The Hall - Part 1

[peter2BeSpanked]

THE HALL - Part 1
An original story by: peter2BSpanked

Not long ago, on an exceedingly hot Saturday afternoon, if you'd happened to pass by The Montgomery College, you would have seen me seated on a bench outside the main office. I teach Physical Education and also sub in as an English teacher so the fact that I was at the school was not a problem. The fact that I was sitting on the bench on a Saturday that made this different.
The history of this grand school is a story unto itself. In 1762, an industrious young Irish fellow named Geoffrey Montgomery sailed away from home and hearth to seek his fortune. After various adventures in the New World, he arrived on this tiny bit of paradise in the Caribbean, fell in love with the life and decided to stay. He built his home on the island and went on to found the Montgomery Collegiate in 1764. His idea, as the legend goes, was to offer, for a sizable fee, quality education and security from harm to the children of the local “entrepreneurs” who didn’t want their heirs and other various offspring getting in the way of business affairs. He built the school on a cluster of volcanic specs in the vastness of the Caribbean Ocean known only as Spanish Cay. It's just a tiny group of insignificant dots on a map, but closer examination by sea, reveals the islands' benefit of a safe harbour. Protected by reefs and situated in an unimportant location, the little island was perfect for his school. He laid the first foundation for his vision on a beautiful natural plateau, high on a hill overlooking a peaceful anchorage 200 feet below. To the west, across a few miles of restless water, the islands of San Angelica hug the horizon. The setting is breathtaking at sunset.
Well fortified against potential kidnappers and as comfortable as a grand castle, Montgomery offered the school as a haven where all students would receive equal treatment and opportunity. One condition was stipulated prior to the enrollment of any child in the school however; the parent/pirate must first agree not to fire upon or, in any way provoke an attack, against another parent/pirate, or their ship during the school year and must further agree to protect the school against all attackers if called upon to do so. This agreement between participants, as it turned out, was the winning detail in his plan, the ace up his sleeve, if you will. Because the business-people in the islands sent their children to Montgomery’s school, it was ensured that all of the children at the school would be safe as no one would dare challenge the united parents’ wrath. The idea flourished, and for the next forty years, the students' parents and guardians plied their trade on the open sea targeting only non-alumni and various military ships while the old colonial schoolhouse turned out their little darlings, safe, sound and well educated. At the age of 72 and quite a wealthy old man, Geoffrey retired happily and sailed back to Ireland with stories to tell.
When all the entrepreneurial types left the neighbourhood in the mid 1880’s, the old buildings went derelict. No children, ergo, no school. It remained empty and unwanted for decades. By then the British Government which had been busy expanding its colonial ways, had consumed the islands by taking control in of the government in 1910. The newly landed and duly appointed governor declared that the magnificent building should be torn down to make way for his new residence! Horrified that such a landmark could be lost forever, the residents of the island formed a committee to save the building and held protests at the local assembly. After several years of struggle and fund raising, finally in the early 1930’s, the “People’s School” was opened and it has been the pride of the citizens of Spanish Cay ever since.
But, I digress. The school building is beautiful. Over the years the structure has been developed into a southern antebellum style, two tall storeys surrounded by a wide veranda supported by thick columns. The walls were constructed from ancient coral. Published by the elements over the centuries the entire structure glistens in the afternoon sun. Inside, it's a grand building with soaring ceilings dotted with hugely ineffective ceiling fans. It is also a welcoming place, a place that seems to beckon a soul inside to the coolness of its inner recesses.
Within these walls I should have been relaxed given the tropical surroundings, the magnificent weather and the absence of pounding feet up and down the corridors between the classrooms. A fresh breeze even blew in from the bay and swept down the hall cooling the place remarkably well. As I said, I should have been relaxed, however, the wooden bench I was sitting on was built for school children so my knees and I were experiencing a most unfamiliar proximity. From this perspective, the hall seemed cavernous, stretching the full length of the building, and I felt very small. Lining the walls at regular intervals, tall darkly stained classroom doors stand as watchful sentinels guarding this inner sanctum. The doors are only breaks in the highly polished starkly white environment of stone that covered the floors, walls and ceilings. Added to it was the sensation I was experiencing of being precariously perched at the edge of a precipice, about to fall in, swallowed as it were, lost for all eternity and it was making my stomach turn. You see, the bench I’m sitting on is significant. It is a plain wooden utility type bench not unlike any other you could find at your local public school, probably in the auditorium. This particular bench however, is the place where at the People’s School, if you were a student, you would wait for an audience with The Headmistress, and as such, is not a good place to be seated. This is the place where you face atonement for sins committed at the school. If you’ve been summoned to this office and directed to this bench, your worries are over. Decisions on your part are no longer necessary. Your fate is now in the hands of another.
I was ordered to report to this very spot by the Headmistress herself, last Wednesday evening while on duty in the study hall. I was just about to pounce on a couple of note-passing miscreants when she entered through the main doors and walked straight over to my desk. I started to get up to greet her but she waved her hand dismissing the protocol and handed me an envelope. There were no words spoken between us. I offered meager thanks but it was to a deaf ear as she'd already turned on her heel and was heading out the door. I sat back down in my chair and scanned the room once more for any sign of further disturbances from the from the kids I opened it. The Headmistress hadn't bothered writing my name on it. Opening the flap, I knew it had just been sealed because the glue on the flap wasn’t completely dry. I removed the notepaper from the envelope. Actually the whole thing was quite exciting, as I had never, in the three years since I’d been teaching at the school, received a private note from her. Using a fountain pen on her personal stationary, she had written a very brief note:
Mr. Allen, I would like you to come to my office
on Saturday at exactly half-past the hour of two.
Do not be late.
She signed it using her full name, Cora Monteith, Headmistress, which was a bit formal, I thought at the time.
That Saturday turned out to be a hot one. It was a late February scorcher, the kind that gets you ready for the intensity of the summer swelter that's going to come. It felt much hotter when I realized that I was going to be late getting to the school from my flat in town. The Headmistress was very particular about punctuality and I was running afoul of her explicit instructions.
The school had promised me my own means of transportation as an added inducement to come to work on the island, but they never specified what kind it would be. Upon my arrival I discovered that it was to be an old Vespa scooter someone had obviously rescued from a wrecking yard which been brought back to life. Oh, lucky me! I'd never felt safe on motorcycles and somehow the idea of having to drive one, especially this one, on the wrong side of the road didn't sit very well. So I went off on my own to look for something better.
I found a '63 Morris Oxford that had been brought to Spanish Cay after it had served about twenty years as some sort of delivery vehicle in the heartland of England. Then in a stroke of brilliance, somebody decided it would be quaint to have it shipped to the tropics to be used as a taxi. After another twenty years of hard driving over the cracked coral island roads, it was retired. I discovered it up on blocks at the home of my next-door neighbor's brother's best friend. It had been waiting for a new owner for a while, but the engine fired up after only a few tries and I was able to drive away for $100.00. At the time I thought I was lucky to have found a cheap car to use for my own transportation…Mind you, without a working speedometer or odometer, it was difficult to tell just how many miles the old thing had been driven but it was fair to say that who ever had owned it along the way had got their money out long before it got to me. It didn’t like the heat and on particularly humid days the moisture in the air would creep into the distributor and…well it just didn’t like humid weather.
So, that morning I checked to make sure that all the basics were covered. There was water in the radiator, air in the tires and the ignition worked and I left in plenty of time to get to the school well before the appointed hour. However, I came upon an accident on route. A jitney bus had crashed into a donkey cart pushing it and its contents into a ditch. It seemed like the island's entire population had come to watch as everybody got untangled. I was on my way again but it was ten after two, and I was still in the middle of town. That's when I began to see trails of steam rising from the hood of my car. I started begging the car to continue. The traffic cleared and I was on my way again but definitely not quickly. My car had adopted its own form of “island time” and I couldn't coax more than 20 miles an hour from it no matter how far forward I leaned. By the time I got to school 2:30 had come and gone.
I leapt from the car and ran up the long staircase leading to the front doors which were propped wide open. I veritably flew into the building only to find the office door closed and locked. I knocked twice, but there was no response from inside, so with resignation i sat down. I was, flustered, sweating and late, sitting on “the bench” thinking about the 'do not be late' invitation. All I could do to calm myself was to stare at the walls and count bricks. I sat for what seemed to be a very long time…waiting can be very stressful. My watch sounded like an old-fashioned alarm-clock, ticking so loud it seemed to echo down the hall. At last, at about ten minutes past three, I heard a sharp noise from inside the main office. I thought my heart was going to leave my chest. It was either panic I felt or I was experiencing some sort of mild heart failure. I tortured myself going over and over the possible and impossible reasons why I had been summoned to the headmistress's office. The only rational reason I could think of for my being on the bench was that I was to be dismissed. I took a deep breath and tried to rid myself of the sensation of adolescents.
I was staring at the second hand of my watch at about twenty-three and a half minutes past three when I heard the office door handle nudge forward. Mechanical parts can get clunky after years of wear and some doors seem to announce their use with very unkind noises. You can almost feel the contact before the turn. The handle rotates and the latch grinds on the flange of the doorjamb. The whole thing sounds almost medieval but at last the heavy door swung open. There was a momentary pause before the Headmistress emerged. I felt her before I saw her. The impact of the heal of her shoe resonated off the floor as she stepped forward, the sound of it echoed down the hall. I do believe I stopped breathing at that moment.
Ms. Monteith is a tall, striking woman in her mid 40’s. She keeps her long auburn hair tied up most days saying it’s usually too hot to do otherwise. She swims, runs couple of miles most days and plays a wonderful game of tennis. I’ve been on the losing side of her courts on more than a few occasions and I can tell you that she takes great delight in demonstrating her skill. Now, without getting too personal and this is just my own opinion, but, I believe that if the population were polled, she’d be voted as one of the most desirable women on the island. I’d been told that she’d been on the island for more than a dozen years, originally coming over from Scotland on a two-week, two-Island winter holiday. Rumor has it that she met a man here and never left. What happened to “him”, if there was a “him” is still a mystery to me.
She stepped through the door way and looked down at me. I looked up into her face hoping for a hint of my fate. Her dark eyes gave no indication as to her disposition. For about five of the longest seconds of my life I waited for a gesture or word. Just as I was about to offer some inane platitude she simply raised her arm and pointed toward the office. I swallowed, found my feet and rose to face her.
“Go into my office and sit down,” she said. Her strong Scottish accent had been softened by the years in the Islands but her intent was clearly not to mess around.
I walked through the door passed her with my head bowed. All I could see in front of me was the well-worn trail across the carpet left by years of footsteps as students made their way through the Administration offices. I heard her footsteps behind me as we made our way toward the archway that led to her private chambers. I started down the narrow hall that few students ever saw. For those that did, it was either for being very, very good, or for being very, very bad. My heart was in my throat, my fingers were numb with cold and I was sweating profusely. At he end of the hall, there was a beautiful foyer. The walls were festooned with aging portraits of passed Headmasters of the school. Across from me, about 15 feet away was a beautifully carved White-oak door with frosted glass and the school crest etched in its center. I walked over to it and paused with my hand on the handle but only for a second. This door lead to the Headmistress’s office and private apartment. I turned the handle, pushed the door open and walked into the room.
Cora Monteith was right behind me. “Sit down.” She said.
I heard the door close firmly behind me and then the lock turned. I thought, “At least she didn’t sound angry. This might be a good thing. All my worry may have been for nothing.” I tried to relax. I surveyed the room. Old style but comfortable and roomy. The original fireplace dominated the north wall. Huge and foreboding, I don’t think it had seen an actual fire in decades. There were also a number of antique pieces that had survived a few centuries on the island. Most notably, the large desk with black heavy leather top stood facing the center of the room. I had heard that it had arrived at the school thanks to the generosity of a Spanish Prince in the late 1700’s and had lay covered in the cellar for over a hundred years before they dug it out while trying to solve a plumbing problem. It was restored most expertly and moved into this room more than 50 years ago. The single straight-back chair standing in front of the desk had the same aged appearance. The view from this room is amazing. Large windows with French doors lead out to a balcony perched about two hundred feet above the sea.
The headmistress settled into her chair and folded her hands together on the desktop and focused upon me a look that I can honestly say gave me goose bumps.
“Do you know why you are here, Mr. Allen?”
She hadn’t called me Mr. Allen in private since the first day we met. I was sure now that the worst was about to fall upon me.
“Well, no I’m not sure that I do.” I stammered just a little. “Sorry, I'm a little nervous.”
“You have every right to be,” she said.
Our eyes met and we were fixed in a stare. The moment seemed to last for an eternity before the floor dropped slowly out from beneath me. Without saying a word she had me. I felt small.
She settled herself back into the chair and laid her hands together on the desktop. She took a breath. I stopped breathing. She told me the story of how she'd come to this place fifteen years before specifically to work on this school. Ms. Monteith, as it turned out had been a student of History at Trinity College in Dublin, and while finishing off her Masters’ thesis, had the chance to browse in the University archives. This was when she came across the diaries of one Geoffrey Montgomery 1740-1811. At first glance, she had been enchanted by his flare and wit. He had been a wonderful writer, and completely unknown to the world. Somehow his diaries ended up deep in the University basement. She realized that she had found true buried treasure. His first hand recounts of adventures in the Americas would have been enough to publish alone, but it was Montgomery’s school that really caught her imagination. She was captivated by thought of the school perched high on a cliff overlooking a cerulean bay and she was inspired by his ideals about education, discipline and the firmness of his convictions.
Cora Monteith had come to this island, to the school, with one purpose in mind and that was to recreate the Montgomery Collegiate. She believed that Montgomery had been a visionary in his time. He had written that a well-rounded education formed the very foundation upon which a child built its future. He also felt that the tools necessary to educate his students were not necessarily restricted to the classroom. Life lessons were highly prized. However, because of this, he enforced the school’s strict code of honor and discipline even when the students were away from school. Standards were very high. Failure was never tolerated. Transgressions were prioritized by severity and the punishments were dictated by age. Montgomery had been very clear about that.
“Stand up please,” she said to me.
Our eyes were locked for a moment but I felt compelled to look down at my knees. My body felt very heavy as I leaned forward to rise to my feet.
“I know about your little farm Mr. Allen!”
It felt like my face melted off my head and landed in a puddle in my lap. “My farm?” I asked trying not to look astounded. I'd been cultivating a little patch of Purple Kush on a hill up behind my house. Lots of folks did it. There was grass growing all over the island. How did she know I had been doing it?
“Ordinarily, I would have fired any staff member I whom discovered was involved in the kind of questionable activities that seem to amuse you. But you are a very good teacher and it would cause a detriment to the school to loose you. So, I’m going to make you an offer. No questions asked, you may pack your things and leave the island, or,” she paused and looked me straight in the eye. “Or, you can accept the fact that you cannot continue your illegal activities over at Marksberg, and that you will be subject to punishment according to the methods established for the school by Montgomery.” She pushed her chair back slightly from the desk making a small but nonetheless startling squeak, and rose from her chair.
What a choice! Leave the island, or not? But what about the “if not” part? That would involve discipline according to Montgomery...
“Mr. Allen?” Clearly, she was waiting for my answer.
I couldn't imagine leaving the idyllic life on the island. It would be heart breaking. How could I just pack up and leave? When I finally found my voice it echoed my thoughts. “I believe I would like to stay, please.”
“And Mr. Allen, what is the school punishment for the serious offenses committed by a student?”
“Spankings of one form or another.”
“Have you ever had to dispense any kind of corporal punishment during your duties at this school Mr. Allen?”
“No.” I said at first, but I thought for a moment and then remembered an incident when I had sent a girl to be spanked by Ms. Monteith for a minor transgression. “Yes, I did order a spanking once.”
“Did you give it?”
“Well, no.” I said sheepishly. “Actually, I sent her to the office, to you, for punishment.”
“I see.” She stood looking at me in silence.
My nerves were so jangled that I was afraid to move or make a sound and I had to swallow. I knew she’d hear me so I tried to do it with out making a sound. As I pressed my tongue up to the roof of my mouth to coax what little spit I had down my throat, from somewhere deep in the middle of my neck came one of those stupid gurgling noises. And it was a loud gurgle at that.
“Very pleasant Mr. Allen, shall we get down to business…”
I was as embarrassed as I thought I could be and turned further shades of red from the blushing.
“Now, I see that you truly understand that though we have a policy of dispensing corporal punishment on miscreants, you have felt above administering it, is that correct?”
“Oh, no Ms. Monteith, I just thought that you would do a much better job of it than I would, having so much experience and all…” I paused.
“I see,” she said. “So, it’s a lack of experience then?”
“Well, yes I guess so Ma’am.”
“Then I guess we’d better get you some experience shouldn’t we Mr. Allen?”
I wasn’t sure that what she had said was a question but I decided to agree with her just the same. “Yes Ma’am, I guess I should.”
She paused for a moment and then began to walk slowly out from behind her great desk. “So you have acknowledged that we give spankings of one sort or another. Do you know what we use to deliver the spankings Mr. Allen?”
I nodded the affirmative but didn’t speak.
“Can you give me a list?” she said. I could tell she was getting annoyed with me as her words were spoken very crisply. She always seemed to clip her words when she got agitated.
I started to think about what I’d seen in her armoire. I turned to glance over my shoulder so I could visually jog my memory by looking at the antique cabinet standing by the far wall. I didn’t help much but I began to list the few items I could recall. “There are two black leather straps. A long wide one and there is a shorter one that is narrow. There is a wooden paddle.” I was beginning to perspire more profusely. “And you have the one cane at least.” I turned my head back to her in time to see her shaking her head slowly from side to side.
She said almost mockingly. “For your information Mr. Allen, I have three canes, but I only use one at a time. You also forgot the old fashioned hairbrush, Mr. Allen and you mustn’t forget the hair brush.” She moved across the room toward the cabinet. “So we apply the various implements to suit the offense, don’t we, Mr. Allen?”
”Yes, Ma’am, we do.” I replied quickly though my mouth worked far faster than my brain did as I began to put things together.
Then she continued to speak. “And what do I save for the most serious of those offenses?”
I had caught on to the direction of the conversation and my heart sank. “The cane.”
“Ah yes, the cane.” she said. “And how many strokes of the cane would be given?”
“For the most serious?” I stopped for a long breath before I said meekly,”About a dozen I believe.” I knew where this was going and it made me tremble.
She walked back to me from the wall and looked me over as if to feel the weight of me. Then she leaned down, close to my ear and almost whispered “Actually, it’s two dozen,” she paused momentarily before continuing, “and the punishment is immediate and on the bare skin.” She let that sink in for a minute. “Today, you will receive one dozen strokes from every implement we use for discipline here at the Academy. That is, with the exception of the cane, which shall remain at two dozen strokes.” I thought she was done till she added the word, each.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“You will report for discipline every Saturday morning for the rest of the school term. Is that understood? Do you still want to stay Mr. Allen?”
I hung my head and said yes.
“I beg your pardon?” She said firmly.
“Yes, I accept your terms.”
“Then we shall begin.”
The moment of truth had arrived. It is hard to say whether it was at that exact moment or the next one when I heard a voice inside my head telling me to run...a simple velleity. Did I listen?
She swung open the armoire door to reveal her arsenal of disciplinary tools. Everything inside was hung properly in its place, each implement marked with a small brass name plate. It was incredibly intimidating.
“I am going to start with the things I'd use on the Junior school boys. Let loose your belt and take your trousers down.”
With trembling fingers I undid my belt and then twisted my fingers in an old familiar way undoing the top button. I slid the zipper as far as it could go then slipped over my hips and let them fall to the floor. I was about to step out of them when she stopped me.
“Leave them there on the floor around your ankle's for the time being. Remember this is the way the Junior school boys are punished.” She reached into the armoire and withdrew the hairbrush. “Bend over and put your hands on the desk.”
I had no choice but to comply. I thought I knew what was coming. I was wrong.
In a moment she was standing beside me, turning back toward the armoire she wrapped one arm around my waist and let fly with the other. With the intensity of the hundred bee stings in each stroke she slapped my bottom with the hairbrush a dozen times in fairly quick succession. I was out of breath, speechless and in a certain degree of pain. Let's say, on a scale of 1 to 10 of what I've experienced in my life up to this point this was definitely a nine with an exclamation mark... I had counted each one of the strokes so I knew when I'd had a dozen. I looked around to see her heading back to the armoire. Before I knew it the hair brush had been placed back in its spot and she was holding the narrow strap in her hand.
“Stand up Mr. Allen. You are now going to receive the first of the two straps. Hold out your hands please.”
“You've got to be kidding.” Did I actually say that out loud?
“No I am not kidding. Now hold out your hands and do not move them.”
I reluctantly held my hands out palms up. She took a step back, raised the strap above her head and brought it down on my right hand. I wanted to scream but I didn't. She raised her arm again. This time my left hand was her target. Back and forth she went, twelve times on each hand. Now, not only did my bottom sting, but my hands were on fire as well.
“Turn around and face the desk again Mr. Allen.”
I shuffled my feet, wrapped in my pants, and turned to face the desk. I dreaded putting my hands down on the desk again knowing this was going to exacerbate my already uncomfortable state.
“Do you know what's next Mr. Allen?”
It could only be one thing. “The long strap?” I answered.
“Absolutely correct.”
I prepared myself for the next assault on my buttock but nothing happened so I turned my head to see her standing behind me.
“Your underpants please.” She said matter-of-factly.
With a gulp, I slipped my thumbs under the waistband of my jockey's and pushed them to the floor to join my pants at my ankles. Did I ever feel exposed.
Smack!
OMG! The long strap is deadly. “How am I going to manage this?”
Smack!
“Jeeezsus H! Fucking Shit!” That's how it sounded in my head. I'm pretty sure all she heard was a spluttering gurgle.
Smack, Smack, Smack...Over and over. She said it was a dozen but I was unable to keep track.
I almost had my head resting on the desk when I could feel her hand on my back. She was tucking my shirt-tail under so it wouldn't block her next shot. I felt the cold wood against my skin as she sized me up and took aim.
“Count them out.” she commanded.
And that began another series of twelve welt provoking strikes against my person. I cannot lie. My arms and legs were jelly. Keeping my position in place was just about the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Sweat was pouring off my head and it mixed with salty tears that had begun to fall from my eyes. Yes, it was at this point that I actually started to cry. She must have taken pity on me. The barrage stopped and she walked over to the other side of the desk. She took her seat and looked at me. I was shaking. “Maybe,” I thought to myself, “this is it? There wont be any more?”
The silence between us lasted about as minute. A whole terrifying pain filled minute. At last I was composed and breathing normally.
“Finally,” She said, “I am going to finish your punishment for today. I hope I do not have to emphasize, in a more stringent fashion, the folly of your ways.”
“Yes Ma'am. I understand.”
“And you will remember that we will repeat this every Saturday until the end of term?”
“Yes Ma'am.”
“Good. Now, you'll be properly caned and you can go on your way.”
I thought about my religious convictions at that moment. “Holy Shit.” I said out loud.
She pushed her chair back and stood up. Casually,she walked around the desk and headed across the room to the armoire. I could hear her remove the cane from the cabinet. I heard the sound the armoire door makes as she closed it once again. And then there was a terrifying sound behind me. It was a whooping noise. Actually, it was more of a swishing whooping noise. And it registered. She was testing the heft and flex of the cane. Three times, four, five six times she swung the cane through the air behind me. If she wanted to scare me, she succeeded.
“All right Mr. Allen. Twenty-four strokes. Shall we begin?”
I thought about my answer for a long time. I thought about all the consequences that I might face if I made the wrong choice, not the least of which would include the cost of a plane ticket back to the frozen north. In truth, there was no way I wanted to spend another winter in the snow so I gave her the only answer I could. “Yes Ma'am.”
She lined her cane up with my crimson behind and let me have the first set of tracks, straight as an arrow, all the way across my bottom. She laid the next stroke right below it and so on, and so on until my ass started to look like a railway siding. My legs were buckling as number twenty-four was added on. I could hear Cora breathing, a bit out of breath from her exertion. I was completely done in.
Cora Monteith returned the cane in its place in the cabinet and walked back over to her desk. As she sat down she looked up at me and said, “You are excused Mr Allen. Make sure you are punctual next Saturday. I don't think you'd like to have the number of strokes doubled.”
She sat watching as I pulled up my pants and just as I was about to leave I thought I saw a little Mona Lisa smile grace her lips and I get the feeling she'd like me to be late...