“Stop it, Chelsea, you’ll get me in trouble!” Hunter said in a loud whisper as he pushed his friend’s hand away, refusing to take the proffered note. “Come on, you need to see it. I’ll tell you when she’s not looking.” Hunter huffed and sighed, returning his eyes to the paper where he was copying from the blackboard. “Now,” he heard Chelsea mutter. The otter reached his hand back and took the note. As he opened it, he heard Miss Whitepaw’s footsteps right behind him and his heart sank. He opened the note. “Sorry, bud, but I wanted to watch and no one else was close.” ----------------------------------------- “But Miss, Chelsea was trying to set me up! Look at the note!” “I’m quite capable of reading it, Hunter. The fact remains, you took it because you thought I wasn’t looking. Now come up here and take your seat while I call your parents.” Tears of shame and fear pricked the cub’s eyes as he stood up and made his way to the front of the classroom and took his seat in the naughty chair. He’d spent plenty of time in it before—so much, in fact, that he’d become numb to the fear the straps and restraints were meant to elicit. This time, though, he was afraid. This time the last strap would finally be used. “Hello Mrs. Brown, this is Hunter’s teacher, Miss Whitepaw. … Yes, he is in trouble. … Well, yes, actually. I take it he didn’t tell you he was on his last warning? … Yes, normally the science lab, and then the cafeteria. But after that we can… … Yes, exactly. You’ll just get a cardboard box, though, so if you want… … I see. Anything you’d like me to tell him? … Yes, I can do that, but please be quick—if I don’t do it before the end of class I’ll have to send him to the nurse to be put down and it’s much better if his classmates watch. … Okay, thank you. Enjoy the rest of your day.” Miss Whitepaw put down the phone. “Looks like you get a few more minutes, Hunter—your mom wants to write something down for me to read to you before you’re punished. But we’ll get you all set up first.” The otter sat speechless, trembling slightly as Miss Whitepaw placed his wrists and ankles in the familiar leather straps. Every time they’d been applied he’d been aware that he was at the teacher’s mercy, that all she’d have to do was use one more strap. He felt the leather being stretched across his throat and tightened, and was finally moved to speech. “But Miss!” he said, sounding panicked. “You said you were gonna wait for— “I am going to wait, Hunter, but that doesn’t mean we can’t get you ready.” She left the strap snug on his neck and turned back to the class. “Please continue your worksheets while I begin writing the answers on the board.” Hunter sat in the naughty chair, listening to the clock since he couldn’t see it. Every tick was one second gone from the rest of his life, but even so it was hard to focus on it for long. “Can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” The condemned boy asked, when five minutes had passed. Miss Whitepaw knelt in front of the naughty chair and looked at him with a patronizing smile. “Hunter, in a few minutes I’m going to turn that handle and you’re going to start kicking and struggling, and before you die you’re going to pee all over that chair, whether I let you use the potty first or not. So try to hold it, or don’t—it makes no difference to me whether you pee yourself now like a little toddler, or when you stop breathing like everyone else.” Hunter felt tears well in his eyes as his teacher turned her attention back to the rest of the class. A few minutes later, he lost the battle with his bladder, whimpering with shame as his shorts grew heavy and wet. The sound of urine trickling onto the floor making Miss Whitepaw and several students look over at him. The students smirked, but Miss Whitepaw looked unconcerned as she turned away once more. “Ah, there we are,” she said, looking at her computer. “Class, please listen to the note Hunter’s mother has written.” There were ten minutes to go, and several students looked hopeful the note and Hunter’s punishment would run out the rest of the clock. “Dear Hunter,” Miss Whitepaw began. “I am sorry this has happened. If it is any comfort, you were on your last warning at home too: your dad has been adamant that if you didn’t stop wetting the bed soon he was going to have you put down. We love you, but this is what happens to little boys who refuse to grow up. “Goodbye, “Mom “P.S. Tell Miss Whitepaw what you would like us to do with your ashes—otherwise we’ll just mix them in with the cat litter.” “A bedwetter, is that right?” Miss Whitepaw asked rhetorically. Hunter nodded, tears rolling silently down his cheeks. Most of the class laughed. Chelsea looked guilty—she’d known already, but she never meant to let that secret get out in the process of getting him snuffed. “Well,” Miss Whitepaw said, “I would ask what you would like done with your ashes, but I think cat litter sounds like a fitting resting place for a bedwetter.” Hunter blinked. “No, please,” he said, his heart racing as the teacher moved behind the naughty chair. Her hands were on the crank handle. She lowered her face to his ear, and whispered. “I’m sorry, Hunter. But like your mom said, this is what happens to little boys who refuse to grow up.” He felt the strap tighten on his throat and, though he knew it was pointless, began struggling violently against the restraints. The strap continued to tighten, and a moment later he couldn’t draw breath. He tried to keep his eyes open, and saw his classmates watching him raptly—some scared, some excited. Chelsea looked excited. So excited that he thought he saw her hand moving between her legs. The strap began to cut off blood flow to his head, and his vision seemed to darken, his mind becoming cloudy. His ears filled with a rushing noise. Just before he lost consciousness, he vaguely heard Miss Whitepaw’s voice one last time. “Chelsea, what on earth do you think you’re doing?” ----------------------------------------- Nurse Simpson was doing paperwork at her desk when she heard footsteps entering her office. She looked up to see a young beagle girl with tears running down her cheeks. The mountain lion stood and approached the pup, seeing a note pinned to her chest. “Nurse Simpson,” it read. “I’m sending Chelsea to you to be put down. I caught her masturbating while her best friend was in my naughty chair, after she conspired to get him snuffed. Please make sure she suffers and do not under any circumstances untie her wrists.” The cat checked the beagle’s wrists. Sure enough, they were bound tightly with rope. “Do you know what this note says?” The beagle nodded, tears and snot that she couldn’t wipe away dripping from her face. “Good.” She opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out a pair of long shears. Chelsea looked terrified, but the nurse merely used them to cut away her clothing. “Sit,” the nurse said, pointing at the chair in front of her desk. Chelsea sat. “It says here that your parents have declined to be contacted before hand should you need to be destroyed. Did you know that?” The beagle girl shook her head. “Well, they have. Would you like to write them a note?” “W-what would I say?” “You could apologize.” “I’m sorry,” the naked girl whimpered. Nurse Simpson snorted. “Not to me, I don’t mind disposing of bad dogs. You could apologize to your parents for wasting the effort they made to raise you.” Chelsea started to sob loudly. “Stop that,” the lioness roared. Chelsea stopped. “Do you think your friend wanted to die?” Chelsea shook her head. “N-no,” she said softly. “Do you feel bad that he’s dead?” Chelsea nodded. “So, if I untie your wrists and open that door for you, you’ll stay here and be put down instead, yes?” The nurse got up and walked around to the back of Chelsea’s chair. “Yes miss, I will!” Chelsea said eagerly. The nurse returned to her seat, leaving the girl’s wrists quite tied and the door locked. “You’re a bad liar, Chelsea,” she said. “But that doesn’t matter now.” The beagle began sobbing again. “I prefer traditional methods for destroying bad dogs,” Nurse Simpson said—loudly, so that she could be heard. “I think I’m going to drown you. Would you like to be drowned?” Chelsea shook her head. The nurse lowered her head to Chelsea’s ear, her tone changing to a low, seductive purr. “Are you sure? You like watching others struggle for breath, but you never wanted that for yourself?” A large paw made its way between the dog’s legs. She could feel heat radiating through the poor thing’s jeans. Just a little pressure from her thumb. Chelsea shook her head, her wrists pulling against the rope, but she was starting to quiet down. Nurse Simpson rubbed harder. “That’s what I thought.” T.B.C.