Standing on the sidelines

The sharp pain on Iris’s buttocks was slowly changing into a deep, throbbing glow. The humiliation burned deeper than the slaps themselves. Mandy’s grip loosened, not to offer comfort, but to direct her to the next phase of her punishment.

“And now,” Mandy said, her voice unyielding, “you walk to the sideline. Hand over your pants.”

A new wave of shame washed over Iris. She stepped out of her soccer shorts and underwear and she didn't dare look at the field, but felt the weight of dozens of gazes on her naked skin. The sound of footballs being kicked and the shouts from the training session suddenly seemed very far away, as if she was looking through a thick pane of glass at a world she no longer belonged to.

She reached the white sideline. The artificial grass felt rough and prickly under her bare feet.

“Stay here. Facing away from the field,” commanded Mandy. “You don't move until the training is over. Is that clear?”

Iris could only nod, her throat tight. She turned around, her face now away from the field, staring at the empty stands on the other side. But she knew what was happening behind her. She knew that her punished, reddened buttocks were the view for every teammate running past, for every ball kicked towards the sideline, for Mandy's stern glances.

The wind felt icy on her bare skin. Every gust of wind, every buzzing fly, felt like an attack on her nakedness. She heard the shouts of instructions, the stamping of feet, the whistle. She heard someone – it sounded like one of the boys – was laughing. Another girl let out a soft, nervous giggle. The sounds carved into her soul.

Her legs began to ache from standing still. The cold seeped into her body, but the shame kept her burning hot. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to lose herself in the darkness behind her eyelids, but it was impossible. The awareness that she was standing there, completely exposed, a warning to the others, was overwhelming.

The training seemed to last an eternity. Minute after humiliating minute. She felt reduced to an object, a silent witness to her own humiliation. When the final whistle finally blew, her muscles were stiff and her legs were trembling. She didn't dare turn around.

Only when everyone had walked towards the changing rooms and the voices had faded away, did she, with trembling hands, pull her clothes up. The fabric burned against her sensitive skin. Without looking back, she staggered away from the field, a lonely little figure in the twilight, carrying the pain and the shame deep within her.