Dean of Discipline: Tales of Old-School Punishment

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Dean of Discipline: Tales of Old-School Punishment Page 5

by Allen Bare


  But Jennifer wasn't having any of it. "That's entirely out of the question," she replied in the same snooty tone. "I have no intention of submitting to anything so . . . so degrading."

  "Some other time we can have a conversation about whether getting stinking drunk is less degrading than being punished for it. You've already said you'd accept punishment in order to remain at Emberley, but we can reopen that question if you want. Are you willing to pack your things and get on the four o'clock train?"

  Her face reddened. This time the search for a way out was taking place inside her head. Apparently it was no more successful. She remained stubbornly mute, unable to say yes and unwilling to say no.

  I spoke again. "All right, then, come here. And I mean now, young lady." I raised my voice a bit, not so much because I thought it would be more effective as because I was starting to be annoyed. But she was too scared to back down, or else didn't know how.

  "I refuse to continue this conversation," said Jennifer, as frostily as she could, and reached behind her to fumble for the doorknob. "Good day," she said when she located it. I found her would-be exit line rather comic, but there was no time to laugh. I followed her into the anteroom.

  To her dismay, she found Mrs. Reilly still blocking her path. The housemother was a veteran of such encounters, and her long experience had apparently persuaded her to wait until the sounds coming through the office door assured her that justice was taking its course. "Not so fast, young lady," she said, collaring the truant as deftly as an uncle on the Boston, Chicago, or San Francisco police force might have done.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Reilly," I said. "Just keep her here for a minute, will you? I'm going to ask Ms. McHugh to come in. Mrs. Reilly looked more than capable of assisting, but I wanted to keep to college tradition. It was just as quick to step across the corridor to Connie's office as to pick up the phone, so I went over and stuck my head through her door.

  "Finished for the day?" she asked, looking up from her desk.

  "Almost. But I'm having a bit of trouble with the last one. I wonder if you'd mind . . . ?"

  "No, of course not," she said, rising immediately.

  The situation in my anteroom had deteriorated during my absence. We found Mrs. Reilly holding Jennifer at arm's length, dodging kicks launched fiercely at her shins. Neither the 25-year-old freshman's expression nor her language was consistent with the upper-crust performance she'd been putting on a minute ago. Connie and I immediately went to the housemother's relief, and with one of us holding on to each arm, we succeeded in dragging the mutinous young woman into my office, while Mrs. Reilly, free at last, departed to tend to her knitting, or whatever she tended to.

  "I wish you hadn't done this, Jennifer," I said. "You're going to get the paddling that was coming to you, and I'm afraid you've earned a bit extra by all this defiance. You're not going to enjoy this a bit. But at least maybe you'll learn that there's no use making a fuss. I wasn't kidding when I warned you that it would make things worse." She dug in her heels and tried fruitlessly to pull away as we dragged her across the office to the bench.

  I sat down and, with Connie's help, wrestled the struggling woman across my knees. I wasn't sure how to proceed from there, but Connie, who had had plenty of experience, quickly got hold a firm grip on both her wrists and sat down at my left, a few feet away. This kept Jennifer stretched toward her, her bottom well elevated by my knees. She was using both legs in an effort to push or twist herself off my lap, but, denied the use of her upper body, couldn't accomplish much. I found it fairly easy to keep her in place. I was impressed by the strength in Connie's diminutive body.

  The circumstances didn't allow for ceremony, much less cooperation, in the baring of Jennifer's backside. I her worked up her silk skirt and a slim black half-slip, being as careful as I could not to tear either. Underneath, a pair of black panties just barely showed through black "control-top" pantyhose. I dug my fingers in on either side of her waist, which possibly tickled her, and certainly sent her into a renewed frenzy of struggling, but none of her movements succeeded in preventing me from pulling the panties and hose down together, in a series of quick yanks-first one side, then the other-until both big cheeks were fully bared. I pulled everything right down, almost to her knees, wanting the tight band of elastic to constrict the movement of her legs as much as possible. I was conscious of the warm flesh my knuckles were sliding over.

  Finally, when Jennifer was fully immobilized, with her bare bottom poised helplessly in mid-air, I got the paddle from the floor. Connie and I exchanged a look. She was as flushed by the struggle as I probably was. Focusing on my target, which was large and voluptuous, but very gracefully shaped, I lifted the paddle and slammed it down with authority. There was a sizzling crack, and Jennifer's body jerked. She let out a howl of pain. I let it sink in, and then gave her another just as hard. It took only six of those to get her wailing like a fire siren. Then I slacked off a bit-that is, I began spanking her as hard as I had spanked the other eight. Those first three were meant to get her attention, and they had been entirely successful. Neither feistiness nor hauteur survived that six-shot volley. Jennifer was quickly reduced to the status of a miserable moppet; she squealed, screeched, and kicked her little feet as fast as she could, rolling her big buttocks back and forth, but utterly unable to escape the biting sting of the paddle as it smacked down again and again, turning them from white to pink to deep, deep red. Sobs, pleas, and promises of better behavior came tumbling out in between the squeals and screeches.

  When I judged that Jennifer had had about as much as her sisters in crime, and perhaps a little more, I paused. "Now, Jennifer," I said. "That was for the drunkenness. This is for trying to get out of paying the penalty, for disobeying my orders, for attacking Mrs. Reilly, and for generally acting like a spoiled four-year-old. Take care that you remember it the next time you're tempted to try the same thing." I went back to the rhythm and intensity of the original six. This time I gave her a dozen: twelve hard, searing cracks that flattened her flesh and forced yells of agony from her throat. I aimed them low, placing every smack right across the soft groove where buttock met thigh, and I didn't worry about marking her thighs, either. After the twelfth, I put down the paddle and Connie released her wrists. Jennifer flopped off my lap and lay on the floor, heedless of her nudity, howling and rubbing wildly at her blazing flesh. I looked at Connie, who nodded. She knelt down and put a hand on the girl's shoulder, and I thoughtfully looked elsewhere as she got Jennifer put back together and saw her out of the office.

  In a moment Connie was back. "Wow, my learned and distinguished colleague, that was what I call a spanking," she said.

  "Do you think I was too hard on her?" I asked a bit anxiously. This possibility had been on my mind.

  "Oh, no, she'll be fine in a few days, and she deserved everything she got," said Connie. "You didn't exceed the specifications for an Emberley paddling. But I was afraid you might be inclined to go too easy, being so new on the job. I can see there's no need to worry about that."

  We stood looking at each other. I was feeling stirred up, I don't mind admitting, and Connie's color was still high. I wondered if the spanking had aroused her too. "Thank you for the help," I said a little breathlessly.

  "You're welcome," she said softly. She moved just a tiny bit closer. There was only one way to interpret that movement, at least in my present mood, and I took her in my arms. She raised her face eagerly to mine, and our kiss was fierce and hungry. Reason eventually asserted itself, and we broke apart, panting. "I think we should know each other better, said Connie breathlessly. “Come have lunch with me now. OK?" I nodded.

  As we left the building, I thought about the peephole. I wondered if our moment of passion had been observed. Oh, well, the hell with it. All contact with the students had been kept resolutely asexual. The Director of Counseling was a consenting adult, and a damn good-looking one at that. As long as we did our misbehaving off-campus, I wasn't worried about what Ze
b or Fred might think.

  Chapter Three

  “Where are we going?” I asked Connie as we came out into the parking lot. As luck would have it, her white Mustang was parked next to my rusty Dodge.

  “Why don’t you come to my place?” she said. “You can follow me there.”

  So I did, with scarcely a thought of where it might be leading. Scarcely a rational thought, that is—I had numerous thoughts of another kind. I had just finished spanking the bare bottoms of nine young women—practically my first official action as Dean of Students at Emberley College. The last of the group had panicked, and I’d had to call in Connie McHugh, the Director of Counseling, to help me deal with her. No sooner had the weeping miscreant departed, with a smart in her backside she wouldn’t forget in a hurry, than Connie and I found ourselves locked in fond and lustful embrace. But we had enough common sense to perceive that my office in the Emberley administration building—even at noon on Saturday, when it was hardly a beehive of activity—was a precarious setting for a quickie, however steamed up we might be. So we broke apart, panting, and I gladly accepted Connie’s suggestion that we have lunch together.

  Connie owned a small house a few miles out on the opposite side of town from mine. It, too, was surrounded by trees, but not mere trees—this was serious forest. Compared to mine, the house looked rather modern, with a low-pitched roof and funky-looking shingles on the outside. A slim galvanized chimney raised high above the roof peak, and a long, low shed, open on one side, protected a massive and well-organized woodpile.

  Connie fished keys out of her purse and let us in. The interior was as woody as I expected—well-weathered pine brightened by colorful woven things hung on the walls. An easy chair and a massive sofa faced a wood stove.

  “Oh, “I said, looking at the stove. “I was thinking about whether I ought to get one of these.”

  “Shut up,” growled Connie, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me into a clinch. I responded ardently, finding that my passionate mood was far from dormant. After a moment during which we eagerly explored each other’s hungry mouths, I slid my hand down her back and over the swell of her buttock, clasping and squeezing its warmth. Her only response was to thrust her hips firmly forward against me. I reached down farther, bunching up handfuls of skirt until my hand was beneath the hem and sliding back up to her bottom. “Just a minute,” said Connie, panting. “Let me get rid of these.” She pushed her pantyhose down off her hips and sat on the sofa to remove them. I sat down next to her, took her in my arms again, and we were soon in a frenzy of mutual unbuttoning, unbelting, unzipping, unhooking, shrugging off and tugging down until both of us were naked.

  Connie suddenly looked stricken. “What about . . . ?”

  “I had a vasectomy four years ago,” I said, “and I’ve been monogamous for ten years, so I’ve never felt like I needed an HIV test. I’m willing to use a condom, but I don’t have any with me. I understand if you don’t want to take a chance.” Her answer was to take my hand and lead me into her bedroom.

  It was incredible. Of course, I had been doing without for the better part of a year, but that wasn’t all. I was definitely fired up by the morning’s disciplinary activities. As was Connie, obviously.

  We lay snuggled together in the blissful aftermath. “Jim,” Connie said after some minutes, her voice betraying discomfort, “this is not my usual behavior on a first date.”

  “Mine either,” I assured her. “Ordinarily I’d insist on getting that lunch you promised first.” She jabbed me in the ribs, I pinched her, and we began tussling. This brought back a memory of my sessions with Nona, and I contrived to stretch Connie across my knee and lay a few sharp smacks on her pale, heart-shaped bottom. She squealed and squirmed with what appeared to be delight, and we were off again.

  Much later, Connie said “You know, I believe I’m really hungry now. For lunch, I mean.” She hopped out of bed, pulled on a robe, and pattered into the kitchen. “How about eggs?” she called. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  I said eggs would be fine. Borrowing the bedspread as a toga, I returned to the living room and found my clothes, wanting to be decently clad for kitchen duties. But Connie required no help, and shooed me off as soon as I showed up.

  “Eggs,” when she put them on the round oak table between us, turned out to be an exquisitely rolled omelet with cheddar cheese and crumbled bacon. There was even a bowl of home fries she had found and reheated, plus wheat toast and butter. Needless to say, the coffee was also perfect. We both fell to and ate wordlessly until everything was gone.

  “Why don’t you get dressed while I do the dishes?” I asked. At first she was reluctant to accept this violation of the standards of Southern hospitality, but eventually I persuaded her to overcome her upbringing. I heard the shower start as soon as I finished filling the dishpan. The dishes were neatly lined up in the drying rack, and I was looking at the cartoons in the previous week’s New Yorker, when Connie reappeared, tucking a blue plaid flannel shirt into her jeans. (The effect was about as far from grunge as you could get.)

  She sat down next to me on the sofa. “Jim?” she said. “I think we should talk.” She sounded just the slightest bit uneasy.

  I had already dropped the magazine to my lap, but I tossed it on the coffee table to make it clear that she had my full attention. “OK,” I said, waiting.

  “I—” she broke off, coloring. “Why is this so hard to say? I wasn’t just kidding when I told you I don’t usually act this way. As a matter of historical fact, I have never, ever, once, in my entire life acted this way before. I mean, I won’t deny that I’ve felt attracted to you, but I don’t want you to think I’m in the habit of bringing men home and making love to them whenever I feel attracted.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m not that different, really. I mean, I am a man, and I know we’re supposed to be from a different planet and all that, but as I told you there has been only one woman in my life for—I guess it won’t be ten years until January. She ended it last winter, and it hit me pretty hard. I haven’t had any kind of relationship with a woman since, and I haven’t even been looking. This just kind of took me by surprise.”

  “Same here. I—well, I just wasn’t expecting anything like this to happen.”

  “Maybe we should back off a little,” I said. “Have some regular dates like ordinary people. I’ll bring you home and kiss you goodnight like a gentleman, and we won’t assume that anything else is going to happen until we’ve had time to get to know each other well enough so we’re sure we want it to.”

  Connie smiled with relief and happiness. It warmed up the room. “Oh, Jim, you’re perfect!” she said, giving me a hug.

  “Whoa! You have to get to know me a lot better than that.”

  Both of us felt good about solving the puzzle of how we were going to continue from this torrid beginning, but the intimacy between us hadn’t dissipated, and we both felt some reluctance to part. Rain had begun to fall outside, and the house was cool, so Connie fired up the stove. We sat there half-dozing in the warmth, her head against my shoulder, sipping more of that wonderful coffee.

  “Hey,” I said, remembering something, “last week you were telling me you’d experienced the Emberley paddle from both ends.”

  “So to speak,” she said archly.

  “How many paddling’s did you get as a student?”

  “Oh, Lordy, about six my freshman year,” she said. “I got smarter after that. Maybe another six before I graduated. Only one when I was a senior.”

  “Memorable?”

  “The last one?” She thought about it. “Sugar, they were all memorable. But, yeah, I suppose that one was kind of special.”

  “In what way?”“Well, for one thing I wasn’t prepared for it. I thought I’d gotten beyond all that. I mean, I knew the rules and I knew I wasn’t immune to them, but at the same time I never believed I’d be stupid enough to get in trouble again.”

  “But you were.”

&nb
sp; “I was. We had this starchy old lady teaching music history, and every Saturday morning—we had Saturday classes in those days—she gave a quiz where she’d play musical passages on tape and ask us to identify the style, or the composer, or something like that. They were perfectly reasonable quizzes—sometimes they were even fun—but one Friday afternoon when I noticed that she’d gone home and left her office open, I thought of something that would be even more fun. I found the next morning’s quiz tapes in her desk drawer, and took them back to my room, and I spent the whole evening recording stuff from my own collection over the Mozart and Haydn she had ready for the quiz. Jimi Hendrix, the Doors, the Grateful Dead, even a lot of trashy disco stuff. Late that night I went and put the tapes back.”

  “I take it there was a sensation the next morning.”

  “Oh, it caused a sensation in the class, all right, though when I saw how upset poor Miss Hodges was, the whole business didn’t seem quite as hilarious as I’d expected. Anyway, my father and brother were coming that afternoon to visit and take me out to dinner. Daddy had to come to Portland to depose witnesses, and he often dragged Billy along on his trips, hoping he’d start to take an interest in the law, though it never did much good. So, after the whole class had been dismissed in disgrace, I went back to the dorm, ate lunch, and then changed into heels, hose, my fanciest suit—the whole bit. Daddy was probably the most formal and conservative lawyer in Montgomery, Alabama, and that’s saying quite a lot. He could barely tolerate the thought of a gentleman’s daughter dressing informally, so I always had to be doll myself up when he came. I don’t mean he’d be mad if I didn’t, but he’d be baffled, and hurt, and—well, Daddy was so sweet, I just couldn’t do that to him.”

  “Right, I see.”

  “So, he and Billy showed up, around 2:30 or 3:00, and we were sitting in the dorm visiting room talking about whether we might take a drive up in the mountains, when in came the housemother to announce that I was wanted immediately in Dean Jowett’s office. I think the look on my face would have convinced even a jury of Massachusetts liberals that I was guilty as sin of whatever I might be accused of. I left Daddy getting an earful from the housemother about my criminal behavior while I trudged across the campus to the Dean’s office. I felt like I’d like to dig a hole and crawl in and never come out.”

 

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