I can't help myself.

A curious tincture of patriotism and whiskey forces me to point out this video. Probably not safe for work if your boss disapproves of foul language or England bashing. Then again, anyone who reads this page probably wants a spanking.

But on a more serious note, I'd like to note that I have the freedom to write and publish online silly stories about spanking, and you have the freedom and good taste to read them. And an American can tongue and cheek his country a little humility in the video above without fear of the gulag. America is not the only free country in the world, but it's one of them, and tomorrow is her birthday. Well, her sort of birthday.

God bless the United States of America and spanking.

PB

Reform

Chapter One

Adventures in Accounting

High school bites twice as hard the second time around

Fate had me pulling secretarial work for the Matron the day Foxtrot caught Ashley St. Croix snooping around the South Fence. I didn’t know Ash very well in those days. She was just another one of us bad girls that learned some things too slow, other things way too fast, for the society to tolerate. I noticed her because I envied her ears, but hadn’t said more than ten words to her since she transferred into Reformatory Southdown a week before.

Foxtrot lurched Ash into the office while I straightened out the accounting records and filled in the intern checklist homework for Professor Henderson‘s Life Micromanagement class which is just a long way of teaching me to balance a checkbook.

I heard the report of this wicked violation (which wasn’t anymore detailed than what I’ve already written) and Matron thanked her grounds keeper/thug Foxtrot, who promptly left in the stiff manner of a mummy released to visit evil on all mankind and mow grass. I bet he eats puppies. A hunched back would have looked good on him. Matron told him to close the door behind him, and he did, an evil grin on his crusty old puppy-eating face. I saw this on the sly, because I didn’t want him to see me or look at me or think about me or anything with me. Or to me.

It didn’t take long for the first cracking sound. I felt no suspense over any possible mercy on the part of Matron Danielle Gregor because she didn’t have any. She did have a lot of canes: all identical. I never measured one, but they were long and thick and could bend in half without breaking. I saw a cane in an old movie once. English cane. Gregor’s canes were exactly the same except the handles didn’t curve, and the manufacturers used about ten pounds more wood, either to improve the durability, or to make it a lethal weapon.

Each would eventually break, of course, but don’t worry sweetheart, Matron always had another one.

She didn’t use anything else on us. I suppose all the professors had their favorite. I know Henderson favored the hairbrush, probably as an excuse to get a girl over her lap like a Sadistic Santa Claus. She wasn’t so bad though, not cruel, just a capitalist opportunist like you’d expect an economics professor to be. Coach Van Brown liked her paddle so we could really feel the burn. Her brain was empty except for a couple hundred insipid slogans. Favorites or not, every goon around Reformatory Southdown dished out variety on us except for old Danielle Gregor, Matron.

She was probably beaten viciously with a cane as a youth so often she confused cane strokes with love and she had an awful lot of love to give. Probably just the results of a joyless and painful childhood -- at least, oh God on High, I hope so. Please don’t think me low. I don’t approve of hurting children, but in retrospect that bitch deserved a bad childhood.

CRACK! Four seconds. CRACK! I’m pretty good with numbers; that’s why I frequently get this accounting job. I couldn’t help but count poor Ash’s punishment. Numbers are amazing. Just from the number of CRACKS and number of seconds or minutes between them I can paint you a pretty good scene of the room:

Obviously, there’s an ill-fated girl bent over a big mahogany desk, holding onto it for dear life. Her black uniform skirt is up, her white cotton standard issues are down to her knee high socks, and just after CRACK four her white blouse is a little damp with sweat. The CRACKS this time didn’t pause at two or three, which meant Matron had every intention of given out 12 straight. This meant Matron was angry. Usually she’ll stop at 2 and walk around the desk you’re over, whipping or bending the cane, all smiles, waxing philosophic on ethics, crime and punishment; but nobody can quote her because all anyone over that desk can think about was how much time was left before the bitch completed the circle and got-ta spanking.

I’ve been over that desk only on arrival; kind of a “welcome to the party” assorted gift basket of pain, humiliation, and caste classification.

I got six cuts of that lovely phallic symbol. My pride held in my screams and begging until half a second after stroke one. I thought she was going to cut me in two. She didn’t, and I didn’t pray for death, just a swarm of locusts or an earthquake or anything that would stop that devil woman from getting around to stroke two while she demonstrated the nature of unlimited power. God must have been busy planning another universe or something, because He didn’t send locust one. Not one manna Happy Meal from Heaven.

Gregor sent me five more fire demons, all fresh from Hell.

I didn’t hear anything from Ash. Maybe she grunted, or gasped, or some other noise I wouldn’t hear through a door.

I nailed it. Gregor didn’t stop at six. She stopped at twelve, idly walked, a little intoxicated with puissance and adrenalin, to face Ash, leaned over nice and slow, her face hard as rock, all this just to ask a question. Very inefficient.

Now, since the only reason to snoop around the South Fence is to escape, and since Gregor knows full well that only a newbie like Ash didn’t know that nobody can escape through the South Fence because there is nothing to hide behind while sneaking up, because of all the damn cameras, infrared cameras, and sound detectors, because of the miles of untamed wilderness between the Fence and the next road, and because of the nearby stable full of nervous horses that nay at any stranger in the night, Gregor isn’t asking Ash about partners in crime, as nobody was or is stupid enough to partner up with a newbie. No, Gregor is asking Ash if Ash understood the error of her ways.

Now Gregor is giving Ash some time to catch her breath and think seriously about the path she’s on and how taking the road less traveled is for free poets, not convicts over a desk, ass in harm’s way. Well, folks, what can I tell ya: Ash took the road less traveled.

And that made all the difference.

On the issue of sitting down for a few weeks, anyway. Now let me impress you some more with my perspicacity. After Ash said nothing, or said whatever Gregor didn’t want her to say, Gregor took off her jacket, folded the sleeve of that dour white blouse, face all smiles because now she had a challenge and a blank check, and put herself into educating the ignorant wench. The rate of fire went from four seconds to three seconds, and the CRACKS went from CRACKS to CRACKS. As loud as I’ve ever heard them, and most days I hear them three times a day.

Twelve more times Matron Gregor, biting her lip, raised that cane over her shoulder before bringing it down with all her might. I could see it perfectly in my head. Tall, long blonde hair tied in a somehow conservative pony tail, strong Amazonian muscles working in perfect unison, like a pitcher throwing a fast ball with everything he has from his hair to his toes—and that cane strained to the max to keep up with her.

Not a peep from that crazy girl made it through the door to me, who, by this time, stared at the door in amazement.

You might think, dear readers, that only a callous cold fish wouldn’t cry a river of empathy for the poor girl over that desk. Dear Readers(whom I hope paid full price for this book and didn’t go cheep and buy second hand), canings happen all the time here. It’s a fact of Reform life to which one must adapt. I’ve received my share of Old School correction, though I’ve succeeded in avoiding Gregor’s wrath since my homecoming, a laudable record.

You avoid it when you can, you take it when you must. I’ve heard a thousand beatings through that door, and each time the girl came out alive. Broken, pissed, embarrassed, sometimes even aroused—all emotions of the living.

“Ash’s Stand,” as I think of the event, was different. Never heard a girl take the Matron’s best without howling through the door. Never even heard of it, and gossip is the coin of the realm around here. Well, cold cream is also legal tender since cold hard cash grew more and more scarce. And sure, tough-guy girls may brag about getting through six or twelve CRACKS without begging for mercy, or calling on Jesus, but we all yell ourselves hoarse by the end.

24 down, and no Jack Bauer to the rescue. Another pause, and here my magical powers of deduction failed me. I was certain, positive, Ash would come to her senses and give the Matron whatever the fuck the Matron wanted.

CRACK!

Twelve more times. No peeps. No howls, no nothing. I saw the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire once. I loved the outfits everyone wore, like what they wear in the Florida Freehold during the summer except not yellow because the Romans’ didn‘t worship the sun. I’m no historian, but I’m pretty sure the Romans didn’t worship Mickey Mouse, either.

Other than fashion, what I remember about the flick was some savage German warlord putting a torch up to James Mason’s hand to get him to scream. No dice, Mr. Warlord. The warlord was so impressed he threw his icon into the fire and applied for classes in Roman stoicism.

I didn’t have an icon or a fire, so I Just sat there, transfixed, while a girl had her soft little bare bottom dipped into a tank of piranha without a sound of protest.

There are always laws. Everywhere you go. Laws are a universal problem. One of them said no more than 36 acts of cane justice on a girl’s supple heinie[1] at any one time. This might be the first time that particular legislation ever had an impact, but it did, and I’m grateful to whichever statesman pushed it through, or, more likely, the lobbyists that pushed the statesmen through.

Three minutes after the last CRACK the Matron’s door opened and I got my first real look at Ashley St. Croix beyond her ears. She opened the door, closed it, and shouldered the frame with all her weight. Mid twenties. Her long red hair looked like she tested wind tunnels for a living(canings do that, with all the thrashing of the neck and gnashing of teeth). Her face was downcast, self-conscious, and exhausted. I didn’t see one tear. She had made an effort to get her uniform sharp, but you‘d need an iron to get the ruffles out of your uniform after even a moderate beating, much less the legislative limit.

Our uniform was well thought out. The white blouse coated with some fancy chemical so that when they shine this blue light in the night it glows like a supernova in the darkness. The sleeveless black vest sweater for winter is good enough for our day to day lives, but wouldn’t be much good in the woods, not for days. The skirt is black and short so the thicket would cut our legs to ribbons. Socks were knee high to keep us warm, but they slipped down when running. Annoying as Hell when you’re late for class. And finally the shoes. Comfy if you aren’t running to class, and they clickity-clacked like a horse cop on Bourbon Street.

So much to explain about our little world.

I studied Ash’s face the hardest. She looked focused on merely existing, and maybe a little traumatized, but mostly focused. Otherwise she was tallish, but a half foot below the Amazon on the other end of the cane Ash only moments ago met intimately. Her features were striking, strong, and beautiful in a just off way like a tilted panting.

As I said, her whole body screamed exhaustion. She might have slid down that door frame any moment. She breathed, looking down, her hands on the wood, and breathed for a minute more. I don’t think I breathed once. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to rush to her, sooth her, help her to bed so she could rest on her tummy. But I didn’t know her.

She took a deep breath, let go of the door frame, and minced her way across the office, one hand on her battered bottom, the other on my desk for support. Her face twisted up the instant her hand made ass touchdown, then melted back into an expression that screamed “I could sleep on a bed of angry porcupines.” She moved too fast and had to stop. She faltered just a smidge, but it was excuse enough. I stood up and walked to her side. I put my hand on hers. She was slouched over a bit, so our eyes were level when they met.

‘Next time,’ she said. ’I’ll wear my work clothes. I wont look so out of place.’ Fat chance. They keep the work clothes locked up when not in use like a Swiss banker hides gold.

‘Nobody can escape through the South Fence.’

‘Yes, a person can, but I wasn’t trying to escape.' Her voice was throaty, rich and beautiful. 'I can smell gasoline a mile away. It’s my favorite smell. I just followed my nose.’ She pulled her hand out from under mine, patted mine, then both her hands messaged her fanny. She closed her eyes allowing me to study her face without feeling rude. She winced and gritted her teeth. She massaged her wounds with a rueful face, but no anger.

‘See you around.’ I couldn’t place the accent, not with so few words. Southwest maybe. Best guess was the Arizona Complex, but there was a force to her tone that screwed up my measurements. An originality.

She turned from me and minced to the hallway. She took deliberate, small steps, and rubbed her cotton padded rump over her skirt.

‘How do you know a reformer can escape through the south fence?’

‘Because a person can do anything.’

I felt weird. Not bad, not good. Can’t describe it better than that. Don’t know any word for it other than “weird.” I sat down and pretended to finish the accounting. I would have actually finished the accounting, but it was already finished, and I was too afraid of handing it over to Gregor at the moment. She might be furious over the recent Phyriic Victory of the Cane against Ash’s gluteus. Sure sure, Ash’s rump suffered greatly, but Ash never said uncle, and warfare is about will, not pain.

If Gregor boiled over, and she saw me, she would see something. Anything. Any violation of the myriad rules, no matter how trivial, and then she’d… well, figure it out. Actually, she’d more likely abuse her discretion with the subjective violations, like slouching or, my favorite, “untoward tone, expression, or aspect.” What the Hell does that mean? Then it would be Danielle Archer’s turn over the desk, screaming my head off(we have the same first name because Life likes to make fun of me). I hate the cane. I would confess to being a DDU spy if it would save me from one cut. So I stayed at my desk, head down, going over the numbers, while Gregor no doubt fumed.

Know your enemy.

Five minutes later the light on the phone went off that meant Gregor was using hers. Five seconds after the light went out she stormed out of her office, a cane in hand, and barked. "They need me in the dorms. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Twenty minutes, and I want that work done by the time I get back unless you think you can do math better standing up with tears in your eyes.’

The dorm was going to catch Hell. The trick to surviving trench warfare is not to be where the mortar shells land. If I had gone into that office, I would have gotten a spanking fit for three girls on my only ass. Instead, in her fury, she had called the dorm goonlets to round up recent offenders or usual suspects.

A goonlet is generally a despicable creature. Their Latin name is “trusty.” Suck-ups, sadists, and sans scruples. You can tell them by bright red armbands and the weapons they carry. Hairbrushes, straps, straps cut into ribbons, paddles, anything but the cane, no doubt for insurance reasons. Goonlets are the most common source of tanned fannies; the sun coming in at a close second.

One Goonlet was cool, sort of a double agent. Goes by Alexia Glatzer. Normally I’d call her to tell our mutual friends to dig a hole, jump in, then pull the dirt over themselves and stay until the dragon goes back to her mountain, but Glatzer would be in the gym about then, taking the lazy reformers to the woodshed and pretending to beat them. Some, of course, she would beat, the ones she couldn’t trust, or Senator Gail, or girl’s Coach Van Brown was likely to inspect, but hey—no matter how sneaky, no matter how careful, no matter even how obedient, sometimes you are going to catch a spanking, so hold on tight and think of England.

But not for my friends today; not if I could help it. I opened the window and looked for a homing pigeon. I found one three stories down tending a rose garden. A senator no less.

Senator Gail sat in the rose garden on rose garden tending duty, petting one of the FA’s dogs on their monthly inspections. They were cute, though I never really Old Yellered up to them because I knew those beasts could snap me in half with one bite. The FA only sent female agents for such inspections, so the closest thing we gals got to boydom was a friendly bomb sniffing dog trained to eat people.

‘Gail. Hurry, the wind’s blowing… shit…. East!” The forlorn Pincher barked and stretched his lease at Senator Gail as she off and ran towards the dorm, or “the East,” or I hope “the East”, but maybe Gail thought “the East” was the stables further down beyond the dorms. The problem is that girls are cliquish, easily bored, and never ever satisfied. Some of the girl‘s have their own little code, or change the code when they get bored or suspect the goonlets have decoded it, or just for the plain old fun of it—then they tell one or two people.

If Gail had gotten into a fight with her roommate Heather since yesterday(I put it at fifty/fifty), then Gail wouldn’t know Kathy Toro and Katherine Winterborn got into a huge fight after the breakfast coding session over what should be what and the whole thing broke down along party lines and I and a few others have been spreading the word to go with Kathy T and next week Katherine will get to decide the code all by herself because the time has come for all good men to come to the aid of their party.

If Heather used Senator Gail’s soap on a rope again, plenty of my friends would catch it, and a lot of horses would panic for no good reason.

Hell with it. I collected my work, and walked into the lion’s den while the lion was out torturing elk. I set the work down on the lion’s otherwise bare desk, then did a little detective work. Ash’s sweaty palm prints were still there, a little faded, at the far corners of the desk. Only the pair of them. That meant that Ash stretched herself all the way over, just to get that bottom a little higher and give that sting a touch more agony, but didn’t even move her palms once. I banged my hands after each teeth jarring, pride erasing cut I got.

Maybe there was something wrong with her spinal cord?

I turned to leave and that’s when it happened. The reason most of you are probably reading this autobiography. If time reversed and I’d idly turned on that spot a hundred times I don’t think I’d see it again. On the accounting sheets we use there is a red horizontal bar on the top right of the page, and one or two vertical black bars: one bar for the Federal Associated States funds accounts, two for private school funds owned by private non-profits. There, sticking out of a not quite closed briefcase on matron’s chair, was a little bit of paper with a red horizontal bar, and three vertical black bars. Not one or two, but three bars.

You might be wondering why I’m in this horrible place, getting my twenty-three year old nether cheeks spanked on the state’s dime and society’s profit. What terrible crime put me into four years of constant fanny tanning danger? I assure you, it wasn’t respecting people’s privacy.

---

[1] My spell checker doesn’t recognize “heinie”. Preposterous.

OK, digging deep to post

First, happy 4th of July! Up the rebels, down the British! No taxation without lame-ass, corrupt representation!!

There, now that I've alienated the largest spanko demographic in the world, I can continue with the news.

Second, I've got a three day weekend and I hope to write another chapter to something. I also hope to get Christie Brinkley on the re-bound.

Third, just to prove I'm still lingering, I'm going to post the first chapter to my magnum opus, my book length spanking novel I wrote a year or so ago. Yes, yes, I know--It's just like the long awaited Guns and Roses CD. If you are given to fainting, tie pillows around your head and don't hold a hot cup of coffee. Safety first, cuzz baby, it's red hot. I like to think of the work as a mixture of Heinlein and... well, Heinlein. He was a perv.

However, the ugly fact is that, while I dote on my beloved creation, I'm not one-hundred percent happy with the first chapter. So, comments are welcomed. Who am I kidding--comments are craved. Like, crack addict craved. I'll take any advice except "too many notes".

I don't yet plan to post the whole book, but I think I may post the second chapter some time in the near future.

Don't tread on me!!

PB