by Allen Bare
“Me-if you're telling the truth."
"I am. And it would be just the same when I play with her."
"Hmmm." She pondered. "Actually, it might be interesting to know another woman who's into it," she said.
"Maybe that can happen sometime, but for now I don't think it would be a good idea. Not until I have a chance to find out how she'd feel about anyone else knowing about her personal interests. She might want to keep the whole business to herself, and who could blame her? I've only told you because I don't want secrets between us, and because I trust you not to betray hers."
"Yes, OK," said Connie, after thinking for a while. "But will you promise you won't let it get out of hand?"
"Unreservedly."
Connie brightened. "OK. Are you going to tell me who this mystery woman is?"
"I said I wouldn't hold anything back from you. You have a right to know who I'll be seeing. It's Kate Marinetti. But remember, not a word to her unless I say so."
"Oh, my God," said Connie. "She's awfully pretty," she said after a moment. "And a lot younger than me."
"Do you think that gives her an advantage?" I asked. "Even if there was no Connie McHugh within a thousand miles of here, I'd think twice or three times before I let myself get interested in a woman twenty years younger than me. The generation gap is nothing to build a relationship on."
Connie looked a little happier. "All right, I guess. But Jim¼"
I looked at her.
"Promise me you'll be honest about this, and anything else that might affect what's between us?"
"I promise," I said, and I meant it.
We sat in peace and contentment for a few minutes, neither of us having anything to say. Then I remembered something.
Say, the other day I had Lisa Trevelyan in for a paddling, and I found her bottom all covered with black and blue stripes. She told me Frances had caned her for missing practice."
"Yes, our Games Mistress is a great one for old-school traditions."
"So this is well known, that she does this?"
"Oh, yes, Frances considers it an essential part of her coaching mission.’Builds character,' she says. 'So important for the gels, ya know.'" Connie's imitation of Francis's posh accent was, as the model might have said herself, spot on. "She made her case to the President and trustees, and they consulted the school lawyers and got it written into the waiver that everyone has to sign to participate in athletics."
"Doesn't this keep some good athletes from signing up?"
"Not so's you'd notice. There may have been a couple, but it doesn't seem to have had much effect."
"I was a bit taken aback when I saw the bruises. I offered Lisa a postponement, but she wasn't having any of it."
"Well, can you blame her? Anticipating a paddling for a whole week might be a bit tough even for a hardened senior hockey player. Besides, the girls buy in to Frances's "stiff upper lip" attitude. Lisa probably considers it cowardly not to take one's punishment when it's due."
"Now that I think of it that is pretty much the way she acted. She was no crybaby, that's for certain."
"They kind of pride themselves on how well they can take a caning."
"Oh? You speak as if you knew."
"Not from personal experience, my dear. Frances was coaching here in my student days, but I was never an athlete, and besides I don't think she had instituted canings then. I certainly never heard about them."
"Too bad. It makes a fetching picture: Connie bending over for six of the best."
"Well, put it right out of your mind."
I smiled-a bit mysteriously, I hoped-and nodded.
"A few years ago I was quite good friends with a senior whom I'd been counseling since her freshman year. We used to have long heart-to-heart talks about all sorts of things, and once the subject of canings and paddling’s came up. She said a caning hurt more, and the effects lasted longer, but there was a kind of pride in being able to take it well. Even though paddlings hurt less, the childish position made them much more humiliating, and she just couldn't manage to salvage any pride no matter how brave she was. Also, you sometimes got caned in front of your peers, and that made everyone anxious to do well, and be seen to do well. There was a lot of mutual support in it."
"What, you mean Frances punished them in front of the whole team? Makes the hockey team sound like H.M.S. Bounty."
"No, nothing like that. But if three girls were due for a caning, she'd call them all into her office together. Once, according to Pam, she caned the entire hockey team for 'lackadaisical practice and slovenly play.' That took place in the locker room, with all hands present. In alphabetical order, I believe. When there are only a few girls she apparently lets them draws straws to determine the order."
"Interesting. I've always figured that every girl would prefer her punishment to be private, but apparently that isn't always true."
"Well, these are teammates, remember. They spend a lot of time together, and they share a good deal of misery apart from canings. There's a bond between them. Also, remember how she felt about paddlings. You might feel one way about your close buddies that you take showers with every day seeing you bare your bum and take a caning standing up (even if not quite straight up), and feel quite different about some girls you hardly know seeing you sprawled over the Dean's lap with your bare fanny turned up, and the paddle making a big loud splat every time it comes down. If I were you I wouldn't change my disciplinary methods. Frances has a different situation to work with."
That made a lot of sense, and I said so, but I was still wondering if there might be room in my office, so to speak, for something other than the paddle.
The next couple of weeks were great. Connie and I spent most nights together, sometimes at her place, sometimes at mine. We agreed not to think about moving in together for a while. We were wary enough to want to make really sure, and, besides, neither of us was really ready to give up our own place yet. If one of us would have to do that, it might be stressful to decide which it would be. Although we often ate our evening meals and breakfasts together, this wasn't invariable. Connie had some good women friends on the faculty that she spent an evening with from time to time, and was close buddies with Gordon Pettipaugh, one of the local antique dealers, with whom she went out to dinner every couple of weeks. "He's a fellow Alabamian," Connie explained, "and since he's gay you don't have to worry about me betraying you. But he'd never been out of the South before coming here four years ago, and he found it hard to adjust. I kind of helped him." I suspected that my cold Northern presence might introduce a chill into the nostalgic atmosphere of these meetings, and refrained from trying to wangle an invitation.
Though we didn't spend every night together, we never missed a Tuesday or a Thursday, especially when Connie had been called in to assist at a paddling. I continued to do my duty with a pleasure which I diplomatically concealed from the unfortunate paddles. From time to time I would think of our conversation about caning, but only in an idle sort of way.
Then a bright Tuesday morning in late October gave this idea another push. I had five girls in for discipline. Four were unexceptional members of the spoiled-rich-girl brigade, thoroughly demoralized by chastisement: weeping, wincing, wiggling penitents who might as well have been wearing Mary Janes on the feet they kicked up and down to the echoing smacks of the paddle. But their average age was 21, not eight. Certainly the paddle still held sufficient terror for this lot.
Number five was a different story: it was Janine McCutcheon, one of my original Naughty Nine. This was her first return visit, though she wasn't the first of that group to earn a second paddling. Both Becky Allen and Lee Anne Davis had been over my knee the previous week-Becky more sensibly dressed in a full skirt this time, and Lee Anne a bit less compelled to fill in every silence (until the paddle began to fill it, at which point Lee Anne had plenty to add).
Janine, however, showed no sign of having changed her style. It wasn't the same flannel shirt, and perhaps not even the same pair
of jeans, though I'm less sure on that point, but clearly Janine had seen no reason to abandon the grunge look. The effect was not exactly ratty, for, although Janine's clothes were worn and tattered, they were well washed, and her tall, straight figure and clean good looks breathed not the slightest breath of urban decadence. As before, she seemed determined to keep her mouth shut and get through the ordeal with as little fuss as possible.
I had the silent freshman peel down her jeans, guided her over my lap, and tugged her plain, sensible nylon panties down to her knees. As on the previous occasion, I was struck by the fresh loveliness of the long, pale, oval buttocks I uncovered. Seizing the paddle, I began to make the soft flesh bounce and jiggle, snapping one sharp blow after another on the quivering cheeks. Although Janine couldn't control the reaction of her resilient flesh to the paddle strokes, she kept her voice under firm control. I heard nothing from her except, as the paddling continued an increase in the harshness of her breathing. I could feel the intensity of her effort in the tautness of her body where my left hand was resting on the small of her back.
She was far more successful this time at keeping it all together. By the end of her first spanking, she had been emitting an audible Ow as she felt each stroke, but today I heard nothing. Nor was there a sign of tears when I finally let her up, though her face showed the strain of a fierce struggle for self-control. I was impressed by Janine's courage, but at the same time, it occurred to me that she might make a good candidate for the cane. Possibly, I thought, the punishment might be made more painful, thereby increasing its deterrent effect, but at the same time permit her to retain a few more shreds of the dignity that was obviously so important to her. Janine, I felt sure, was one of those who would prefer the cane to the paddle, no matter how much more it hurt.
But was that a good thing or not? It might be argued that, because she found the childishness of an over-the-knee paddling so distasteful, it was for that reason alone a more powerful deterrent to misbehavior, and therefore the most effective way to bring about a reformation.
The next morning, I stopped in at a coffee shop on Main Street on my way to the office. I intended to pick up a cup to go, but when I saw Frances Potter sitting alone in a booth, I changed my mind and ordered my coffee in one of the house's crockery mugs. I still hadn't gotten used to all the double lattés and such that everybody drank out here-I still ordered a plain cup of coffee, but I had started specifying the bean. This one was Jamaica Blue Mountain.
I carried the cup over to Frances, who looked up with a toothy smile. "Mind if I sit down?"
"Of course, dear boy." This might be the land of the coffee maniacs, but I saw that Frances had a teapot in front of her. It's nice to know there'll always be an England.
"And how have you been settling in?" she asked kindly.
"Oh, quite well," I said.
"From what I hear, you've made a dashed impressive start."
I thanked her, feeling pretty certain that she wasn't talking about my deft handling of the student activities budget.
"Yes, word is that you've been keeping the gels splendidly in line. I do hope it's not too great a burden," she added mischievously. "Bashing all those bodies."
"So far I've managed to hold up," I said, smiling.
"I'm sure the same is true for the gels," she said. "Pay no attention if they weep and wail. Doesn't do 'em a bit of harm, in spite of all their complaints. Quite a few men are too silly to see that. Think because a woman's bottom is soft, it must be as delicate and fragile as a bally flower. Not a bit of it. Young gels are much tougher than you think. Most of 'em can take a good hiding and be none the worse for it. Just for show, all their caterwauling."
I said I'd try to bear this in mind.
"Well, it appears you've made a good start," said Frances with approval. "I'm always afraid, when a new Dean is appointed-especially if he comes from outside, y'knaow-that he'll go all soft and wet the first time a sweet young lip trembles at the sight of the paddle. But you seem to have lain on with a will."
"Er, well, I've done my duty as I see it," I said.
"Of course you have, dear boy, of course you have. I couldn't be more pleased."
"I learned just recently," I said, "that I'm not the only disciplinarian on campus."
She looked puzzled for a moment, then grinned, "Oh, you mean me! Well, I do keep order on the teams, in my own little way."
"It's a way that at least some of those girls seem to prefer." I told her about my recent encounter with a student athlete, whose name I withheld, making her in my account a composite of Lisa Trevelyan and the student friend Connie had told me about.
"They may claim to prefer it, but I assure you that a caning is a good deal more painful than a paddling."
"I can well believe that, having seen the bruises. But there's something about the circumstances that seems to allow them to salvage a little bit of pride, and that seems to be more important."
"That's all very well in the Athletic Department-athletes can't play well without pride-but I'm not sure it would do in the Dean's office. Most of these gels come in with far too much pride for their own good. A good, knickers-down bottom-smacking is an ideal deflator."
"No doubt," I said. "All the same, it has occurred to me that there are circumstances where the cane might be a good alternative, at least for a more mature student, when the offense is not especially flagrant. Say, for instance, that she's a junior or senior-not a frequent offender-who has fallen behind her academic schedule and gets referred by Connie's office. The cane might be preferable in cases like that."
"Mmm. Well, perhaps."
"It also leaves reversion to the paddle as more of a threat. If she knows that childish breaches of discipline will be punished by childish over-the-knee paddlings, she may be motivated to avoid the most immature forms of misbehavior."
"Yes, I suppose there may be something to that," Frances said. "But it takes skill to cane a girl properly, without hurting her too much or letting her off too lightly. You can't just pick up a stick and bash away regardless."
"Well," I said, "its moot, since I don't have a cane or any idea where to get one."
"Oh, I can help with that," said Frances easily. "I have a supplier in London."
"That would be very kind of you. But it would still leave the problem of acquiring the requisite, um, skill," I said.
"Heavens, dear boy, nothing easier." She grinned. "I am, after all, an experienced coach."
"Er, yes, but I don't think it would be a great idea for me to just show up in your office when you have some poor miscreant bent over the table."
Francis chuckled. "No, certainly not. But if you can come over to my house some evening, I can teach you all you need to know in a trice."
I cleared my throat nervously. "I'm, uh, not volunteering to be caned," I said.
"Of course not." She chuckled at my foolishness.
I considered the implications and grew alarmed. "Nor do I think I should, I mean, if you thought you" I was actually blushing. "Look here, I can't cane you, Francis."
This brought a hearty guffaw. "No, you certainly cannot! But that won't be necessary, you silly boy."
"Then how are you?"
"Wait and see, dear boy, wait and see! Is tonight possible, do you think?"
I thought. "I don't see why not."
"Very good. 66 Palmer Street. Come at nine." She dropped a bill on the table and left the coffee shop, still grinning.
From time to time during the day, I wondered what I had gotten into. I had a vision of myself thumping a sofa cushion while Frances squinted critically and told me to put more of my upper body into it. I wondered if this could go into my personnel record under the heading of professional development.
Frances occupied a small, neat house on a back street not far from the campus. Although it was dark, I could see that the house was surrounded by a quite serious garden. Another English touch, I decided. To my surprise, it wasn't Frances who opened the door, but a
rather pretty blonde woman in her twenties, wearing a white blouse and a loose, blue-flowered skirt. She smiled and said, "Dean Bradley? Do come in, please." Her accent sounded British, and I decided she must not be an Emberley student. The international segment of our student body consisted of a few daughters of millionaires in (or expatriate from) various parts of Latin America.
The young woman led me into a small, neat living room. Frances entered at the same time by another door, bearing a tray on which I saw a pot of tea, a plate of biscuits, milk, sugar and cups. She laid these on the coffee table, a sadly misnamed article of furniture in this house. Amidst the bustle involved in pouring out tea and making sure that everyone got what they wanted to put in it, she introduced me to her young friend, whose name was Bronwen Pritchard. "Bronwen is a cousin of mine-rather a distant one, actually-and she's staying with me for a bit, helping with the house and the garden."
"You enjoy gardening?" I asked politely.
"Oh, yes!" said Bronwen with a bright smile. "It's very good here; not like the rest of America-there's almost as much rain as we get at home!"
"Which might be somewhere in Wales?" I asked. This wasn't too wild a guess, with that name; besides, I had just spotted her accent. But she was absolutely beaming with delight as she told me she came from Llangollen. Americans can just about manage to distinguish the Scots and Irish from the English, but the Welsh, to most citizens of this self-absorbed country, remain as obscure as Uzbeks or Macedonians. It was a pleasant surprise to her to be recognized.
I told her I had passed through Llangollen one summer, though I couldn't find a place to stay there on account of the big choral festival. The three of us drank our tea together amid light chitchat about Wales. I knew little enough about it, but Bronwen seemed pleased that I knew anything at all.
"Well, enough of that," said Frances briskly, when we'd each finished a second cup, and only one cookie remained on the plate as an offering to the goddess of manners. "To the business at hand. You're here to learn how to cane a young gel properly and here is a young gel in need of a proper caning."