Introduction by the Author: This is the third chapter of “Genesis: Homecoming” this will conclude the main story and as promised a short epilogue will follow. As I've pondered these reflection. I've discovered memories that are as rich as the coffee grind colored soil of my native home. I'm sure other “Genesis” works beside the three I promise would soon follow. I personally would like to thank each and every one of you who has stuck it out with me as I probe these hidden conclaves of the human soul.

It took only five minutes for the hulk of a man to drag me to the side office. He had a firm grip on my earlobe and his claw like fingers made any feeble attempt at resistance near impossible. My mother did not raise a fool and I knew I had been beaten. Mercifully though he released me once we reached the office. The office was small, and reminded me more of a closet than anything. It was two rooms to the office and three sets of doors.

You had to pass through the first door to enter into the waiting room. The first door blocked out the noise, of the hallway and provided a bit of privacy, most of the time if you were pulled into the office they would pull you into the first room for a scolding and then let you go. Normally they would give you several scolding before ushering you into the second room. The second room was the room of doom and gloom. I called the room “Golgotha '' that an Aramaic word for “Skull” and if they pulled you into that second room, there was no turning back. You were being dragged to Calvary and the only thing that awaited you down was your own crucifixion as in having your bottom blistered with a paddle.

Now as I passed through that second door, I started to babble. I soon though regained my better senses and had the clarity of mind to recite the Lord's Prayer, being of Anglo-Catholic rearing I had been taught from the cradle the Lord's Prayer in Latin and made to pray it before bed each night. My Episcopalian Grandmother, fearing my Baptist Mother might taint me, had commanded me to learn that instead of the “Now-I-Lay-Me-Down-To-Sleep” prayer.

She had also commanded that I learn to pray the rosary, take Holy Communion twice a week, go to confession at least once a week if not more. And demanded that I read at least a dozen chapters of the New King James Bible. She wanted an Episcopalian priest in the family and she was going to mold me into one. She never did though. She too at the writing of this has passed on. I'm sure she rolled over once in her grave for six years after her passing. I left the Episcopal Church for the Roman Catholic church and have since then considered myself an papist. Anyway back to the story.

I was guided into the second room. Once we were their coach turned around, pushed the door closed and leveled his eyes at me. “Okay Scarborough. You know what's going to happen. I'm going to give you a few minutes to collect your thoughts. Say a prayer, reflect and you know think about what you did. Then I'm going to.” He paused at this part of his speech. He then reached down and picked up a massive wooden paddle. The paddle was long enough to cover both of my bottom cheeks. It was a good inch and a half thick and had tiny air holes drilled into it. It also had been sanded down till it was smooth.

“Then I'm going to have you bend over. You're going to place your hands on this desk here.” He tapped the polished surface of the desk with the tip of the paddle. “You're going to keep your hands on the desk too. And then I'm going to give you five licks. You're going to count them licks. I want you to count them out in a loud clear voice. Do you understand me? Not that weak, barely a mumble voice. A good strong voice.. a man's voice.”

And this point I wanted to slap him right across the face and punch him in the balls.

“If you take your hands off the desk, we start back over. You don't count a lick, it's repeated. And before you get on your soapbox and start yapping remember that we can discipline you in any manner we see fit here. We're not some timid third rate school and the Bible clearly says. 'He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him disciplines him promptly' that's what the Bible says about spanking. And God wrote the Bible and if God wrote it, and God made us, then it must be good and it must be the truth.” He paused.

“So Scarborough, do you have an understanding?” He offered his hand for a shake.

I wanted to yell, I wanted to curse, I wanted to punch, scream and tell the man where he could stick that paddle. And by that I meant he could bend over, grease it up real good and stick it right up his tight asshole. But I did not. I forced myself to remember that I was a demure maid. I'm going to keep character even if it kills me and it might just kill me before the day was over and done.

“Of course.” I dropped a quick curtsy and batted my eyelashes at the meathead. His face turned purple and then a ruby red and for a moment I thought he was going to start foaming at the mouth. I wish he did, because then I could have called him rabid and had the local animal control office come around and put him asleep. I don't think any one of my friends would have missed him. Only the dim witted baseball players whose solo aspiration in life was to become the Babe Ruth.

“Pray Boy.” His thick accent gave the 'B' a hard cutting edge. “Before I decided to beat you within an inch of your life.” He said as he turned away to collect his thoughts.

I don't know what he was expecting. But I did pray, I kneeled down and folded my hands and then turned my face toward the heavens. Then looking as pious as a Catholic schoolgirl about to make her first confession and take her first communion I started to chant in a soft southern tone of voice A voice that was unsuited for anything beside bellowing out field hollers. A voice that had not been trained by nuns or monks, one that would never sing the High Mass. But one rich and full of beauty. In that voice, strained as it was, I started to pray.

“Pater noster, qui est caelis: Sanctificetur nomen tunn; fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie et dimittimus nobis debitoribus nostris, Amen.” And with that I stood up and with all the grace of a queen I walked over and placed my hands down upon the surface of the desk and then I drew in a deep breath. This was not how I expected my day to go.

The meat head made no comment. I doubt the beauty of Latin would move his stone cold heart. Then what could expect from a hard boiled Southern Baptist, one that has never heart the sweet strains of the Pater Noster sung in the hollow halls of St. Mary's Catholic Church, been moved by The Stations of the Cross to confession and felt the joys of receiving Holy communion and knowing if you were to leave the church then and there and get struck by a passing car and killed that your soul will fly straight into the arms of Jesus and Mary? I did not expect mercy, I was all he hated, my southern accent tainted from reading “The Hobbit” and “Lord of the Rings” and the British Editions of the “Harry Potter” books.

I was all he hated, a sissy, a geek and here I was bent over his desk, my bottom raised and on display. I was the perfect target for him to vent his frustration on. And so I drew a deep breath and waited and waited and then it happened. I felt the paddle being pressed into my bottom. I sensed it being drawn back and a second later, I felt it come flying in. The long piece of wood struck both bottom cheeks with enough force to knock me forward.

“One sir!” I bellowed at the top of my lungs. It stung like fire, there was nothing down their blocking the paddle. Just a thin pair of French cut panties and thin pieces of cloth. I did not have to wait long before once more he drew that paddle back. I could hear him gripping the handle. And then it happened, the second blow, one that brought me right down to my knees. I could feel my breath passing through lungs, the pain traveled in waves and flooded through my body. And for long fleeting moments I started to think.

How many spanking stories had I read that summer? Thousands, I had searched the web from one dark corner to another that summer, millions of words, countless hours, and how often had those stories awoken something deep within, a lust that was almost primitive. A savage lust, and now here I was, living and breathing in a scene that could have been lifted from those very same pages. And I did not feel any enjoyment, only pain and misery.

“Two Sir!” I counted out the second blow that once more pushed me forward. My voice was starting to strain now. Tears threaten to spill out from the corner of my eyes. It would have been poetic justice if they had started to drip, but not yet, not yet that would come later. But then my mind started to wander. I started to think longer and harder on those spanking stories I had read last summer. My mind conjured up scenes just like this one, scenes I had savored and enjoyed. But what enjoyment I could squeeze from this unfolding drama had dashed the pain, the cold edge of reality was starting to sink in.

I had been so lost in my musing that when the third blow came, I did not bellow it out. And I was rewarded with three more quick strikes of the paddle in quick succession. Too quickly, too much, my senses were being overpowered, my mental defenses started to cave in. It took every ounce of self control I could muster in my frail willow body frame to keep my hands firmly planted on the wooden surface of that desk.

“Picking up where you dropped the ball.” That's all he said.

“Three sir!” A few seconds later “Four sir!” and finally “Five sir!” The last three had been quick and savage, With no time to waste the homeroom period was almost over. I think I had maybe at best fifteen minutes to collect my books, do my face and get back to my next class. My bottom was on fire, it was sore and no doubt a bit bruised.

“Okay Scarborough.. You're done.” He said in a rough tone of voice. I heard the door open. “Now I want you to go and apologies to Mrs. Flinch. Tell her you're sorry. Then I want you to get your books and get to your next class. And I don't want to see you in this office again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir?” I said blushing. My voice was meek and was starting to tremble.

“Good man.” He said, smirking as he held out his hand. I took it and he tried to crush it as he squeezed it. “Now,” He was smirking. “Don't you have something to do young lady?” I could tell he threw the last part in as a joke. I hated the bastard then more than ever.

“Yes sir.” I nodded my head and exited the office.

I was humbled, broken and sore as I made my way down the hallway. It took a few moments for me to reach the classroom. I had to stop and take a pee in the boys bathroom first. The paddling had almost pushed me to the edge. Once I had finished peeing, I washed my face, my make-up was all but ruined, tears had indeed sprung my eyes and caused it to run.
I remember scrubbing my face with the near freezing water, the boys bathroom did not have hot water, we had only damn near freezing water and it always smelled like an outhouse. Nine times out of ten the toilet paper roll was empty. As I looked into the mirror I noticed my hair needed to be brushed out, the paddling had frizzed my pigtails. I also oddly enough felt naked without my make-up on. My brush and make-up kit was in my backpack and my backpack along with my pads, pens and books happened to be in Mrs. Flinch's room. And so I did the best I could do with just water. It took me five hard minutes of scrubbing to get all the make-up off and to wet my hair down enough so it would look nice and neat.

Then, a little restored, I started toward my final doom. I had to face Mrs. Flinch. My bottom burning inched my bottom down the hallway. Till at last I stood before the door. I then paused and peered once more toward the heavens. And before I could catch myself, I felt a prayer escaping my lips. This was the second time today I had prayed. I would never forget how my words seemed to fill that hallway. I remember as my mouth formed each syllable my very soul seemed to shake and every fiber of my being seemed shutter and the pain seemed to just lift from my shoulders.

“Hail holy queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To thee we do cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us.” I prayed softly. I did not have the clarity of mine to pray in Latin. Though it was one of the handful of prayers I had learned to pray in Latin, most to please my grandmother.

With my prayer said. I took a deep breath and walked into the room. The room became silent and all eyes shifted their attention toward me. I could feel their eyes zooming in on me. Slowly I moved toward the desk. The woman was sitting down behind the desk, in a way that reminded me of an overgrown bullfrog sitting on a lily pad.

Slowly she lifted her eyes from her book, I noticed she was reading the King James version of the Bible. No doubt searching for a verse she could fashion into a dagger. She loved doing that, reading the Bible and finding that one verse she could twist around and fashion into a dagger that she could use at a moment's notice to stab somebody like me in the back. I've often wondered when she passed if all those sins were brought before her. I guess one day I'll have the chance to ask her.

“Yes?” She said putting her Bible down and peering up at me.

“Please accept my deepest apologies.” I said taking a deep breath. “What I said was wrong and was in poor taste. I'm sorry.” It was a lie, I was not sorry, I had no idea why I had been forced to apologize. It was just something that was required of me. Something forced upon me by the powers above.

“I do not accept your apology.” She said in an airy tone of voice. “I do not approve of boys prancing around in frocks. I do not approve of people watching those Japanese cartoons. I do not approve of any of this” She paused. “You may go, get your books and go. I want you to stand in the hallway for the last few minutes of class.”

“Yes ma'am.” I said biting down on my tongue.

The End.

Epilogue

What happened then? Well I went about my day as normal. I was sore for the rest of the day, sitting was a pain in the neck, but after a few hours the pain started to fade away and once more I felt myself being swept up in the celebration. But something happened, something strange. Something deep inside me was starting to break the surface. Later that night, around midnight, I decided to roll the dice. I went to Myspace, the forerunner of Facebook and made an account. Now, I already had a Myspace account, but this one would be different. This one would host all the pictures I had taken that were over homecoming. And so, gathering up my courage I closed my eyes and made the account. The name selected or made up on the spot was “Heather Sarah Scarborough'' and it's a name I quickly took for my own.