Telephone Calls

An American school student is due to be paddled, and this story reveals the action and the emotions from both viewpoints. By a new writer to us.

By Zach Allen

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. She sat, nervously, watching, waiting. She couldn’t decide which was worse; it being answered, or it not being answered. Why had she been so dumb? And, really, why do they have to call her home? She’s 17, for Christ’s sake. They don’t have to go calling her mommy and daddy. She shuffled on her seat, seeing him give up, hang up the phone.

“It seems we can’t reach either of your parents right now, Elizabeth. I will keep trying periodically throughout the day, and you can report back to me 15 minutes before the end of the school day. Here’s a note for your 7th period teacher.” A temporary reprieve! Or was it just a prolonging of her agony? She’d made her decision; why did her parents have a say in it? Why did they even have to know? Yes, she’d made a mistake, but she had owed up to it, and was prepared to accept the consequences. That was the mature, adult thing to do, right? Yes, yes, she wouldn’t feel much like an adult when those consequences were meted out, but that was beside the point. So why did they have to get permission from her parents?

Her thoughts spun in circles, and she could barely pay attention as the classes went by. Math, Chemistry, whatever. Finally, 7th period arrived. Shamefaced, she handed the note to her gym teacher. It had seemed so smart, having 7th period gym, getting out of school right after. Now, realizing she’d been wearing shorts when she returned to the office…? Maybe Mr. Watson would give her time to change?

Of course not. He waited until she had just one minute to get from the gymnasium to the office. Sweaty, and dressed for running, she tentatively knocked on Mr. Ambrose’s office door.

“Come in,” came the far too ominous response.

*     *     *

Frustrated, he waited until the teenager had left his office, then shook his head, and wished for a drink. Had he really spent all those years of college, and nearly twenty years in education, just so he could be constantly dealing with bratty teenagers? He had set out to educate their minds, not hand out punishments. He thought becoming Vice-Principal would give him a chance to have an impact on more students at once, not reduce him to their judge and jury. He cursed softly, under his breath.

“Damned official discipline policy!”

He knew it was a lost cause; he knew the school’s rules even back when he first interviewed for the job. But, really, giving the students a choice between reasonable discipline and archaic practices that should have died with the 1950s? That’s not how he wanted to run a school. Plus the added headache of having to secure parental permission in order to administer a punishment he didn’t believe in in the first place. Why couldn’t she have just taken a couple days of ISS? A simple letter home would have fulfilled the notification policy, and he wouldn’t have to waste his day trying to track down parents who don’t answer the damn phone.

On no less than his 5th attempt, he got through to her mother. As he always did when he had to make these calls, he secretly held out hope that the parent would be mortified and offended by the very idea, that he would be called a barbarian (or worse) and then he could issue the much more sensible detention he preferred. Like so many times before, he hoped, but just like most of the time, he hoped in vain.

The whole conversation lasted less than two minutes, and permission was quickly granted. He hung up, and, with a sigh, reflected that at least this mother wasn’t one of the real gung ho “true believers” who would exhort him on, or promise more for the student when she got home.

He glanced at the clock. 7th period had just started, so he had better get prepared.

How had his desk gotten so cluttered again so quickly? He’d cleared it off just a few hours earlier, when this whole thing was supposed to have been resolved. Quickly reorganizing the papers and getting the middle of the desk clear, he barely returned to his seat before the knock on his door came.

“Come in,” he said, resigned to his fate as much as she was to hers.

He nearly did a double take when she walked through the door. He looked down immediately and grabbed her student file. Flipping it open, he got the explanation he needed; she had just come from gym class. Why hadn’t he checked her schedule earlier? He would have given her time to take a quick shower and change if he had known. A glance at his watch assured him there was no longer time for that, and he mentally strangled Watson, that damn coach in his head. Watson probably gets off on the idea of a teen girl being punished dressed like that. Hell, probably thought that he got off on it himself. Well, the damage was done now. He forced himself to sound as stern as he could, hiding his distaste for all of this.

“Come in, Elizabeth. I did get a hold of your mother, and she has consented to your choice, so let’s just get this over with.”

*     *     *

She blinked. Did he just, like, look her up and down? It’s his fault she’s here wearing these stupid thin shorts anyway. He probably did it on purpose, she thought to herself. Great, that’s just what she needs. She chose the quick route, and he’s probably a pervert or something. Well, too late to change her mind now.

“Come in, Elizabeth. I did get a hold of your mother, and she has consented to your choice, so let’s just get this over with.”

She shuddered at the coldness in his voice. Did he not even think of her as a person? Still, she moved from the doorway to stand in front of his desk. He didn’t even bother to talk to her now, just gestured at her to bend over. As she laid her upper body across the desk, she was acutely aware of just how short and just how very tight her shorts were. He opened a desk drawer and pulled something (oh god, it) out and then walked behind her. She tensed and braced herself, wondering what was taking so long. Was he just staring at her ass? “So, you’ve chosen this over two days of in-school suspension. The school handbook states that you may trade one day of ISS for two pops with the paddle, so you will be receiving four.”

What? Did he think she needed to review 3rd grade math? Or was he just taking his time and enjoying the view? Would he just fucking get on with it already? CRACK Oh god, it hurt so much more than she expected. She hadn’t been spanked since she was around ten, and never with anything but a hand. This, this was worse than an entire spanking, and it was just the first. No way she could take three more of those. All her concerns about what he was seeing were gone in a flash, replaced by the raw pain of…

CRACK

She couldn’t help it, she screamed, the sound bouncing off the walls. She realized after a few seconds that she was blubbering out words. They felt almost meaningless, but she was promising to be good and begging for it to stop.

*     *     *

With the paddle in his hand, he walked around to the other side of his desk. Immediately, he realized just how little modesty she would have for this, and turned his head. He knew eventually he would have to look, but he wanted to keep this as simple for her as he could. Stalling, trying to avoid the rather obvious view in front of him, keeping his eyes pointedly off her light blue shorts, he decided to review exactly what was going to happen here.

“So, you’ve chosen this over two days of in-school suspension. The school handbook states that you may trade one day of ISS for two pops with the paddle, so you will be receiving four.”

He waited for a response, but none came, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see her shifting around. Once he looked, he felt he had to commit, so he drew the paddle back and…

CRACK She arched her back and stomped one of her feet, but she was strangely silent after that first lick. He gave it just enough time to make sure she could clearly keep count in her head, and then he drew back again.

CRACK This time she screamed bloody murder. It was almost like the first one had surprised her too much to react vocally. He realized with some embarrassment that she had begun to cry, and felt sympathy well up inside him. He wasn’t allowed to grant her pleas, just as he would have quickly lost his job if the school board heard that a paddling from him was anything but memorable and painful. So, with a heavy heart, he rose the paddle up again and…

CRACK

CRACK

He delivered the last two in rapid succession, not wanting to drag out her suffering any longer. Her yells and screams reached a crescendo right after the second one, but pretty quickly died down. He walked back around to his desk and sat down quickly, sparing her any more humiliation of him seeing her posterior.

“You may stand up, Elizabeth.”

He left the paddle sitting on the desk, and quickly filled out the paperwork, pointedly letting her have the time to compose herself without his watchful eye. When she seemed back under control, he looked up.

*     *     *

CRACK

CRACK Oh god, it wasn’t enough that he was beating her ass, he had to make the last two even worse, not even let her catch her breath. What a fucking bastard. She was sobbing on the desk and suddenly realized he was back sitting in front of her.

*     *     *

“You may stand up, Elizabeth.”

She did so, and immediately began to rub her bottom. She couldn’t stand still, shifting her weight from foot to foot, crying like a little kid. Slowly, she got back under control and realized that the bastard wasn’t even looking at her, like she was beneath his notice. And why had he run back around to the desk before he even let her stand back up? Did he have something to hide something? Finally he looked at her.

“I’m sorry this had to happen, Elizabeth. I just need your signature here.”

He pointed at a line on some form, but she couldn’t make it out, her eyes were still too blurry.

“And you may sign the paddle if you wish.”

Sign the fucking paddle? What? Did he think she wanted everyone who comes in here to know that she’d been bent over his desk? Right! She scribbled her name on the paper, and then looked up at him.

“May I go?”

*     *     *

He offered her the official corporal punishment form to sign, and extended her the right to the stupid tradition of signing the paddle. Some of his students felt it was a badge of honor (especially the boys) although he had immediately made it optional instead of mandatory when he got the job. He was pleased she passed on that.

“May I go?” She asked him, with a bit more attitude in her voice than he had expected. That, however, was not his problem.

“Yes, Elizabeth, you may go. Final bell is a couple minutes away, so you might just want to go to the locker room and change.” He was again cursing himself for not checking her schedule, letting her go through this dressed like that, instead of in the jeans she had on earlier in the day. When she left his office, he began to pack up his things, determined to get out of the school as quickly as was seemly and hit a bar.

*     *     *

“Yes, Elizabeth, you may go. Final bell is a couple minutes away, so you might just want to go to the locker room and change.”

She could almost hear the gloating in his voice as he taunted her about having just been spanked in tight little shorts. She left the office as quickly as she could without risking getting in more trouble, and headed for her clothes.

In the back of her head, she finally remembered she was going to have to discuss this with her mom. Just what she needed, a week or two of being grounded to go with this. For the hundredth time that day, she cursed her own stupidity. Really, though, all this just because she had been late to class a few times.

The End

© Zach Allen 2015


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