by Allen Bare
“Are there witnesses?”
“Usually not. But there might be at any time, and I wouldn’t know it.”
“What do you mean? Is there a one-way mirror or something?”
“Yes, something like that.” I wondered belatedly if it was indiscreet to mention this, but she didn’t ask any more about it.
Jo looked more thoughtful, but she was still unconvinced. “I just don’t accept the idea that physical punishment can be good for anyone.”
“Well, as far as I know, most Emberley alumnae seem to think it is.”
“No! It must be harmful for a girl to be bent over, with her—her bottom bare, and be spanked like a child. To be humiliated, as well as hurt, in that way . . . .” She flushed slightly at this image.
“Shame is part of the treatment,” I said. “I take it you were never punished in that way.”
“No!” she said, horrified, but for some reason I wasn’t sure I believed her.
The crowd had thinned by this time, and I noticed Connie heading in our direction. I excused myself to the Drugless and went to meet her, feeling sorry that a promising friendship had apparently gone off the rails.
“How did you do without your native guide?” she wanted to know as we got into the car. “You seemed to be finding your way.”
“Oh, yes, I managed pretty well,” I said, as I started the car. “I’ve just spent the last twenty minutes trying to justify my existence.”
“Jo Ruggles?” she asked. “Philosophically opposed to the paddle?”
“That’s pretty much it. She called it ‘beating up women, ̓ but at least I think I managed to straighten her out on that.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. New faculty spouses, wives especially, often come on like that at first. The faculty themselves, if they don’t outright approve, at least manage to reconcile themselves before they accept the job, but wives often seem to have a problem with it. After all, if the whole idea comes out of the blue, at first glance it does seem to fit the stereotype of a man doing violence to women, and that’s something women tend to take pretty seriously.”
“As they should,” I said. “But I guess the wives come to understand in time that it really isn’t like that?”
“Just about always,” she said, “if they stay here long enough.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes. “So far,” I said, “the disciplinary aspect of my job doesn’t seem to be too arduous.”
“Just wait,” said Connie. “It always seems to take a few weeks for the good resolutions to weaken and the bad habits to bounce back. You’ll be busy enough by the end of the month.”
We pulled off the road and parked in front of her house. “Well, good night,” she said. “Thanks for a nice meal and some pleasant conversation, though I’m afraid I kind of abandoned you at the party.”
“Oh, never mind that,” I said. “Patsy had my social schedule all planned, and she’d probably have been miffed if you’d stuck with me.”
“That’s what I thought,” Connie agreed. She was looking at me in a way that suggested she’d like to be kissed, so I leaned forward and gave her a brotherly peck—though it was on the mouth, not the cheek. She arched an eyebrow at me. “Is that your personal best?” she asked.
I arched an eyebrow back at her. “Surely,” I said, “a Southern lady doesn’t permit greater familiarities on a first date.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said. “It isn’t our first date, and you know it.” She put both hands on my cheeks and pulled me back to her, and this time the kiss was anything but brotherly. My participation was full, and I felt my resolution begin to dissolve, but I managed to get a grip on myself. As soon as we came up for air, I pulled back, opened my door, and came around the car to open hers.
She got out and stood close, looking up at me. “Jim,” she began, but I put my finger on her lips.
“Ssshh. All in good time, my dear, all in good time. Now good night.” I kissed her forehead and quickly got back in the car. She stood watching as I drove away.
Connie’s prediction of an uptick in the chastisement index was right on the money. A dozen girls were sent to me the following week, and no fewer than twenty the week after. By this time, I was no longer getting only those code violators sentenced by the Board, but also a few referred by Connie’s office for failure to keep up with the academic schedules set for them. Connie had told me that these cases would eventually come to dominate the schedule, sins of omission seemingly being more difficult to eradicate than sins of commission. One of this latter groups was my first senior, Nan Ward, an athletic young woman who excelled at hockey and golf but was rather less good at finishing assignments on time.
Nan was no teenager; indeed, her records indicated that she was 26. From what Connie had told me, I gathered that her problem was the opposite of Virginia Saltonstall̓s—whereas Virginia was too languid and inert to get her work done, Nan was too active and busy to find the time. It was mostly a matter of getting her priorities adjusted, but despite an impressive number of spankings during her first three years, the job remained unfinished.
She approached the business soberly but matter-of-factly, downing her briefs and flopping into position with no need for threats or cajolery. She shuddered as the first impact of the paddle sizzled her bottom flesh, but made no great outcry, progressing from pants to grunts to fairly loud Ows as the smarting increased. She kept her legs and body still, though the effort to do so caused the tension to build until she was a coiled spring. I had to be careful not to let our interaction develop into a contest. It was my office to administer an appropriately sound, chastisement, not to break the victim down. It was evident, by the time I stopped, that Nan would wince, at least inwardly, every time she sat down for a few days at least, and her crime had merited no greater punishment than that. Still, I couldn’t help wondering just a little whether paddling could possibly have the desired effect on a young woman who was able to bear it so stoically.
Having now given more than three dozen Emberley paddlings, I was beginning to see that there were several recognizable styles in taking a spanking (as undoubtedly there are styles in giving one.) Take vocalization, for instance. Some girls would hold their breath, figuratively speaking, making as little noise as possible, until the mounting pain forced it out of them. Others would sing a repetitive little song of woe, emitting an identical soft yelp or whimper at every smack. Perhaps these characteristic sounds gave them a sort of comfort. There were a few whose style I dubbed appassionata. These would break into loud screaming as soon as they felt the first stinging whack and continue caterwauling at the top of their lungs until the paddling was done. This, too, may have been a source of comfort, an activity to help them through an unquestionably bad time, as screaming during labor is said to do. Some emitted shrill squeals and others low moans. A good many started out biting their lips but ended up sobbing uncontrollably. Most said nothing, in words that is, though there were a few, like Ronnie Savitch, who constantly begged or commanded me to stop. This was always a monologue, for I almost never said a word until the spanking was over.
Physically, too, there was a considerable spectrum, ranging from grimly motionless to wildly hyperactive. Some students lay as still as mannequins across my knees, almost the only signs of life being the quivering of paddled flesh and the rosy glow that gradually suffused it. Well, at least they started out that way. Eventually, some physical response to the pain would become necessary, even if it was no more than an occasional leg twitch or a slight squirm. Others would be in motion from first to last, but there was great variety in the motions.
Legs, for instance—some kept them stiff and tense, occasionally digging at the floor with their toes, and then—when unable to keep still any longer—would raise a leg and kick the floor once or twice, hard. Or they might bend one or both knees very slightly, raising their feet only a few inches off the floor, and hold that pose for a minute at a time. Some kicked very gracefully—ladylike little foot-flut
ters in the air that never disturbed their balance on my lap; others threw their legs wildly in all directions. It was sometimes quite a job to keep them in place. A couple of girls actually seemed to be trying to crawl right off my lap, though this was in fact impossible, or even to swim away through the air. These efforts were probably not conscious ones. I saw straight-legged flutter kicks, knee-bending, loafer-flinging high kicks, and kicks that drummed the floor in a flamenco dancer’s staccato.
Some, despite the agony, kept their buttocks firmly in target position no matter how much movement might be going on at the extremities; others rocked and rolled, humping their bottoms high, then squeezing them low, then twisting from side, presenting one big, soft haunch and then the other by turns. Some drooped low, as if trying to keep their noses to the carpet; others raised their heads, arched their backs, and twisted violently. A girl’s hands might clasp the legs of the bench in a death-grip, or wring one another, or even pound on the floor. Rarely did they attempt to interpose between paddle and buttock (except on those few occasions when I found Connie’s help necessary)—a girl might bring her hand up and back, drawn by a force she couldn’t resist, but when I took her wrist and held it out of the way, she always yielded it easily, and, for all I know, gratefully. The paddle was big and heavy, and I suppose the girl understood on some level that her softly rounded behind (however tender it might be feeling at the moment) was far better formed to withstand its impacts than a small-boned and sensitive hand.
A spanking, I saw, generally followed a rather standard plot, with rising action, climax, and denouement. A few hardly souls like Nan Ward managed very nearly to suppress the climax, but, even with these, the evidence of increasing discomfort was as obvious as if their brains and bottoms had been connected to a large and visible dial labeled “Distress-O-Meter.” Most of the time, a young lady struggled to bear her punishment bravely, but was honorably defeated, and yielded at last to sheer, uninhibited misery. In the denouement, I often found myself patting a shoulder, and even came close a couple of times to offering a reassuring hug. I always resisted, however, because of the possibility that such a gesture might be misinterpreted.
Let me interject a word on the subject of political correctness. Although I stand revealed in these pages as (to say the least) a moderate on this subject, I’m well aware that females of college age are in the 1990s universally acknowledged to be women, rather than girls—and I’ve already mentioned that Emberley students were if anything a bit above the standard age for college students. I am by no means reluctant to accord college women the dignity of this rank; indeed, in all contexts save the present one, that is the way I think of them. But, when she arrived in my office to keep an appointment with the paddle, every woman became a girl. This would have been evident even to the least sensitive observer by the end of a session, when she stood there sniffling and rubbing her reddened bottom, but the transformation occurred long before that, and could be plainly observed from the moment she entered the room, in the shuffles, the stammers, and the nervous sidelong glances at the polished oakwood gleaming on the bench. Outside she was a woman, and would be again when she emerged—but in here she was a girl.
Two weeks after the Dean’s reception, I took Connie to dinner and a concert. We had a very pleasant time, and much conversation in which we learned more about each other’s lives; I told her about my long relationship with Jody. Connie, too, had had an unhappy love while in graduate school, although of shorter duration, and she made it clear that she had long since gotten over it. Her unattached state, I gathered, was due more to a shortage of suitable unattached men in the Emberley vicinity than to any lingering scars. There had, she told me, been a couple of romances with single faculty members, but they hadn’t worked out. When I took her home at the end of the evening, she received my kiss warily, uncertain how I might act. I embraced her with warmth and affection which was perfectly real, for I was enjoying our times together greatly. I’m not sure it would be proper to call this kiss brotherly, but I kept my tongue in my own mouth, and this time Connie made no move to intensify matters.
The next week, as the academic term got into full swing, was even busier than the week before: I had 22 bottoms to spank, three of them repeaters. By this time I was on intimate terms, so to speak, with about half the freshman class; they made up about 60% of the offenders. No fewer than fourteen of these chastisements were meted out on Thursday. The outer office was quite crowded, and I asked Mrs. O'Reilly to do guard duty again. One of the freshmen had hysterics at the sight of the paddle, and I had to call on Connie again for help. I was impressed by how quickly she quieted the girl and got her into a reasonably accepting, or at least fatalistic, frame of mind. Although she stood by during the punishment in case of need, the young woman took what was coming to her without further outbursts.
I was still doing paperwork late on Friday afternoon. Emberley kept reports on all punishments and infractions, and it was my duty to produce these. Five thirty came, and Mrs. McCutcheon, my secretary, departed. I was nearly done with the last report, so I decided to stay on until it was finished. I was just putting it away when there was a knock at my office door.
I thought it might be Connie, but when I opened the door I was surprised to find Kate Marinetti, the new English teacher. “Is this a bad time?” she asked?
“No, no; I was just finishing up but I’m not in a hurry,” I said. “Come on in and sit down.”
Kate looked around the office curiously. “So this is it,” she said softly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“So this is the . . . Inner Spanctum.”
I smiled. “Oh, that. Yes, as you see.” I indicated the big, leather-covered bench. “Did you come for a tour?”
“Or a demonstration?” she laughed. I sensed a slight edge of nervousness behind the laughter.
“Well, we don’t do either,” I said dismissively. “Is there anything else I can help you with, or is a social visit?”
“No, I wanted to talk to you about a student you punished this week. Her name is Linda Walker.”
“Oh, yes, the plagiarism case. She’s a freshman.”
“That’s right. The thing is, I- I’m beginning to think I might have been just a bit unfair to her.”
“I don’t see how. She copied her paper from the Encyclopedia Britannica. Any student has to know that’s wrong.”
“Well, I know most of us would assume that.” Kate picked up a strand of the long hair that hung over her breasts and began to play with it nervously. “When you were in school, I’m sure it was true—I mean, I’m not being out of line, am I, if I assume that you went to high school before the mid-sixties?” I nodded reassuringly. “And in the strict Catholic high school I went to, it was made very clear to us also, even though it was only ten or twelve years ago. But I wonder if some of these kids ever got beyond the stage of turning in a bunch of “research,” which they’ve just transcribed out of some reference work, and getting full credit for that, as if they’d done all a student could be expected to do. It’s a very lax world out there.”
I looked at her with interest. “Would I be guessing wrong if I guessed that that had something to do with your decision to accept a position at Emberley?”
She nodded, flushing a little. “After a lifetime of Catholic education, from kindergarten to the doctorate, I could have found a place in a Catholic college. Some of them are strict enough to satisfy anybody, but they tend to be very conservative places. I felt as if I’d been in that world long enough.”
“You mean Emberley represents a different flavor of conservatism?”
“No, it’s more that the conservatism is all on the level of study habits and personal discipline, which I’m all for. At too many of the schools I was thinking of, the conservatism extends to ideas as well. Emberley’s combination of strict discipline and liberality of thought is a pretty rare combination.” She was still twisting that strand of hair.
“I see what you mean,” I
said. “But to come back to the present case, we can’t go letting students get away with copying their papers out of the encyclopedia, can we?”
“Um, no, I don’t suppose we can do that, but . . . .”
“Let’s suppose for a moment that Linda Walker has had such a slack education up to this point that she didn’t have any concept of plagiarism. Well, she has one now. It’s unfortunate, perhaps, that she had to learn so painfully, but if she’d committed an error of that magnitude in the real world, the consequences would have been even more painful in the long run.”
Kate twisted her hair tight, flushing again. “Well, I still feel that I was at fault in not laying this all out very explicitly for the freshmen. If I’d done that part of my job properly, Linda wouldn’t have suffered.”
I looked at her for a minute. “Your scruples do you credit,” I finally said, “but, even if I agreed with you that Linda committed the plagiarism only because you didn’t explain to her that she wasn’t allowed to, what am I supposed to do? She was paddled yesterday; she can’t be unpaddled now.”
Kate looked very unhappy. “I should have come to you before. But it took me a while to work this out in my mind, and I-”
“Perhaps you weren’t sure that her transgression was entirely your own fault?”
She nodded. “I think that’s likely. But still, some of it was mine, and . . .”
“And what? What can we do about it now?”
Kate went very red. She swallowed and stammered a bit, looking down at the hair she was still twisting between her fingers. Finally, “I think it’s only fair that I should be punished, too,” she said in a small, choked voice.
