Finals Week

"Aaah! I can't take it! I'm going to die!" he moaned dramatically.

"You can take it, Emerson. If you really can't, you know what to say. But I would never go beyond your limit. You've got some deep red lines and welts but that's all. You're safe. Get back down. Hands down. Count."

He miserably assumed his previous position, lower arms pressed against the wooden desk. It took so long to get his count out, and when he did, his voice was high and childish. "F-four, ma'am," he said. He'd cry soon, he knew it. It embarrassed him how quickly he was breaking down.

The next strike of the cane was sudden, coming sooner after his count than the others, and shocked him into freezing up after his yelping cry of pain. Tears began to fill his eyes. "I'll be good!" he said, gulping in air too fast and hard. "No more! No more! Please!"

"Breathe. Deep breaths. Try counting backwards from ten."

Using her advice, he managed to stop the panic before it skyrocketed out of control. "Five, ma'am," he said at last, squeezing his teary eyes shut.

Ms. Hartford gave him long breaks between whacks with the cane. Even still, his bottom couldn't come close to fully recovering between strokes. He feared he'd be unable to sit down normally again for the rest of the week.

He gripped the end of the desk so he wouldn't jump up again as he heard the swish of the cane descending on him. It hit just below the last, right around sensitive his sit-spot now. "Aaahh! Nooo! Please no more! I've learned my lesson! I should have studied!"

"Correct. You should have studied or you wouldn't be getting this today. You could have been happily over my lap taking a little hand-spanking the way you usually prefer it. Count."

"S-six, ma'am," he said, tears spilling freely down his face now. He went rigid, tensing every muscle in his body before Ms. Hartford put a hand on his lower back.

"You'll only make it hurt more that way," she warned him. "Just accept it. Don't fight it."

He managed to let his body go limp after sniffing back some tears. The seventh crack of the cane buckled his knees again. He collapsed forward onto the desk, his full weight upon it, and began to pitifully weep just after he squeaked out, "S-seven, ma'am."

Things were escalating quickly in his mind as he lay there crying, his entire bottom smarting terribly. He felt he'd never pass that test no matter what he did. It was so hopeless. That's why he didn't study. He knew it now. Because studying seemed a waste of his time if he was going to fail anyway. He only let out a louder sob as the eighth stroke landed just above his thighs.

"Eight, m-ma'am," he sobbed. Then he couldn't stop himself from sharing his worries. "I'll never pass! It's hopeless! I'm not smart enough and it's too late!"

"Shh," she said, a hand on his back, shaking with sobs. "You are certainly smart enough. And it's not too late. You messed up, but it's not hopeless. Two more."

Feeling like a very naughty boy indeed, he was now flat over the desk, bent at ninety degrees. White knuckles held onto the edge of the desk for dear life. The tears wouldn't stop, but hit a crescendo with the ninth strike. Now he got it right on the backs of his thighs. It stung even worse than his bottom. He kicked back both his legs involuntarily, his feet completely off the floor. "Nine, ma'am," he managed after sniffling back more tears.

"One more. Are you able to take it?"

"Y-yes, ma'am."

"Good. You've gotten through all ten even though you thought you couldn't do it. You can handle things better than you think."

Before he could think to thank her for the encouragement, the final stroke of the cane burned another line into his skin. It was intense, a very memorable thudding whack on the backs of his thighs. Both his knees bent back again as he pulled his feet up towards his bottom, as though they could stop the pain. "Aaghh," he moaned out.

Emerson couldn't stop crying enough to do his count. He hadn't felt this broken since she'd used the little paddle on him over a month ago. It took a full minute before he managed his wet and squeaky, "Ten, ma'am."

"You're okay," said Ms. Hartford, trying to soothe him as he wept openly over the desk. He wasn't okay! He was surely going to fail his class. How would he tell his parents he'd failed after they spent so much money paying for this education?

"But I'm gonna fail the exam," he cried. It was easy to be open about his feelings and inner thoughts while already so humbled before her.

His disciplinarian helped him up and pulled up his shorts and pants as he fumbled with some tissues she'd given him. For a few minutes she let him cry as she hugged him, letting him get it all out.

Once he'd calmed enough, she pointed to a desk. "Sit down."

"Sit?" he asked, rubbing his still-sore backside.

"Yes, sit down. It's not too late. I think you have a chance."

"It's sixty percent of my grade," he said.

"Then let's get started," she said.

Emerson couldn't get comfortable on his stinging bottom and upper thighs, but instead of impeding his studies, it only served to keep him awake. It was also a good reminder of the consequences of failure to study!

The problem was that some concepts were just failing to compute at all. After watching him flounder, staring in confusion at his textbook and getting nowhere, Ms. Hartford helped. "You're a visual learner, I think. And not all professors are perfect at explanations. Let's find you some outside assistance."

She allowed him to use his phone and helped him find some videos explaining the scientific concepts to small children. It embarrassed him, feeling like he was being talked down to by strangers online, but it was working. She moved up a level to show him the concepts explained in more detail for older children. Then again for teenagers, until he began to see why some of the formulas worked the way they did. By the time she'd reached university level - his level - he was no longer overwhelmed.

"You need to admit when you need extra help sometimes," she told him. "It's not a moral failing to not understand something the first time you hear it."

"Yes, ma'am."

For the next four hours he worked hard on fully understanding the concepts that had gone over his head all semester. His bottom had healed enough to let him sit with only minor discomfort by the time Ms. Hartford looked at her watch and told him he had to get going.

"Keep working on this until the exam on Tuesday. Use the videos. Watch them as much as you need. If you study as hard as you can, I'll give you a special reward."

"A reward?"

"We'll see if we can make one of your little fantasies come true."

His heart sped in joy - but also with some trepidation. "Not the kidnapping one, right?"

"Nothing you don't actually want," she smiled. "You'll be able to choose how it goes, as usual for when you've been good."

This exciting promise helped greatly to motivate him. For the next two days he studied the way he probably should have originally. Nearly constantly.

When that fateful Tuesday morning arrived, and he was at a desk with his pencil in hand, he was less anxious than he'd expected. It all went well until he nearly choked up and panicked on a difficult question. Taking a moment to close his eyes, he could hear Ms. Hartford's voice in his head. You're safe. You're okay. Count backwards from ten. You can do this. And he was able to carry on all the way to the end like that.

I don't know if it was enough yet, but I really tried he texted her that afternoon.

She wrote back a couple of hours later. Really trying is all I wanted. You can get your reward this weekend, no matter how you're graded. I'll email you tonight.

She'd clearly been listening to his fantasies every Saturday. The ones he'd admit to her, anyway. Though they were wild and sometimes elaborate, they almost always involved others around to witness his shame.

Her email let him know that she'd been working with another woman, a twenty-one-year-old who was thinking of going into Ms. Hartford's line of professional disciplinarian work. She offered to invite her over to help with his final session soon, before he would leave campus for the summer.

In his haste and excitement, Emerson only answered with three words. Yes please, ma'am!