by Allen Bare
It was nearly time to go, and I was looking around for Connie when a felt a pressure on my elbow. I turned and found Kate Marinetti standing behind me. "Hi ol' buddy," she said brightly. "Remember that dinner we said we were going to have? Think Connie can spare you any time in the next week or so?" The news was obviously getting around. "Or would you be two-timing her?"
"No, it wouldn't be like that," I said. "Neither of us objects to the other having friends. But I would have to check with her about the schedule."
Kate said that was fine with her. I promised to let her know as soon as possible.
Connie and I got into my car. Hers was still parked on campus. "Your place or mine?" I asked.
"Yours is closer," she replied. "Silly boy."
"Kate and I are going to get together for dinner," I said as we drove through the town.
"Dinner, and?"
"Remains to be seen," I said. "It's OK, isn't it?"
"Well, sure," said Connie, "as long as it isn't on Tuesday or Thursday."
"We didn't pick an evening; I wanted to check with you."
"Oh, anything except Tuesday or Thursday would be fine," she said airily. "I have plans for you on those days."
I'm most gratified," I replied. "But is there a night when you know you're going to be busy?"
"Actually, I'm going to a potluck at Marge Toner's house Sunday night," she said. "She called me the other day, just having heard of your new role in my life, and said you'd be welcome to come along, but these have always been women-only affairs, so I fibbed and said you had plans of your own."
"Which I guess I do, if Kate can make it that night."
I called her in her office the next morning and she said Sunday was fine. "Since it's not a work day, why don't you come to my place for dinner? I'll show you what real Italian cooking is like." That sounded great, and I said so.
Kate, I discovered when Sunday evening came around, had rented a small house a couple of blocks from Frances Potter's little green piece of England. It was neat and tasteful, furnished in the modest style one would expect of a young woman who'd been off a graduate-school budget for only a couple of months. Framed illuminations from manuscript editions of the Canterbury Tales hung on the wall-reproductions, of course. Only millionaires or museums could afford the originals.
Kate was wearing a white angora sweater, a full green skirt, and a denim apron. The smell coming out of the kitchen was divine. "You're right on time," she said with a smile. "The water is just about to boil. Would you like a glass of wine? I nodded, pleased. Bidding me sit, she disappeared into the kitchen and soon emerged with two glasses. "I hope red is all right with your delicate constitution," she teased.
It was indeed, an oaky Zinfandel from one of those little California vineyards that people back east love to discover and show off to their friends about. Kate wanted me to stay in the living room while she took care of business in the kitchen, but I insisted on keeping her company. "Unless I'd make you nervous," I said.
"You certainly have the power to do that, under special circumstances," she replied with a grin, "but making spaghetti is no problem." So I sat and sipped, and sniffed the pungent, tomatoey odors while she stirred the sauce and tested the spaghetti, finally dumping it into a colander and then into a big white bowl, warmed in the oven. She grated a big block of Parmesan cheese over the spaghetti, stirred it in, and then poured on a rich red sauce dotted with slices of black olive. Only after the sauce had been thoroughly integrated with the pasta and cheese was she ready to put it on our plates.
We ate at the table in Kate's small dining room. She had provided very large cloth napkins, large enough to tie as a bib, which both of us did. "Nothing keeps you from enjoying spaghetti," said Kate, "like worrying if you're going to get sauce all over yourself."
"I usually spray it on the front of my shirt when I twirl the fork," I admitted. "These napkins are a great idea; I wish you could use them in restaurants."
"Now you know why Italians like to eat at home," said my hostess.
"This is incredible," I said. "What's this sauce?"
Kate laughed. "You're eating spaghetti alla puttanesca," she said. "'Whore-style' spaghetti, if you really want a translation. I guess my grandmother would consider it appropriate, since I'm entertaining a man in my house without a chaperone."
"My grandmother was pretty strait-laced too," I said, "even though she was only a Yankee Congregationalist."
"Poor Nonna. In a way I guess it's a good thing she died when I was 15-she just wouldn't understand me at all. It would have broken her heart that I didn't marry a contractor and settle down to filling the house with bambini."
"You have plenty of time to think about that," I assured her. "Though I suspect it isn't likely to be a contractor you settle down with."
Kate turned thoughtful. "Probably not. And as for children, I think I want some, someday, but I'm not sure. If I do, it won't be an enterprise on my grandmother's scale, that's for sure."
"She had a big family?"
"I have five aunts and three uncles on that side of the family alone," she said. "My father's side, by the way."
"Well, things are a bit different nowadays," I said, raising my glass, "but, all the same, let's drink to the Marinettis-obviously an elegant and noble line, judging from the evidence at hand."
"Aw, shucks." We clinked our glasses and drank.
It cost me some effort not to stuff myself with Kate's delicious pasta, of which she had prepared an enormous quantity, but I didn't want to be sluggish and stodgy if the rest of the evening should take an interesting turn, as I thought possible. And indeed it did.
We had finished the spaghetti and the delicious home-made cannoli that followed it, and were sitting on the sofa, each cuddling a dram of Talisker in a little cordial glass. Kate had produced a bottle of spring water and added a careful drop to each glass. Something by Mozart was playing, and we listened in drowsy near-silence for half an hour or so.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," said Kate suddenly, bowing her head and looking at her hands.
"Huh? Not against me, surely," I said.
"That doesn't matter," she told me almost impatiently. "It's what you say in Confession. You haven't sinned against the priest, especially, but he gives you God's forgiveness."
"Um, yes, but I can't."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, I know you aren't a priest. Can you for God's sake stop being literal?"
"Sorry. Am I supposed to ask you what you've done?"
"Yes. I had bad thoughts." She said it sorrowfully, but there was a hint of self-satisfaction as well.
"What kind of thoughts are those?"
"Well," said Kate, dropping her penitent demeanor for a moment, "they're pretty much the same thing as what Dr. Ruth calls 'good thoughts.' Anything that makes you feel sexy."
"Oh. But doesn't everybody have thoughts like that sometimes?"
"Sure, but you're supposed to fight them. With every fiber of your being. Did you ever hear of St. Maria Goretti?"
"No, I don't think so. Why?"
"One of the nuns in my high school was her biggest fan. She died defending herself against an attempted rape. Sister Mary Loretta said that was how God wanted us to defend our chastity-not just against physical attacks, but even against bad thoughts. Anything less and we'd be cooperating in the destruction of our holy purity and would probably burn in Hell."
"Wow."
"Wow indeed. It's pretty strong stuff when you're 13 or 14 and have never been allowed to go to a mixed party, much less have a date." She looked into her drink for a while. "Well, I don't feel quite the same as Sister Mary Loretta, not any more, but she had an effect on me that's been hard to get over. I don't need absolution, but there's one other thing the priest gives you that I think I do need."
"Which is?"
"Penance."
"That's where the priest tells you to say some prayers?"
"Yeah, either that or build a convent, or go on pilgrimage
to the Holy Land."
"Really?"
"No, not now. But in Chaucer's time they really did have penances like that, at least for some rich people who could afford them." She tossed off the rest of her drink. "However, as you know very well, I have something quite different in mind." She looked up at me boldly.
Summoning up memories of priests I had seen in the movies, I took her chin in my hand. "My daughter," I said solemnly, "you must curb the rebellion of the flesh. Strong discipline is necessary to keep the door closed to Satan."
Kate sighed. "I know, Father. But what can I do? I just don't seem to have the strength. My own discipline is too weak. My feeble soul needs the discipline of my Holy Mother the Church."
"Your feeble soul, and your insubordinate body," I said sternly. "I fear your penance must be a heavy one. Rise." Kate stood obediently, facing me with downcast eyes. No trace of her recent boldness was visible.
"The rebellious flesh must be chastised," I said, adding, with a frown, "soundly chastised, for the good of your immortal soul. Now, remove your lower garments so that the chastisement can take its full effect."
"Please, Father," said Kate, almost in a whimper.
"That is the flesh speaking," I said. "It must be disregarded."
Looking at me with the round, solemn eyes of a toddler, Kate reached up under her skirt and tugged something downwards.
"Now come here, my daughter," I said, "and take what you have coming to you."
She laid herself softly over my knees, her long black hair spread over the back of her sweater. I took the hem of the green skirt and lifted it, uncovering once again the smooth, round, swelling bottom that had nearly taken my breath away the last time. A tangle of pantyhose and black panties bound her white thighs together.
For a moment I did feel like offering a prayer-of thanksgiving, on my own behalf. Tonight there was no paddle at hand, and none was needed. Warm flesh rebounded as I brought my hand down with a loud, lewd smack! on one of those rich mounds. Smack, on the other. I paused to watch pink imprints of my hand spring up on the pale surface. Smack, smack, smack, smack, smack! I laid down a short flurry, building to a climax that brought forth a small "Ooo!" from my pretty penitent. Another flurry set the flesh jiggling and bobbling, turning redder now, and then I settled into a steady rhythm, hard shots straight from the shoulder that stung my hand and made Kate wince and squeal. Her legs kicked up and down, slowly at first and then steadily faster, one foot going all the way down to the floor and the other slamming into the sofa. I knew she could take a lot and I suspected she wouldn't be satisfied with anything less, so I kept the spanks coming down hot and hard. The winces got more and more frantic until she was bucking violently across my lap, and the squeals had become lusty yells. Both plump cheeks of Kate's bottom were now a bright, flaming red where my hand was coming down, and softly pink around the border of that area, but her thrashing thighs were still perfectly white.
I paused. "My daughter?"
"Y-yes, Father?"
"Do you see now how the flesh betrays you? It conduces to pain as well as pleasure."
"Yes, Father." Smack! "Ow!"
"Sometimes it must be chastened, for its own good."
"Yes, Father."
"And this is one of those times, is it not?"
No answer. Smack, smack, smack, smack, smack! "Yeow! Yes, Father!"
I returned to the steady, driving rhythm, while Kate kicked her long, lovely legs and squealed shrilly, wriggling her blazing backside to and fro. My hand was growing numb, but my discomfort was nothing to my young friend's. She seemed about to cry. Perhaps she wanted to. But I didn't know that, and I was afraid that, if I tried to keep walloping until she was in tears, I might hurt her. Finally, I stopped.
"Rise, my daughter, and cover your body. Go and sin no more."
"I'll do my best, F-Father," she said in a small voice, gasping for breath. She took her time about obeying my commands, which was quite all right with me, as it prolonged my view of her lovely bottom. It was quite as charming red as it had been white.
Finally she pushed herself up and, without pulling up her panties, let the skirt fall into place. She pulled back her hair, which had fallen over her face, and gave herself a little shake. "Whew. I need a hug," she said. I stood up immediately to comply. We were both warm and damp from our exertions. Kate nestled her face against my chest-though she's a tall woman, I'm a good foot taller-and I could feel her trembling slightly.
"Want me to rub it?" I couldn't resist saying. Kate nodded eagerly. She knelt on the sofa, and in a moment my hand was gliding softly over that smooth, tender flesh it had been stinging a moment before. The flesh was tender in more ways than one at the moment. I could have kept this up forever, but a little voice inside warned me not to try. Gradually I stopped rubbing, and Kate, who had been helpfully holding her skirt up, let it fall. She twisted around and flopped into sitting position.
"Ouch! I should have done that slower." She picked up my right hand and held it against her cheek. "What a powerful hand! It can make my bottom feel so bad, and then it can make it feel so good."
I wondered if she was as turned on as I was. But I was resolved not to find out. There was my promise to Connie, for one thing. There was also the fact that, when I used any part of my thinking apparatus located above the waist, I didn't want to love Kate. And I was pretty sure that she didn't really want to love me, whatever the passions of the moment might be urging. So I took back my hand, put my arm companionably around her shoulders, and we sat there side by side, like pals, for a few minutes. At length I said that I ought to be going, and Kate raised no more objections than a polite hostess should. Our parting kiss was warm, but not torrid.
Almost 24 hours until I would have the opportunity to be alone with Connie. They were going to be long ones. At home, I headed straight for bed, though it was an hour or so early for me. I flipped on the bedroom light switch, and got a surprise. "Someone's been sleeping in my bed," I boomed in my best Papa Bear voice.
"Sleeping, shmeeping," said Connie, pulling off the covers, which were all she had on. "I've been waiting impatiently for the Dean of Discipline to come home from his long, hard evening of bottom-warming, to give him the kind of welcome he needs."
Need it I did. For a fleeting second, it occurred to me that Connie might be testing me, to see if I brought home any remnants of sexual appetite. Fair enough; she might know that I meant my promise, but how could she know if I was able to keep it? Fortunately, I was in a position to answer that question to her full satisfaction, and did so-if the scratches she left on my back were any indication.
Chapter Two
It was late on a Friday evening at the end of October, and I was alone. Connie had gone to dinner with her antique-dealer friend and we didn't plan to get together until the following evening, when we were invited to a pot-luck dinner at Ed and Jo Ruggles's house.
I had just gotten to sleep when the phone jarred me back into consciousness. It was Mrs. Robson, normally the calmest of housemothers, but this time with a perceptible current of anger in her voice. A twenty-first birthday party in her dorm had gotten out of hand. The sophomores who threw it had been indiscreet enough to let the word get out, and a number of juniors had crashed-indeed, by the time Mrs. Robson arrived, one whole wing of the building was involved. Only a few had been noisily drunk-the others were trying frantically to hush them-but all were breaking the rules, even if some broke them more flagrantly than others. No fewer than 28 names had been taken.
I agreed that the situation called for a special Saturday meeting of the Disciplinary Board, and undertook to summon the members in the morning. Mrs. Robson thanked me and hung up to deliver this bad news to the culprits, and I went back to sleep.
At nine o'clock, I sat down to the phone and began summoning the board members, calling them to abandon bed, breakfast, or domestic chores and come do their judiciary duty for dear old Emberley. Connie, who was on the board ex officio, would be there as
a matter of course, but when I called I also asked if she could stay to help me deal with the aftermath. I didn't doubt the power of my right arm or the sturdiness of the Emberley paddle, but I wasn't sure how I'd deal with a crowd of 28 nervous or panicky young women all crowded into my anteroom at one time. She agreed that this might pose a problem, and suggested that I ask a couple of the housemothers to be on hand to help. I remembered that they had done this on the notorious freshman orientation weekend, and, when I called Mrs. Reilly, I learned that Mrs. Robson had already asked her and three or four others to attend the hearing and the execution of sentences that would come immediately after.
The proceedings were short if not awfully sweet. We held them at 10:30 in a small lecture hall in the administration building so that all 28 defendants could be dealt with at once. They had been caught in the act, and few had anything to say in defense or mitigation. The group included only two freshmen, both of whom had been introduced to the paddle on a previous occasion, so no one was inclined to waste the court's time arguing that the Constitution forbade cruel and unusual punishments. They had all learned through painful experience that that dog wouldn't hunt. (And, besides, how could a paddling at Emberley of all places be considered unusual?)
The faces turned toward us as we pondered their fate wore miserable expressions-a perfectly reasonable attitude given the inevitable outcome-but some wore various shades of gray as well, and I wondered idly what effect a paddling might have on a hangover. It would probably bring about at least a temporary cure through sheer distraction. I doubted that any of these sufferers would be aware an hour or two from now that her head was aching. I suspected that, in their position, I would prefer being paddled while I had the hangover than to have to suffer through it in dread of a paddling still to come.
As I've said, our ponderings didn't last long. All 28 girls were sentenced to be paddled immediately, and the board members retired to resume their interrupted Saturdays. Since the lecture hall was only a short way from my office, I decided, in a huddle with Connie and the housemothers, to have them brought to my office in groups of seven. Simple guard duty could probably have been done by four people, two in each location, instead of the six we had, but the two extra women filled a real need because of the many requests that arose, for varying reasons, to visit a bathroom. These requests could be granted only because escorts were available-we were not interested in chasing runaways about the campus. (I also made sure that an empty wastebasket was placed close to my padded bench in case of a sudden gastric emergency-which fortunately did not arise.)
