Dean of Discipline: More Tales of Old-School Punishment

by Allen Bare

  This was a no-nonsense spanking-no rising and falling action, no dramatic pauses, thunderous climaxes-just a hard, steady slap, slap, slap that reddened and bounced and jiggled the soft target until Connie's ows and ouches were more like OW!s and OUCH!es and she was kicking her feet in the air. When my naughty darling was thoroughly red and sore and repentant, I pulled up her panties and allowed her to rise, one hand pressed to a stinging cheek. "Sit down again," I told her.

  "Do I have to?"

  "Would you like a bit more, to help you make up your mind?"

  "No, sir!" Obediently she took her seat, with an exaggerated wince when her backside contacted the floor.

  I turned to Ms. Marinetti. "Your turn." Still big-eyed, the young English professor came forward and, in response to my imperious gesture, lowered her wet jeans. The white cotton panties I lowered, when she bent over my lap, were soaked as well, and her bottom, as gorgeously shaped as ever, proved to be more than a bit damp. I had never spanked a damp bottom before. It sounded a bit louder, and if the feeling in my palm was any measure, stung a bit more than the spanking I had just given Connie. In itself this was unfair, as I was sure Connie was the ringleader, but there was plenty of time to even the balance.

  Kate certainly seemed to find the spanking effective. She wriggled and bawled right from the first, and even uttered one or two modest screeches before I decided that she had had enough. Both big, pear-shaped cheeks were thoroughly reddened, and she winced and whimpered when pulling her jeans up over them. I directed her to sit down again, and addressed the two penitents.

  "I'm sure you'd like to change into some nice, dry clothes," I said. (Not to mention pants that aren't quite so tight, I didn't say.) They nodded. "Well, you can do that after you've cleaned up the mess you made. I want every light bulb tightened up or replaced; I want every sheet of newspaper straightened out and refolded so I can put them out for the recyclers, and I want every booby trap I didn't find removed as well. If I find anything out of place later, I'll punish both of you tenfold. Is that clear?"

  They nodded sullenly.

  "In the hall downstairs you'll find a wicker basket with a lid. Inside are some dishes that I bought at the auction today. An unknown number of them broke when I almost fell over the chair you left in my path tonight. After the mess is all cleaned up and the house is restored to the condition I left it in this morning, I want you to get out those dishes, separate the ones that are broken from the ones that aren't, and put both piles on the kitchen table so I can check them out. Is that clear?"

  They nodded again. "Good. Get to work. We can think about dinner when you're finished."

  It took both women almost two hours to finish this list of chores. What took longest was refolding all the crumpled newspapers. I had wondered where they all came from-Connie told me they had bought them at the for-profit recycling center.

  I had lost only three of the dozen matching plates I had purchased. They were unremarkable pottery dishes with a flowered pattern, which had cost me only $8.00, so the loss, in financial terms, was insignificant, but I was considerably annoyed on general principles.

  "All right," I said, when I was satisfied that all my orders had been carried out. "Go home and change into something more presentable and come back here. In the meantime, I'll pick up a six-pack of beer and some Chinese takeout. We won't be going to any restaurants tonight. We have an important discussion ahead of us."

  They looked at me inquisitively. "What about?" Connie asked.

  "Your punishment."

  "Our punishment! Just what were we all doing upstairs a little while ago, if I may presume to ask?"

  "The suppression of a rebellion. Quite apart from that, there is still a rather large score to be settled, as you, Ms. Constance Hartnett McHugh, and you, Ms. Caterina Rosa Marinetti, know very well. Now, scoot."

  Of course they were free not to come back. But I knew both of them too well by now. They wouldn't miss this appointment for the world.

  Chapter Three

  Of course I was right when I predicted that Kate and Connie wouldn't fail to show up to take their punishment. There was, after all, little reason for two mature and sensible women to have spent a whole Saturday afternoon stuffing the rooms of my house with newspapers, removing all the light bulbs, and leaving furniture in places where I was bound to stumble over it in the dark, unless they expected and indeed desired to be soundly chastised for their misbehavior. And if all of that hadn't been enough, there were the water balloons, and the newly bought dishes I had broken when I tripped. After suppressing the water-balloon insurrection with a sound spanking on bare (and in Kate's case, damp) bottoms, and making them clean the place up, I had sent them home to change into drier and more presentable clothes while I went for beer and take-out food. I knew they would return, and not just for the moo-shi pork and orange-flavor chicken, either.

  Shortly after I returned, they both appeared, demurely dressed as befitted young two ladies who knew they were still in deep trouble. Connie had on stockings and high heels, a wool skirt, and a pink blouse with a Peter Pan collar, while Kate wore knee socks and a white blouse under a blue plaid jumper that made her look like a grown-up version of the parochial schoolgirl she had been not too many years ago. A pair of Reeboks completed this youthful outfit, which gained in charm from the considerable height of its wearer-Kate was a good ten inches taller than Connie.

  The food was good, and the beer hit the spot, but socially the meal was a rather subdued affair. My two companions were in a far from giddy mood, clearly dreading what was to come even though they had both wanted it and done everything they could to bring it on. I couldn't get much conversation out of either one. But they were hungry enough to eat heartily, and I was starving, myself. It was well after ten.

  "All right, ladies" I said, when all the plates were clean and there was nothing left in the containers, "time for our just desserts."

  Connie poked out her lower lip rebelliously, but restrained herself from saying anything. I directed the miscreants to follow me into the living room, where a fire was burning quietly in the fireplace. They eyed my bench nervously, clearly expecting a session with the paddle. But they were in for a surprise. I told them to sit on the sofa, and went upstairs. In my bedroom closet I found the slender package Frances Potter had given me. Fortunately, it had escaped the notice of my two intruders that afternoon. I unwrapped the cane, finding a thin, flexible, crook-handled model exactly like the one Frances and I had used to punish Bronwen. My return to the living room, carrying this implement of retribution, had a dramatic effect. Kate went pale, and Connie gasped, then protested: "Jim, no! You can't! Not with that!"

  I smiled. "Perhaps if you had asked me in advance what the price for this afternoon's shenanigans would be, and I had failed to mention caning, you'd have some semblance of grounds for a complaint. But, since you never told me what you were planning to do, I never had the opportunity to explain, as I certainly would have, that vandalism is a caning offense."

  "It isn't fair."

  "Oh, I think it is. I've got a knot on my knee that will probably last as long as the effects of this caning-and if I had taken a worse fall, which I was lucky not to, no thanks to you two, the effects would have lasted even longer. So just you get ready to take your medicine, young lady." I turned the big armchair around. "Catherine Rose Marinetti," I said (feeling on reflection that 'Caterina Rosa' was laying it on a bit thick, though Kate had in fact told me that this was the spelling on her birth certificate), "you are to receive a half dozen strokes. Come forward, raise your skirt, and bend over the armchair."

  Kate looked as big-eyed and terrified as if she really was a teen-aged schoolgirl instead of an assistant professor of English with a brand-new Ph.D. Without a word of protest, but moving at a pace that betokened a real inner struggle to master her panic, the dark-haired young woman stepped up to the chair, pulled the wool skirt of the jumper up to her waist, and bent over, revealing her sweet, oval bottom, clad in
soft white cotton underpants like the damp ones I had peeled down a few hours before, and two long bare thighs between the white of the panties and the white of the knee socks. The sight was-there was no other word for it-adorable.

  "Now," I said, "take down your panties." She had evidently expected this and did not protest. Without straightening up, she reached back and hooked them down almost to her knees. I stole a glance at Connie; she was watching avidly. Kate's lovely bottom was still rosy from her spanking.

  "Right," I said. "Six strokes of the cane. Get ready."

  The waiting buttocks tensed. I swooshed the cane in the air, and she winced. Taking careful aim, I snapped the first stroke dead center across both cheeks. The flesh bounced, and a line appeared-white at first, then red. Kate shuddered. "Ow," she said softly. Then, "OWW!" as the pain increased. I laid the second stroke above the first, drawing a nearly parallel line, and causing Kate to tremble, groan, and stamp one sneaker-shod foot. There was still plenty of room above the line for the next stroke. It brought a shrill cry and a vigorous tattoo of stamping, which made her agonized bottom flesh jiggle deliciously. "Steady," I said. "Half done." The lower part of each broad, soft cheek was still untouched. Kate was writhing now, panting like a wrestler.

  I put the fourth stroke just below the first. "Aaaoww!" she cried loudly, snapping upright. With both hands on her martyred bottom flesh, she tried hard to rub away the sting. "OwowowowOW!"

  "Back down," I said sternly, putting my hand on her shoulder. "You have two more coming. If you get out of position again, there will be extras. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir," she said, breathing hard, as she bent over and offered her suffering bottom again.

  I snapped the fifth stroke full across the broadest, softest part of her bottom. Kate squealed and writhed, stamping her feet, but managed to stay down, and I took aim for the sixth and last, not wanting to prolong her ordeal. It bit in across the fold between buttock and thigh, bringing forth a loud yell. Kate began to rise, but caught herself and remained in position. Her shoulders shook with sobs that she could no longer hold back. I surveyed the six dull red stripes that ran across her buttocks, which now trembled slightly as she cried. It was a sweet sight, and I could have enjoyed looking at it for a while, but I felt sympathetic, and, touching her shoulder gently, I told her that she could rise. Some corner time was probably justified, but not right away. This was her first caning, and she needed a little slack to recover.

  Kate jumped up, letting her skirt fall over her throbbing backside and half-masted panties. She chose not to sit down, but instead headed for the door. "Where do you think you're going?" I asked, in my disciplinarian's voice.

  "Just a minute," said Kate, the tears running down her face. "Please, let me be alone for a minute. I'll come back, I promise." I nodded. She closed the door to the hallway as she left, and soon Connie and I heard her pacing up and down out there.

  It would be awkward to just stand there and wait. Besides, I thought, nothing is more likely to help Kate recover than the fear that she might be missing something. So I turned back to my naughty darling. "Constance Hartnett McHugh!" I said. "Your punishment is one dozen strokes of the cane-six for participating in this escapade, and six for thinking it up."

  She paled, but wasn't ready to abandon her feistiness. "How do you know whether I thought it up or not?" she demanded, drawing herself up to her full five feet, one inch.

  "Call it instinct. Are you going to deny being the instigator? Knowing that, if Kate is guilty, she'll get another six?"

  Connie hesitated.

  "Well?"

  "No," she said sullenly. "I won't deny it."

  "Very well. You'll get twelve of the best, and you'll deserve each and every one of them. Take your position."

  Her chin drooped, indicating that resistance was over, Connie looked fearfully at the cane. "Jim, take it easy with that thing."

  "Taking it easy is not on the agenda, young lady. You asked for this, and you're going to get every bit of what you asked for."

  "Jimmmm" She finally saw that begging would get her nowhere, and went to the armchair, pulling up the wool skirt and the white slip underneath it. Behind me the door opened and closed softly as Kate returned. Connie bent over, and I saw to my delight that she was wearing not pantyhose, but a white garter belt that supported a pair of regular nylons, like women had worn when I was young. Jeanne LaMarche had kept hers up with a girdle, and Nona, a free-spirited art student, had rejected hosiery as bourgeois, so that, except for a couple of exceptional students like Lee Kemper, I had had few occasions to punish a woman clad in this fashion.

  At my command, Connie lowered the lacy white panties she wore over the garter belt and bent over, her shapely backside framed by the underwear and stockings. Like Kate, she showed some ruddy effects of the spanking I had given her earlier.

  I stepped back and raised the cane, seeing Connie's bottom pull in tight as, like Kate, she clenched up in anticipation. I cut the air with the cane, provoking a most delightful jump and quiver. I waited for her to calm down. Then I delivered the first stroke, as close to the top of her bottom as I dared, but being careful to keep it where the flesh was soft. There was no whoosh this time; I had no intention of hitting either of my dear penitents that hard. Connie was silent at first, then emitted a surprised yelp as the pain built to a climax a few seconds after the stroke. I paused. She shook her head and pulled herself together; I could almost hear teeth being gritted.

  The second stroke fell a couple of inches below the first, making parallel red lines. This time the ripple of flesh was Connie's only visible reaction. As I prepared to deliver the third stroke, she relaxed her buttocks and quickly tensed them again. The third stroke fell two inches below the second, and as the agony built up she shook her head again, but didn't otherwise move or cry out. I could, however, see the tension building. Her legs were taut and trembling as she strove to keep herself under control.

  Taking careful aim, I snapped the cane in below the first three cuts, biting into the fullest flesh. "Ahh!" It was a gasp rather than a yell, and one high-heeled shoe was lifted and stamped softly.

  I aimed the fifth lower still. There was more flesh here, but less vertical room in which to space the strokes. Connie's glorious bottom flesh jiggled and bounced with the blow, and she stamped both feet, switching her bottom rapidly back and forth and making it jiggle and bounce again as she drew air in noisily between her clenched teeth. I was well and truly impressed with how bravely she had taken it up to now, though I suspected that her stoicism was near the end of its run.

  The five aching, stinging lines I had inscribed on Connie's sweet, pearly flesh covered nearly all of her bottom, though there was room between them for the remaining strokes. I directed the sixth at the very base of her bottom, between buttock and thigh, as I had with the sixth stroke I gave Kate. That had been the last for her, but Connie had just passed the halfway mark. Her reaction to this one proved to be too much to contain; she danced, twisted, and emitted a shrill "Owwwwoooo!" But, although she moved her upper body restlessly, she avoided standing up.

  "Halfway through," I said encouragingly. "Be brave."

  "Oooooohh!" she growled at me, by way of response. Not out of spirit yet! I loved her more than ever.

  I would have to aim the last six carefully, because each one had to be fitted between two others. Fortunately, they could be a little lighter than the first six; in the current state of Connie's bottom, they would smart no less.

  Seven, eight, and nine went to the upper part of her buttocks, each line fitted neatly into its slot. Connie sang out loudly at each blow. Clearly they didn't feel lighter than the first six, and in fact there was not much difference in the force. Although she still managed to stay in place, the agitation of her body increased, and her high heels beat a flamenco dancer's tattoo on the floor as the pain built up after each stroke, causing her martyred hindquarters to wriggle back and forth adorably. After the ninth, she appeared about to s
tand erect, but rose only a few inches before she forced herself back down, breathing heavily.

  There were only two spaces remaining between the lines I had laid down earlier, and I would have to fit three strokes between them. Both were in the ripely rounded lower part of her buttocks, the narrower gap uppermost. Waiting until she was still, I snapped the tenth stroke into this space. It seemed to be the final straw. "Ahhowowowowowoww" cried Connie shrilly, her tears bursting forth at last. "Aahowoohoohoohoooo!" As Kate had done before, she came helplessly erect and rubbed hard at her peppermint-striped bottomflesh.

  "Back down, my dear," I said, trying to keep a tone of command without squeezing all sympathy out of my voice. "Only two more to go, if you stay down. Please don't make me give you extra!"

  I said this with perfect sincerity; I knew she was suffering, and I didn't want her to suffer any more than was necessary. The fact that the necessity derived from our mutual desire to play this game didn't make the feeling any less real. Also, I was doubtful that I could get even one extra stroke in without crossing another.

  "It hurts," snuffled Connie in a small, reproachful voice, "it hurts a lot!" But she slowly bent down into position and did her best to pull herself together, though the pain was such that at first she couldn't really keep her legs still, bending first one and then the other. Finally she mastered this motion, too, and I lined up the cane for the penultimate stroke. Anxious to leave room for the last, I aimed it a bit high and laid it right next to the upper bounding stroke, leaving not even a quarter-inch of white skin between them. Connie howled and gyrated her bottom wildly.

  I saw her starting to rise again, and placed my hand gently on my back. "Come on, sweetheart," I said gently, sounding more like a coach than a disciplinarian. "Only one more. You're being a very brave girl. You can take just one more-then it will be over." The pressure against my hand lessened, and Connie subsided again.