    
Johnstern31
New member
Username: Johnstern31
Post Number: 2
Registered: 10-2005
| | Posted on Wednesday, December 13, 2006 - 01:12 am: | 
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i started this a while ago, and am finally getting back to it. hope you like it:
I’d spent the weekend fighting fires, literally. I’m a volunteer with the local department, and a nearby forest fire was threatening to burn out of control, so it was all-hands on deck. We were successful, but I was tired and still smelled like smoke when I came in to work on Monday. I’m the dean of an exclusive all-girls’ Academy in downtown D_. Exclusive not as in expensive, but as in discerning. We take only the most capable students, regardless of ability to pay.
Anyway, as I said, I’d been occupied all weekend, which wasn’t ideal, because it was the start of a second week of a new school year at Hilldale Academy. I came in to work to find a mound of paperwork waiting for me. Much of it related to one of our newer programs, in which adults from the community can take extension classes at Hilldale, simply by agreeing to be bound by the same rules as our regular students. We have an excellent faculty, and the program, now in its second year, was proving very popular. These classes run for six weeks, and that Monday was the first day for them. And it was paperwork intensive.
I was interrupted by a knock on the door. I recognized it as the knock of my secretary and right hand woman, Michele. “Come in,” I told her, and she did so.
“One of the extension students to see you, Bill,” she told me. “I would have sent her in on her own, but I know you’re swamped. You want me to deal with her?”
“No, I’ll handle this,” I told her. “It’s only 8:30 of her first day though. How can she be in trouble this fast?”
“Well, I for one am not surprised. And you won’t be either in a minute,” said Michele. “Just make sure she gets her money’s worth.” She turned to the door, paused, and gave herself a resounding slap on the left hip pocket of her jeans, to make sure she’d gotten her point across. Hilldale Academy is a pretty strict school. When Michele attended, 20 years ago, it was even stricter.
When the door opened again, I understood how a student had been sent to me so soon. It all had to do with the student. This one swarmed in, a tornado of motion and conversation.
“Mr. Murphy!! I didn’t expect to see you so soon! How have you been? Ms. Patel caught me talking in class. Do you still give it on the bare? I graduated from Cornell, and then spent two years in Tibet. Do you still have the same paddle? Oh, there it is!”
Before I could get a word edgewise, Samantha Nelson had dropped her jeans and lain facedown across my lap. She knew the drill, at least as well as any student we’d ever had.
“Hold on a second, there, Samantha,” I told her, giving her bottom a sharp slap on the roundest part. Though still a bit on the large side, it was more muscular than I remembered it. “I’ll need to check that your paperwork is in order. And I want to hear more about the offense.” She started to get up, but I gave her another slap, and she stayed put.
Her forms were in the pile in front of me, so I didn’t have to dislodge her from my lap. Her permissions were filled out. On to the next step.
“Why did Ms. Patel send you to see me?” I asked the bottom over my knee. It was clad, somewhat, in red Wonder Woman panties. These were familiar as well, although much newer than their predecessors, which had become a mite threadbare from hard work protecting their wearer from the logical consequences of her numerous transgressions.
“Well, she’d already spanked her three, and then I got caught asking to borrow a pen. It was cut and dry, really,” Samantha told me, turning her slightly freckled face up to address me, her brown eyes sparkling a bit, I thought. It was cut and dry. Each teacher was allowed to give up to three classroom spankings a period. Usually these were given on the girls’ bare bottoms, with the teacher’s desk shielding her from general view. After that, they were to send the students to me. Monica Patel, though only 29, was a thorough spanker. “It’s just like old times, really,” Samantha continued. “I suppose I’ll have to take my underwear down. It’s too bad, because your fingerprints were just about healed off my butt.”
I gave her another sharp spank. “Oh! Sorry, sir! Bottom!” She peeled down her panties. I inspected the task at hand.
“What’s this?” I asked, giving her right cheek another slap. “Been a naughty girl, Samantha?” There were a few fresh strawberries on the spot in question. She winced with the slap. “Were you one of the girls Ms. Patel spanked in the classroom?” This, coupled with her subsequent transgression, would have earned her a paddling.
“No!!” Samantha cried. “No, not yet!”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. I let it go, however. “Then who spanked you, Samantha?” Earlier, I meant. It was I that gave her another ringing slap now.
“I was tardy, sir! I took them out in the hall!”
Out in the hall meant on the bare rear, probably bent over and grabbing her ankles. Each teacher had a foot and a half long wooden ruler they used to punish tardiness. A student could take her five or six swats in front of the class, with her pants up, or in the hall. In any case, though the punishment stung quite a bit, it didn’t count against the offender for subsequent disciplinary considerations.
“Oh?” I asked her, spanking the bruised area again.
“She’s gotten stronger I think. Or else my bottom’s gotten weaker. Pattie Heinze hasn’t lost her touch, either.” Patricia Heinze was another teacher. Her spankings were legendary. I let the nickname go. If I started punishing every one of Samantha Nelson’s transgressions, I would have tendonitis by lunchtime, and she would still be incorrigible.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been to see her,” I told Samantha. “I don’t see her signature anywhere.
“No,” Samantha laughed. “If I’d been spanked by her, I would have kept my nose clean for a bit. I just had a between-the-ankles view of her in action while I was getting my paddling.” That was part of the risk of taking it in the hall, that other students, in similar positions, might be witnesses. “She was giving it to one of the regular students, a tall blonde girl. A soccer player, by the looks of things. I don’t think she’s been spanked very much, the way she was crying and hopping around. Pattie still has the same stroke, up from underneath and right across both buns. I hope the girl’s a starter, cause she won’t want to sit on the bench for a while.”
Enough. I started her spanking. Her thighs felt warm on my legs as she squirmed with each swat. I spanked her harder than I do our minor students. Whack. Whack. Whack. “Oh!” “Ouch.” “Ouch!” “Anyway, I think Ms. Patel – Ouch! – I think she and Pattie – Ouch! Owiiie! – I think they were having a contest to – Ow – see who could spank – ow!! – harder! Ms. Patel lost I – OWWW!” I’d started to concentrate on the strawberries. The narrative died away, and the squirming and heat picked up dramatically.
Afterwards, I held her on my lap while she rubbed her pinked bottom. She reached down and dragged my hand over, so I helped out a little. She was always a quick healer. My right thigh was a bit damp for some reason. A minute later, she was up and poking around my office, her pants still around her ankle. I was curious. She took my larger paddle off the hook and gave her left cheek an experimental swat, then turned to look accusingly at me. I save that one for special occasions. It packs a wallop. She tried the regular one next. That one’s about the size of a ping pong paddle. Then she went to look at pictures on the wall, her bare hiney jutting out towards me.
“Ms. Nelson,” I told her, “If you’re going to be here for a while, I should offer you my hospitality. Many of my guests find a few swats of the paddle to be a bracing restorative.”
She waggled her rump at me, no joke, then turned to look. When she saw me reaching for the larger paddle, her smile froze. She had her pants up in a flash, and was buckling her belt as she raced out the door.
Michele came in to sympathize. “That girl is the best argument I’ve ever seen for bringing back the cane,” she said. “Her father always favored a thick belt, like the one she wears.”
I remembered seeing the welts a time or two. “That did usually straighten her out, as I recall. For a day or two, anyway. Can you tell Monica she has my permission to use the ruler on that one whenever it seems necessary?” Six weeks of this, I thought. At least it was only one class a day.
I stayed busy the rest of the day, between paperwork and various visits from students. Monica Patel showed up around 2:45, during the last class of the day. To talk about Samantha, I assumed.
“Just whack her, Monica,” I told her. “At least give me something to aim at.”
“Okay, Bill. Will do,” she said. She seemed nervous, her deep voice a bit lower than usual, and the hint of a blush in her dark cheeks. She’s of Indian ancestry, by way of South America and Queens. A couple students end up with serious crushes on her every year, and she finds herself wearing her hand out on their bottoms. She was a senior the first year I taught at Hilldale. I’d known her for years. In fact, like many of the faculty members, she lived in the same apartment complex as I did, right across the hall from me in her case. What was she nervous about, I wondered.
“Anything on your mind? It’s only six weeks with Samantha, and I’ll wallop her whenever you send her on. She’ll get tired of it soon enough. Hopefully, anyway.”
“It’s not really Samantha, Bill,” she told me, almost in a whisper. “I signed up for the French extension course.” It was a first, for a faculty member to enroll in one of these courses, but why not? She had the period free.
“With Claire England, right? Wait a minute, though,” I told her. “Isn’t that class meeting now? You’d better get back to class before she tans your tail.” ‘Fair of face and hard of hand,’ the students described Ms. England in the last yearbook. She was one of the younger teachers, twenty five and tall and strong, though slender. She grew up in Alabama, and never missed a chance to share with me her strong feelings about letting teachers use the paddle in the classroom.
Monica crossed her hands behind her, and gradually comprehension dawned. “She sent you to see me?” I asked. Lord. There are laws…
“I signed the forms,” she whispered. “I already got it from her. Talking…”
“It’s the paddle then,” I recovered into formula. “Come over here.” When she’d been my student, her parents had made a strong request that she take all her punishments on her bare bottom in front of the class. She’d been eighteen that year, but hadn’t objected. I’d only spanked her a few times, but she was always well developed, and the whole class had found them memorable experiences.
“Lift your skirt,” I told her, as she lowered herself across my knees. I thought about the larger paddle. She knew what she was getting into, and dammit, I had to work with her after this. But I settled for the smaller one. “Pull down your panties, please.”
She recovered her voice. “Can you? Please… I can’t reach…” I gave her a whack where the white of her underwear met the brown of her bottom. She managed to reach.
“… ashamed of yourself…” whack “ow!!” “…a teacher at this school…” whack “… the first day…” wiggling, squirming, moaning. “…what would your students think if they could see you now?” whack… “I should call them in…” whack. You get the idea.
We rubbed her bottom together as she cried and squirmed. My leg was damp again. Odd.
“Time for the note,” I told her, after a minute or so. Whenever I have to use the paddle, I have the student write a note to their parents or guardian explaining the punishment. We’ve kept up the practice with the extension students, although they designate the recipients of their notes. Most choose boyfriends or girlfriends. Some choose teachers. Ms. England is a favorite, as was the miscreant crying across my knees. I have them write their notes in the same position they get their punishments, to help them keep the details fresh. “Who’s it to?”
“I haven’t chosen anyone,” she stammered. “I don’t… There’s no one…”
“What about Pattie Heinze?” I suggested, evilly. Put me in this position, will you? “I bet she’d be willing.”
“No, please… She’d skin me alive. I--- Could you--- You live across the hall…”
So she wrote out her note, asking me for any additional punishment I thought appropriate.
I gave her a last swat across her full bottom. “Come by at 8 to get it signed. Maybe we can make use of those peach trees in the courtyard.”
She shuddered, rubbed her bottom one last time, and dressed herself. Lord. What had I gotten myself into?
As soon as she left, I called Susan Kovacs, the school’s lawyer. We’re well-funded, so it’s a staff position. She came in two minutes later. “What’s up Bill?”
I explained. “No, no problem, Bill,” she assured me. “I checked the forms when she signed up. Whack away. Happy trails.”
“Well, a warning might have been appreciated. I just took the paddle to the shapely bare bottom of one of my employees. Christ. She’s coming by my apartment in five hours to get a switching.” I was mad. Then a thought occurred to me. “Wait a second… The forms say an extension student can be punished for any violation of student rules that occurs while she’s on school property. Monica smokes… What if I catch her smoking in the staff room?”
Susan smiled broadly. “She signed the forms. Haul her hiney in here and blister it. With my blessings. That bitch walloped my bare ass out in the hall with a plank this morning, just for being three minutes late to her class. I felt like I was sitting on a stove the entire period.”
My jaw dropped. “Wait a second… You’re taking a class too?” I regretted not having finished the paperwork. Quite a bit.
“Yeah, I thought it would be fun, and maybe help me focus a bit. I’d never been spanked before, but it was… interesting. I'd give anything to see her get one though.”
I was boiling. Then a thought occurred to me. “You’re on school grounds yourself, Miss. Bitch is not the proper way to refer to your teachers.”
She argued, being a lawyer, but her slacks came down and her tush was positioned across my knee. From working at a desk, her bottom was fuller than it could have been, though still breathtaking. I went for the smaller paddle.
She wailed. She wiggled. Roses bloomed at the base of her seat. She swore. She promised to behave. She tried to cover her buns. She got a death grip on my calf. I just kept on walloping.
“That was… something,” she gasped, once she’d rubbed her ass back to tolerable. “Woah.”
“There’s the matter of the note,” I told her. “To whom will it be addressed?”
The answer didn’t surprise me totally. I can learn. I relieved my feelings with the paddle, and told her 9:00. I would have a wooden backed hairbrush waiting for her.
There was one more piece of business before I blessedly reached the end of the day. A timid knock sounded on my door, just minutes before 3:45.
“Come in,” I yelled, trying to sound encouraging, though still strict. It can be intimidating the first time.
A pale, nervous looking extension student poked her head through the door, then the rest of her. Beth Brewster, she whispered, when I asked her name.
“I was told to see you,” she whispered. I studied her closely. Early 20s, I thought. Brown hair down to her shoulders. Tall, skinny a bit, as though she’d recently lost weight. Bookish, full bottomed. There was a lot of that going around, although in many cases it was probably swelling.
“What seems to be the problem, Ms. Brewster?” I was still trying to sound encouraging.
“Ms. Heinze found me with cigarettes, sir,” she whispered. “She sent me to see you. She said… She said… She said you would g-g-g-give me a choice.”
Oh dear. The famous choice. Smoking was a serious no-no, which was why Susan was so eager to see me catch Monica at it, in view of the indignities Monica had inflicted on her own rump. Pants down, of course, and a healthy dose of the paddle, to be sure. What made it worse, though, was that the offender was to take it grabbing her ankles, as she would if she’d been found tardy. Of course the paddle was a little more severe than the ruler, the paddling went on for longer, and lots of girls found it uncomfortable assuming that position around me. So there was a choice. Beth seemed nervous, and I thought the second part of the choice would appeal to her. Unfortunately. Because that would involve a detention with the teacher who caught her, Ms. Pattie Heinze. The joke was, her parents had settled for Patricia because Whackie wasn’t a common short form for any girls’ name. Teachers had nearly limitless license to spank or even paddle students during a detention. Patricia favored having the girls sit bare-bottomed for the whole hour and a half, to save time. I shuddered to think of this bookish, innocent looking girl in her hands, across her knee, for a full 90 minutes. Like a piranha, that woman.
“I think… I think… I think I want the detention sir. She seemed nice enough.” Beth had found her voice, though lost her mind.
I drew verbal pictures for her, of Patty on the warpath. I showed her the yearbook from last year, where she was pictured holding a canoe paddle grimly over the upturned bottom of the yearbook editor, in commemoration of her having been voted butt-breaker of the year for the sixth year in a row. To no avail. Detention she chose. It was with a heavy heart that I watched her heart shaped bottom head out the door to meet its doom.
She was back in one minute later, standing in the doorway. There was a snap about the level of her bottom, and she jumped forward, revealing Michele behind her. There was a doubled up belt in Michele's hand.
“Now, young lady!” Michele ordered. “Ask him to paddle you, and then get your jeans down around your ankles!”
“I changed… my mind?” Beth stammered, looking back at Michele nervously.
“Darn right you did,” Michele barked, punctuating the sentence with another stroke of the belt. “The very idea… A detention with Pattie Heinze!” Another snap of the belt. Beth shrieked.
“The very idea!” Michele continued. “How many times did I spank you when I babysat you? Put them all together, that’s what you’d get from her! Now get your pants down before I pull them down myself!” Another snap. Beth hastened to comply, although the lowering of her jeans put her in a poor position, vis a vis Michele’s belt. Snap! Snap!
“I’ll take it from here, Ms. Stafford,” I told her. “Thank you.”
“I’ll see you outside,” she told Beth, ominously. “Smoking! You’ll smoke alright…”
Beth’s eyes were tearing up. “Over here, please, Ms. Brewster,” I told her. “Now drop your underwear. That’s right. And now grab your ankles. Excellent. Well done.”
Maybe I was going too far, but she’d been through a lot. I stepped behind her with the paddle. “Now stay in position, please, and count to 15, once per lick.”
She made it to three, then to six, before hopping around as though auditioning for the Kirov, both hands clamped firmly to her seat. “Didn’t Ms. Stafford spank you when she babysat you?”
“Yes,” Beth sobbed, still holding her buns.
“Well, this can’t be that much worse,” I told her. “Assume the position again, please, dear.”
“She stopped b-b-b-babysitting me when I was 10 though!” Beth cried. Oh dear. We made it to 15, me holding her across my hip as I gave her the prescribed medicine. Whack. Owie!! Eight! Whack!!! Owie! Nine! Whack! Hop. Hop. Hop. T-t-t-en. I helped her rub afterwards. She didn’t bother pulling up her jeans before going out to meet Michele’s belt. I was glad the door was thick. |
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