Professor Patterson entered the classroom and peered over the top of his rimless spectacles, dazzled by the array of brightly-coloured shirts before him. Another year at Popper State was about to start. Twenty-five open-faced boisterous Psy. students waited excitedly. All new to the university, eager to make friends.
Prof. Patterson set his briefcase on the desk. He paused to survey the young men. If they took off their shirts, he thought, they would be identical. It was as if students came in in packs of one hundred. Just about everyone was fair haired or blond. Each had a tan from the hot summer that was just ending. Every eighteen-year-old sitting before him was slim and healthy. Everyone was a churchgoer. They all had prosperous fathers. Each of them would submit to his will. Without question.
He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen.”
The excited youngsters carried on talking.
“Gentlemen.” Louder this time, but not shouting. The buzz of conversation subsided. Heads swivelled. Buttocks shifted on chairs. Soon he had their attention.
“Thank you gentlemen and welcome to the Psychology Department. My name is Professor Patterson. Let me say right from the start that when I call you to order I expect immediate obedience.” He removed his spectacles, held them in his hand and leaned forward. “Do I make myself perfectly clear.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of intent. Twenty-five teenagers sat unnerved.
“We should start as we mean to go on,” Prof. Patterson paced the room. “As well as being your instructor, I am also the faculty’s Dean of Discipline.” He stopped in front of a youngster wearing an exceptionally garish yellow-and-red-patterned shirt and leaned forward menacingly. “Do you know what that means, young man?” Tony Cresswell flinched, he could feel his face burning. The professor’s breath stank.
“Eh ….” Tony stumbled. He didn’t know what a ‘dean of discipline’ was but he could make a pretty good guess.
Prof. Patterson straightened up. “It means gentlemen that I am the one who maintains discipline.” He paused for dramatic effect. Then, certain that twenty-five pairs of eyes were on him he walked slowly to the desk. He shielded the briefcase from the students’ view while he opened it and delved inside. Then, rather like a magician producing a rabbit from a top hat, he turned in a flourish brandishing a stout wooden paddle. The silence in the room was intense. There wasn’t a young man in the room who hadn’t seen a “board of education” before. Many would have felt the sting of a paddle across the backside; paddles were in common use in schools across the county. Some of their fathers still kept paddles hanging on hooks in woodsheds or in their personal dens at home.
Prof. Patterson gripped the handle tightly and tap-tap-tapped the fourteen-inch blade into the palm of his left hand. “Let me be quite clear, I will not hesitate to use this. None of you are adults until you reach the age of twenty-one. Until then think of me as a father,” he leered. “If you are late for class you will be paddled. If you are inattentive, you will be paddled.” He paused, staring at each teenager in turn; many had sweat glistening their brows.
Satisfied with the reaction so far, he continued, “If you score less than seventy in our weekly tests you will be paddled.” His nostrils flared, “You boy!” he pointed to a youngster in a grey sweater, “What did I just say?”
Al French blustered, “Er, if we get less than seventy, Sir,” he trembled and lapsed into silence.
“What then? What happens then?”
“The paddle, Sir,” Al couldn’t stop shaking, “We get the paddle, Sir.”
“That’s correct.” Prof. Patterson hid his disappointment well. He had thought the wretched student had not been listening. He was determined that at least one of the freshers seated before him would feel the sting of the paddle before the class was over. That would show them he meant business.
“Now gentlemen, for our first class I have devised a test,” he reached once more into his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Here,” he instructed a boy in a bright yellow shirt, “distribute these.”
He stared with delight at the young man’s buttocks encased in snug-fitting tan slacks as he leaned across chairs stretching to hand out the test papers. It was a backside crying out to be spanked.
“Now, gentlemen,” the professor continued, “This test will show which of you did the required reading ahead of this course. You have thirty minutes,” he paused and glared across the room at the heavy wooden paddle, “and remember what I said.”
Twenty-five heads went down, tops of pens were sucked. Some stared into open space, hoping to find answers. Prof. Patterson sat and watched. They really were a delightful bunch; so fresh and young. They positively glowed with health. What fun he would have this semester.
Rich Rider sat at the back of the class. From there he could see every boy in the room. Each had his head down as he beavered away at the test. One hundred questions. True-or-false? Multiple-choice. Short answers. He took a deep breath, gripped his fountain pen, closed his eyes, and scrawled his answers.
The time passed quickly. “Pens down gentlemen. Please swop your paper with your neighbour. I shall read out the answers.” Professor Patterson sniffed the trepidation that hung over the room like musk. None of his new charges could look his fellows in the eye.
“Question one. True. Question two. False,” his monotone might in other circumstances have sent a class of students to sleep. Not this afternoon. Their attention was rapt. Each question ticked for correct, crossed for wrong. The penalty for failure was immense.
“Thank you gentlemen,” Prof. Patterson’s heart raced. His palms were clammy. Surreptitiously, he rubbed them on his pants’ leg. How many of the beauties would he whack today? “Please indicate by a show of hands if the paper you have has scored less than seventy percent.” His face flushed in anticipation. No hand stirred.
Prof. Patterson flared, “Gentlemen, please do not try to protect your neighbour by withholding information from me. If I discover deceit, I shall punish the perpetrator most severely. Now, a show of hands, please.”
Vance Kearney whispered softly to Rich Rider, “Sorry.” He raised his hand.
“What?” the professor’s beady eye surveyed the room. “Only one?” The previous year he had six pairs of buttocks to deal with. Maybe word had spread. His new crop of students had an incentive to do their preparatory reading. Next year he had better make the test harder.
“Stand up the boy whose paper this is.”
Rich Rider sucked in a lungful of air and slowly rose from his chair.
“And your name is?” the professor growled, peering intently across the room.
“Well, Rider, it would seem that we are to make an example of you. Please come to the front of the class.”
Twenty-four heads swivelled as he made his way forward. The tension had lifted. The new students were in the clear. They would go unscathed. Now, they could sit back and enjoy the sport.
“Stand there boy. Face the class.”
Rich Rider slumped his shoulders and stared intently at his tennis shoes.
“Stand up straight. Look at your fellow students.”
Rich Rider’s hazel eyes shone. Tears were on the way. Blood rushed through every artery. His heart beat so fast, quicker than when he ran on the athletics track.
“Now face me.”
Slowly Rich Rider turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. The paddle in the professor’s hand was awesome. Up close it looked an almighty weapon. In the right hands it could do terrific damage and Rich Rider had no doubt the professor was an expert paddler.
Prof. Patterson sucked in breath of his own. The eighteen-year-old student before him was quite delightful. He was shorter than average; the professor towered at least a foot above him. A frown adorned the boy’s fresh open face. He looked so adorably sad. His multi-coloured short sleeved shirt was open at the neck showing his well-developed chest. Prof. Patterson gulped down saliva; this boy was some athlete.
Prof. Patterson gripped the paddle in his right hand. It shook a little.
“Assume the position, Rider.” Rich Rider hesitated. What did that mean? Over the desk? A chair? He had presented himself so many different ways for a spanking.
“Feet apart, grab your ankles, boy.” It was a cool command, quietly spoken. Prof. Patterson knew he would be obeyed. Students at Popper State were conformists.
Twenty-four students and Prof. Patterson had a marvellous view of Rich Rider’s taut buttocks stretching against his snug-fitting pale grey slacks. Ty Spreader, a student in the front row, licked his lips in anticipation.
Prof. Patterson stood to Rich Rider’s left side. He could trace the outline of the boy’s spine through the garish shirt. There was no practical need to do this, but the professor took hold of the tail of Rich Rider’s shirt and pulled it clear from the waistband of his slacks, exposing two inches of bare suntanned flesh. The top of the teenager’s underwear poked above his waistband. From this close juncture, Rich Rider’s buttocks looked solid like two rubber balls. Each cheek was tiny, dwarfed in size by the stout wooden paddle as the professor rubbed it across the centre of the teenager’s backside.
Rich Rider sucked in breath and gripped the folds of cotton on his pants’ legs tightly, bracing himself for familiar pain. He felt the wood moving away from his bottom, then there was a tremendous crack of wood connecting at force with buttock. One, two, three; that’s how many seconds it was before the full pain hit him. It was like someone had pressed his mother’s maid’s hot iron into his flesh. Rich Rider’s mouth opened and a sound like compressed air releasing filled the room. His body shuddered and he held on to his ankles for dear life.
He waited. Then, he waited some more. Eventually, whack number two stuck. It connected on the underside of his cheeks and the force of the blow sent him rocking forward. His knees buckled. He stopped himself tumbling just in time. Behind him, Ty Spreader crossed his legs and leaned forward a little, shielding the front of his slacks from view.
Rich Rider resumed his position. Prof. Patterson stepped back, keen to admire his charge. Those buttocks were tough. There wasn’t enough spare fat to sizzle a sausage. And so small, he could cup an entire cheek in the palm of one hand. The professor sucked in another lungful of air and raised the paddle high. Rich Rider braced himself before his punisher brought it crashing down right across the centre of his mounds. God that hurt. Rich Rider wheezed. His head shook from left to right, he neighed like a horse. His knees buckled. He feet shifted. The pain travelled from his rear end and up and down his legs before spreading east, west, north, south across his whole body.
Professor Patterson wiped his brow with the back of his hand and placed the paddle on the top of the desk. “That will do. You may stand.”
Rich Rider hauled himself straight. His hands shot to the seat of his tight slacks and he rubbed furiously. Ty Spreader shot from his chair and was through the door before Professor Patterson had time to say, “Resume your seat Rider.”
Gingerly, Rich Rider eased himself onto the hard chair. The pain was easing into a constant throbbing. He knew that soon it would become a warm glow. There would be bruises and they’d probably hang around for a day or two. He would feel the swat the professor landed low every time he sat down over the next few hours. That was OK, Rich Rider told himself, he could deal with that.
He was less sure what he was going to do about the raging woody that ached against the front of his tight underpants.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second