Dean of Discipline: Tales of Old-School Punishment

by Allen Bare

Zeb was evidently in good form this year, for the two freshmen I saw walk past my window looked a good deal gloomier and less sure of themselves than they had been a half-hour earlier. Their next visit to my office would probably acquaint them much more intimately with the paddle.

  Thursday night the housemothers reported no problems, but Friday night, when the girls were permitted off campus for the first time, a number of infractions came to light. The College Disciplinary Board was called into special session on Saturday morning. This was a regular feature of freshman orientation, so we were prepared for it, and no one had to be summoned from a golf course or a Little League game. Although this was my first meeting of the Board, I had to preside, by virtue of my office. I had a schedule of complaints made out by the housemothers and College Security.

  Five girls had been caught in a dorm room with a bottle of vodka, and three others had been smoking marijuana. Two had come back from town in an evident state of intoxication. We let one member of the vodka party off, on the grounds that she was present only because her roommate gave the party. The other four swore that she had drunk nothing from the bottle, and the housemother, contacted by phone, recalled that this girl had been in bed when the raid occurred. None of the pot smokers, who had been found seated together on a log in the pine grove behind the dorms, had any such excuse. One of the two girls accused of drunkenness defended herself on the grounds that she was "not drunk, just high," but damaged her case by being unable to say for certain just how many beers she had had.

  It was Saturday, and classes had not yet begun. We wanted the fate of the Naughty Nine, as I privately designated my convicts, to become common knowledge as soon as possible, for maximum psychological effect. They were therefore ordered to assemble in the anteroom of my office to receive punishment immediately. First, however, I had to "read them their rights." I scanned the room, looking into nine glum or fearful faces in turn, and pointed out that they had the right to refuse punishment, provided that they departed immediately from Emberley, never more to return. I expected that someone would at least consider this, but perhaps they were too demoralized by their ordeal before a panel of six stern-faced authority figures (no student advocate, of course being available until next week). No one, at any rate, took me up on the offer.

  So there I was, after years of enforced abstinence, with no fewer than nine bottoms to spank. I decided to call them in the order I had read their indictments; that put the four guilty members of the vodka party first. "Meredith Buchanan, come with me," I ordered. A blonde girl with a pretty, heart-shaped face, now very pale, followed me. I closed the office door behind her. Her eyes widened when I took the paddle out of the drawer. She was obviously terrified, and I had no desire to prolong her ordeal, so I strode briskly over to the leather-padded bench and sat down on it. "Come here, Meredith," I said calmly. "Let's get this over with."

  I could see how hard it was for her to obey, but she made her feet move somehow. My position made it pretty clear what was expected of her, and she came directly to my side and started to bend over my lap. I stopped her. "Just a moment, Meredith. First take down your pantyhose, if that's what you have on, and your underwear."

  "My . . . my un-?" She couldn't quite say it.

  "That's right, dear, and your underwear. All paddlings are given on the bare."

  She covered her face with her hands. "I can't," she said, beginning to cry.

  I touched her elbow gently. "I'm sorry, my dear, but you must. I know it's unpleasant for you, but you got yourself into this fix, and now you'll have to pay the piper." I realized vaguely that I was talking like my grandmother, but I wanted to calm her as much as possible (consistent with a spanking). Nerving herself up, she plunged both hands beneath her dress, gave a downward yank, and withdrew them. "All right. Now over you go." I guided her forward until the weight of her midsection pressed down on my knees. "Get ready, dear," I said. "Here it comes."

  I swept up the full skirt of Meredith's blue dress, uncovering a pale, pretty bottom that my hands wanted to stroke. (Needless to say, I didn't let them.) Raising the paddle, I slapped it down smartly across the two white hemispheres, rippling the soft flesh and causing the girl to let out a loud howl. I spanked fast and hard. Meredith yelled, cried, and kicked her feet helplessly in the air. Her buttocks reddened rapidly. I kept her kicking and yelling until they were well beyond red and beginning to show some purple marks. She would probably have bruises. Good, let the word get around the dorm about that.

  It took her a minute to recover when I finished paddling and helped her up, but modesty soon overcame pain; turning her back to me she pulled up her panties and pantyhose with a visible wince. I knew that her reappearance in the anteroom would cause a quiet sensation. They had doubtless all been sitting there straining to hear through the thick door. The sight of Meredith in tears, rubbing desperately at her backside (as she seemed unable to stop doing) was bound to intensify the general case of collywobbles.

  I checked the next name on my list, stuck my head through the door, and called, "Barbara Ingraham." I received a few glances of fear and loathing, but most of the girls looked down at their shoes as soon as they heard the latch click, and didn't look up again. (Only the presence of two housemothers, including the burly Mrs. Reilly, who sat next to the exit, had prevented a panicked stampede when the faint sound of thwacks and squeals began to be heard through the closed door to my office.)

  A small, dark girl, wearing a blouse, knee socks, and a wool jumper, came in. Most of the girls had dressed up for their appearance before the Board. During the previous three days I had seen plenty of grunge rockers and even a sprinkling of Times Square hookers, but nothing like the demure schoolgirls lined up to await my ministrations. Barbara's white blouse had a neat collar, her jumper was a traditional red-and-green tartan, and her knee socks were black. With the black penny loafers that completed the outfit, she looked like a sophomore on leave from a convent high school, though I knew, having studied the folders of all the culprits before the Board session that she was past her twentieth birthday.

  She looked ready to faint, so I took my place on the bench immediately and called her over. She meekly obeyed my order to lower her panties-pristine white cotton, a perfect match for the ingénue style of her outfit, as I saw when I took her over my knee and pulled her dress up. She was no more than five feet tall, petite in every dimension; it was like holding a child. But her bottom, small though it might be, was mature and womanly in its shape.

  I did my best to spank Barbara as soundly as I had spanked Meredith. There were not quite as many blows, because I had to concentrate them onto a more compact surface, but her shrieks and struggles, and of course the ruby shade to which the paddle soon brought her wincing backside, made it clear that she got off no easier. When I let her up, she danced and rubbed herself, and if her pants hadn't fallen around her ankles, she might have forgotten to pull them up before leaving the office.

  Madeleine Thornton and Claire McNally, the remainder of the vodka party, were dispatched in similar fashion. Neither dared to utter a protest before taking her place over my lap, though both were quite vocal after the proceedings commenced. Claire, a tall, strong redhead who would doubtless be an asset to the hockey team should she choose to join it, struggled hard enough to make me consider calling for assistance, but she wasn't really trying to escape; she was just reacting uninhibitedly to the undreamed of agony in her hindquarters. Considering the upbringing these young ladies had had, it was likely that few if any of them had ever experienced anything as painful as the spankings I was doling out. I caught hold of a flailing wrist, tucked it into the small of her back, and bore down with a will.

  The contrast in bottoms was interesting. Meredith's had been very soft and pale, nearly as heart-shaped as her face. Barbara's was more olive-toned and tighter, its skin ever so slightly coarser than Meredith's. Madeleine had wide, smooth, slightly flat buttocks; Claire's were full and rounded their color slightly pinkish even before the
paddle began its touch-up work.

  My efforts did nothing to change the shape of anyone's posterior, but the color was, of course, another story. None of the howling culprits was released until both round cheeks were a dark, hot red, with a purplish highlight here and there. There would be bruises to show in the dorms, if anyone cared to show them. This would, I was sure, have a salutary effect (from the college's point of view) on morale.

  The three pot-smokers were next to face the music. The first was Becky Allen, a dark-haired young woman with full lips and a slightly pouting expression. She had been unfortunate enough to choose a close-fitting silk dress that outlined her very curvy figure-full breasts, broad hips . . . a throwback to the Age of Marilyn. "Dear me, Becky," I said in my avuncular voice, "I don't know how we're going to deal with that dress. It has to come up, you know, but I don't want to tear it."

  "Sh-should I take it off, sir?"

  "Good heavens, no. But I'm afraid you'll have to work the skirt up to your waist before you get across my knees."

  Carefully, she did so. "The slip too?"

  "Hmm. It looks pretty tight too. I hope you won't have to be punished again, but if you do, you'll know how not to dress, won't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "OK, I guess you'd better take the slip up, too." She blushed deeply, but made no complaint as she gathered the white slip up with the bunched skirt around her waist and stood there in pantyhose, through which pink high-cut briefs were visible. I couldn't find it in myself to make her strip completely, so I guided her gently over my knee as she was, and set about to complete the baring of her spanking place. This required a certain amount of cooperation on her part, which she gave freely. When her big, soft, pale buttocks were fully uncovered, she shuddered slightly, and said in a tiny voice, "Please don't hurt me."

  "I'm sorry; Becky, but I can't promise you that. This is going to hurt. There wouldn't be any point to it otherwise. Just be brave and it'll soon be over-and if you remember it, it may help you to keep your nose clean. If you do, it never has to happen again. All right?"

  She nodded, with a little sniffle, and I gave her a smart whack that brought an immediate gasp. Once again pandemonium ruled the office, as the paddle flashed up and down, reddening flesh bobbled and jiggled, hands and feet flew about, tears flowed, and smacks and screeches echoed from the walls.

  When Becky, her clothing restored to order, but her face still in disarray, made her stiff-legged way out of the office, I saw tears on some faces remaining in the anteroom.

  Manuela Aguirre looked as Latin as her name. The folder had told me she was from Miami. Her fiery Cuban temperament, if she had one, had evidently been subdued by the occasion, and she gave me no argument when I directed her to peel down her hose and panties and drape herself over my lap. I raised her dress and slip to reveal an exquisite bottom jutting up whitely between the bunched-up black slip and the scrunched-down black panties.

  Whack. Big pink splotch across all that whiteness. Loud squeal. More whacks. More squeals. Manuela's mouth open wide, big Aaaaiiii!s of misery pouring out, rosy hindquarters bounding and bucking, little black high-heeled shoes flying, one at a time, across the room as they were kicked off. When I was satisfied that little Manuela would have as hard a time sitting down for the next few days as her sisters in crime, I stopped spanking, let her up, and fetched her shoes for her while she eased the elastic back up over her smarting backside.

  As Manuela made her tearful retreat to the corridor outside, I called Janine McCutcheon. The lanky young woman who answered this summons was the only one who had decided to come to the hearing dressed as her. No dress or stockings for her; Janine had the same torn jeans and tattered flannel shirt in which she had attended every campus event so far. The brown plaid shirt was unbuttoned and loose, an olive drab T-shirt beneath it. Janine had light brown hair, intelligent blue eyes, and good cheekbones with an attractive hint of freckles. Right now she looked tense and drawn, but there was no sign of crying. I saw her jaw clench as she took in the bench and the paddle lying on it.

  "All right, Janine, come over here," I said, taking my accustomed place and patting my knee. "I'm afraid you'll have to slip those jeans down first, though." She looked at me darkly, as though contemplating refusal, but after a moment she undid the buttons and slid them down her thighs. I could see a little triangular patch of blue panties peeking out from under the T-shirt, and decided not to have her remove these. The nature of our interaction required that a young woman bare an intimate part of her body to me. There was no avoiding that, and I had no intention of compromising on it, but I thought it was worthwhile to preserve what little of her dignity the circumstances allowed. I had resolved that no student would be required to uncover any more of her than was strictly necessary-after all; a bare-bottom spanking requires quite a lot of uncovering. It wouldn't be right to demand more. (It might also help to assure the young women in question that they had not fallen into the clutches of a mere dirty old man.)

  I put my hand on Janine's elbow to guide her into position. Again I sensed momentary stiffening, but again she overcame her resistance and complied. I tugged down the blue nylon panties, uncovering a long bottom, smooth, fine-skinned, and pale. Janine's grunginess was strictly on the surface, I noted with approval; her body and her underwear were faultlessly clean.

  The sight was so lovely that I had to recall myself to duty. I gave her a solid swat full across both cheeks, sending deep quivers through the soft flesh. Janine kept silent as I paddled her again, and a third time; I wondered how long this resolve would last. For about half a minute there was no sound but the echoing smacks of hard, polished wood on trembling flesh. Then there was a tiny grunt with each smack, and then the grunts were becoming louder and louder, until Janine was yelling out a good, loud "Ow!" at every blow. She kicked one leg occasionally-but only when she had to.

  I was so fascinated watching this struggle that I almost forgot my duty to be fair and impartial. It would certainly be unjust if a student was punished by a harder spanking simply because she took it bravely. But I recollected myself in time, and Janine's bottom was no redder, if no whiter either, than any of the others when I pulled up her panties and helped her to her feet. I saw that she had been unable to keep a few tears from welling up, and as I looked one of them suddenly spilled down her cheek. She wiped it off with a quick, angry gesture, and, when I opened the door, sailed out with her head high, resisting all urges to rub, if she had any.

  It was now the turn of the two Bacchantes, LeeAnne Davis and Jennifer Parks. LeeAnne, whom I called in first, was a petite Texan with short, curly, dark brown hair and a good figure. She wore a gray flannel skirt, a light gray blouse, and a string of pearls she could probably have bought my house with-well, my car, anyway. A voluble girl, LeeAnne insisted on telling me how terribly sorry she was, how ashamed, how unlike her usual behavior this had been, and so on and so forth, ad infinitum. I don't know whether she thought it would affect the punishment or whether it was just nervousness-I'm inclined to think the latter. She didn't stop talking even while reaching up under her dress to take down her hose and panties, and when I draped her gently over my lap, she stopped only for a minute, then launched in again, even while I was raising her dress and slip. When her bottom was fully bared, however, she choked up and at last fell silent; I could see the tips of her ears burning a bright red.

  LeeAnne was soon voluble again, but this time she was uttering ooos and ouches and sobs and gasps. I smacked the paddle down sharply, repeatedly, reddening and stinging the bouncing flesh until the wretched transgressor was singing loud, high, clear notes of repentance. When I had paddled her into a proper state of contrition, I stopped whaling her squirming, wincing buttocks, patted her back gently until she had recovered some measure of self-control, and put her back on her feet. LeeAnne proved to have none of Janine's stoicism; she pranced out of the office blubbering, both hands firmly pressed to her throbbing rear.

  Eight down; one to go. Je
nnifer Parks was a young woman of middle height, striking rather than beautiful, with jet-black hair and big features. According to the records, she was the oldest of the group at 25. Perhaps it had taken her family longer to run out of patience. Age seemed not to have endowed her with much wisdom, as events were to show.

  Of the two housemothers, only Mrs. Reilly was still present. LeeAnne made her undignified exit, and I summoned Jennifer into my office. She darted her eyes quickly around the room, as if searching for an overlooked escape route. But the only way out was past the redoubtable Mrs. Reilly. Jennifer's shoulders drooped a little, and she followed me tamely.

  As the door closed behind her, however, and she took in the big leather bench and the dark, polished paddle lying on the floor next to it, the cornered look returned. I could tell she was on the verge of desperation, and made my voice as coolly gentle as possible. "Come over here, Jennifer, and we'll get this unpleasantness over with as quickly as possible." Unfortunately, this speech had no calming effect, and she remained rooted to the spot. I waited a moment, and then decided I had to be a little more authoritarian. "Come here now, Miss Parks," I said curtly.

  Jennifer, desperately seeking a response, fumbled in the Rich Girl's Bag of Tricks and came up with about the least effective strategy she could have chosen. Drawing herself up, she poised her chin and gave me a look of disdain. "I don't think so," she pronounced coldly, in a tone that had probably terrorized many a dress shop manager. Unfortunately, the effect of frozen hauteur was somewhat marred by a slight but perceptible tremor in her voice.

  I looked at her calmly. "You're in plenty of trouble already. Don't make things worse for yourself. I can promise you they'll be worse. You know what you're here for, and you know there's no getting out of it. Now come over here like a grown woman, and take what's coming to you." I wondered if she found the idea of a grown woman maturely accepting a bare-bottomed, over-the-knee paddling as absurd as I did, once I had expressed it.