Dean of Discipline: More Tales of Old-School Punishment

by Allen Bare

  In the pleasant social atmosphere I had nearly forgotten why I'd come and this announcement was a bit of a shock. I looked quickly at Bronwen, who had become suddenly subdued, but voiced no protest or disagreement. "Oh, I-I don't think-that is, I-" I stammered, feeling most uncomfortable at the thought of this poor young woman's bottom being sacrificed to my quest for knowledge.

  "Don't even think of objecting," said Frances firmly. "Our young friend here has neglected her weeding most scandalously, and she has earned herself a round dozen with the cane-not for the first time, I might add. It's nothing to do with you, except that you're going to give her six of them."

  "But," I said, "If that's the usual punishment, I'm sure it's ordinarily given in private."

  "That doesn't matter a bit. Bronwen has already agreed to receive half her punishment from you."

  I looked at her. She nodded her golden head. "I don't mind, really," she said. Perhaps my familiarity with Wales made it easier for her, or perhaps she was completely under the thumb of Cousin Frances. At any rate, her consent appeared to be sincere, though under the circumstances it could hardly be enthusiastic. My scruples wavered, weakened, and vanished.

  "Right, then. Fetch the cane, my young friend, and be quick about it." Bronwen lost no time in departing." Frances looked about the room thoughtfully. "I think we'll just turn this armchair around," she said. "Help me, would you, dear boy?" It was a big chair, covered in faded rose-red fabric, with plenty of stuffing in it, and it took some effort from both of us to rotate it. It occurred to me that this must not be the usual routine. "I usually punish Bronwen in her bedroom," said Frances, as if she'd heard me, "but that doesn't seem quite the thing on the present occasion, what?" I nodded, reflecting that poor Bronwen was giving up enough of her privacy as it was.

  In a moment she returned, carrying a slim stick with a crook at one end, far too slight for a lame person to lean on. It looked about 3/8 of an inch in diameter, and was about a yard long. Mutely, she offered it to Frances.

  "Very well, my dear," said Frances, pointing to the back of the armchair. Over you go, now, and make yourself ready." Bronwen colored, but did not delay in bending over the chair and raising the flowered skirt to reveal a pair of straight, slim legs and a pert backside clad in charmingly small white cotton panties. There was a slight pause. "Come on, gel, knickers down! You know the drill," said the Games Mistress.

  "Please," Bronwen whispered almost inaudibly.

  "I'm growing impatient, my gel!" Meekly, the pretty blonde reached up and back to catch hold of the white panties and slide them down to her thighs. Bronwen's bottom was an extremely pretty one: two soft, firm, shapely cheeks that jutted out plumply, their smooth white surface as fresh and innocent of marks as newly fallen snow.

  "Now then," said Frances. "You've earned this by neglecting your duty, as you know very well. I trust that you'll remember it the next time you're tempted to malinger." Turning to me, she flexed the cane, which bent easily into a tight bow. "It's very flexible, you see," she said. "Use your wrist properly, and the cane will do most of the work. She demonstrated by swinging it in the air, making a swoosh that caused Bronwen to wince and clench her buttocks tensely. "The important thing is to keep it straight and not cross the marks. That's easy enough if the gel stays in position-and she will do, won't she, Bronwen?-not just because it will hurt less in the long run, but because she knows she'll receive extra strokes if she doesn't."

  "Now, James, stand over here where you can see properly." She motioned me to a spot where my vision could take in the full swing of the cane and its impact on the luscious target.

  Frances measured the cane across the fullest, broadest part of Bronwen's bottom, drew it back, and snapped it quickly forward. There was a soft swish, ending in a thwack! as the cane bit into the soft flesh. Bronwen gasped and trembled, shifting her feet. The older woman lined the cane up again, just above the bright red line that appeared. Sswup! Another red line, just below the first. "Oooo!" whimpered Bronwen softly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and back as the pain built up.

  "Right then, James, I'd like you to give her a couple. Start just about here," she said, pointing with the cane to a spot an inch or so below the first stripe she'd made. I took the cane from her and eyed the target dubiously. I laid the cane across the trembling buttocks at the latitude she'd indicated, drew it back, and snapped it forward. It landed in about the right spot, though I heard no swish before the thwick! of the impact. Bronwen shivered, drawing in air noisily between her teeth.

  "Not too bad, but you needn't be afraid of it," said Frances. "Use a little more force. I want this naughty gel to remember the lesson. Again, just below the last, and hit her smartly this time."

  I had been a little too fearful of hurting the girl. I resolved to take Frances's advice to heart, and put a bit more elbow and wrist into the second one. Ssswup! Nothing wimpy about that. Bronwen moaned and stamped her feet, writhing slowly from side to side-once, twice-before coming again to an uneasy rest.

  "Hmm," said Frances, looking pensively at the four lines across Bronwen's rump. "Far better. A little wide of the mark, but not bad. I think you'd better go on and give her the rest of your six. If you scatter them too widely, I'll be able to place the rest in between." I was not inclined to argue with an obvious master. The young blonde was by now unable to stand perfectly still, and this would make it even harder for my inexperienced hand to place the strokes exactly where I wanted them.

  I was determined to do my best, however, and managed to line the next three strokes up neatly, an inch apart, while Bronwen gasped, whimpered, and ground her hips fiercely against the armchair. She never straightened up, nor did she step out of position, although she was now stamping her feet madly after every stroke. I waited at least half a minute after each for her to get herself under control, and she always managed to do it. She had begun to cry, but did it quietly. Once Bronwen's agitated motions ceased, I lined up my stroke slowly and carefully before delivering it. I didn't want to cross a previous stroke and cause her unnecessary suffering. I succeeded in this, though my deliberate approach undoubtedly prolonged the ordeal.

  I had worked my way downward, away from Frances's marks, and had reached the tender under slopes of the girl's buttocks. The last stroke lifted the flesh slightly, and brought forth a shrill squeal and a renewed frenzy of stamping. To my disappointment, the line was not parallel to the rest; on the left it touched the crease between buttock and thigh, but it angled upward and on the right ended at least two inches higher.

  "Not bad at all, for a first attempt," pronounced the Games Mistress judiciously as she took the cane from me and examined my handiwork. "I'll just finish the job, shall I?" Expertly she placed the last four strokes in the largest remaining spaces, waiting hardly at all for the girl's gyrations to cease after each stroke. This may have been a merciful gesture on her part, since I had drawn out my part of the procedure and she may have wanted to end the ordeal quickly, but four strokes of the cane in less than a minute gives the body little or no time to recover between strokes, and Bronwen squealed louder and squirmed uncontrollably as the agony in her hindquarters grew more intense. I had to admire Frances's skill in placing the cane strokes so precisely across the girl's heaving buttocks; I also had to admire Bronwen's discipline in not trying to escape before the full dozen had been delivered.

  "All right, my dear, that's your dozen. Very bravely taken, all in all. She put out a hand and stroked the striped bottom cheeks tenderly. They were covered with straight, ridged weal’s that must have been intensely painful. "You may get up now."

  Bronwen, her tearful face working, stood up and let her skirt fall back, stepping out of her knickers, which had fallen around her ankles as she danced in response to Frances's final barrage. She quickly flung her arms around Frances and buried her face in her shoulder; Frances took her in and patted her head and shoulder tenderly. "There, there, my darling; you've been a good, brave gel, and it's all over
now. You earned it, and now it's paid, and there'll be no more said about it. Good gel, there's my good gel," she crooned softly. "Now, please tell Dean Bradley that you don't resent him giving you part of your caning."

  Bronwen, making a great effort to master herself, looked up at me and said, "It's all right. Really." Looking at her pale, taut face, I had a notion that she was barely managing to hold herself together and desperately wanted a good howl. My presence would obviously be an inhibiting factor, and I decided to get out of there quickly, regardless of how Frances might take it.

  But when I said I had to leave, the Games Mistress merely nodded. Her arms were around the young woman's trembling shoulders, one hand patting gently. "Poor little batty," I heard her saying softly as I went out into the hall. "Is it very sore, darling?"

  "You'll never guess where I was last night," I said to Connie the next evening. We were sharing a pizza in my kitchen. In answer to her inquiring look, I said "At Frances Potter's house, getting my first caning lesson."

  Connie laughed. "Your first? How long is the course?"

  "I guess that's up to Frances." I hadn't thought about it.

  "And how did all this come about?" she wanted to know. I told her about my encounter with Frances in the coffee shop.

  "So she not only volunteered to give you lessons; she's going to supply you with canes as well. What a gal!"

  "I think it may be rather a cause with her."

  "I wouldn't be surprised. So, tell me, who got caned? Or what? A human target or a sofa pillow?"

  "Well, as I told you, Frances had made it clear that neither of us was going to be hit, so I was really curious about that. But she has this young cousin living there-have you met her?"

  "Felicity?"

  "Huh? No, her name is Bronwen. She's Welsh."

  "Aha, a new 'cousin.' They change every year or two. Frances goes off to England for the summer, and comes back with another pretty little gardener-housekeeper. I assume this one's pretty-they always are."

  "Yes, very pretty. So that explains a lot. I was sort of wondering about the whole scene."

  "Which, apparently, the caning is part of."

  "Yes, she said she invited me last night because Bronwen had neglected her gardening and was due for a caning-it wasn't the first time, I remember her saying."

  "Well, it's one thing to cane your garden girl and another to invite a stranger in to help you do it. I hope poor what's-her-name had some choice in the matter."

  "They must have worked that out before I got there. She didn't act reluctant-I mean, she did, but no more reluctant than I think anybody would be under the circumstances. It didn't seem to have much to do with me being there. Funny when you think of it," I added.

  "What?"

  "Well, that a Lesbian, if that's what Bronwen is, would accept having a man see her get caned on the bare, let alone do some of the caning. You'd think it might be a lot worse for her that way."

  "Don't go all stereotypical. I've known a few Lesbians, and they aren't simple-minded man-haters, which is what men usually seem to think. Some of the ones I knew did hate men, and they usually had good reasons, but I knew others-and they weren't bisexual, either-who liked men and even found them sexually interesting in certain ways-just not the way that everyone thinks is most important. I mean, when it comes to spanking, it seems as if the lines are drawn sort of differently. I'm not sexually attracted to women-as you should have good reason to suspect-but paddling Marie was a big turn-on. So is seeing you paddle students, like this morning."

  "How about being spanked by a woman? Would that be a turn-on for you?"

  "I don't think so, but I'm not certain. I've thought about it once or twice-just as a kind of exercise, you know-and I really couldn't decide how I felt about it. It was certainly less interesting than watching another woman get a spanking, or being spanked by a man myself.

  "Want to split the last slice?"

  "No, you go ahead, I've had plenty. One thing I'm sure about, in case you were going to ask. I have absolutely no interest in spanking a man, or seeing a man on the receiving end."

  "What a relief! But I wonder why that is."

  Connie shrugged. "I guess my personal demons are all sexists."

  "Makes 'em a good match for mine," I said, reaching across the table for her hand. The food was all gone. I pushed my chair back a little and pulled Connie over to sit on my lap.

  "I'll perch on your knee," she warned, "but not over it, unless you want half-digested pizza on the floor."

  "The thought never occurred to me," I assured her solemnly. "You've been very good all evening."

  "Mmmm," she said a minute later. "Nothing like greasy pizza kisses."

  "I can think of something even better," I said, "but unfortunately we don't have time now." A student art exhibit was opening this evening, and we had both promised to attend.

  The campus gallery was in the largest and newest building, a prestressed concrete monstrosity from the seventies. It also had a theater and a recital hall, as well as a honeycomb of rooms and studios where the various arts were taught and practiced. It wasn't actually fair of me to call it a monstrosity. That pretty much sums up my general reaction to pre-stressed concrete buildings, but I'd seen many that looked far worse than this. (Old Sandy, my previous place of employment, had at least three.) And the spaces inside were graceful enough. Not only that, but I'd been assured by Delmore Haines, the head of the music department, that the building was comfortable in all seasons and didn't leak. No doubt another proof of the noted ability of Zebulon Pike Kesselmann, our president, to get top value for Emberley's money.

  Two students were giving out single-sheet catalogs at the door. Holly Weldon was one of them. When I saw her tall form and carrot-colored hair I thought of trying to switch sides with Connie, out of consideration, but the maneuver would have been too obvious. Holly's eyes widened just a bit when she saw me, but she pulled herself together, handed me my program, and greeted me as pleasantly as if she had not been sprawled over my knee with her upturned bottom bared that very morning. The color in her cheeks was high, but that isn't unusual in redheads. I asked a couple of friendly questions about the exhibition, determined to show that whatever took place in my office was destined to remain there. The tension was perceptibly lower when I moved inside.

  Still, it was easier to dwell on the remembered vision of Holly's pretty, plump backside, wincing and squirming under the paddle, than on the oils, watercolors, and clay pots on display. Emberley was by no means a Mecca for the artistically brilliant, though some students clearly had talent that was worth developing. One of them, I noticed with interest as I checked my catalog to identify the artists, was Holly. "I can see why Holly has trouble keeping up with the social sciences," I said to Connie. "This appears to be where her genius lies."

  "Yes, but she can't be allowed to neglect her other work," said Connie demurely. "Emberley aims to educate the well-rounded woman." I looked at her quickly and caught an almost invisible wink.

  "Well, Holly is certainly well-rounded in the right places," I told her quietly, after making sure we weren't overheard.

  "You ought to know." She wandered off.

  There had certainly been no need to call for Connie's assistance with Holly this morning. The junior was no stranger to the mysteries of the Dean's office, being so often carried away in the passion of artistic creation that she was still receiving three or four referrals a semester from Connie's office. This had been our second encounter. She had quietly, if not calmly, obeyed my directions to slip her underpants down and place herself over my lap in the classic spanking position. I had lifted the skirt of a forest-green corduroy jumper and admired the soft whiteness of her bottom for a second, just before laying on with the paddle to extinguish every last bit of that whiteness and replace it with stinging, throbbing redness. Poor Holly had departed with tears in her eyes, pressing a hand furtively to the seat of the jumper. She must be glad that her duties tonight kept her on he
r feet.

  A few minutes later, I had been forced to summon Connie when a sophomore named Penny Ryan had lost it and thrown a fit. In no time the stocky brunette was cornered, and in even less time she was over my knee, helpless as a trussed calf, with hindquarters up-reared and devoid of cover. The Emberley paddle was considerably more humane than a branding iron, but Penny, (who, incidentally, hailed from Colorado) appeared to rate it equally high on the misery scale, to judge from her shrill and frantic reaction. Now, there was a girl who would never stand for a caning.

  By now a couple of dozen students and about half as many faculty members were milling around the gallery. Among the students I counted at least five whose bottoms I had recently paddled. Not surprisingly, none seemed inclined to come over and make small talk. "Tyking one consideration with another," I hummed to myself, "a policeman's lot is not a happy one." But this was far from being my story. I would probably not be able to look forward to many friendships with students, but I had other friends. So far, I was as happy at Emberley as I had been anywhere since childhood.

  This musing was interrupted by the arrival of Ed Ruggles, with whom I had hoped to make friends. His wife Jo was not with him, but I spotted her on the other side of the gallery, talking to Kate Marinetti. We chatted for a few minutes, and he invited me to come to their house a week from Saturday for a potluck dinner. "Um, are you sure Jo?" I asked.

  "Oh, don't worry about that. She's finding the side of Emberley that your job represents a little hard to get used to. But Jo's all right. She'll come around."

  "I hope she does, but in the meantime, I don't want to get pulled into a situation that might be embarrassing for both of us. Unless the invitation comes from both of you, I don't think it would be a good idea to accept."

  Ed frowned. "I hear what you're saying. But this is coming from both of us. Guaranteed. Connie is invited too-I think Jo has already spoken to her."

  Maybe it would work out after all. If Jo was willing to invite me to her house, she couldn't be totally unfriendly. That gave me a good feeling. So did the indication that Connie and I were already being recognized as a couple.