2018/01/11

Paddle in Plaid

Gwen Marsden was preparing dinner. Her eyes were on the cutting board, her hands busy with the knife and a row of fresh veggies. She stood at the kitchen counter, an apron covering her dress, her hair pinned up, apparently absorbed in the work.

But her thoughts were entirely with her daughter, Virginia. Ginny was deviating from her normal after-school routine. For one thing, she was still in her school uniform — what she derisively called the “Clone Costume” — instead of in soft and roomy fleece. Changing was usually the top after-school priority. For another, she was hanging around the kitchen rather than disappearing to her private bedroom and the enticing secret world of social media. It was evident to Gwen that Ginny had something on her mind; she chopped carrots and was patient.

Ginny got a glass of water from the fridge, then wandered over to her mother’s side. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.

“Wild rice soup with turkey, and some bread I made this morning.” Gwen replied. “If you’re hungry now, a roll could go missing and nobody would complain.”

“Not now.” Ginny leaned back against the counter where her mother was working, not making eye contact. “Hey, Mom?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“How come you have a spatula that matches my kilt?”

“This one, you mean?” Gwen asked, extracting the right one from the jar of kitchen implements.

“Yeah. That’s the same plaid, right?”

“Mmm-hmm. The Saint Catherine’s tartan.”

“Ummm…” Ginny hesitated, but found the courage to continue. “Where did you get it?”

Gwen smiled, finally understanding what subject was on her daughter’s mind. She dried her hands on her apron and turned to take in Ginny’s deep blush and averted eyes. She considered her options briefly, but her usual policy was to answer even difficult questions honestly, and there was no reason to make an exception.

“Well, when I was at Saint Kate’s, back in the age of dinosaurs —”

“Oh, Mom.”

“Two of my friends and I got into a bit of trouble one day.”

“What did you do?” Ginny exclaimed, finally looking her mother in the face.

“We… hmm, let’s say, we coöperated with each other during a Chemistry quiz.”

“You cheated?”

“We… pooled our resources. Let’s leave it at that. Anyway, we were found out, and got sent to the Vice Principal’s office.” Gwen’s eyes looked back over the years. “Mr. Fischer. Just a young man at the time — though of course we girls thought anyone in a suit and tie was the same age as our parents — very handsome, and there were a few students who might have had a little crush.”

“Did you?”

“No, not really. Anyway, each of us got turned over for a good hard spanking, by hand at first but winding up with the St. Catherine’s tartan spatula.”

“Mom!”

“And at the end, Mr. Fischer gave us each one to take home ‘to remind your parents how to deal with bad behavior’ — and I’ve had it ever since.”

Ginny took the rubber paddle from her mother’s hand. “This is — you got a spanking at school, with this exact thing?”

“That’s right.” Gwen smiled softly at her daughter’s stunned expression. “It was the only time, but I have to admit it helped me get serious about school.”

“Did you — did he — were… did you have to, um, y’know…” Ginny’s blushing returned with a fury. She fingered the hem of her kilt.

Gwen caught on. “Lift our kilts and drop our panties? Yes, indeed we did. Panties around our ankles and bent over a desk.”

“Weren’t you embarrassed?” Ginny gasped.

“Oh good lord yes. Mortified. Bare my butt for a teacher? A man? I can’t even tell you — the spanking hurt a lot, Ginny, but being exposed like that was the truly awful part of the punishment.”

Gwen turned back to the counter and resumed her work. “So tell me, Ginny, why the sudden interest?”

Ginny walked over to the table where she had shed her backpack. She unzipped the pack and reached inside. When she turned back to face her mother, she was holding a spatula, its blade matching the colors and pattern of her kilt. “Mr. Fischer is still at the school,” she said, avoiding her mother’s eyes, “And he still gives these out when he spanks girls for the first time.”

“Oh, Virginia.” Gwen’s face was full of sympathy as she abandoned her cooking and went to give her daughter a hug.

Ginny’s self-control vanished and tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry. It was just supposed to be… I don’t know, funny or fun or… I didn’t mean…”

“Shh… There, there. What in the world did you get up to?”

Ginny sniffled. “Y’know how all the grades are on line? Well… I kind of… I hacked in and I — I changed all the grades for everybody to A-plus.”

Feeling an inappropriate grin about to bloom, Gwen forced herself to look concerned. “You hacked in? I didn’t know you could do that kind of thing.”

“Well — it’s not really hacking, it’s just that the admin password is TEACHER123, which is so lame it’s practically an invitation, and so… Oh, Mom, I just thought it would be funny, but it turns out that the older teachers still keep real grade books but the newer ones just trusted the computer, so for a lot of classes there’s no way to figure out what the real grades used to be, so the teachers are super pis— super angry at me, so I got sent to Mr. Fischer, and… maybe tomorrow I’ll think that pulling my panties down for him was the worst part but right this minute I think the worst part is how much it hurt.”

More tears welled up and ran down Ginny’s cheeks. “And now I have to give you this to remind you how to deal with me, and I don’t know if that means now you’re going to start spanking me too, or Daddy, or what, and I’m scared and I’m sorry Mom, I didn’t mean to make you mad at me and all the teachers and all the other girls and everybody and I’m really sorry…”

Then her sobs grew wordless, as she buried her face against her mother’s shoulder. Gwen stroked her daughter’s hair and held her close while she calmed.

“What happens now?” Ginny asked, her face still hidden.

“When your father gets home we’ll talk, and he’ll decide if you’ve learned from your mistake or if you need some… extra help at home. I promise he would never spank you unless he absolutely had to. So there’s no point in getting all worked up right now. Why don’t you go wash your face and change out of your school clothes — you can get your homework started or help me with dinner.”

“Okay,” Ginny murmured. She disengaged herself from her mother’s arms, grabbed her backpack, and headed up to her bedroom. Gwen stood for a moment, lost in thought, then bestirred herself and put Ginny’s tartan spatula in the jar with her own girlhood memento.

A few minutes later, Ginny returned, in sweats and ponytail, looking fresh and pretty. “Hey, Mom?”

“Yes, dear.”

“How come you keep your St. Kate’s spatula? You could’ve thrown it away a long time ago.”

Gwen smiled. “Oh… your father likes to use it from time to time.”

“Daddy? Daddy never bakes, why would he —” Ginny stopped suddenly. Her eyes grew wide. “Oh. Mom. Mom, really?”

Gwen’s smile broadened. “Even mothers make mistakes and need help now and then,” she said, to Ginny’s continued astonishment. “Now how about if you get the rice started? Your father will be home in an hour.”

— Frenulum

(Inspired by spotting a variety of tartan-patterned spatulas in a Williams-Sonoma store. The tale sprang to mind in an instant.)

No comments:

Post a Comment