MODERN EDUCATION
by
C.Lakewood
When I became a teenager, I began noticing that my parents were
wrangling more than I considered normal. I never knew what it was
about, but it just got worse, and, when was barely 16, they finally
divorced. My mother got the house, the better car, handsome alimony,
and me. As if this wasn't enough, I had to change schools and enroll
in the all-girl Aquarius Academy. (Adults considered it "prestigious"
-- and I guess it was -- but most kids my age called it "A-Queer-Ass
Academy.") It really wasn't all that bad, but it was strange. It was
a very "progressive" school, specializing in "holistic education." It
was private, had a huge endowment, and accepted no government funds,
so it was not much interfered with.
There were things about it I didn't like: all the tofu and granola
in the cafeteria, required courses such as "Tibetan Culture" and
"Basic Macrobiotics," and, of course, having no friends there. And
there were some things I was iffy about: the lack of boys (maybe 55-45
in favor) and the school uniforms (50-50). But there were things I
really did like: first-rate labs and computer equipment, great library
(for both academic and casual reading), Palladian architecture and
Edwardian interiors. The teachers were sort of weird, but they seemed
good at their jobs. My home room teacher, Ms. Philps, was maybe
weirder than most. She was a smallish woman, mid-30s, with a thick
mop of red hair, a pale complection, and an English accent that could
cut glass. Her disciplinary methods were sort of New Age meets Lizzie
Borden: she believed that parents ought to be held accountable for the
sins of their children -- and I guess the consent form that every
parent had signed gave her the authority to do just that.
I got into trouble my second week.
It wasn't anything to do with academics, but rather with athletics
-- which I've never been terribly good at. The ultra-skimpy uniforms
we had to wear for P.E. didn't at all flatter what figure I had then
(actually "flat" is the operative word here), and I was being teased
in ways I had no tolerance for. When I retaliated, I was the one
caught...the only one. (As devoid of common sense as I often was, at
least I knew enough not to "squeal.")
Since my mother had sole custody of me, Ms. Philps told me that
she should come in to school at 9 o'clock the following morning, in
order to "address this misbehavior."
So, at 9:00 the next morning, Ms. Philps met my mother at the
classroom door. They spoke for a few minutes out in the hall, but,
from what I could see through the door glass, Ms. Philps did most of
the talking, and my mother merely stammered for a bit and wound up
just nodding passively. Then they entered the classroom, Ms. Philps
in front, looking frosty, followed by my rather red-faced mother.
"Girls, as you know, Terry behaved badly yesterday. I am aware
that she is a new girl here, but that does not confer license to be
uncivil. Moreover, I must remind you that it is the responsibility of
parents to teach their children how to behave. Terry's mother has
failed in this and therefore must be punished."
Everything was perfectly quiet as Ms. Philps picked up a long,
yellowish stick from her desk and flexed it. For a moment, I thought
it was a map pointer, but then I knew it for what it was: a school
punishment cane. She turned to Mother.
"Since you are now no more than a girl under punishment, I cannot
call you 'Mrs. Owen.' Your Christian name is 'Margaret,' I believe.
Well, we already have a 'Margaret' in class, so you shall be 'Maggie.'
"Now, take off your clothes, Maggie."
Mother was 42 years old and pretty well-preserved, though she did
have a few laugh-lines, and her light brown hair was beginning to
grey. I suppose I should have looked away, but this was going to be
the first time I'd seen her naked in longer than I could remember, so
I paid close attention. As she removed each garment, she put it on
an empty desk up front. A couple of girls barely suppressed a snicker
when she hid her panties beneath the pile.
"Stand up straight, Maggie, arms at your sides."
There was some grey in her pubic hair, as well.
She was 5'6" and maybe 135 plus pounds; her bra size was 36C (I'd
checked). With her chubby butt, soft abs, and breasts beginning to
sag, she was certainly not "fat," but was, I guess, verging on what
you'd call "full-figured."
I wondered if I'd look like that in 25 years.
"Constance, Ashleigh, you two fetch the bench."
The two girls went over to what I'd always assumed was some sort
of occasional table and removed the green cloth throw to reveal a
sturdy-looking bench about waist-high, with a slightly swaybacked top.
They moved it front and center.
"Over the bench, now, Maggie, if you please."
My mother, hyperventilating, draped herself across the bench, her
bare butt toward the class. Connie and Ash proceeded to fasten her
down, with leather straps around each wrist, around each thigh just
above the knee, and across the small of her back. Mother's legs were
widely straddled, and, in between, you could just see, well,
EVERYTHING. I was embarrassed, but fascinated. I briefly wondered
why she would submit to this, but I guessed that my being expelled was
the only alternative, and Mother was such a snob.
Everyone leaned forward to get a better look.
Ms. Philps then began by delivering a series of rapid, very light
strokes from the top of my mother's buttocks to about mid-thigh, using
only the last 10 or 12 inches of the cane. She looked like a real
virtuosa; my mother, on the other hand, was a captive audience.
This staccato warm-up must have produced a definite sting, but it
can't have been entirely unpleasant, for Mother actually seemed to be
sticking out her bottom as if asking for more. In any case, it wasn't
long before her butt was nicely pink all over (and twitching).
Ms. Philps paused, as if establishing an interval between the
prelim and the main event. "You shall receive 12 strokes, Maggie, but
I must warn you that any misbehavior on your part will result in
extras. That bench, for example, is not bolted down, so you could
move it around. Don't."
Connie whispered to Ash, "I wonder if she'll piss herself." Ash
managed to stifle a giggle.
And then Ms. Philps began again.
The cane whistled through the air, sounding savage indeed, and
landed full on the meatiest part of Mother's bottom. She yelped and
went rigid, her butt muscles clenching. I noticed that the first few
strokes were struck mainly with the middle portion of the cane, but
then they gradually began including more and more of the end portion
-- which seemed to increase the sting (judging from Mother's
reactions). Welts began to rise.
Ms. Philps was relentless. Mother was wailing with each stroke
and writhing to the extent her restraints allowed. She was
blubbering. Her butt-hole winked at us. But the bench didn't move.
After the 8th stroke, Ms. Philps paused again and skimmed the tip
of the cane lightly over Mother's welts and between her legs. Mother
was flinching and whimpering. When Ms. Philps raised the cane to
begin the last four strokes, I noticed that the tip was glistening
with moisture. Connie and Ash and several other girls apparently
noticed, too.
Each of Ms. Philps's final four was delivered very precisely, with
a finishing snap of the wrist. And there was a longer interval
between these strokes.
After the 12th stroke, Ms. Philps cast the cane aside, onto her
desk. The whole class seemed to exhale simultaneously. I realized I
was sweating heavily.
When my sobbing mother had been released from the bench, Ms.
Philps said primly, "I hope this proves instructive, Maggie, for both
you and your daughter. Now, follow me. Leave your clothes here."
She strode regally from the room. Mother followed, walking rather
unsteadily in a sort of half-crouch, sniffling and wiggling her
well-striped butt. There were drops of wetness gleaming in her pubic
hair. She looked exhausted.
Afterward, poor Mother had to stand in a tiny, stuffy storage
closet, naked, with her hands on her head, for I don't know how long.
This closet, which held supplies of chalk and light bulbs and some
obsolescent audio-visual equipment, was not used very much, normally.
This was not a normal day, however. By early afternoon, 144 boxes of
chalk had been fetched from that closet by a succession of inquisitive
schoolgirls.
I tried to act nonchalant, but there was a fair blizzard of notes
being passed around class. And at lunch, the caning was all anybody
wanted to talk about. It seems that Mother was the first parent to
undergo corporal punishment at the school in almost a year. I had
become notorious.
************************
After my last class, I had to stop off to see Ms. Philps.
She handed me a bundle in a plastic trash bag. "Your mother's
clothes are in the bag...along with her purse, containing her wallet
and keys. I gave her a P.E. tunic and sent her home an hour ago. She
was not allowed to use the rest room, despite her tearful entreaties.
I imagine that walking home in a schoolgirl's tunic, barefoot, and
with a full bladder, will reinforce today's lesson. Right now she's
waiting on your front porch for you to come home and let her into the
house. She'll have to come in tomorrow to return the tunic (washed
and ironed, of course); she can recover her car then."
When I got home, the first thing Mother did was to run frantically
to the bathroom. Then she fixed dinner. I was ravenous, too, despite
having stopped off for a snack after school. Sitting at the table
that evening, she squirmed a lot. In a hushed voice, she asked me
very politely not to tell Daddy about today -- and to please, PLEASE
behave myself in school after this...to remember what would happen if
I didn't. I promised her that I would remember, and I did remember.
And I made sure that I got into some sort of scrape at least once
a week for the next eight and a half months.
