MODERN EDUCATION
                  
                             by 

                         C.Lakewood



    About the time I entered high school, I began noticing that my 
parents were wrangling more than I considered normal.  I never knew 
what it was about, but it just got steadily worse for a couple of 
years, and then they separated and divorced.  My mother got the 
house, the better car, handsome alimony, and me.  As if this wasn't 
enough, I had to change schools (in the middle of my senior year!) 
and enroll in the all-girl Aquarius Academy.  (Adults considered it 
"prestigious" -- and I guess it was -- but most kids my age called 
it "A-Queer-Ass Academy.")  It really wasn't all that bad, but it 
was strange.  It was a very "progressive" school, specializing in 
"holistic education."  It was private, had a huge endowment, and 
accepted no government funds, so it was not much interfered with.  

    There were things about it I didn't like: all the tofu and 
granola in the cafeteria, required courses such as "Tibetan 
Culture" and "Basic Macrobiotics," and, of course, having no 
friends there.  And there were some things I was iffy about: 
the lack of boys (maybe 55-45 in favor) and the school uniforms 
(50-50).  But there were things I really did like: first-rate 
labs and computer equipment, great library (for both academic 
and casual reading), Palladian architecture and Edwardian 
interiors.  The teachers were sort of weird, but they seemed 
good at their jobs.  My home room teacher, Ms. Philps, was maybe 
weirder than most.  She was a smallish woman, mid-30s, with a 
thick mop of red hair, a pale complexion, and an English accent 
that could cut glass.  Her disciplinary methods were sort of New 
Age meets Lizzie Borden: she believed that parents ought to be 
held accountable for the sins of their children -- and I guess 
the consent form that every parent had signed gave her the 
authority to do just that. 

    I got into trouble my second week.

    It wasn't anything to do with academics, but rather with 
athletics -- which I've never been terribly good at.  The 
ultra-skimpy uniforms we had to wear for P.E. didn't at all 
flatter what figure I had then.  (Actually "flat" is the 
operative word here -- I looked pretty much the same as I had 
for four or five years, just taller).  I was being teased in 
ways I had no tolerance for, and, when I retaliated, I was 
the one caught...the only one.  (As devoid of common sense as 
I often was, at least I knew enough not to "squeal.") 
     
    Since my mother had sole custody of me, Ms. Philps told me 
that she should come in to school at 9 o'clock the following 
morning, in order to "address this misbehavior."    
    
    So, at 9:00 the next morning, Ms. Philps met my mother at the 
classroom door.  They spoke for a few minutes out in the hall, but, 
from what I could see through the door glass, Ms. Philps did most 
of the talking, and my mother merely stammered for a bit and wound 
up just nodding passively.  Then they entered the classroom, Ms. 
Philps in front, looking frosty, followed by my rather red-faced 
mother.

    "Girls, as you know, Terry behaved badly yesterday.  I am 
aware that she is a new girl here, but that does not confer 
license to be uncivil.  Moreover, I must remind you that it is 
the responsibility of parents to teach their children how to 
behave.  Terry's mother has failed in this and therefore must 
be punished."

    Everything was perfectly quiet as Ms. Philps picked up a 
long, yellowish stick from her desk and flexed it.  For a moment, 
I thought it was a map pointer, but then I knew it for what it 
was: a school punishment cane.  She turned to Mother.

    "Since you are now no more than a girl under punishment, I 
cannot call you 'Mrs. Owen.'  Your Christian name is 'Margaret,' 
I believe.  Well, we already have a 'Margaret' in class, so you 
shall be 'Maggie.'

    "Now, take off your clothes, Maggie."

    Mother was 43 years old and pretty well-preserved, though she 
did have a few laugh-lines, and her light brown hair was beginning 
to grey.  I suppose I should have looked away, but this was going 
to be the first time I'd seen her naked in longer than I could 
remember, so I paid close attention.  As she removed each garment, 
she put it on an empty desk up front.  A couple of girls barely 
suppressed a snicker when she hid her panties beneath the pile.

    "Stand up straight, Maggie, arms at your sides."

    There was some grey in her pubic hair, as well.

    She was 5'6" and maybe 135 plus pounds; her bra size was 36C 
(I'd already checked that).  With her chubby butt, soft abs, and 
breasts beginning to sag, she was certainly not "fat," but was, I 
guess, verging on what you'd call "full-figured."  

    I wondered if I'd look like that in 25 years.

    "Constance, Ashleigh, you two fetch the bench."

    The two girls went over to what I'd always assumed was some 
sort of occasional table and removed the green cloth throw to 
reveal a sturdy-looking bench about waist-high, with a slightly 
swaybacked top.  They moved it front and center.
 
    "Over the bench, now, Maggie, if you please."

    My mother, hyperventilating, draped herself across the bench, 
her bare butt toward the class.  Connie and Ash proceeded to 
fasten her down, with leather straps around each wrist, around 
each thigh just above the knee, and across the small of her back.  
Mother's legs were widely straddled, and, in between, you could 
just see, well, EVERYTHING.  I was embarrassed, but fascinated.  
I briefly wondered why she would submit to this, but I guessed 
that my being expelled was the only alternative, and Mother was 
such a snob.

    Everyone leaned forward to get a better look. 

    Ms. Philps then began by delivering a series of rapid, very 
light strokes from the top of my mother's buttocks to about 
mid-thigh, using only the last 10 or 12 inches of the cane.  She 
looked like a real virtuosa; my mother, on the other hand, was a 
captive audience.

    This staccato warm-up must have produced a definite sting, but 
it can't have been entirely unpleasant, for Mother actually seemed 
to be sticking out her bottom as if asking for more.  In any case, 
it wasn't long before her butt was nicely pink all over (and 
twitching).

    Ms. Philps paused, as if establishing an interval between the 
prelim and the main event.  "You shall receive 12 strokes, Maggie, 
but I must warn you that any misbehavior on your part will result 
in extras.  That bench, for example, is not bolted down, so you 
could move it around.  Don't."

    Connie whispered to Ash, "I wonder if she'll piss herself."  
Ash managed to stifle a giggle.

    And then Ms. Philps began again.  

    The cane whistled through the air, sounding savage indeed, and 
landed full on the meatiest part of Mother's bottom.  She yelped 
and went rigid, her butt muscles clenching.  I noticed that the 
first few strokes were struck mainly with the middle portion of 
the cane, but then they gradually began including more and more 
of the end portion -- which seemed to increase the sting (judging 
from Mother's reactions).  Welts began to rise.
 
    Ms. Philps was relentless.  Mother was wailing with each 
stroke and writhing to the extent her restraints allowed.  She 
was blubbering.  Her butt-hole winked at us.  But the bench 
didn't move.

    After the 8th stroke, Ms. Philps paused again and skimmed 
the tip of the cane lightly over Mother's welts and between her 
legs.  Mother was flinching and whimpering.  When Ms. Philps 
raised the cane to begin the last four strokes, I noticed that 
the tip was glistening with moisture.  Connie and Ash and several 
other girls apparently noticed, too.   

    Each of Ms. Philps's final four was delivered very precisely, 
with a finishing snap of the wrist.  And there was a longer 
interval between these strokes. 

    After the 12th stroke, Ms. Philps cast the cane aside, onto 
her desk.  The whole class seemed to exhale simultaneously.  I 
realized I was sweating heavily.

    When my sobbing mother had been released from the bench, Ms. 
Philps said primly, "I hope this proves instructive, Maggie, for 
both you and your daughter.  Now, follow me.  Leave your clothes 
here."

    She strode regally from the room.  Mother followed, walking 
rather unsteadily in a sort of half-crouch, sniffling and wiggling 
her well-striped butt.  There were drops of wetness gleaming in 
her pubic hair.  She looked exhausted. 

    Afterward, poor Mother had to stand in a tiny, stuffy storage 
closet, naked, with her hands on her head, for I don't know how 
long.  This closet, which held supplies of chalk and light bulbs 
and some obsolescent audio-visual equipment, was not used very 
much, normally.  This, however, was not a normal day.  By early 
afternoon, 144 boxes of chalk had been fetched from that closet 
by a succession of inquisitive schoolgirls.  

    I tried to act nonchalant, but there was a fair blizzard of 
notes being passed around class.  And at lunch, the caning was 
all anybody wanted to talk about.  It seems that Mother was the 
first parent to undergo corporal punishment at the school in over 
a year.  I had become notorious.

		******************************

    After my last class, I had to stop off to see Ms. Philps. 

    She handed me a bundle in a plastic trash bag.  "Your mother's 
clothes are in the bag...along with her purse, containing her 
wallet and keys.  I gave her a P.E. tunic and sent her home an 
hour ago.  She was not allowed to use the rest room, despite her 
tearful entreaties.  I imagine that walking home in a schoolgirl's 
tunic, barefoot, and with a full bladder, will reinforce today's 
lesson.  Right now she's waiting on your front porch for you to 
come home and let her into the house.  She'll have to come in 
tomorrow to return the tunic (washed and ironed, of course); she 
can recover her car then."

    When I got home, the first thing Mother did was to run 
frantically to the bathroom.  Then she fixed dinner.  I was 
ravenous, too, despite having stopped off for a snack after 
school.  Sitting at the table that evening, she squirmed a lot.  
In a hushed voice, she asked me very politely not to tell Daddy 
about today -- and to please, PLEASE behave myself in school 
after this...to remember what would happen if I didn't.  I 
promised her that I would remember, and I did remember.  

    And I made sure that I got into some sort of scrape at least 
once a week for the rest of the semester.