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The Dean of Discipline, Volume One

By: CF Publications
Published By: CF Publications

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When Professor Bradley is offered a position as dean of a small, private women's college he believes he's found the perfect job. The position comes with excellent pay, and the small town where the college is located is quaint and affordable. But there's a catch. Professor Bradley won't be any ordinary dean, because this is no ordinary college. This is Emberley, the last stop for the wayward, spoiled daughters of wealthy families - young women who have been kicked out of every other respectable institution.

Nine misbehaving co-eds means lots of panties down, over-the-knee, bare bottom spanking. And to add to the excitement is Connie, the beautiful assistant professor who - although graduating from Emberley herself - never quite learned her lesson.

This is the first in a four-book series from the CF Classic Vault, and is sure to please anyone who loves classic schoolgirl/headmaster pairings.

Dean of Discipline

Part I

Although I had spent a couple of decades doing various odd jobs about the academic world, I had never heard of Emberley College before I saw their advertisement in the Journal of Higher Education for an experienced Dean of Students. I assumed this was because I had pretty much confined my interest to the Northeast, where I had lived and worked for all of my adult life, whereas Emberley was located in a small Oregon town. Still, I thought I had at least heard of every academic institution in the country larger than a breadbox, and I was surprised to learn that this tiny women's college had been around since shortly before World War I. At another time I might have dismissed such an obscure school from consideration, but two nearly simultaneous catastrophes had combined to turn my life around and make me eager for new frontiers-geographic as well as academic.

The first was the unhappy ending of a relationship that had lasted almost ten years, the second a change of administration at the state college where I worked. Within weeks of the new president's arrival, it became known that that he intended to restaff the upper administration with a hand-picked crew of his own. We were politely advised to spend the remainder of the current academic year finding ourselves new jobs.

This was, by the current standards and laws governing academic employment, outrageous, and some of my colleagues decided on a court fight. I could see there was a case, but after the collapse of my personal life, I wasn't sure I had the stamina for a long legal war of attrition. Nor did I have the money it would probably take to last it out. Agreeing to go quietly would ease the reference situation and make a new position easier to get. There was also the prospect of some severance money.

The main thing, however, was that, with Jody gone, I was depressed at the thought of spending any more time in that college town, or any place within a thousand miles of it. So I decided to seek employment elsewhere-specifically, in the Northwest. For the time being, I skipped the rest of the country, in the hope of avoiding climatic extremes. I've never liked intense heat or cold, but for some reason dampness doesn't bother me. I've traveled in Scotland and Ireland, and loved both.

To my disappointment, I found few jobs being advertised in the upper left-hand corner of the country for the coming year. It was a little past the time at which most openings are posted, and the few I found looked unsuitable for one reason or another-this school wanted a scholar, that one wanted a minority; another wanted a man under forty, or a woman. (They can't advertise some of these things directly, but if you know how to read the ads, it's clear enough.) I sent away a small pile of applications, expecting little return for my effort. For the most part this expectation was correct, but to my surprise I got a warm response from one Zebulon Pike Kesselman, the president of Emberley College.

I was a bit mystified by this. The title "Dean of Students" is one that single-sex colleges use in place of Dean of Men and Dean of Women-in other words, the campus disciplinarian. That's the job I had been doing as Dean of Men at Sandersville State for the past four years: breaking up riotous keg parties, assessing penalties for vandalism and sexual harassment, trying to keep a truce between the races-all the things that make life in the modern ivory tower such a contemplative idyll. I had never heard of any women's college hiring a man for that position, though I supposed that in the current legal climate they might need to interview a couple to make it look good.

But if it was all for show, why did they invite me to fly out there from Pennsylvania, at the college's expense, for three days of interviews? Surely they could have found tokens more economically on their own coast? Was something badly wrong with this place? I wondered if I should even pursue the matter, but there was really no choice; Emberley was the only school so far to show any interest in my services.

I admit that I found something attractive about the idea of a small women's college ("girls' school," as we used to call them once) in a rural setting, presumably free from the type of male swinishness I'd been dealing with at Sandersville State. Of course female students got into trouble, but how bad could it be? I might have to work up some tea-and-sympathy skills to soften the hard-boiled persona I had developed as Dean of Men at Old Sandy, but I had no doubt I could manage this. All in all it sounded like a pleasant change.

I was picked up at the Portland airport by Al Frayne, the president's handyman-for-all-seasons, who drove me for an hour and a half across mighty rivers, over lofty mountains, and through tall timber until we reached the little town where Emberley was nestled. He was not a talkative man, but I learned that Emberley was a school for young ladies whose parents had lots of money. The college gave no scholarships and, remarkably, received no grants from either state of federal government. Every student paid her own way, or rather her parents paid it.

This was an important distinction, as I learned that evening over dinner with President Kesselman and Dean Mudge, the college's academic dean. They were a pair of wry old coots whom I liked immediately, possibly because they were totally unlike any other academic administrators I'd ever met. "This college," said the president, "stands proudly in loco parentis.’In the place of the parent.' I don't imagine that phrase is used very frequently where you've been working."

"Well, not since the sixties, certainly," I said. "I have to admit I don't think the change is all to the good. It's better in some ways, but I'm afraid something may have been lost."

Both old men laughed. "Not at Emberley," said Mudge.

"Tell me, how you feel about all this 'political correctness' business on campus?" asked Kesselman.

That was a sore subject. I had always tried to think of myself as a tolerant person-even a liberal, back when that didn't sound too bizarre-but my admiration for freedom had recently had to withstand four years of dealing with young men who enjoyed exercising theirs in ways calculated to offend the maximum number of others. I had become more than a little nostalgic for the good old days, when colleges kept the lid on so tight that the students practically had to study, for want of anything else to do. (I had never known these days myself, but had listened to older colleagues describing them with longing.)

As for the type of political correctness that tries to control reality by manipulating the labels people put on it, I never thought it made much sense. This had become a factor in the split between Jody and me. The deeper she got into the campus feminist caucus, the more completely she lost her sense of humor about such matters, and felt compelled to deliver a stern lecture (she called this 'speaking out') to anyone who uttered a remark that might even theoretically betoken a retrograde attitude somewhere beneath its surface. Most of my friends had gradually been alienated, and I wasn't very fond of her new ones, who were soon the only ones we were seeing-people who used phrases like "differently abled" with a straight face (which was, as a matter of fact, the only kind of face they ever showed to the world). When Jody finally announced that she was leaving me, she said it was because she could no longer accept my political backwardness.

If I hadn't had quite a lot of good wine, I would probably have answered President Kesselman's question with circumspection. Instead, I vented a lot of repressed feelings on the subject of political correctness. Encouraged by smiles and cackles from the two old men, I said a bit more than I really believed. I didn't exactly quote Rush Limbaugh (for the record, I can't stand that fat little bastard and never listen to his show) but I probably sounded like the King of the Dittoheads even so.

When I was going to bed in the local inn an hour or so later, I wondered if I had just blown it. Surely a disciplinary dean should be a moderate, judicious sort of fellow? Well, tomorrow was the formal interview; I'd soon find out.

To my astonishment, however, there was no interview. The only two officers present were President Kesselman and Dean Mudge, and they announced immediately that they liked the cut of my jib and were prepared to offer me the job. Apparently nobody else's advice and consent was needed.

"Are you sure you want to move all the way from Pennsylvania?" the president asked.

"I've been wanting a change of scene," I said, as soon as I got my mouth closed.

"You'd certainly find that at Emberley. But don't be hasty. I suggest you spend the rest of today looking around the town. I've arranged for Al to take you out this afternoon with a local real estate agent so you can get some idea of what your money can buy."

"And speaking of money . . . ." said the dean, with a significant look at the president.

"Oh, yes, thank you, Fred. I was forgetting that. Here's what we're prepared to offer you." And he passed me a slip of paper bearing a figure that was well beyond the top of my asking range.

My head was still rotating slowly as I wandered down the steps of the administration building and across the leafy campus. Neatly dressed young women turned their heads curiously as I passed, doubtless expecting me to suffer some kind of drug-induced collapse before I took many more steps.

The main street of the town was just beyond the gate. I stepped into the first coffee shop I came to and ordered a big, black one. I found it unexpectedly delicious. Of course, they take their coffee seriously out here; I knew that. For the rest of the morning I wandered around, exploring shady side streets with big Victorian houses and poking into funky little stores along the short main street. I found a good bookstore, a music shop with an impressive jazz section, and two cheap if slightly trashy antique shops. The place I went into for lunch had good sandwiches and a wonderful draft beer that, they told me, was locally brewed.

That afternoon, I looked at several affordable houses, some elegantly old-fashioned, others brightly suburban. The last one I saw belonged to the first category, and I fell for it immediately. It was surrounded by pine trees, and might have seemed too much in the shade for some people, but, hell, I'm from central Maine originally. Pine trees look natural to me. I would have made an offer then and there if I'd had a contract in my pocket.

The next morning I went in for the final interview. This time only the president was there. "Well, what you think of us?" he asked amiably.

"I love the place." I said. "If you want to know whether I'm sold, the answer is yes." I grinned at him. "Where do I sign?"

He laughed. "We'll come to that in a minute. I'm glad you're favorably impressed with Emberley and with the community. We're impressed with you, too."

I coughed. "Well, you know, I have to say honestly, it surprises me a little that you haven't . . . grilled me a bit more. Here you are offering me a responsible, highly paid position, and all you really know about me is what you've seen, and what my resume says."

The old man laughed again. "Oh, we know a bit more than that. Every college has its network, you know. We made some inquiries. Liked what we heard about James Bradley. Including your candor," he added with a wink.

I wondered what sort of "inquiries," but the result didn't suggest any grounds for objection.

"But before we put any ink on paper, there are a few more things about Emberley and about the dean's job that you should know about." I looked at him inquiringly. "As we've told you, Emberley is for the children of wealthy families. I could go a bit farther than that. Emberley is for the problem children of wealthy families. Just about all of our girls have failed at other institutions, either as students or as applicants. Most often the problem is lack of motivation. Many of them have been badly spoiled. We don't accept students who are too dumb to benefit from a college education, or who are totally out of control. None with drug or alcohol problems-unless we can be satisfied that the problem has been overcome, and believe me we check things like that very thoroughly."

"But if they aren't motivated, why do they come here?"

"Their families give them no choice. As I remarked the other night, we are in loco parentis. That's a responsibility we take very seriously, and it's what makes us attractive to desperate mothers and fathers. Just about every student here has arrived in the wake of some sort of ultimatum from her parents."

"But don't you have them running away all the time?"

He smiled. "That's quite rare, actually. As I said, we don't take the ones who are totally out of control. We're not equipped to deal with that sort of problem. We are a college, after all, and a very good one, but we can't be that and a sanitarium and a reformatory too. No, the girls we let in generally know how dependent they are on their parents' good will and, to be frank, on their money. Our students, to speak generally, know where their bread is buttered. Once they learn that they can't whine and wheedle their way out of being educated, they have to settle down to the business. By the time she graduates, an Emberley girl has the discipline to do something positive with her life and the educational means to get on with it. I can say that about every single graduate-and our graduation rate is a little over ninety percent.

A far cry from Sandersville State, was my first thought. It might have nobler intentions, but questions could be raised about how well they were fulfilled.

"Now, to turn these rather unpromising problem children into disciplined, educated young women, we employ a rather exotic technique, or at least it seems so these days." I raised an eyebrow.

The president looked at me straight. "Emberley is, to my knowledge at least, the only institution of higher education in this country that enforces its rules with corporal punishment."

My jaw dropped. I was not too disconcerted, however, to be aware of the relevance of this information to the job I had just accepted.

"I can see that you're surprised. This isn't a fact we publicize, and of course you'll understand that the students aren't anxious to have it noised about. It's a little secret between staff, students, and parents. Everyone accepts it because they see that it's effective where nothing else is."

"Everyone? Even the students?"

He smiled. "Perhaps not at first. But, yes, by the time she graduates, just about every Emberley girl will admit that our disciplinary methods have done her a world of good. Several alumnae have sent us their daughters to be educated-not many, though, because women who have been educated the Emberley way don't often seem to have problems with their daughters. But our graduates are a rich source of referrals. Emberley may not be well known in academic circles, but I assure you that, at the apex of the income pyramid in this country, we're very well known indeed."

I cleared my throat. "What does this-I mean, how do I . . . ?"

"Of course, as you'll understand, the Dean of Students is, just as on other campuses, the principal disciplinarian."

I swallowed. "Well, but, I don't know if I could . . . ."

"I'm certain you can master the necessary technique. It isn't difficult. But do you mean that you object to corporal punishment on principle?"

I paused. "Well, n-no, I don't suppose so." There had been plenty in our house, and it hadn't done me or my sisters any harm that I was aware of. I remembered when I was six or so, Sarah yelling out in the barn, so loud I could hear her in the house. That was the time she'd come home from a dance at three AM. She couldn't have been any younger then than most of the students on this campus. My folks obviously had no objection on principle. Still, I didn't like the idea of being involved in coercion.

"What about the students' consent?" I asked. "Do they agree to be punished?"

"Oh, yes, every student signs an agreement saying that she accepts whatever discipline the school metes out to her. And there's a standing offer, written into the agreement, that instead of accepting a punishment, she has the right to withdraw from Emberley instead, on the condition that she can never be readmitted."

"Does that happen often?"

"Hardly ever. You have to understand that this is generally a last resort for the girls' parents. Quite often they've run out of patience and threatened to disinherit their problem child if she doesn't shape up. When a girl starts thinking of poverty as the alternative, she usually decides that a spanking isn't quite so bad."

He looked at his watch. "But come with me. I have something to show you." He led me through a door at the back of his office into a narrow hallway. "Fred Mudge has been carrying out the duties of the Dean of Students since poor Harve Jordan's stroke earlier this year. He has a student in with him now." The old man opened a large closet and beckoned me inside. He pointed to a little door, about nine inches square, on the back wall of the paneled closet. It was about five feet from the floor." First I'm going to turn the lights out," he said softly, "Then I'm going to open this little door. Look through, but be quiet."

A dim light came through the door when it was opened. Leaning down, I saw that I was looking through a peephole about three inches in diameter into a large room below. Like all the rooms I'd seen so far in the administration building, it was paneled in dark wood. There was a massive desk, some bookshelves, a couple of comfortable chairs, and a fireplace. I paid no attention to any of this, however. What riveted my interest was the scene directly below and opposite the peephole. On a leather-padded bench sat the venerable dean, with a large wooden paddle gripped firmly in his hand. He was busily applying this to the bare, squirming bottom of a young woman who lay stretched across his knees, twitching and squawking every time the paddle came down. I could hear clearly the loud splat! Every time the hard wood of the paddle made contact with tender, wincing flesh. Though the girl's backside was thoroughly reddened, the dean kept right on paddling, until she kicked both heels in the air and screeched. I watched, hypnotized, as the dean delivered his final volley of spanks, and the weeping victim was allowed to pull up her panties and depart.

The president closed the peephole door and led me back to his office. "There, you see how it's done," he said. "Do you think you could handle the job?" All sorts of thoughts were spinning through my head, many of which I would have admitted to no one. Thoroughly uncertain of my motivation, I swallowed twice and nodded.

"Good. Now, one more thing. You may be wondering about that peephole. We don't make a practice here at Emberley of spying on one another, or even on the students, but the position of Dean of Students bears a heavy responsibility. We can't ignore the plain fact that punishments like the one you just saw can be sexually stimulating. There's nothing wrong with that as long as you keep it to yourself and never, by the least word or deed, acknowledge it in the presence of a student. When one punishes a student, one does so as a parent would-as their parents should have done, long ago-and one keeps the contact absolutely asexual. The slightest deviation from this policy is grounds for immediate dismissal. I'm sure you can understand that."

"Yes, of course."

"Needless to say, we've never considered hiring an extremely young man for this position. But you're past the age of discretion. We know that we can expect you to be mature, professional, and tactful. The peephole, however, is there to help keep you honest. It's been there since the school was built, and it's helped to keep every Dean of Students for the last eighty-five years honest. We've never had a scandal of that sort. From down there in the office, you can't tell whether someone is looking, even if you know where the peephole is. You may find the idea demeaning, but when you consider the temptations, you may come to think of it more as a blessing than a curse."

I pondered some about that. "Okay, yes, I see what you mean. But why is there a peephole in Dean Mudge's office?"

The old man laughed. "Oh, that isn't his office. That's yours. All punishments take place in the Dean of Students' office."

"That's my office?" I mentally reviewed the sight, this time passing over the bouncing pink hindquarters and concentrating on the paneling, the furniture, the fireplace.

He nodded.

"So, once again, where do I sign?"

"Right here, my boy. Welcome to Emberley."

During the hours I spent recrossing three time zones on my way back to Pennsylvania, I spent quite a lot of time reflecting on whether I was mad. With my solid if not stellar record in academic administration, I could, in time, have found a suitable position, one I could honestly describe to friends and colleagues. Instead, I had just hired myself out-under the disguise of a respectable administrative title-as chief bottom-swatter in a school for spoiled rich girls. On the pathway I had up to now been following toward my own rather modest idea of success, how could this be anything but a wrong turn?

Well, as I've suggested, I was growing a bit weary of that path anyway, a bit less certain that the kind of success I'd been pursuing was what I wanted. Besides, it would be disingenuous to pretend that the corporal punishment of nubile young ladies was an entirely new blip on my personal radar. As the plane droned eastward across the darkening continent, certain scenes replayed themselves in my mind . . . .

The summer after my second year in college. Because I've just started an early-shift summer job, I go to bed at ten and toss about uncomfortably trying to get to sleep. This is made difficult by a family argument in loud French, coming from the house next door, which has been bought during my absence at school by a new family just down from a farm in remote northern Quebec. The voices are female-accusatory on the adult side, defensive on the teenage side. The first voice grows more and more angry, the second more and more fearful until it is silenced with a loud and perfectly audible slap. The sound brings me to my feet. They sound so close-could they be arguing outdoors? In my drawn window shade is a small hole. Through it I can see the neighbors' house, which because of the slope of the ground is a half-story lower than ours. Mrs. Lamarche, a stout, vigorous woman, and her daughter Yvette, whose sixteen-year-old prettiness has already attracted my notice.

Unused to living in a town, they have left not only the shades but the window up. It's an adjustment we had had to make ourselves a few years earlier, when we moved from our own farm. I watch, spellbound, as Yvette, crying and pleading, goes to a drawer and takes out a stout leather strap, which she hands to her mother with evident reluctance. Even more reluctantly, in response to a command, she bends over, stretching her body across a bare table. "Enleve," I hear her mother say. Yvette pleads and whines, but the order is repeated sternly. My pulse pounds as she reaches back and pulls up the skirt of her light summer dress, exposing a plump bottom in pink panties. It takes two or three more commands, but eventually she pulls them down to her thighs, leaving the pale, round buttocks helplessly bare. And Mrs. Lamarche, standing well back, blessedly out of my line of sight, swings the strap with a sharp crack that makes the soft bottom flesh wobble and bounce. I count thirty hard strokes before I stop counting, preoccupied with my own tumescence. Yvette howls and hops, jumping and dancing and swinging her bottom back and forth as much as she dares, while the strap covers it with angry red stripes and patches. Her mother continues to scold angrily, until she's drowned out by the girl's agitated screeches.

Meanwhile, my parents and my grandmother sit in the living room downstairs, on the other side of the house, watching a TV turned up so loud (in deference to Grandma's hardness of hearing) that they're totally oblivious to what is going on next door. By the time poor Yvette is released from her torment, I'm in a torment of my own-but mine is easier and far more pleasant to relieve.

For the rest of that summer I keep the lights out and the shades drawn in my room as much as possible, and I never go to bed without checking for interesting developments chez Lamarche. I am rewarded only twice. I see Yvette get another strapping, this one in pantomime because the weather is drizzly and the window down, but I can easily supply from my memory the sound of the cries and pleas and shrill hoots I know she is uttering as the merciless leather reddens her pretty backside.

My last such vision is the crowning event of the summer. Not only is the window open, but this time the victim is Yvette's older sister Jeanne, a graceful young woman whose sophisticated taste in clothes belies her rustic origins. Her protests are quieter than her younger sister's, but they do no more good. With panting excitement, I watch Jeanne step out of her tailored skirt, bend over the table, raise her slip, and, finally, yank a white girdle down to her stocking-tops. Her panties ride down with the girdle, and I watch Maman Lamarche strap the exposed flesh until both half-moons are wincing and writhing. When the strapping really begins to take effect, I am thrilled to hear Jeanne's 21-year-old voice raised in the same girlish shrieks I had heard from her sister.

Just as it's ending, I hear the sound of my mother coming upstairs, and I quickly get into bed (in a position chosen to hide my erection) and manage to calm my breath into a reasonable approximation of sleep by the time she eases the door open and looks in. She must have gone into the kitchen for something and heard the noises from next door. Naturally, she is curious about whether my sleep is being disturbed by the Lamarches' domestic turbulence. I am indeed disturbed, though not in the way she thinks. My mother, an only child, is remarkably naive regarding the sexuality of young males.

Apparently she finds some way of dropping a hint to Mrs. Lamarche, because for the rest of the summer I find the shades in that room pulled whenever I look, nor does any tantalizing sound escape from the firmly closed window.

Autumn of my second year in graduate school. I meet Nona at a party, get her phone number, and ask her out on a date. She seems shy and reticent at first, but after we leave the pizza joint, she becomes boisterous and frisky, challenging me to a race that soon becomes a game of tag-and when Nona is "it," she tags me quite firmly in rude places. I respond in kind, and soon I am chasing her wildly across the dark campus, dodging among trees and in and out of the pools of lamplight along the walks. Finally she runs into a pile of leaves raked up by the grounds crew and falls down. I leap down after her, almost but not quite landing on her, and we wrestle noisily in the dry leaves, whooping with laughter. Since Nona still seems inclined to roughhouse, I threaten her with a good spanking and begin trying to wrestle her across my knees. She fights hard, but with obvious excitement, and it takes a pretty good struggle to force her into face-down position. I lay a few good slaps on the tight, rounded seat of her jeans, hard enough to sting, delighted by the curved firmness I can feel underneath. Then I let her go, and we sit there, side by side, panting, unable to see each other's faces in the dark. Finally, I get up and offer her a hand. She takes it and keeps my hand squeezed tightly in hers as we walk together away from the scattered leaves.

After that we spend a great deal of time together, when we can spare it from our studies. We don't move in together - this is before 1965 - but we often spend weekend nights together in my apartment. (Nona has her own apartment, too, but it comes with a roommate and a nosy, prudish landlady.) My place is over a garage, quite distant from the large house it belongs to, and it is the only apartment, so we have all the privacy we could desire. At some point during every one of our domestic evenings together, Nona is afflicted with an intense spell of brattiness, for which there is only one sure cure. I pursue her around the apartment, dodging the chairs and tables she thrusts in my path, until I have her cornered. I seize her by the wrist-or sometimes I heave her r

K on 03/24/2014 12:42pm
Decent, not great. Multiple scenes of college-age girls being paddled, most not too severely, without any remarks about said girls becoming sexually excited; 3 fairly monotonous spanking-and-sex scenes with adult women (plus recollection of a few in the past); several hand-wringing discussion about corporal punishment (about as welcome as a 45-minute pacifist roundtable spliced into a John Wayne flick). . . . Probably will suffice for 3 or 4 jerk-off sessions if you space them far apart, and have some explicit photos handy as supplement.
K on 03/24/2014 12:42pm
Decent, not great. Multiple scenes of college-age girls being paddled, most not too severely, without any remarks about said girls becoming sexually excited; 3 fairly monotonous spanking-and-sex scenes with adult women (plus recollection of a few in the past); several hand-wringing discussion about corporal punishment (about as welcome as a 45-minute pacifist roundtable spliced into a John Wayne flick). . . . Probably will suffice for 3 or 4 jerk-off sessions if you space them far apart, and have some explicit photos handy as supplement.

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