Bill had been having a bad morning at school. Yesterday's football practice had been frustrating and difficult, and his coach had called him a "pansy". His girlfriend had accused him of cheating on her, he had received an "F" on a big project in History, and his Driver's Ed teacher had yelled at him and humiliated him in front of the other two drivers in the car. It was too much when the class "brain", Curtis, asked him if he ever used his head for anything but a place to store his football helmet. Before he realized what he was doing, Bill had driven his iron fist into Curtis's soft, skinny stomach and knocked the wind out of him.
Now he was sitting in the waiting room of the Assistant Principal's office, watching the second hand of the clock as it slowly crept around the numerals. Mrs. Atkins was in the office, telling Mr. Davis all about the "attack" on Curtis. Bill's stomach was fluttering with nervousness and his hands cold and clammy; he knew he was in big, big trouble. Mr. Davis, well known throughout the whole district for the severity of his "corporal punishments", was not a patient man to start with. Bill had already been sent to the office for two lesser infractions, and knew he was pretty much out of options. He squirmed in his chair, feeling his threadbare boxer shorts sticking to his sweaty skin as he recalled the stories of the biggest, meanest guys in the school sobbing like two-year-olds under the relentless paddlings Mr. Davis administered.
Abruptly, the door jerked open and Mrs. Atkins sailed out, her thin lips pressed together in a grim line. She didn't even glance at Bill, but brushed by him and burst out through the swinging door into the corridor. The rapid click, click, click of her high heels faded gradually into the distance, and again the room was silent. There was a creak and a scraping sound as Mr. Davis pushed back his chair.
"Mr. Coleman," he said formally, "step in here, please. And close the door behind you."
Bill complied, dragging his feet just a little, the fluttery feeling in his gut beginning to feel more like a solid knot. Mr. Davis was not wearing his suit coat; he was in the act of rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt. Bill's heart sank even further.
"Mr. Coleman, I think you know what's about to happen here," began the Assistant Principal. "Your behavior these past few weeks has been unacceptable, but today's attack on a fellow student is a very serious matter, with very serious consequences." He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the paddle, a quarter-inch thick piece of solid oak, two feet long. He continued: "I believe the last time you were in here, I advised you to stay out of trouble or you would be encountering the paddle. Well, you're in trouble now, and you are about to encounter the paddle. Turn around, bend over, and place your hands on the arms of that chair."
Bill turned, the knot in his stomach growing tighter until he felt almost nauseated. He bent over, his thin trousers pulling tightly against the skin of his ample but solid linebacker's bottom. Mr. Davis reached out his hand and grasped Bill's waistband, pulling his trousers and boxers straight up. As he did, Bill felt his cheeks lifted up even higher, and felt the cold wood of the paddle as Mr. Davis got his bearings for the first swat.
It filled the tiny office like a rifle shot. Bill gasped out loud as the sudden hot, stinging pain attacked his rear. Before he had a chance to catch his breath, the second swat came, still louder than the first, and more painful. And a third. And a fourth. Bill's eyes were watering, and his whole being concentrated on not screaming or blubbering as the swats continued falling. Mr. Davis had managed to land each swat squarely atop the previous one, right in the middle of Bill's behind. Finally, after the seventh swat, Bill's reserves of courage and determination were broken. He sobbed out, "Please, Mr. Davis, sir, no more! I'm sorry! I'll never do it again!"
But the Assistant Principal was far from finished. He paused just long enough to say, "I'm sure you're sorry, Mr. Coleman, but you're not half as sorry as you're going to be."
With that, the paddling resumed. By the tenth swat, Bill was despairing. His bottom felt like he was sitting on a hot griddle that just kept getting hotter. He bawled like a little kid, letting out hoarse screams as the stinging, blistering wood hit home again and again. Finally, after a total of fifteen swats, Mr. Davis stopped abruptly and said "Put your hands behind your head and stand where you are until I tell you to move." Bill obeyed, tears flowing down his face, his breath coming in ragged sobs. He heard the sounds of Mr. Davis replacing the paddle in his desk and sitting back down in the chair. He could feel the blood pounding in the muscular flesh of his behind, bringing sharp, stinging pain with every throb. He stopped crying almost as soon as the paddling was over, but his breath was still ragged, and he could feel the strange, tight feeling of tears drying on his face. Of course, he didn't dare remove his hands from behind his head. It was ten minutes before Mr. Davis released him from the corner and allowed him to return to class.
The stern warning to "stay out of trouble, or next time it's double" was hardly necessary. Bill would be unable to sit down comfortably for several days, and every time he thought about starting trouble, he remembered the sound and the feeling of that relentless paddle as Mr. Davis blistered him good that day. He managed to finish high school without any more fighting. That was hardly a surprise to Mr. Davis...