by Allen Bare
Even the prettiest young woman is unlikely to look her best after a late drinking party, a night of dread and sleeplessness, an appearance before the Campus Disciplinary Board, and a panicky wait for her appointment with the paddle. Still, these women were so young that the cumulative effects of their various ordeals could not wholly suppress their freshness. And (I was not surprised to discover) no matter what effects alcohol and nerves might have on the face, they detract in no way whatever from the loveliness of a well-shaped backside.
One could not possibly classify the paddling of a bevy (if 28 is a small enough number to count as a bevy) of well-shaped backsides as hard labor-at least, I was the last person who could honestly make such a claim-but by the time it was all over I was well aware that I'd had a workout. We maintained Emberley's time-honored tradition: in spite of the numbers involved, each girl entered my office alone and remained unobserved by her sisters in crime while we did our painful business. The sisters in the outer office, of course, were able to get a hefty earful through the solid oak door before their own turns came. Panic was most likely to afflict the last one or two to be called, their resistance perhaps worn down gradually through a long siege of smacks and squeals, like the sufferers of a prolonged artillery bombardment. I had to call in Connie four or five times to help me with these.
The juniors, at Mrs. Robson's suggestion, were made to wait the longest: we took both freshmen and five sophomores in the first bunch, then a bunch of seven sophomores, next a bunch of three sophomores and four juniors, and finally the last seven juniors. This order ensured that those who arguably had the least excuse, on account of age and experience, for their fall from grace were given the longest time to meditate on the consequences before having to suffer them.
This delay contributed noticeably to the effect of the chastisement. No observer who judged only by their demeanor in the punishment chamber would have identified the juniors as the most mature of the delinquents. The later the appointment, the more piteous the howls and tears, the faster and higher the kicking heels, and the more frantic the bucking and squirming of the punished backside.
Little Melissa Rush, the 18-year-old freshman who was the first to go across my knee, rose stiffly when it was over, pulled her jeans and panties up over her reddened and quivering nether cheeks, and gravely bade me good afternoon with a lip whose trembling was almost invisible. By contrast, my last visitor, Anne Brighton (whose age was closer to 30 than 20), kicked and screamed through the entire proceeding, and went on kicking and screaming for some time afterwards, until I had to tap her on the shoulder and inform her that her bottom was no longer being paddled and she was now free to go. This news set off an orgy of moaning and bottom-rubbing that might have continued indefinitely, had Connie (who had been called in to persuade the reluctant Ms. Brighton to stop being foolish and assume the traditional position over my lap) not finally seized the girl's panties and yanked them up where they belonged, provoking an agonized howl but getting her attention at last.
In between Melissa Rush and Anne Brighton were 26 others. I was never a stroke-counter, but I'd estimate that the average paddling amounted to something between 30 and 40 brisk whacks, which means I must have delivered about a thousand (give or take, say, a hundred) in the course of two and a half hours. It's no wonder I was tired afterwards. I was ferociously horny, too, and for that reason glad that Connie had participated, for assisting at a paddling always had pretty much the same effect on her that administering one did on me.
This was all very well, but two or three spankings, or at most a dozen, would have been sufficient to rouse my middle-aged lust; 28 was well in excess of the need. I decided not to discriminate in the matter of severity, apart from making the most senior students wait the longest. With so many culprits, it wasn't possible to rank the nuances of guilt. It was bad of the juniors to crash the party, but it was equally bad of the sophomores to plan it in the first place, in flagrant violation of Emberley's rules. No one present was significantly naughtier than any other.
So I gave every girl a good, sound, workmanlike Emberley paddling, as nearly identical as I could make them. One by one they came in, reluctantly approached the punishment bench, and blushingly reached up under their skirts to lower their panties, or unzipped and slipped down their jeans. One by one they bent over my knee, rump uppermost for me to uncover by raising a hem or tugging down a scrap of cotton or nylon. One by one they bit their lips as this last covering slipped away, baring their helpless buttocks completely to the retribution about to descend.
Some bottoms were broad, some were slender, some were flat, some were firmly rounded, some were pale, some were olive. One was dark brown-it belonged to Consuela Sanchez, whose father owned hotels in the Dominican Republic. A couple were mottled with the bruises of paddlings they had received only a few days ago. No matter-I spanked them equally hard. They might be sore for a while, and a rear view in the mirror might be shocking, but their young flesh would soon recover, and it was kinder than making them wait another week.
I would be guilty of the most fork-tongued falsehood if I should suggest that, even for a moment, I found my labor in the cause of justice burdensome. Whether I was gently lifting a skirt to reveal two lissome cheeks trembling in anticipation, framed by the lace edge of a rucked-up slip and the taut elastic of a pair of pulled-down panties; or feeling the warmth and weight of a lapful of squirming girl as I pressed down a slender waist with my left hand, and with my right swung the paddle through a swift arc until it struck with a splat that resounded through tender flesh; or solemnly bidding a tearful sinner to go her ways and try to mend her behavior, mindful of the small hand that was surreptitiously trying to rub away a very large hurt-there was never a moment when that part of my mind not focused on the task at hand was not triumphantly singing, "I was made for this job!"
So I worked my way through the roster, baring buttocks, spanking them soundly, and covering them again, sending each miscreant on her way with a pat on the shoulder and a gentle word of admonition or encouragement. Each chastisement took about five minutes-not that the recipient could have withstood five solid minutes of paddling, nor could I, without a break between spankings. (It's interesting to imagine how that might be managed, but only as an intellectual exercise.) Time before the paddling was taken up in summoning each delinquent from the outer office, saying a few admonitory words, and then walking her patiently through the bottom-baring and bending-over routine. Afterwards, I had to wait for her to recompose herself before escorting her to the door and calling in the next girl. I don't suppose that any of them was over my knee for more than a couple of minutes. That way, of course, my arm had three minutes between paddlings to recover. Nevertheless, I could never have managed without the paddle, which was solid enough to make a thorough impression without a terribly forceful swing.
Among the last batch of juniors was Holly Weldon, the red-headed art student whom I had paddled only eight days before. A couple of tiny bruises, no bigger than a baby's fingerprint, were the only remaining trace of that licking. Some tenderness must have remained, however, or perhaps it was only the effect of the long wait, for she kicked, pounded the floor, and howled raucously from the first smack of the paddle to the last. Poor Holly, but she had only herself to blame.
It was well after 1:30 when Anne Brighton made her sniffling, stiff-legged departure and Connie and I were left alone in my office. "Hungry?" I asked.
"Starved," she replied.
"Where shall we go?" I asked.
"Straight to bed," she said, "and the sooner the better."
That taken care of (at my place, since it was closest), we went downtown for lunch.
The guests at the Ruggles's potluck that night, besides ourselves and Kate Marinetti, included Leslie Aarons, a new member of the Romance Languages department, her husband Roy, who worked as a software engineer, and Barton Selfridge, a long-jawed old character with a mane of white hair, who constituted the entirety of Emberley's Classic
s department. Jo Ruggles seemed perfectly friendly, and I began to hope she might see me in some other light than as a torturer of innocent maidens. The conversation moved easily among various getting-acquainted topics. We newcomers talked about how we much liked the place, and old veterans Barton and Connie took turns dispensing insiders' tips on places to shop, eat, and hike.
Roy Aarons was asked how he could stand an hour-long commute to and from work. He said he didn't really mind; they had come from New Jersey, where his commute to a job in New York was nearly two hours each way, and the local roads were so uncrowded that even an hour's drive seemed restful compared to what he was used to. "Besides," he said, "the company I work for is big on remote computing, so I only have to go in there three days a week. On other days I can dial in and work from home."
Leslie asked Kate how she was finding her students. "Quite good, on the whole," said Kate. "Better than I expected. Is that your impression too?"
"Ye-es," said Leslie slowly, looking thoughtful. "The upperclassmen are as good as any I've taught. I'm not so sure about the freshmen and sophomores, though. The sophomores are just sort of average, and some of the freshmen seem to be hopeless. Maybe it's just a bad crop this year."
"Oh, that's fairly typical," said old Barton Selfridge. "They're slow starters. Takes a while for the Emberley system to work its subtle magic. But it does. Emberley is the best vindication I know of Dr. Johnson's educational theory."
"What theory is that?" asked Leslie. Barton grinned.
"Probably only an old classics teacher would recall it," he said. "When someone asked him how he had acquired such an excellent facility in Latin, the great man replied, 'My masters at Winchester whipped me, and whipped me well. Without that, sir, I should have done nothing."
There was a collective chuckle. I looked nervously in Jo's direction, but she was evidently biting her tongue. Leslie colored a little and furrowed her brow. "Dr. Johnson had his own way of putting things," she said, "but you don't really think, do you, that corporal punishment is the only way to make someone learn?"
"Some things, no," said Barton, a twinkle in his eye, "but I suspect it just might be true for Latin."
"I liked Latin," Leslie protested. "I took it in both high school and college, and I did well in it. Nobody had to threaten me with-whipping to get me to work."
"No, of course not," Barton said. "I didn't mean that everybody needs that kind of motivation. Those of us who love learning something are going to learn it because we want to-just try and stop us. But most people aren't that highly motivated, and they need to learn, too, even if they aren't going to become college professors. You can't learn anything worth learning without at least a modicum of discipline, and discipline, thanks to our worthy Dean of Students here, is one thing that Emberley provides in good measure."
I was not entirely happy to receive this acknowledgment in Jo Ruggles's presence, but she showed no sign of wanting to jump into the conversation. Leslie was still unsatisfied. "I know that Emberley is very strict about rule-breaking, and I guess I understand why. But, to use that kind of ¼punishment to motivate people academically-I guess it just goes against my grain."
"That's because you didn't need it yourself," said Kate. "Neither did any of us, I suppose, but we weren't typical students when we were in school, and I'd be willing to bet we weren't much like the typical Emberley student, either."
"Speak for yourself, honey," said Connie with a laugh. "I was a typical Emberley student, remember?"
"A fine example," said Barton gallantly, "of the marvelous results our system is capable of producing."
Leslie frowned, but it was a thoughtful frown. Her manner wasn't at all belligerent; she was just trying to work things out. "And you needed punishments to make you do the work?"
"Well, not always. And it wasn't really a matter of 'I don't want to learn the subjunctive, but I'll get paddled if I don't.' It was more, 'I feel like screwing around instead of working tonight, but if I do that I'll probably wind up getting paddled.' You start out studying because they won't let you do anything else, and eventually you realize that you can actually learn something, and it can even be fun."
"When I was teaching at the University of Washington, 20 years ago," Barton said, "I was frustrated by how many good students were interested in classical literature, but just unwilling to do the spadework of language-learning. A foreign language, whether it's classical or modern, never starts to be really rewarding until you have those paradigms and vocabularies down, so you don't have to think about them while you're reading. Few students have the self-discipline to get that far. Emberley helps them remedy that deficiency, and the result is that I've had much better students at the advanced level here than I ever had anywhere else. And I think, Leslie, that that accounts for most of the difference you observed between classes."
Maybe," said Leslie. "I'll see how things go during the year. If I notice a general improvement that I can't account for otherwise, I'll have to give the credit to the Emberley system."
"Excellent," said Barton. "No reason to ignore the scientific method just because your field is French literature. I'm sure you'll agree with me by the end of the year."
"All the same," said Leslie, smiling, "I'm glad I didn't need that kind of motivation."
"In most areas," said Roy, with a grin. He was a couple of glasses of wine up on the rest of us.
Leslie reddened and gave him a look that said Stop it right now, and the rest of us politely searched our minds for a facile transition to a different subject. Fortunately Jo decided it was time for dessert, and we all trooped out to the kitchen to fill our plates. The general movement and resettling broke us up into smaller conversational groups, and I spent most of the rest of the evening talking with Ed and Barton, who was descended from a distinguished Virginia line, about various Civil War campaigns, which Barton discussed as though he remembered them personally. (This was the benefit of growing up on the scene, and having many older friends and relatives who thought and talked a lot about that subject. Barton was getting along in years, but he was nowhere near 150.) Jo talked with the Aaronses, and Connie and Kate went off to a corner to look at art books, of which the Ruggleses had an impressive collection.
Ed teased Barton about always saying "the War Between the States" instead of "the Civil War." "I'm entitled to my own regional usage," the old man said with a grin. "I come by it honestly. Anyway, at least I don't say 'the War for Southern Independence,' as I've heard some damn fools calling it recently."
"If you did that," I said, "Ed and I might feel obliged to call it 'the late Rebellion.' I'm just as happy that that went out with my great-grandfather's generation." Across the room I noticed Jo hiding a yawn, and I realized that it was after eleven. I said something about it being time for good working academics to get to their beds (though, as I planned to share mine with Connie, I was not thinking primarily of rest). I saw that the Aaronses had also taken the hint, and were standing up to go.
Connie and Kate, however, were whispering and giggling in their corner, oblivious to the rest of the world. Since our hosts obviously couldn't tell them it was time to go, I took this duty on myself. But Connie shooed me away. "I have to finish telling Kate something," she said airily. "We'll be right along."
I went back to say goodnight to the others, then spent an awkward five minutes making conversation with Ed and Jo until I felt it was necessary to intrude in the corner again. "Connie," I said firmly, "everybody else has left."
"Oh, pooh," she said, darting out her tongue at me. I gave her my best "wait till I get you home" look, which wasn't lost on Kate, or for that matter, on Ed and Jo Ruggles, who were looking on with interest. Connie suddenly seemed to realize that everyone else really had gone; she and Kate had been so absorbed, they had apparently lost track of the time and their surroundings altogether. Both women apologized sincerely to the Ruggleses for their rudeness, and we finally went out the door.
"Be gentle with her," laughed Kate
as she headed for her own car. I began to suspect what the absorbing topic of conversation had been.
"Wow," said Connie, as we drove away. "What do you figure Roy and Leslie are up to?"
"I don't want any light conversation with you just now, young lady," I said sternly. "You are in deep trouble."
"But-"
I raised my voice. "No buts. You were out of line and you know it. Not only were you rude to our hosts, but you defied me in front of everyone. Can you deny that?"
"I didn't mean-"
"Don't tell me what you didn't mean. Answer my question. Can you deny that you were rude to the Ruggleses?"
In a very small voice: "No, sir."
"Or that you stuck out your tongue and said 'Oh, pooh'?"
"Well, actually, I said 'Oh, pooh' and then stuck out my tongue."
"You're not helping your case a bit, young lady."
"No sir. I'm sorry, sir"
Neither of us spoke again until we came into my house. "Just you march yourself to the bedroom and wait for me," I ordered. "You know what you're going to get." Connie went, with a look of pathetic appeal that would have done any naughty teenager proud.
I thought about having a leisurely drink while I let her stew in anticipation, but I'd had plenty already, and I'm no smoker. So I finally picked up a magazine and leafed through it without much interest for what seemed an appropriate time-ten minutes or so. Finally I went upstairs.