She's a wolf in sheep's clothing. She is also a manipulator and a master of deceit. Her obedience is nothing more than a ploy to gain your trust and deflect attention from her true nature."

Mrs. Henderson felt a surge of frustration. She couldn't fathom how the judge could dismiss Melissa's efforts so readily, failing to recognize the genuine qualities she had observed in the young woman. "I understand your concerns, Your Honour," she replied, her voice laced with a touch of defiance, "but I believe that Melissa deserves a chance to prove herself. She's doing well so far, and I don't want to see her discouraged by harsh treatment."

The judge scoffed, her tone laced with disdain. "That's just a façade, Mrs. Henderson. She is only pretending to be a good girl in order to get away with her lies. She is a cunning individual who will stop at nothing to get what she wants."

"But, Your Honour..." Mrs. Henderson said.

The judge's voice hardened, her words dripping with authority. "I'm afraid you have no choice, Mrs. Henderson," she asserted. "Melissa is a delinquent, and she needs to face the consequences of her actions. Harsh discipline is the only way to break through her façade and instil a sense of responsibility in her. Therefore, I'm ordering you to take a harder line with her. Make her work harder, punish her more severely, and don't let her fool you with her crocodile tears. She's not the innocent girl you think she is."

Mrs. Henderson's heart sank. She had seen a different side of Melissa – a girl who was obedient, diligent and hard-working. "Your Honour," she pleaded, her voice laced with concern, "I understand the importance of maintaining discipline and upholding the rules, but I believe that the daily underwear checks are excessively punitive and unnecessarily humiliating for Melissa. She has proven to be a model maid so far, and this seems more like a form of shaming than a genuine effort to reform her behaviour."

The judge's tone remained firm and unyielding. "Mrs. Henderson," she stated, her voice laced with unwavering resolve. "I'm afraid that your compassion is misplaced. Melissa's behaviour has been unacceptable, and she needs to face the consequences of her actions. These daily checks are part of her punishment for the theft she committed and the pain she caused. They are a necessary reminder of the consequences of her decision to shoplift lingerie, and they will serve as a deterrent to future transgressions."

Mrs. Henderson sighed in exasperation as she listened to the judge's unwavering insistence on the daily underwear checks. The humiliation it caused Melissa was evident, and Mrs. Henderson found it both cruel and unnecessary. She understood the judge's desire to uphold justice, but she couldn't help but feel that the punishment was disproportionate. Melissa's actions might have been wrong, but the daily humiliation she was enduring seemed excessive. "But Your Honour," Mrs. Henderson persisted, her voice laced with concern, "I believe that compassion and understanding are more effective tools for rehabilitation than humiliation and punishment. Melissa is struggling, and she needs our support, not our scorn."

The judge's eyes narrowed, her sharp gaze piercing through Mrs. Henderson's plea. "Compassion is a luxury we can't afford in this case, Mrs. Henderson. Melissa needs to learn the value of hard work and the consequences of her actions. These checks are not merely a punishment; they're a much needed lesson in humility and responsibility."

Mrs. Henderson's heart sank. She understood that the judge was immovable, her mind closed to any appeals based on compassion or empathy.

"I will not tolerate any leniency in this matter," the judge continued, her voice unwavering. "Melissa must learn the value of responsibility and respect for authority. The underwear checks will ensure that she faces the consequences of her actions every day, reminding her of the importance of staying within the boundaries of acceptable behaviour. And don't forget to check the fabric of her panties. It should be rough and uncomfortable."

Mrs. Henderson sighed, feeling trapped between her own compassion and the judge's stern orders. She knew that following the judge's instructions would likely lead to Melissa's misery, but she also feared the consequences of disobeying her authority. "Yes, Your Honour," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll do as you say."

As she hung up the phone, Mrs. Henderson felt a pang of guilt. She knew that following the judge's instructions would mean treating Melissa with harshness, perhaps even cruelty. But she also knew that she couldn't disobey openly, not without risking her own position and jeopardizing the reputation of the school. With a heavy heart, the head maid made her way to the toilets, where Melissa was supposed to scrub the floors. The judge's words echoed in her mind, casting a shadow of doubt over her own assessment of Melissa's character.

***

 

As I observed Mrs. Henderson engrossed in a phone conversation, I, Melissa Jones, seized the opportunity to slip away for a brief moment. I headed towards the reception area, hoping to inquire about the status of the letter I had sent to Maria, the former maid of my family, seeking her assistance. Arriving at the reception desk, I found the receptionist attentively listening to a caller. I waited patiently until the call ended, then cautiously approached her.

"Excuse me," I began, my voice laced with a mix of hope and anxiety, "I was wondering if there've been any updates on the letter I sent to Maria."

The receptionist turned towards me, her expression sympathetic. "I haven't heard back yet, Miss Jones," she replied, her voice gentle. "Remember, it's only been a day since you sent it. She probably won't receive it until tomorrow."

A wave of disappointment washed over me. The delay in hearing from Maria seemed like an eternity, considering the urgency of my situation. Yet, I knew the receptionist was right. I had to be patient and wait for Maria's response.

"Thank you for checking," I said, managing a small smile. "I appreciate your help."

With a nod of understanding, the receptionist returned her attention to her work. I left the reception area, my heart heavy with a mixture of hope and apprehension. I knew that Maria's help was probably my best way out of this predicament, and I desperately hoped that she would respond soon. But there was nothing more I could do about that right away so I quickly turned my attention back to the communal bathrooms, where I was tasked with cleaning the floors.

I placed my hand on the fingerprint scanner of the bathroom door. The device beeped, and a message flashed on the screen: "Fingerprints recognized and identity as school maid Melissa Jones verified and authenticated. Access granted." The door swung open, revealing the stark white tiles and gleaming chrome fixtures of the bathrooms. I stepped inside, the scent of disinfectant filling my nostrils.

With a determined glint in my eye, I grabbed the mop and bucket, ready to tackle the grimy floors. My hands plunged into the sudsy mixture of soap and water, the familiar sensation a welcome distraction from the turmoil within me. As I scrubbed and scoured, the rhythmic motion of the mop provided a sense of solace. In the midst of this absurd situation, there was a perverse comfort in the mundane tasks I performed. I worked diligently, my mind gradually quieting. The satisfaction of seeing the once-filthy floor transformed into a sparkling expanse of cleanliness brought a sense of accomplishment.

Suddenly the harsh clang of the door echoed through the empty restroom, disrupting the monotonous rhythm of my work. I looked up to see Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, standing in the doorway, her stern expression casting a shadow over my work.

"Girl," Mrs. Henderson barked, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip, "I need to inspect your work to ensure it meets the high standards of Elmwood Academy."

With a trembling nod, I acknowledged the head maid's instructions, my heart hammering against my ribs like a relentless drumbeat. Her words, laced with an undercurrent of disapproval, had sent a shiver of fear down my spine. The prospect of her disapproval, of her disappointment, loomed large, casting a dark shadow over my already apprehensive state.

Mrs. Henderson approached me, her eyes scrutinizing my every move. She inspected the floor, her finger trailing over the freshly scrubbed tiles, her gaze lingering on any remaining specks of dirt. Satisfied with my work, she turned to me, her eyes locking onto mine. "Now," she said, her voice laced with authority, "I need to check if you're still wearing the proper underwear."

My heart sank as I heard that. I had hoped to avoid this humiliating inspection, but Mrs. Henderson was obviously determined. With a voice laced with desperation, I beseeched the head maid, "Oh, please, Ma'am, couldn't you just trust me? Just take my word on this matter?"

Mrs. Henderson approached me, unmoved by my pleas, her eyes scanning my uniform for any signs of neglect or disobedience. She reached out and grabbed the hem of my dress, her touch sending a jolt of anxiety through me. "Lift your dress," she ordered, her voice leaving no room for argument.

I hesitated, my body tensing in resistance. I felt like crying. The thought of exposing myself to her scrutiny once again felt like an unbearable invasion of privacy, an excruciating violation of my dignity.

Mrs. Henderson's eyes narrowed, a hint of impatience creeping into her voice. "I said, lift your dress. I need to check your underwear."

I swallowed hard, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. With trembling hands, I raised the hem of my dress, revealing my ill-fitting underwear. Mrs. Henderson stepped closer, her eyes scrutinizing my exposed skin. She moved her hands towards me, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric of my underwear. I recoiled instinctively, my body instinctively rejecting her touch.

"Please refrain from such behaviour," she reprimanded, her voice sharp and disapproving. "This is a necessary procedure."

I stood there, humiliated and exposed, my body trembling under her scrutiny. I couldn't believe that this was happening. I, a wealthy student from a privileged background, was being subjected to such treatment by a maid. After what seemed like an eternity, Mrs. Henderson finally stepped back, her expression satisfied. "Very well," she declared, her voice cold and dismissive. "Your underwear is clear."

I let my dress fall back into place, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. I was grateful that the ordeal was over, but I couldn't shake off the feeling of violation. I felt like a criminal, an object to be inspected and scrutinized. I couldn't understand why Mrs. Henderson was treating me that way.

"Girl," Mrs. Henderson added, her voice laced with concern, "I've received a call from Judge Thompson about your progress here. She's concerned about your repeated attempts to pass yourself off as a student."

I looked up, my eyes wide with surprise. "Ma'am, I know you believe I'm nothing but a liar and a troublemaker, but I'm not pretending," I insisted, my voice filled with desperation. "I am..."

"Don't say it," Mrs. Henderson quickly interrupted me. "It would force me to punish you harshly. I would prefer not to and you really wouldn't like it."

"I... I...," I mumbled and suddenly started to cry.

Mrs. Henderson sighed. "Melissa," she said surprisingly gently, "I know that things have been difficult for you, but you can't escape your reality by pretending to be someone else. You need to face your problems and work towards a better future."

My tears flowed freely, my body racked with sobs. Mrs. Henderson reached out and gently placed a hand on my shoulder, offering a silent comfort. "You're here to serve your community service," she said softly, "but, that won't last forever. If you don't do anything stupid, you'll soon recover your freedom and no longer have to worry about underwear inspections."

I wiped away my tears, my eyes meeting Mrs. Henderson's with a spark of hope. "Thank you, Ma'am," I whispered, my voice choked with emotion.

"Now I want this toilet to be spotless," Mrs. Henderson said, her voice regaining intensity. "I want it to shine like a beacon of cleanliness, a testament to your hard work."

I swallowed hard. "Yes, Ma'am," I replied, my voice firm and unwavering. "I'll do my best."