by Allen Bare
"I'm sure we can," I said warmly. "There's no need to apologize. The Emberley system is extremely odd from the point of view of what we might call the outside world. Your reaction was natural enough, and if I happened to be standing in the way, I guess that's one of the natural hazards of my job."
"Well," Jo said, looking relieved, "even if I never do bring myself to accept the system, I promise not hold you personally responsible for it again."
"Fair enough."
She looked around curiously. "So this is the famous Dean's Office." Her eye rested on the bench. "Is that where you?"
I nodded. "Are you sure you want to know details?"
"Well, really, I am curious. Who wouldn't be?"
"I was just thinking it might make it harder to keep your objections to the system separate from your attitude toward me, since I'm the one who enforces it. Right here, on that bench," I added.
"I see. No, I think I can manage to stay objective. And I'm never going to resolve my doubts if I don't know what actually happens."
"OK."
"OK. So, the girl comes into your office, and then what?"
"I guess the first thing I do is remind her why she's here. Just a couple of words-not a full-fledged scolding, you understand, because I think a physical punishment should be simply that: physical. She's broken the rules, and she has to pay the price, for that which she knew all about before she committed the offense. I don't see any necessity of preaching her into a conviction of sin."
"OK. And then?"
"If she has to be reminded, I tell her to take down her underwear."
"She has to do that right in front of you?"
"Well, the alternative is me doing it for her. I think I'm safe in saying that most of the students prefer to handle that detail on their own. Since they're generally wearing skirts, there's just about no overt exposure at that point."
"But later."
"Well, as you already know, exposure is in the nature of the punishment. All I'm saying is that she doesn't have to expose any more of herself than is necessary for that purpose."
"What if she's wearing pants?"
"Then I ask her to take them down, but not her underpants. After she's over my lap, I pull down the underpants, and when the paddling is over I pull them back up again, and she gets up and pulls her jeans or whatever back up. If she has on a skirt, I take her over my knee and raise it, and afterwards she pulls her pants up underneath it after she stands up."
"And they just let you do this? Doesn't anyone ever fight?"
"Occasionally there's a panic attack. If I can't calm the girl down, I send for Connie and she helps me get her into position and, um"
"Clear the deck for action?" she asked. I looked at her closely, wondering if she was really willing to joke about this subject, but I wasn't sure I could detect a twinkle in her blue eyes. Her cheeks were perceptibly pinker than they had been when she arrived, however.
"That's about all there is to it," I said.
Jo tinkered a little more. "Can I see the paddle?"
I shrugged. "Sure, if that will help you to get an idea." I drew it out of the drawer and laid it on my desk.
"God" she breathed. Hesitantly, she picked it up, hefted its considerable weight, ran her hand over the smooth, polished surface. "And you take them right over your knee, and on the bare." Her voice was so low it was almost a whisper.
She stood up, still holding the paddle, and slowly walked over to the bench. "Jim? Would you sit down here for a second?"
I was slightly alarmed. "Er, why do you want me to do that, Jo?"
"I-I was wondering if you'd let me get over your knee for just a second, so I'd know what it felt like."
"Um, no, Jo, I don't think that would be a very good idea."
She went into deep blush mode at that point, and put the paddle back on my desk. "Sure, OK," she managed to say in a somewhat choked voice.
"Would you like some coffee?" I asked, to cover her embarrassment. She nodded, and I went to the door to ask Mrs. McCutcheon to get us a couple of cups from the office pot. On one level, of course, I was anything but reluctant to take this attractive woman over my knee. Jo, who was probably in her late thirties, only a year or two older than Connie, had the sort of willowy figure I truly appreciate-small-breasted, but with long legs and a full, round bottom that I was willing to be would be gorgeous. But she was obviously unclear about her feelings-offended at the very idea of corporal punishment, but at the same time nursing a strong appetite to experience at least a bit of it herself. And I had no idea of getting into anything that resembled play without knowing how Ed felt about it, or whether he even knew.
By the time we had full cups in our hands, and I had finished apologizing for the sad discrepancy between the quality of coffee available in the administration building and that available on Main Street, Jo was a good deal calmer. Her curiosity was still with her, however.
"Where's the peep-hole?" she asked, looking around.
"Somewhere high on that wall," I said, pointing, "but I don't know where exactly. It's pretty well disguised by the fancy molding."
"Do you think I could look through it? You know, some day when you're, um, punishing students?"
That took me by surprise. "Why?" I asked her frankly.
"Well, because I think it might help me make my peace with this whole idea if I could see what it's like. It's just so hard to imagine."
Hm. If that's your story, Jo, I thought, you might as well stick to it. But we both know you have a different motive. I looked down at the desk for a long time, pondering. Finally, I said, "I might be willing, but only under certain conditions."
"What would those be?"
"Well, I'm going to have to check it out with Zeb Kesselmann." She opened her mouth, looking alarmed, but I raised a hand. "I won't identify you," I said, "but I will say a new faculty wife who is struggling with her personal objections to the kind of punishments we use at Emberley. That's the truth" (or at least that's what you've told me, I added mentally) "and he's entitled to know about it and to veto it if he disapproves. I can't go behind his back."
"All right," said Jo, calmed.
Second," I said, "you're going to have to tell Ed what you're doing. I don't want to go behind his back either."
"That's OK."
"Finally"
"There's another?"
"Yes. It involves the time. Punishments are regularly scheduled on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, but I don't want you to come here then. There are lots of people around the building, and someone might see you and figure out what's going on. I don't know how many of the staff up there on Zeb's floor knows about the peephole, and I don't want any stories going round that I'm putting on private shows for my friends. You see what I mean?" She nodded. "Every now and then some problem breaks out on a weekend that has to be dealt with there and then-it might be a Saturday morning or a Sunday afternoon. It isn't often, and it depends on things I don't control, so I can't guarantee there'll be another one this semester or even this year. But when there is, I'll call you. You can meet me here early and I'll show you where the peephole is. But if you have other plans, you'll just have to wait until another opportunity arises, and I can't say when that might be. All right?"
"Yes, all right," she said, though she looked disappointed.
The clock on my wall struck five, and Jo suddenly recalled her errand. "Oh, my gosh, Ed'll be waiting for me. I've got to run." I saw her out and went back to my desk, musing.
Almost an hour later I was finishing a draft of my monthly report when none other than Zebulon Pike Kesselmann, our foxy grandpa of a president, came into the office. "Just a social call," he explained. "I've been so busy this week I haven't seen you once. How's everything going?"
"Just fine," I said, "but as it happens there are a couple of things I've been meaning to ask you about." I told him about Jo's request, without mentioning who it was for, and Zeb was discreet enough not to ask.
"Oh, I suppos
e it's all right," he said, "as long as it only happens once. But tell her not to go spreading the word around. I'd rather you hadn't mentioned the peephole to her at all."
"Yes, I'm sorry about that. I mentioned it in the heat of an argument, and I realized afterwards I'd been stupid. At least there was no one else around, and I'm sure we can count on this person to be discreet." (Ed had been in on the conversation, too, of course, but I knew he'd be OK.)
"There are only two keys to that closet, and I have both of 'em. I'll lend you one now," he said, pulling a keychain out of his vest pocket, "and you can give it back when this¼visit is over. What's the other thing you wanted to ask me about?"
"Well, I was thinking of introducing a variation into the punishment routine." Zeb raised an eyebrow inquisitively. I told him about the conversations I'd had with Frances about the cane, and how I thought it might be more effective for certain students.
"I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "We've been using only the paddle for 65 years, and that's a lot of tradition. I'd have to think long and hard about it." He frowned. "Tell you what you do. Write a memo, for my eyes only, summing up all the arguments pro and con as you see them. Give me a week or three to think it over, and I'll let you know what I think."
"Sure, Zeb," I said. "It's really up to you. I'm too new on the scene to have a good sense of how much you can bend a tradition. I'll make the best argument I can, but I'll accept your judgment whatever it is, and you'll hear no more about it."
He chuckled. "I appreciate that, my lad. Now, don't work too late." He was off. I took Zeb at his word and decided the report could wait until tomorrow. It was dark by then, so I took the cane-shaped package out to my car. I wouldn't be needing it around the office for a few weeks, at least. In the meantime, it might just happen to come in handy at home.
I was looking forward to telling Connie all about Jo's surprising visit to my office, but I had to wait until the next day, as she was having her "girl talk" dinner with Kate. Friday evening we ate out, and in the privacy of a booth at Mulligan's I told her of the previous day's encounter. "Aha!" said Connie. "I told you she was interested."
"Looks that way," I said. I wondered how much Ed knew about this interest, or how he would react when she let him know about it. I was determined that she would let him know about it, if I was going to be involved in any way.
I told Connie I was thinking of going to an auction in another town the next day and I hoped she might go with me. She encouraged me to go, but said she had a lot of boring stuff that had to be done at home. I suggested we meet at seven o'clock for dinner.
"Better make it eight," said Connie. "Those auctions can last all day, and sometimes the best stuff doesn't come up until after five. You can get the best bargains then, when the crowd has thinned out and there are fewer bidders. With a forty-mile drive, I bet you won't be back here before 7:30."
"OK," I said. "I'll change quickly and pick you up at eight."
The auction was a big one, and I found that Connie had been quite right in predicting that it would last until well after six. Antique dealers-quite a few of whom I could recognize by now-snapped up the furniture, but I hadn't seen anything that especially attracted me, so I didn't mind that. I bought some nice old dishes, and hung around until it was pretty late and most of the dealers had gone home. This was a good policy, because I was able to pick up an ancient banjo (or at least the better part of one-it was just a bag of parts, but as far as I could see all the parts were there) and a nice big covered wicker basket that I thought might make a picturesque clothes hamper, and in the meantime would be convenient to carry the dishes and the disassembled banjo home in. All of this cost me less than the price of a decent meal in an inexpensive restaurant.
I arrived home at 7:35, feeling quite pleased with myself. There was plenty of time to change clothes and make my date with Connie. I set my burden down on the porch to unlock the door and flip the light switch inside, but to my annoyance the porch light had burned out-I must have left it on the previous night. I picked up the loaded basket and groped my way inside, feeling with my elbow for the wall switch in the front hall. Before I reached it, however, my knees and shins encountered an unexpected obstacle, and I yelled as I started to fall forward. I managed to right myself, but not without losing my grip on the basket, which hit the floor with a sound of breaking crockery, and banging my knee hard on what turned out to be a chair. If it was the one that usually stood against the wall, it was a good three feet out of its normal position. What was going on? Had the place been robbed while I was away?
I located the basket, moved it carefully to the side of the hall, and felt the wall for the light switch. But nothing happened when I flipped it. I found the door to the living room, opened it, and walked into a wall of crackling, crumpled newspapers-the room had evidently been filled from floor to ceiling. Useless to turn a light on in there, even if the bulb hadn't been loosened, as I suspected it had. I cursed. From somewhere in the house came a giggle.
Ah, so. I was supposed to play hide-and-seek in a dark and booby-trapped house, with my opponent knowing the location of every trap. There wasn't much I could do to even those odds, but my car had been with me all day, and I knew I could count on finding a flashlight in the glove compartment. I went out to get it. I thought of returning by the back door, but that might have been booby-trapped too. So I went back to the front door and was not greatly surprised to find that it had been locked behind me. Good thing I'm in the habit of putting my keys back in my pocket instead of leaving them hanging in the door. (I once lived in New York.)
I unlocked the door and pushed it in cautiously, shining the light ahead of me. The chair had been pushed forward, to a position where I would have barreled right into it if I'd been hurrying in the dark. I checked the rooms that opened off the hall, finding all of them filled with newspapers except the kitchen, which was only half-filled. Connie had been a very busy little beaver; this couldn't have been done in a few minutes. Could she be hiding in there somewhere, under the papers? I doubted that-for one thing, it would be claustrophobic; for another, any movement would be noisy. So that left the upstairs or the basement. The stairs that led to the latter were behind a door with a bolt on it. I usually kept this fastened when I left the house, because the basement was just too easy to break into-something I intended to take care of, but hadn't yet gotten around to. Now, shining the flashlight across the waist-high ocean of sports and society pages in the kitchen, I saw that the bolt was still fastened. So she wasn't down there.
Upstairs, then. I would prefer to creep up quietly, but traps might have been set on the stairs. Such traps might be dangerous, but how could I know whether Connie would think about that in the mood she appeared to be in? I would have to use the flashlight, although I was fully aware that this would pose dangers of its own. The stairs ran straight up, then turned right, disappearing from view. The flashlight showed that they were clear at least up to the landing. Deciding that boldness might have some value where stealth was impossible, I charged up and around the turn, flashing my light ahead of me. I caught a slender arm in the act of tossing a water balloon at me, or at least at the spot where I would have been if I hadn't jumped aside. The balloon hit the landing with a splat, and I resumed my charge, flashlight in hand. Connie was in the upstairs hall, laughing wildly, and about to throw a second balloon. I ducked, the balloon passing over my shoulder, and tackled her before she could retreat. Still laughing, she fought with all her wiry strength, but I soon had her pinned to the floor.
"Now, young lady-" I began, but my lecture ended in a startled shout as another water balloon caught me full in the back of the neck, soaking my shirt and running down into my pants. I twisted around to see a black haired figure retreating into the guest room.
"Enough is enough, dammit!" I snarled, my anger at least half genuine. "Get up, you!" I got my hand around the belt of Connie's jeans and kept it there while she got to her feet, alert for any tendency to bolt. I
frog-marched her down the hall and held her in front of me while I opened the guest-room door. Kate let fly as soon as the door opened and gasped as the water balloon struck Connie right on the chin, , causing her to squeal as the cold water ran down the front of her blouse. I stepped around Connie and took the remaining water balloon from Kate's hand while she was still frozen in dismay.
She came unfrozen as soon as she saw what I intended to do with the water balloon, but I was between her and the door. Connie was still too busy dealing with her soaking frontage to lend any assistance, and I caught Kate easily by the waistband of her jeans, at the back, as she tried to lunge around me. The jeans stretched, opening up a gap. I dropped the water balloon in and gave it a slam with the heel of my hand to break it. Now it was Kate's turn to squeal as her pants filled with water. She danced in discomfort as it ran down inside, soaking her socks and filling her shoes.
I surveyed the two culprits grimly. "Sit down," I commanded them. "On the floor. I don't want you soaking the furniture."
"I don't want to sit down," Kate complained. "My bottom is wet."
"It'll be a lot more than wet in minute, Missy," I said. "That's a promise. Now, sit down!" She obeyed quickly, Connie next to her. Both women looked damp and crestfallen, two adorable little girls who knew they were in for it.
"I think we can postpone the lecture," I said. "You know the kind of trouble you're in. Let's get right down to business." I pulled up the only chair in the room and laid a towel on it, since my own seat was pretty soggy. "You," I said, pointing to Connie, "come here." She complied. "Get these down," I ordered, indicating the jeans. She blushed a bit, perhaps because Kate was there, but she unbuckled, unzipped, and pushed down until the denim was bunched above her knees. I guided her down over my lap and pulled down a pair of pink satin panties to bare Connie's lush, round bottom. Without further ceremony, I began to spank her briskly, the loud smacks echoing in the otherwise silent room. Kate looked on with big, round eyes. The bare, quivering bottom cheeks pinkened quickly, and Connie began to squirm and allow soft little ows and ouches to escape.
