Dean of Discipline: More Tales of Old-School Punishment

by Allen Bare

  Connie, sitting demurely on the bed, looked up at me fearfully as I entered. "You know better than to act the way you did this evening," I scolded her. "It was selfish and inconsiderate. You've been brought up better than that, Constance McHugh, and if your poor mother and daddy were alive to see the way you disgraced them tonight, their hearts would be broken. Isn't that right?"

  Looking up at me she nodded, big-eyed. It looked as if she might be about to cry.

  "And sticking your tongue out at me in company! What in tarnation possessed you?" (That was one of my father's favorite expressions when he was mad.)

  "I guess I just got so absorbed in my conversation with Kate that I forgot everything else," said Connie contritely. "When you interrupted us, I just reacted without thinking."

  "Well, you may not have thought about what you were saying then, but you're going to have plenty of opportunity to think about it now. I'm going to give you something that will make you think about it a lot, for a very long time."

  "Please" She looked at the floor and pleaded in a tiny voice.

  "It's too late for that, Constance." I opened a low dresser drawer and took out my special belt. Its two inches wide, made of woven cowhide. Doubling it in my hand, I snapped it. Connie winced. "Turn over," I ordered.

  She complied hesitantly. "Like this?"

  "With your legs on the floor. I want your bottom at the edge of the bed. That's right. Now lift your skirt." She had to get halfway up again to raise the long wool skirt she had on. I had been unable to look at her legs all night, and they were a welcome sight, even in black tights. With her head and shoulders raised, both elbows on the bed, Connie mutely awaited her fate.

  "Constance, I think you're forgetting something."

  "Sir?"

  "Don't be coy with me, missy. For an offense this serious, you know your bottom has to be bare."

  "Oh, please, no"

  "Don't argue!" I gave the belt another snap. Connie knelt back on the floor and worked her tights and panties down around her thighs, then squirmed back into position. There was an interesting contrast of black tights, white nylon panties, and warm ivory flesh. I surveyed the rounded surfaces of her buttocks and thighs, the belt almost starting to come alive in my hand.

  Connie looked back at me over her shoulder. "Please don't¼" she whispered.

  "Too late, young lady. You've got a lesson coming. Now, turn around and look straight ahead."

  After another mute appeal, she turned toward the wall. I raised the belt, hooking my left thumb into the loop to keep it straight, then pulled my thumb free at the same time that I snapped the belt down. It struck flat across both buttocks with a searing crack, jolting the plump flesh. "Oww!" she sang out, wincing.

  I didn't waste time, but drew the belt back and snapped it again, with another crack and a louder "Oww!" I aimed as best I could to spread the blows so that they covered the roundest part of her bottom without all landing in the same place. I was reasonably successful at this, creating a broad band of red with only one or two thin white stripes to mark places I hadn't hit yet. Perhaps because it was woven, the belt stayed well under control and always landed on the flat side, stinging but not bruising.

  Connie's yells got louder as the volley continued, and after about a dozen she began to squirm energetically. I paused; afraid I might hurt her with a stroke that went astray. "Keep still!" I commanded, though I wondered if this was really possible. She subsided, reaching back with one hand to caress a smarting cheek. "Hands in front of you!" I said in the same stern tone. "Keep looking straight ahead! I'm going to see to it that you don't forget this in a hurry!"

  I resumed the strapping, covering the same broad band across the swell of her bottom. It was all pinky-red now, with no white strips remaining, but there was still no sign of purpling or bruising. The belt kept up a stinging crack! crack! crack! rhythm, and Connie rocked in agony, but did not move out of the way. Her Ows had turned to shrill yells. When I finished the second dozen, I paused. "Have you learned your lesson?" I demanded.

  "Oh, yes, sir, yes, sir!" she moaned. "I'll never be rude to anyone again! Ever!"

  "I hope not. I think just a few more will drive the lesson home. Look straight ahead!"

  Her rosy buttocks tensed, and I snapped the belt hard again, crack! crack! crack! crack! crack! crack! It was only half a dozen, but they were all good ones, each rippling the flesh of her bottom and adding new sizzle to the blazing smart. Connie howled and kicked the floor with her feet. After the sixth I threw the strap down on the bed so she'd know I was finished, and she immediately clapped both hands to her martyred hindquarters and slipped to the floor, writhing in pain.

  I'd never seen her react quite like this, and I wondered if I'd gone too far. The paddling I'd given her a few weeks earlier had been heavier, I was certain, and yet she hadn't been so totally undone by it. I knelt and touched her shoulder anxiously. "Oh, Jim, hold me!" she gasped. I slipped down to sit on the floor, placing my back against the bed, and took her into my arms. She balanced one hip carefully on my lap; her bottom was still bare. "OooooOW, it hurts!" she sighed, leaning her face into my chest. I put my hand gingerly on the uppermost botttomcheek and brushed it tenderly. Connie sighed again, so I began to stroke softly, reaching as much of her bottom as I could in that position. She stayed pressed against me, not speaking except for the occasional sigh of encouragement. After quite a while, she raised her head and looked at me. "Wow! You are some disciplinarian, Mister!" This didn't sound like a complaint-in fact, it looked a good deal as if she wanted to be kissed, so I experimented and found this to be true.

  We didn't go into our usual clothes-ripping frenzy, however. We kissed and cuddled, and I stroked her tingling bottom, and then she got up on her knees and shifted positions so I could stroke the other cheek, which I hadn't been able to reach, and we sat there on the floor for quite a while, passing the time in this pleasant manner. Eventually, Connie pulled at the top button of my shirt, and I whispered "Wait," and then, slowly and tenderly, I undressed her and tucked her into bed. When I joined her a moment later, she was ready for me, and came violently a couple of times before I was able to follow suit.

  For the next couple of days, except at work, we were like honeymooners, seldom speaking, but never apart. It wasn't until Wednesday night that we came to a relatively calm place where it felt right to talk about what had happened. Connie's bottom had developed only a couple of tiny bruises, so I was reassured that she hadn't been badly hurt.

  "How did you know?" she asked me.

  "About what?"

  "About the belt. I've been dreading it and fantasizing about it for years, but I never told you about it."

  "Well, not in so many words, but you told me about listening to your brother get it and sort of wishing your father would give it to you, too. So I figured it might have a certain resonance."

  "Oh, my, did it ever! I felt it in the bottom of my soul."

  "Not to mention the soul of your bottom."

  "There, too."

  We were sitting on the sofa in my living room, watching the fire, my arm around her shoulders. For a little while both of us were silent.

  "I wouldn't want you to do that very often," Connie said, shyly. "It's too profound."

  I nodded. "It would be pretty hard to take."

  She shook her head. "It isn't that. It's just I wouldn't want it to get too familiar. It would spoil it."

  "You like the, um, profundity, then."

  "'Like' is too small a word. This is just something too deep inside. I can't bear the thought of trivializing it."

  I gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze to let her know I understood.

  "Lots of interesting things going on at the Ruggleses the other night," Connie said after a while.

  "Oh?"

  "Well, I mentioned one of them on the way home, but you stopped me."

  "You were in disgrace," I said solemnly.

  "Yes, sir. Anyway, what did you think about that little ex
change between the Aaronses?"

  "You mean when she said she didn't need Emberley-style motivation, and he said "In most ways?"

  "Yes, and she gave him a 'How dare you let that out of the bedroom!' look"

  "Which suggests that you and I, as members of the outside world, will never learn any more on this fascinating subject."

  "Mm. Maybe. Too bad, though."

  "So what other interesting things were you alluding to?"

  "Well, Jo, for one thing. She sat through that whole conversation and never once rose to the bait."

  "You think she's getting reconciled?"

  "I think she's interested. She may not be reconciled-she's too good a hostess to take sides in an argument among her guests-but she drank up every word of that discussion like a thirsty blotter."

  I was skeptical. "You sure it wasn't just polite silence?"

  "I'm sure," Connie said. "You weren't looking her way, for understandable reasons, but I was, and she was lapping up every syllable of Barton's elegant discourse."

  She was quite right about my avoiding Jo's gaze. The last thing I wanted was a revival of the quarrel we'd had the night we met.

  "That was it?" I said after a moment. "I thought surely there must have been some other interesting development."

  "Why, no," said Connie. "That was all. What else could there be?"

  "Well, for one thing, a certain long, intimate conversation between two ladies I know."

  "I have no idea what you could mean, sir," said Connie with a smile. "We were discussing art."

  "And other things?"

  "Just ordinary girl talk," she said with a grin that made me want to pull her across my knee-but I refrained because I knew she was still tender.

  I wasn't surprised when Connie told me at breakfast the following morning that she'd be having dinner with Kate that night. "Enjoy your girl talk," I said.

  She gave me a look. "Notice," she replied, "that I am not uttering a disrespectful sound or sticking out my tongue."

  "I should certainly hope not."

  That morning's punishment roster was light-only two girls. One was Lucy Merlin, a freshman whom I had already seen on three previous occasions. Apparently Emberley's traditional discipline was not influencing her behavior as efficiently as it did most of her sisters'. Lucy was a petite blonde with a mischievous look that did not belie her disposition. At least the mischief she was getting into at Emberley was an improvement, thus far, on the coke-snorting that had helped her pass the tedious evenings at home in Beverly Hills.

  "Breaking curfew again, Lucy?" I asked her in my frowning-headmaster tone.

  "It was only half an hour," the girl replied sullenly. "And it isn't as if I was drunk or anything. I was in a coffee shop."

  "Where the singer's performance was apparently so moving that you lost all track of time."

  Lucy looked as though she were considering a rebellious remark, but stifled it.

  "All right," I sighed. "Time to pay the piper. You know what to do by this time."

  Her face reddened as she reached up under a charcoal gray skirt and tugged down her underpants. Her look was sulky as she bent forward over my knee, underlip protruding. A neat little backside, soft and plump, appeared when I raised the skirt, framed between the tail of a white blouse and a bunched-up band of white nylon panties. I applied the paddle vigorously to both bouncing cheeks until they were, in a remarkably short time, thoroughly uncomfortable, to judge by the kicks, screams, and wriggles of their unhappy owner. It wasn't entirely safe to make the judgement on this basis, however. Lucy's mother was a well-know actress, and the daughter appeared to have inherited some of her talent. I had given enough Emberley paddlings to know when enough was enough, and I kept paddling until I reached that point, regardless of the little actress's attempt to create the impression that she was being murdered. Pretty much the same thing had happened on the last two occasions, and I wondered when Lucy would begin to get the idea that her performance was not going to be rewarded in the way she hoped.

  She departed with an ache under that charcoal skirt that was not going to subside anytime soon, and her distress was by this time genuine enough that she had to struggle to master her face when she went out the door.

  I wondered what effect all the noise might have had on the student who was waiting. She was a senior, Luisa Beltran, one of our South American expatriates' daughters. I was afraid she might be on the verge of hysteria, but Luisa, as it turned out, was made of sturdy stuff and was not about to encourage me in harboring any demeaning stereotype of the Latina. She was calm, though a little pale, a slender woman in an expensive silk suit of vivid fuschia that went well with her black hair, black eyes, and fair skin. She responded politely though minimally to my deanly strictures on academic discipline. (Luisa had been referred by Connie's office for falling behind schedule in her work on her senior thesis. This would have been unusual in an honors student, but at Emberley every senior was required to produce a thesis-or the equivalent in subjects like drama and fine arts.)

  Luisa maintained her quiet, formal demeanor even while she lowered her panties and pantyhose-a task that involved more than the usual exposure, since the skirt of the suit was narrow and had to be hiked up to an immodest latitude before she could complete it. I saw the full length of both gracefully proportioned legs, and would have seen a good deal more had I not hastily turned my head to spare her embarrassment. Luisa certainly blushed, but she never hesitated or turned aside, determined to get the unpleasantness over quickly and directly no matter how unpleasant it turned out to be. She kept her suit jacket on as she bent over my knee-a degree of formality I had not previously experienced-but was practical enough to keep her skirt hiked up most of the way, so that I didn't have to spend much time accomplishing the required exposure.

  Slender as she was, Luisa had a fine figure, including a ripely curved bottom like two perfect mounds of snow. Well, the color was more like cream, but the impression of cool smoothness made me think of snow. The first smack of the paddle made a broad pink band across the rippling flesh, and I was reminded that Hispanic women tend to say "Ai!" where English-speakers say "Ow!" Not that Luisa bellowed; each "Ai!" was as soft as she could make it, as if meant only for herself-as I suppose it was.

  I completed the job in regular Emberley style, spanking both swelling bottom cheeks until they were a less intense shade of the same fuchsia I could see in the bordering skirt, and sending the dark-haired senior into a frenzy of twisting and rocking. Her utterances became more frenzied also, though they were never loud, and when she finally stood up to reassemble herself, her face was wet with real tears. I bade her remember this chastisement when tempted to slack off in her work, and I had no difficulty believing that she would.

  A little later, I was about to go in search of lunch when the Games Mistress popped her head into the office. "Hullo! Got a minute?" I smiled and invited her in. she was holding a long, thin package. "This is for you," she said.

  "A cane?" I asked her (though the answer seemed pretty obvious).

  "Indeed. Just received from my supplier in England."

  "Good heavens, that was fast service. What did they do, fly it over on the Concorde?"

  Frances laughed. "Hardly, dear boy. This is one of a half-dozen I ordered last summer. They just arrived."

  "How much do I owe you?"

  "My, you Americans are so forthright about money! I'll never get used to it. But this is a gift, or, if you prefer, a free sample. They don't last forever, you know. If you decide to add the cane to your repertoire, you'll need to order more. If you do, just tell me, and I'll refer you to Messrs. Watson of Bristol. They'll be happy to open an account for you."

  I thanked her. A thought struck me. "These, er, Messrs. Watson-won't they think it's odd for a college dean to be ordering punishment canes? After all, I'm sure none of the British universities"

  "Well, as it happens, dear boy, the term 'college' in Britain almost always means a boarding sch
ool, where the pupils are no older than 16 or 17. I've never bothered to explain the difference to Messrs. Watson, and I don't suppose there's any reason for you to explain it, either."

  I nodded. "Good point. Thanks."

  I stowed the package in a cabinet and we walked over to the faculty club for lunch. "What an amusing idea of yours," Frances said. "Flying a cane over on the SST! I'm sure the only canes on the Concorde are the ones the pilots use to discipline the flight attendants."

  I stopped walking and looked at her. "You don't mean it."

  She twinkled mischievously. "Well, no, not actually, dear boy," she said. "But it is fun to imagine, isn't it?"

  Indeed it was. For the rest of the walk my head was filled with the vision of a of British Air stewardess, blue skirt hiked and knickers down, touching her ankles and trying to keep a stiff upper lip as the pilot, a stalwart R.A.F. Wing Commander type, inscribed stern lines of reproof across her tender hindquarters with a slim rattan stick. It was interesting to reflect that Frances was presumably deriving the same sort of pleasure from a more or less identical vision.

  The faculty club dining room had relatively few tables, but they were big ones, encouraging general rather than intimate conversations. So we joined a large group, and no more was said on the subject of our mutual interest.

  Late that afternoon Mrs. McCutcheon, my secretary, came to the door with the announcement that a Mrs. Ruggles would like to see me, if I had a minute. I got up and went to the door. It was indeed Jo Ruggles, and I welcomed her in with the usual sort of expressions of gratitude for the unexpected pleasure and so on. Inwardly I was wary, given the way we had started out a few weeks ago.

  "I'm supposed to pick Ed up at five," she said. "His car is in the shop. But I came over early hoping I could get a moment with you."

  "I'm glad you did. Is there anything special I can do for you?"

  "Well, as you know, I've had a lot of trouble accepting the whole idea of the Emberley disciplinary system. I still have trouble with it, though I'm less certain than I was, seeing the way everybody defends it. But the main thing is, you and I got off on the wrong foot because I acted as if the whole thing was your idea. That was clearly wrong, the point of being dumb, and it was also unfair, and what I want to do is apologize. I hope we can manage to be friends yet."