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RETURN OF THE DISCIPLINARIAN

by Frank Martinet


1. Monday

I awoke groggily with a disconcerted feeling. The lacy pink bed cover was not mine, nor was the bookshelf of porcelain unicorn miniatures above my head. I sat up with mild curiosity, wondering who I'd come home with, but then I remembered: this was Grandma Eden's guest room. I was back home in Dornbrook.

I couldn't remember much from the previous night, or even the previous week for that matter. Between cramming for finals and celebrating my graduation with the gang at the Lucky Dragon, I hadn't slept more than a dozen hours in the past one hundred and fifty. The train had come in after midnight and to judge from the afternoon light streaming into the room, I had been dead to the world for most of the day. I still felt like hell but the idea of slugging in bed for much longer sounded like even worse torture. I stumbled from bed into the bathroom, relieved myself, and took a quick hot shower.

Grandma Eden was setting out the tea things when I emerged, dressed and somewhat alert.

"Marty! You're awake!"

"Good afternoon, Grams. Thanks for letting me sleep in. I was beat."

She laughed, her voice amusingly girlish for one pushing seventy. "I didn't have much choice! I knocked several times but you were dead as a log."

"Sorry. I haven't had much time for sleeping lately."

"Sit, and I'll get you some breakfast."

I was famished and obeyed, quickly absorbing a mountain of hot buttered scones with honey, coffee instead of tea, deviled ham sandwiches, and fried eggs with bacon. I felt like a real person again when I finished and decided I'd go for a walk in the fresh air. It was a lovely day, warm and bright, and I was restless after weeks of studying.

It was great to be home. When I'd lived in Dornbrook I'd thought the little town quaint and old-fashioned and couldn't wait to be off to university, but having been away for a while, I realized there was much to like about the peaceful place. It still wasn't the sort of place for me to permanently settle in, but it was a nice change of pace for a visit.

I traveled up Gravely Street to the top of Dorrill Hill with its beautiful view of the surrounding countryside. I noticed that even Dornbrook hadn't escaped change: there was a new housing development out on the west side and a new collection of stores just off Route 13.

"Marty Reece? Marvel's boy?"

I turned at the voice and vaguely recognized the dowdy woman in the doorway of the small brick cottage. She was Mrs. Lun-something, I thought.

"Yes ma'am, that's me. Just here visiting, staying with Grandma Eden."

"Weren't you in school?"

"All done, ma'am. I got my diploma two days ago."

"Why that's wonderful, just wonderful. Come inside, Marty. You must tell me all about it. I've just made a cream pie. You must have a slice."

Though I argued, the woman wouldn't hear of any excuse, and I finally indulged her. As we entered her home, I discretely noted her name on the stack of fresh mail on the little table by the door. Emily Lundgren. When I was a teenager I'd mowed her lawn and done odd jobs for her after her husband passed. With her being a widow, I hadn't charged her as much as I usually did, though she made it up by feeding me cakes and cookies. She was good friends with my folks.

She seated me at the kitchen table and quickly had a plate with a huge wedge of chocolate cream pie. It was delicious and though I was still full from my late breakfast, it disappeared all too easily.

"So sorry about your parents," she said to me. "Are you coping?"

"It'll be a year in the fall. Still strange for them to be gone, but I'm fine."

We talked about old times for a few minutes. She told me the news of people in the neighborhood I might remember, and I told her about my studies.

"My degree's in economics, though I haven't decided what I'm going to do next. I could continue with school and specialize, get my teaching degree, or get a business job somewhere. I've got time to think about it, though. My parents left me with some money."

"That's wonderful, dear. Oh Rebecca, come and meet Marty."

I turned in my seat to see the most gorgeous creature heading my way. She was probably eighteen, with long luminous hair as black as midnight. She had a pleasant round face with large dark eyes that grinned at me. Her smile was more than friendly as she gazed at me. She wasn't tall, but sturdily built with a squat body that looked voluptuously plump in all the proper places.

"This is my niece, Rebecca. She's living with me for the summer while my little sister and her husband are abroad. Rebecca, this is Marty Reece. He used to live here but he's been off at school and just graduated from university."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Reece." Her smile was sincere and her eyes admiring.

"Marty, please. No one calls me Mr. Reece!"

Rebecca saw the pie with the missing slice. "He gets pie but I couldn't even have a bite?"

"He's a guest."

"I'm a guest, too!"

"You're family. You can have a crumpet."

"I don't want a bloody crumpet! I want pie."

Mrs. Lundgren glared at her niece. "You'll sit politely in front of our guest or you'll sit with a hot bottom!" She rolled her eyes at me while Rebecca flushed. "Girls today. Need to be thrashed twice as much as boys, I dare say. I've had to cane her twice in the two weeks she's been here."

Rebecca wrinkled her nose in distaste. "You promised me a dose Sunday, too," she muttered glumly. "I wish you'd just get it over with. I hate waiting for it."

"We could handle it right now if you'd prefer."

The teenage girl glanced at me, grinning. "Yes, I'm sure that's what Marty wants to do with his day."

I stood. "If you need some family time, I can take off-"

"Nonsense, sit back down." Emily Lundgren was commanding and I obeyed. "I usually deal with discipline in private but you're practically family, Marty. In fact, why don't you handle it?"

"Me?!" I cried at the same time as Rebecca said, "Him?!"

"Weren't you a prefect? Surely you had to dish out a caning or two."

"Well, yes, but-"

"My arm isn't what it used to be, Marty. Rebecca needs a firm hand. It's obvious she isn't learning enough from my feeble beatings."

Rebecca and I stared at each other, her pretty face taking on a woeful look. "Aunt Em," she began, "this really isn't necessary. I was just kidding about wanting to get it over with. A Sunday beating is fine!"

But Mrs. Lundgren was a stubborn woman and once she'd made up her mind, there was no dissuading her.

"Go, give her a sound thrashing for me. Rebecca, show him where we keep the sticks."

"Aunt Em, please! No offense," she nodded at me, "but I'd rather not be punished by someone I just met. I'll just wait for Sunday."

"You see why she needs discipline? The cheek on her! Go, now, and not another word!"

Rebecca stood reluctantly, looking sour. She gave me a disgusted glance and jerked her head toward the interior of the house and took off. I started to follow. At the doorway, I paused.

"Are you coming, Mrs. Lundgren?"

"You take care of it, son. I need to get started on supper. Make sure you make it memorable for her."

"How many's it to be?"

"Give her eight. And I want to see the marks, after, so make them hard!"

"Yes, ma'am."

I caught up with the sour girl as she moved down the hallway. We entered the den and she waved an annoyed hand to a bin in the corner. It contained five or six slender canes of various lengths and thicknesses. She looked up at me hopefully.

"You can let me off easy," she whispered. "Just make it so she can hear and I'll squeal loudly."

"I dare say you will." I withdrew one of the longer, sturdier rods, bending it to test its flexibility. She paled as she watched.

"Not that one! That's a number one."

"This flimsy thing? It would barely qualify as a senior stick at my school. It's hardly a yard long."

In truth it was at least forty inches and thick enough to make my insides quiver as it revived painful memories. But I'd been admiring the young girl's plump backside as we entered the room and was suddenly keen to do it justice. If her aunt wanted her soundly thrashed, I'd bloody well do it right!

"Damn," muttered the girl. She was looking uncomfortable now. She sighed, noisily, and I could tell that her calm was somewhat forced. "Let's get this over with. You want me at the davenport?"

"Sounds fine. We'll do this school rules."

"School rules?"

"You'll take the beating properly. If you get out of position or put your hands back, the stroke doesn't count and you earn an extra."

"Damn!"

"You seem nervous."

Her face took on a rosy hue. "I shouldn't be. I get whacked often enough. But I've never been beaten by someone like you. It's usually my mom or Aunt Em or Mrs. Parnsworth at school. None of them can whack for shhhh-" She broke off, eyes on my biceps, her flush deepening.

I laughed, swishing the cane through air to produce the telltale hiss that chills the spine of any schoolboy or girl.

"Tennis is my game. Racquetball indoors if the weather's poor."

She nodded, glumly. "I was afraid of that. You're an athlete."

"Not professionally. I just play for entertainment and for the exercise."

"You don't really have to use a number one, do you? I'm sure you could hurt me just fine with a number three."

"Enough stalling. Dress up, pants down, and over the davenport."

"Pants down? I can't do that! You're... you're a man!"

"Thanks for noticing. You're a big girl, too big for beating over pants."

"That... that's at school or from Mom or Aunt Em. I can't go bare in front of you!"

I sighed. "It'll be ten, then. And I'll make you regret it."

Rebecca gulped and looked like she'd swallowed a burning coal. "Fine." She spat the word.

She faced the arm of the sofa and with a deep breath, threw herself over it. Once prone, she dragged her light summer dress upward, wiggling in an amusing manner to get it up over her generous hips. Soon I was staring at her pantied bottom, the thin material taut across the rotund bum.

Stepping closer, I made sure she was thoroughly stretched. I tapped her ankles with the cane tip to widen her stance until she was on her tiptoes. Her arms reached for the far end of the davenport. I adjusted her dress, pulling the pooled cloth to the middle of her back and leaving her slender waist bare. I adjusted her backward a few inches so her belly was on the sofa arm. Her bum hung out vulnerably in a manner I found profoundly attractive. The rounded cheeks were far more plump and full than any boy I'd thrashed. The view pleased my lower half.

Only the gauzy underwear protected her now. I gripped the waistband of the pants and jerked them higher, inciting a faint gasp and a nervous wiggle from the girl. I pulled the pants cruelly tight, wedging the material deep within the two prominent hillocks. When I was finished, it was almost better than bare. Though I couldn't see the treasures between her legs, the shape of her bum was clearly outlined and the thin pants offered only psychological protection.




© Frank Martinet
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