Dean of Discipline: Tales of Old-School Punishment

by Allen Bare

  That handspanking really had made her sensitive, I saw. She had taken less than Kate the night before, but that really was a punishment, by the recipient's explicit request. This, on the other hand, was much more overtly a game. There was no need to overdo it. Besides, it occurred to me that a too severe punishment might prove an aphrodisiac, which would be a terrible shame. So I paused and addressed her sternly. "Constance McHugh!"

  "Yes, sir?" came the muffled response.

  "Do you promise faithfully that from now on you will honor the sanctity of the college paddle, and refrain from wielding it without the express permission of the Dean of Students?"

  "Yes, sir, I promise, sir," she replied in a small, tight voice.

  "Good. To show your sincerity, you may ask for another smack."

  She moaned softly. I waited. Finally, "Please, sir, give me another smack."

  I did so, hitting both cheeks squarely again. The response was the same: a wild yell, followed by much frantic motion as the fire blazed up again.

  "Now," I said, "if you can promise to behave yourself from now on without this sort of drastic guidance from your Dean, you may request that your punishment be terminated."

  I waited, but there was no response. After half a minute or so, I said, "Constance?"

  "Sir? I'm not sure I can make that promise. My behavior is very difficult to control."

  "I see. What should we do about it, then?"

  "Reluctant as I am to say so, I think perhaps I had better have one more for good measure, sir."

  What a woman! Joyfully, I raised the paddle and brought it down in one more brisk smack, as Connie squalled and jerked and bucked across my lap. After that, I laid down the paddle and stroked those poor, wincing, shivering cheeks again. There would be bruises, I saw, but neither crutches nor wheelchair would be necessary.

  After stroking for a few minutes, I thought it was time to get her on her feet. I made a gesture at pulling up the underwear and hose, but she stopped me. I helped her up and stood, taking her easily in my arms. Connie looked up at me; I saw that there were tears in her eyes. Greedily, I kissed them away. She pressed her body against me, and we clinched.

  This time my bedroom was at hand, rather than hers, and I picked her up and carried her there. I suppose there was some risk to my middle-aged back, but Connie was light and slim, and I managed it. "Want me to rub your bottom?"

  "Mmmmm." She lay prone on the bed and cooperated passively in a second baring of her bottom. I lay on one elbow and stroked the redness softly with my free hand, over and over, while she purred. The purrs, I noticed after a minute or so, were coming more and more to resemble lustful growls, and at about the time I noticed that she pushed herself up and grabbed me. We made little more ceremony of undressing than on the previous occasion, and the bedroom was soon echoing to our grunts, moans, and howls of passion. Quite an improvement on the silence that had ruled there since my arrival in Oregon.

  This time we were in no hurry to part. In the morning, I made us an early breakfast and drove Connie back to her house in time to change clothes for work. (We had already showered, together-and it took us both a good deal of will power not to call in sick and hop back in the sack. That's the trouble with a responsible job. No self-respecting dishwasher would have hesitated a minute.)

  Today, responsibility called both Connie and me to the Monday meeting of the Campus Disciplinary Board. It was a routine weekend haul: two curfew violators and four on-campus drinkers, the latter a quartet of freshmen who had attempted to improvise a party around a smuggled jug of Chablis. They had succeeded to the point that their off-key singing attracted the housemother's attention. I noted with interest that my orientation week visitor, Beth Capodistria, was one of the four-though her friend Ronnie Savitch had apparently been influenced by her recent introduction to the paddle to resist temptation this time.

  The curfew violations were another matter. Two seniors, Lee Kemper and Jessica Monroe, had signed out to spend the weekend at Jessica's home in Portland. Such leaves were a privilege which Emberley's strict rules granted only to seniors. The Sunday evening train from Portland had in fact been late, a circumstance that would even at Emberley be accepted as an excuse. The only problem was that only Jessica had been on it. As it happened, none other than Mrs. Reilly, the most formidable of housemothers, had been a passenger on the same train. She saw Lee waiting to meet Jessica when she arrived at the local station. With her was a young man. None of them noticed the housemother, who wrote down the California license number of the car in which the young man departed, after he and Lee had finished engaging in a prolonged "public display of affection." A phone call to Jessica's home the next morning confirmed that she had had no weekend guest.

  The two young women had expected a short and easy hearing with a full acquittal at the end of it. Instead, they found themselves being tried and convicted on far more serious charges than mere curfew violation. Jessica's cooperation in the attempted deception made her guilt equal to Lee's. Both were sentenced to report to my office the next morning, and left with heads low and bottoms doubtless tingling in unhappy anticipation.

  The next morning found the outer office quite crowded, not only by the six offenders sentenced by the board, but two nonachievers referred by Connie's office for failure to put enough effort into their academic duties. While they all waited nervously for their appointments with the paddle, I called Connie to get a quick update on this pair. I turned out that Jane Trevelyan, a junior, had received the bad news only the day before, but Lisa Sheldon, a freshman, had been awaiting her doom ever since Thursday afternoon. This had been necessary, since punishment sessions scheduled only on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, apart from emergencies-and lackadaisical performance certainly did not fall into that category.

  Still, I thought, it was a shame that the young lady, no matter how deserving, had to spend five full days anticipating her first paddling, imagining it in Lord only knew what gory detail. I decided to call her in first, to shorten her time of travail by at least a few minutes. Perhaps, when I had leisure, I should give more thought to the matter of scheduling.

  Lisa, a thin, dark-haired, narrow-faced girl of no more than nineteen, was clearly no better for her long wait. Pale and red-eyed, she looked as though she had neither slept nor eaten properly since learning her fate. She was free of rebellious impulses, being intelligent enough to understand that rebellion would only cause her greater misery in the end, so to speak, but she was so frightened that in some ways it was like dealing with a skittish horse. As gently as possible, I coaxed her to my side and took her over my knee. In the interest of keeping her calm, I had not directed her to lower her panties, so that after raising a navy blue skirt of modest length, I had to draw down a pair of white cotton briefs to expose Lisa's pale buttocks. She cooperated, raising herself slightly to free the elastic waistband from her front and allow the underpants to slide well down her slender thighs. A snuffling sound told me that she had already begun to cry, but to her credit she did so as quietly as possible.

  Since the girl's mental state already appeared thoroughly penitent, I could see no reason to add extra spice to the recipe, but (unfortunately for Lisa) an Emberley spanking had to meet a minimum standard of warmth. I whacked her bottom briskly with the paddle, provoking a twitch, a squawk, and a broad pink patch, in that chronological order. The second whack brought on a more emphatic twitch and a louder squawk. With each subsequent descent of the paddle, the redness of the girl's bottom spread and intensified, while her movements and vocalizations grew more and more desperate. I hit no harder than I felt I had to, but it was enough to scorch poor Lisa's wincing, bobbing hindquarters into a sizzling agony. She kicked her feet (penny loafers and white cotton knee socks) and bawled like a six-year-old.

  Finally, it was over, and Lisa dragged her throbbing backside out of the office. She still had the aching aftermath to deal with, but that should be a lot easier than either the prolonged waiting through the weekend o
r the main event itself. It seemed logical to paddle her fellow underachiever next, so I called for Jane Trevelyan. Connie had identified Jane as a problem child of long standing, unable to balance her devotion to athletics with the demands of her academic schedule, despite numerous inspirational sessions with the Dean's paddle. I could see that, while her mood was hardly blithe, she was not the nervous wreck Lisa had been. Stolid and stoic, you might say; an impression heightened by broad shoulders, sturdy legs, and an overall solidity of frame that was very far from chubbiness.

  She may have been wondering how my technique would differ from Harvey Jordan's, with which she had evidently had the opportunity to become thoroughly familiar. In the event, however, I was the one-or at least the first one-to get a surprise. Once I got through the momentarily awkward business of getting this tall young woman suitably draped over my knee, I rucked up her skirt and slip to discover (above a pair of purple nylon panties which she had lowered without needing to be told) a broad bottom striped with a double row of linear bruises, faded, but still clearly visible-their color almost as purple as the lingerie.

  Now, here was a puzzle. Jane was a junior, and wouldn't have been allowed away from school since the beginning of the term. These marks must be of local provenance. I didn't feel free, in the circumstances, to pretend they didn't exist.

  "Jane," I said. "These marks on your bottom. What happened to you?"

  "I missed two practices," she said. "Coach Potter caned me."

  Now, that was interesting. I didn't know Frances Potter had that authority. But it would be foolish, in a place like Emberley, to assume that she hadn't. I was tempted to ask more questions, but I didn't want to get into what might be a long conversation with a young woman who was lying bare-bottomed across my lap. Compassion moved me, however, to ask one further question. "Considering the circumstances, Jane, I'm willing to put this punishment off for another week, until you've, er, recovered a bit more."

  "No, sir," she said without hesitation. "It isn't as bad as it looks, not now. I hardly feel it any more. I'd really rather get this over with right now."

  "Well, all right, if you want," I said. "I can understand your feeling that way. But you have to understand that I can't hold back-I have to make this a real punishment."

  I could almost hear her teeth gritting as she said, "Yes, sir."

  So, without further discussion, I gave Jane Trevelyan the sound paddling she had been sent to me for. Stoic she was; she kept her feet tensely together, toeing the carpet, and uttered nothing louder than a grunt until the last three blows, at each of which she grudgingly uttered a nearly inaudible "Ow." The cane stripes were still visible, as darker lines across the general redness, but they were surrounded by smaller spots that would soon develop into new bruises on their own. It was clearly costing Jane some effort to keep her upper lip stiff as she pulled up her panties and tucked in her blouse, but she succeeded, and I could detect no sign of tears. It occurred to me that I might have to be a little more forceful in the future if corporal punishment was to have a sufficiently deterrent effect.

  It was time for the freshmen. One at a time, at my bidding, they entered-ash-blonde Judy Freeman, auburn-haired Shelly Ashcroft, and gold-blonde Margo Cunningham-and, in writhing embarrassment, reached up under their expensive skirts to lower their expensive underpants before stretching their graceful bodies most ungracefully across my lap. One at a time, I bared their plump, tender buttocks and laid on a vigorous thwacking in the finest Emberley tradition. All three responded with howls of misery and self-pity, violent wiggles and waggles of the affected parts, and brisk kicks that displayed three pairs of shapely legs to great advantage. All carried on as if they had never been spanked before, although this was certainly not true of either Shelly or Margo, for I had paddled both only three weeks previously. I was pleased to see that no marks were left from these chastisements, but somewhat less pleased that it had taken them so little time to get into trouble again.

  The last of the quartet, and I admit I had semiconsciously saved her for last, was Beth Capodistria, the tall, pretty, black-haired girl who had come to me in high indignation during the orientation period, hoping to put to rest the outrageous rumor that young women at Emberley were sometimes physically chastised. She had insisted that this must be a misprint in the rulebook, that no modern institution would descend to such barbarism, and expressed many more statements to the same effect, until I took the paddle out of my drawer and laid it on my desk. That had effectively stifled her tirade. This morning she would get far more than a sight of it.

  She was a striking sight as she hesitantly entered the office-all in black, a turtleneck, miniskirt, and tights, and of course her long black hair. The only touch of color was the scarlet lipstick on her full lips. It might have been fun to say something like "And so, Ms. Capodistria, we meet again-" but petty cruelty was not what my job was about. She was entitled to as much consideration as any other student in for a paddling-my policy was, insofar as possible, to send a girl out of my office with nothing smarting but her fanny. Well, of course, that was impossible. But at least I didn't want to add to the stinging sensation in any other part of her mental and physical person.

  Beth, being number six on the morning's program, had had the opportunity to observe five exits from my office-four of them tearful, and in the last three cases I'm fairly sure there had been a certain amount of rubbing and stamping, as well. Her morale had not been raised by any of this. Beth's usual manner, if our previous encounter was any indication, was cool and superior. It is rather hard for a girl who cultivates this image of herself to reconcile it with the idea of being upended and spanked-on the bare bottom, yet. As if that wasn't hard enough in itself, she had just had several chances to envision herself as she would be in a few minutes: a limp, weeping, spanked mess.

  I guess it isn't too surprising, therefore, that Beth panicked as soon as she laid eyes on the paddle. I had spoken very gently to her, but before I could take a sterner tone she had darted back through the door. There ensued a most undignified scene in the outer office, with Mrs. McCutcheon (who did not receive combat pay) trying to get between her and the door, while I came behind in hot pursuit, and the two guilty seniors stared wide-eyed, finding a momentary distraction from their own misery.

  Beth, screaming semi coherent obscenities, dodged behind a desk, successfully faking Mrs. McCutcheon out of position, and shaking off the hand I almost managed to put on her shoulder. She jerked the office door wide and ran blindly out, barreling full into Al Frayne, the president's man-of-all-work, who had just come down the stairs from Zeb's office. The always competent Al seized the girl quickly, before she could bounce off and continue down the hall. At my request, he frog-marched the escapee back to my inner office, where he held her while I went across the hall to ask for Connie's assistance.

  I hoped Beth would come to her senses when she saw that she was up against two of us, but in vain. As soon as Al released her, she tried to run to the door again. I asked him if he wouldn't mind waiting just on the other side of it, and Connie and I then set about the business of cornering our young culprit (who was still swearing desperately under her breath), dragging her to the bench, fixing her firmly in spanking position, and clearing the target area of all protection. This wasn't accomplished without a good struggle, but Connie was her usual steel-willed self, and soon had Beth's upper body immobilized, both arms firmly locked, while I went to work on a short but rather close-fitting black skirt, dodging her frantically thrashing legs. It took a few seconds to get the skirt all the way up, where it resembled a rather lumpy sash about the girl's slender waist, and I could then concentrate on a pair of black tights and the black panties beneath them. All of us were struggling, straining, gasping for breath. There was a feral excitement in the moment when the underwear finally slipped off her hips and down, so that the broad, white moon of Beth's squirming bottom emerged into full bareness at last.

  Feeling her exposure and vulnerability, Be
th let out a howl and twisted her hips violently back and forth, trying to turn her bottom in some more protected direction-in the process exposing a curly black, patch she probably would have preferred to hide. Perhaps she didn't care. What she really wanted at the moment was to get her naked buttocks out of harm's way by any available means, which would have made a good deal of sense, had it been possible.

  A lecture was clearly out of the question, so I picked up the paddle and laid on with a will. It didn't take many smacks before poor Beth was "black and white and red all over," like the newspaper in the old riddle. Clear, high-pitched shrieks filled the room, and long, slender legs kicked wildly, hardly inhibited at all by the black bundle of tights and panties that bound the thighs. The paddle bit ferociously at bare, tender flesh, again and again, its sharp smacks making a counterpoint to Beth's lusty yells. In a very short time, both bucking, wincing cheeks were a glorious scarlet, and I was forced to consider how I would bring the spanking to an end. I didn't really want her in hysterics. But just as the first purple marks began to appear, Beth stopped fighting and gave herself up to deep, harsh, shoulder-shaking sobs. I gave her a few more spanks, slower and marginally gentler than the rest, and brought it to a stop. All her fight was gone, and she lay limply over my lap, crying hard, until Connie patted her shoulder and guided her to her feet.

  Once again, Beth presented a voyeur's spectacle, as the bunched-up skirt refused to fall into place, but she was well beyond caring at this point. Connie helped her to get the skirt loose. There was a sharp intake of breath and a renewed burst of sobbing when she pulled her panties and tights up over her tortured hindquarters. "All right, Beth," I said, as kindly as I could, "all over and done with. Try to stay out of trouble from now on, all right?"