Rush Week '58 had been fun. Being entertained by three sororities absolutely incredible. An unsophisticated nobody from a small town, I hadn't really expected to get any bid. And then to get three!

In the end, I pledged Rho Omicron Delta. It seemed to have just a bit more cachet, to arouse just a bit more jealousy among girls who hadn't received a bid from the Rhos. Nobody knew just what the Rho women were up to in their secret conclaves, but most outsiders would give anything to know. And tonight, I, Sarah Page, Little Miss Nobody, newest of the Rhos-along with four others-was about to find out.

But this was Hell Week. So what indignities would be heaped upon me and the other pledges? For the past week, Marge Johnson, my Big Sister and a junior in the School of Education, had been making cryptic remarks accompanied by sly grins. "You're expected to make a good impression, Sarah, and there'll be at least one surprise visitor. So no bobby sox and loafers. Wear your best party dress. And heels."

When I asked why, Marge snapped, "Pledges don't ask questions."

For a moment she reminded me of Mrs. Cooper, the Rho's English housemother. Rumor had it she was in her early forties. No one knew for sure. Nor whether she was divorced or widowed. Her petite stature and mature figure might suggest an easygoing matronly woman, but her, at times, stern mien was a warning to anyone who sought to take advantage of her good nature.

The personification of graciousness at Rush Week teas and receptions and at the Rho's pledge ceremony, something about her rendered me a bit wary. Even upper-class girls stood in awe of her, although they all seemed quite prepared to enthusiastically carry out whatever she asked of them.

"Oh, one other thing," Marge had added, "Mrs. Cooper says you're to bring an LP of your favorite songs. Something you'll always like."

I'd had trouble deciding what to wear but finally settled on my sleeveless, knee-length, red wool sack with its narrow black patent leather belt, black nylons, and black pumps. The scarlet dress and black stockings went quite nicely with my long black hair and creamy complexion. But agonizing over what to wear had made me ten minutes late-I still lived in a dorm. And anxious, wondering how the sorority and especially the domineering Englishwoman would view my tardiness.

But I was greeted cordially by one of the sorority sisters who took my cape and directed me to hurry to the sorority's activity room, taking my LP with me.

Unlike most sorority houses with activity rooms in more or less finished basements, the Rhos' stately mansion possessed a large room with a parquet floor and high ceiling. When I stepped through its double doors, I found the entire sorority assembled, obviously awaiting my arrival so the festivities could begin.

The furniture, including ladder-back chairs reserved for the pledges, had been arranged in a large circle leaving a well-lighted area somewhat resembling a theater-in-the-round stage. The thought that pledges might be required to perform made me even more nervous. Wiping perspiring palms on my skirt, I hurried to the chair reserved for me.

Glancing around, the one person I didn't see was Mrs. Cooper. Then, wearing a purple, floor-length velvet gown, she made her entrance, sweeping regally through the entryway. An older girl sprang up to close the doors behind her, and the housemother surveyed the assembled girls. Whispering and giggling ceased.

Then she focused on the new pledges. "Young ladies, this is the most important night of your lives. More important than graduation or your wedding day. Or the day your first child is born."

A slight murmuring broke out, but she held up her hand. "It's true. Your sorority sisters will bear me out."

A nodding by the older girls corroborated her statement. We pledges, though, not knowing what was to happen nor what was expected of us, all looked puzzled and uncertain.

"Now, ladies," she resumed, "you are a select group. Very few are acceptable candidates for this sisterhood. It has nothing to do with social status or economic considerations. Only with our assessment of your likes and dislikes." Noting puzzled expressions, she turned to a young woman sitting near her. "Madeleine, would you enlighten them?"

"Yes, Mrs. Cooper." The young woman rose to her feet. She wore a long-sleeved, black Moira dress with white lace at the wrists. Facing us, she began: "You may remember that at the Rush Week events you were urged to indulge yourselves in the fine wines. Those wines were served to loosen inhibitions. To elicit your true feelings about men and about the photos we showed you in our Pledge Assessment Book."

A vivid recollection of that notorious book flashed through my mind; my cheeks burned. Guiltily, I glanced at the other pledges. They seemed to have had a response similar to mine.

The speaker smiled. "I see you all recall that book. Anyway, observing your reactions to those photos of nude men and then discussing them with you provided us the insight to make wise selections of our pledges. And you were all extremely interested in the male buttocks."

The speaker resumed her seat, and Mrs. Cooper took over again.

"I see Madeleine struck a nerve. But don't worry, ladies. You're not alone. Despite what women's magazines would have you believe, even in these exciting Frantic Fifties, it isn't men's eyes and shoulders that arouse women. It's the male posterior, the curve of the naked buttocks that women appreciate.

"But now, let's move along. In the next four years, you will learn nothing as important as what you will learn tonight. How to manage males. Lovers or husbands. For their good as well as yours."

A slender, blonde pledge hesitantly raised her hand. Mrs. Cooper nodded. "Yes, Lois."

"What do you mean, manage males for their own good?"

"We'll get to that, but first what do you think the key to managing males might be."

Lois, obviously flustered, hesitated, then stammered, "Love?"

Mrs. Cooper pointed to another pledge, a petite brunette with short hair and a lovely milky complexion.

The young woman smiled. "Withholding sex?"

Mrs. Cooper frowned. "Never. To quote a wise Polish countess, 'If God made anything better, She kept it for Herself.' So we'd be fools to renounce sex. Now, anyone else? Sarah?"

I bit my lip, then blurted, "Cooking?"

A titter ran through the assemblage. Even Mrs. Cooper had difficulty suppressing a smile. "No, Sarah, the answer is discipline. And tonight, you will discover that love and sex are closely tied to discipline." She pointed to a fourth pledge, a slightly plump redhead. "Martha, how do women achieve discipline?"

Wrinkling her brow, the girl pondered, then shrugged. "Hire lawyers?"

"Absolutely not. But I'll give you a hint. It's something you must do yourself." She pointed to the last pledge. "Now, Amanda, what do you think it is?"

The pledge, a tall, lanky young woman with brownish hair smiled apologetically. "I don't know. Nag? Scream? Cry?"

"None of those." Mrs. Cooper strolled over to a corner of the room and picked up something leaning against the wall. Resuming her position in the circle, she smiled and held the object up. "This is the key. A freshly cut, supple switch." She lowered her arm. "But, of course, there's also the birch. The birch is actually six or seven switches bound together, each about two feet long. And applied to the bare buttocks it is remarkably efficient. Like six or seven strokes with only the effort of one. A woman can chastise nicely without tiring."

Suddenly the switch sang through the air. I flinched.

"There." She smiled at her acolytes. "I assure you no male,

whatever his age or size, can be switched like that across his bare bottom and not grovel and beg for mercy."

I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. Before I could stop myself, I blurted, "But that...that's terrible. What's it got to do with love?"

"Or sex?" chimed in the petite brunette.

"A great deal, young ladies. Despite all you may hear about men dominating the world, they lust for dominant women."

I couldn't restrain myself. "Oh, Mrs. Cooper, how can you say that?"

"You're young, Sarah, and have a great deal to learn, but take my word for it, power is a potent aphrodisiac. Just the threat of a switching from a female is almost guaranteed to produce an erection in a male. And women, once they've experienced the thrill of it, enjoy nothing more than raising welts on a groveling male's backside."

"But," I stammered, "you said something about love?"

"Yes, love. For man needs a woman's guidance to bring out his better self. And with a man's best interests at heart, a loving woman asserts her natural moral superiority."

"Natural moral superiority?"

"Remember Jane Adams?"

I guess I looked puzzled, never having heard of the lady.

Slightly exasperated, Mrs. Cooper explained. "Jane Adams was an early social reformer. And she started the Hull House Settlement in Chicago. She and other early feminist leaders promulgated that splendid credo."

I couldn't hide my skepticism. "You really believe that? That women are inherently the moral superiors of men?"

"I most certainly do, young lady. And I expect to demonstrate to you ladies the truth of that precept. So that you see to it males accept your better judgment and obey. And so that you never fail to exercise the power you possess to control men."

"But, Mrs. Cooper," I said, "what about what Mary Wollstonecraft said in A Vindication of the Rights of Woman."

The housemother eyed me, then smiled. "You mean when she wrote: 'I do not wish women to have power over men, but over themselves'?"

"That's right."

"In 1792, that was a great step forward, but I'm afraid today that won't do. For, you see, unless women exercise power over men, they can never have power over themselves."

"You really think women control the world today?"

"When we exercise our power wisely, we control the world. For it's not the hand that rocks the cradle that rules the world, it's the hand that wields the rod."

"Oh." I hesitated. "And behind every successful man--"

"--is a woman, wife or mistress. With a switch in her hand."

"But how can a...a mistress rule anything? They're dependent on their lovers."

"Study your dictionary, Sarah. A mistress is a woman who has power and authority. Who possesses and controls something or someone, who rules or directs. Not just as the last definition would have it, 'a woman with whom a man habitually fornicates.'"

"Oh...well...I never looked at it like that."

"I'm sure you didn't. But you have many things to learn. And please dismiss any notion that chastising men is sadistic. It's not a case of inflicting pain for the sake of pain. The purpose is to teach humility. Men may be able to experience physical pain and eventually suppress it from their thoughts, but what men-or women-find difficult or impossible to forget is humiliation."

Once again the switch sang through the air.

"And can you imagine anything more humiliating for a man than to be stripped naked and made to prance and caper by a woman. In public or, at the very least, in front of a group of women." She chuckled. "Just picture, if you will, a large man being made to prance and roar by a petite woman wielding a supple switch. Believe me, if you've never witnessed such a sight, it's delicious."

"But," I insisted, "to hurt another human being like that is sadistic."

"Sarah, Sarah, it's for everyone's good. And remember, unlike the violence that abounds elsewhere in this world, there's no serious injury. No bullet wounds, no broken bones, no lacerations, no impairment of faculties, no flowing blood, no burns, no ugly bruises or scars. Just welts on the arrogant male's backside. And, of course," she smiled sweetly, "abject humiliation. To remind him who's really in command."

"Pardon me, Mrs. Cooper, but have you ever done that?"

The steely eyes stared at the lanky pledge. "What do you think, Amanda? Have I?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know...but...yes, I think you probably have."

"You're right, I have. More than once. The cane and the birch are used quite freely in England. There women use those instruments to curb men's behavior."

"Ah...do women ever get birched?"

"Sometimes."

"Did you ever birch any?"

"A few."

"Sorority women?"

Pamela Cooper smiled. "Yes. One or two young ladies broke their pledge of silence and suffered the consequences. So kindly remember that."

One of the sorority sisters interrupted. "Have you ever been birched, Mrs. Cooper?"

The housemother looked annoyed, then smiled. "You're being impertinent, Mary, but yes, I have. Once. And I'll never forget it. That's how I know that no one can resist it." She winked. "I think every woman should have a taste of the birch. Just enough to know how it feels." She turned back to us. "And pledges who refuse to obey their housemother or sorority sisters will be birched. So if you are called upon to participate, keep that in mind."

Two quick rings of the doorbell interrupted. The housemother smiled. "That's probably our guest of honor. Would the Welcome Committee see to their duty?"

Six of the larger girls rose and left. Mrs. Cooper folded her hands and tapped her foot, eyes on the double door. Shortly the Committee reappeared, four of the girls dragging what looked like a large canvas laundry bag. They hauled it to the center of the lighted area where everyone would have a good view, then closed the double doors. A muffled male voice emanated from the bag.

Mrs. Cooper advanced to the bag. "Inside this bag is a young man, a pledge of a nearby fraternity. We have an arrangement to see to it their pledges are properly introduced to fraternity life. And I'm happy to cooperate. It will illustrate what we've just been discussing." She bent down and spoke directly to the bag. "Can you hear me, young man?" A muffled affirmative from the bag.

"Good. You are the guest of honor this evening. Twenty young women are gathered around you. In a moment, you will be taken out of the bag to be greeted by these young women."

An anguished cry from the bag. "Oh, no! Please, no. Don't. I'm--"

"Silence! How you'll be treated by your fraternity in the future will depend on my report about your behavior tonight. And you're expected to maintain your masculine dignity. No displays of weakness before these young women."

Mrs. Cooper nodded to one of the Welcome Committee. The young woman stepped forward and began working the knots binding the top of the bag. I held my breath. In moments, the bag was open. The Welcome Committee member peeled it down. Huddled on the bottom of the bag was a young man, hands tied behind his back.

Naked.

With the toe of her slipper, Pamela Cooper prodded the young man's rear. "Stand up, please."

He shook his head and hunched down, trying to hide from the feminine eyes staring at his nakedness. Hands on hips, the housemother issued a stern warning. "Sir, tonight you will obey my commands and any of these young ladies' commands or regret it."

Something-perhaps the clipped English accent-persuaded him. Hesitantly he struggled to his feet and stood erect, hands still tied behind him. Desperately, he tried to squeeze his thighs together to hide his genitalia.

I'm sure my cheeks were reddening, but I'm equally sure they were as nothing compared to those of the unfortunate young man standing exposed in front of the entire sorority. He blushed from scalp to neck. The girls began to giggle which made the poor fellow start to hunch over. Then he abruptly straightened up, obviously recalling Pamela Cooper's warning.

An only child, brought up in a strict Methodist household, I'd never seen a naked man before. Now here was one only five or six feet from me. I should've felt sorry for him and averted my eyes. But they had a will of their own and would come back to stare at his nakedness.

A well-developed blonde, with a fashionable Princeton cut and a nice tan-except where swimming trunks had left the skin milky white-and muscular thighs and chest, I guessed he was no more than eighteen or nineteen. Judging by size and muscular development, though, he might very well have been expecting to play for the football team.

But why were my lips so dry? And tremors ran through me. I fought to tear my eyes away from his frontal nudity. At last my gaze shifted to those divinely curved white buttocks. And even though he was overall slender, the buttocks were a bit on the generous side.

Mrs. Cooper addressed the blushing young man. "Sir, kindly state your name."

"M...Mike."

"Mike what?"

"Mike Wilson. And," he burst out angrily, "lady, you're going to regret this."

"Ah, I see. Showing a bit of spirit, are we?" She chuckled. "Well, young man, I'm sure you'll soon beg for the chance to apologize for that rudeness."

"You think so?"

"Oh, yes, I know so. Now, I'm about to free your hands, but mind your manners. And do exactly as you're told, or it will go just that much harder on you. Is that clear?"

He started to say something but evidently thought better of it and simply nodded. Once his hands were free, he quickly cupped them over his genitalia. Mrs. Cooper nodded to the nearby Welcome Committee members. One approached the young man and told him to hold out his hands. He hesitated, but one frown from the housemother, and he quickly complied. The young woman then deftly encased his wrists in a pair of soft leather cuffs, anchored together by a few inches of chain.

Meanwhile another committee member had gone to the wall and unwound a rope that led to a pulley in the center of the high ceiling. She played it out, and from the ceiling, the rope descended to where the young man stood. The girl managing the cuffs immediately tied the rope through an eyelet on the cuffs. Her colleague then began hoisting on the rope, drawing the man's arms above his head. When he tried to resist, another young woman added her weight to the rope. His arms were inexorably raised overhead. When he was fully extended, almost on tiptoe, totally exposed, they knotted the rope at the wall and stood back.

At this point, Pamela Cooper took over. Picking up the switch she'd temporarily laid aside and swishing it back and forth until it sang through the air, she stood behind the young man. He twisted his head and stared fearfully over his shoulder. Licking my dry lips, I stared at his genitalia. Just as Pamela Cooper had predicted, his masculine member had begun to engorge and rise.

"Oh, Jesus," he moaned. "What're you going to do?"

"Why, sirrah, I'm going to give you an opportunity to demonstrate to these young women your masculine superiority. I'm sure they'd like nothing better than to hear you beg. But you won't, will you? Your fraternity is expecting you to uphold masculine dignity, so," her voice took on an edge, "don't make a sound. You may caper and prance like Nijinsky, but don't make a sound. Fortunately for you, your buttocks are quite full and well-rounded. They will absorb the strokes more efficiently than small, tight ones."

Heart beating rapidly, I knew I should turn away but couldn't help myself. I saw him bite his lip and tense his muscles. Bewitched, my eyes locked onto his bare bottom. Then, adding to my guilt feelings, I realized I was silently urging Mrs. Cooper to get on with it, to begin her demonstration.

As though in response to my wish, Pamela Cooper brought her arm far back; suddenly the switch sang through the air. Cruelly it bit into the young man's buttocks. He leaped convulsively. An agonized gasp escaped him. A long red welt sprang into view across his buttocks. Just looking at it made me squirm.

Mrs. Cooper swished the switch through the air a couple of times. Her victim, hearing it sing, twisted and turned so that his buttocks were no longer toward the ruthless woman. A slight smile on her lips, she threatened, if he did not present his buttocks to her, to bring the scourge down across his vulnerable genitalia.

"Oh, my God, you wouldn't!"

"Ah, but I would, so turn around. So I can apply the switch where God intended."

Reluctantly he did as she'd ordered.

"Now, sir, you are to count the strokes. That's the only sound from you that'll be tolerated. And with just one stroke, and that a relatively light one, you came perilously close to losing your masculine dignity and crying out in front of these ladies."

I just had time to note that his masculine organ still retained a bit of firmness, when Mrs. Cooper drew back her arm and, exerting what seemed to me all the force she could muster, brought the switch down across his buttocks. With an agonized grunt, the victim leaped high in the air. A second angry welt marked his bottom.

"Count, sir!"

"Two!" he roared.

A third stroke landed. "Three!" he yelled, leaping again. His organ was no longer engorged. Fascinated, I watched the now limp appendage and its companion scrotum bounce high, then flop down.

Once again the switch rose, then sang through the air. This time, the poor fellow abandoned all pretense of dignity. He began to dance, simultaneously roaring out an agonized, "Ahhhh. Oh, please. No more. No more."

"Count!"

"All right," he shrieked, "all right, four...but please, no more, no more!"

But the plea went unheeded. He twisted about trying to save his flaming buttocks. Then he saw the switch rise again. As he realized the scourge was about to descend on his exposed front, the consternation on his face was comical. Absolutely priceless. I couldn't help myself; I giggled aloud. With a yell, he twisted back and once more caught the fifth stroke across his tender bottom.

"Five!" he bellowed, leaping and prancing as though his life depended on the height he achieved, genitalia flopping and bouncing.

"Oh, my God, please, no more. I'm begging you. Pleeease."

A longtime lover of ballet, I couldn't recall when I'd ever seen such an uninhibited performance. The leaps the young man managed at the urging of Pamela Cooper's switch had never been matched, even at the Bolshoi. I looked around. Every woman's gaze was riveted on the dancing young male who, tears in his eyes, twisted and squirmed, apparently in fear of a sixth stroke landing on his exposed rear.

Now I know I was a compassionate young woman. My mother had taught me the virtue of mercy, but even I couldn't resist giggling. Other young women laughed and whistled at the spectacle of this large, muscular, young male, now completely devoid of masculine dignity, leaping and capering at the end of his tether.

Pamela Cooper, a smile on her face, motioned to one of the girls to release the rope so he could lower his arms. When the leather wristlets were unfastened, his hands flew to his buttocks. Moaning, he began to rub them. His tormentor teased his penis with her switch. "On your knees."

Without a moment's hesitation, he complied. Her switch flicked gently along his upraised rump. "You are never to reveal a word of what is happening here tonight. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes! Yes, ma'am."

"None of these ladies will say a word about your humiliation, but in case you hadn't noticed, one of our young women has been taking photographs. If a word of this ever leaks out, those pictures will be posted all over the campus and copies sent to all your friends and acquaintances, male or female. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

Horrified, he blurted, "Oh, my God! No!"

Satisfied, Mrs. Cooper motioned for the cuffs to be replaced, and he was again strung up, arms extended overhead. "Now, young man, you must excuse me for a moment. But while I'm out of the room, behave yourself."

No sooner had she left than a short, plumpish brunette stole up behind the helpless male. A mischievous smile on her face, she put her arms around his chest and began brushing her soft hands caressingly across his now erect nipples.

"Oh, pleeease," he wailed, trying to twist away from the tantalizing stimulation. "Don't do that."

But she persisted; slowly, inexorably his male organ again came to an upright position. The little minx beckoned to me. Hesitant, but not wanting to feel the wrath of the sorority, I went over and stood before the young man. Before I realized her intention, she seized my hand and forced me to grasp the young man's organ. As soon as my hand made contact with the velvety soft skin, as though by instinctive reflex, it closed on the swollen organ. He responded with a sharp intake of breath and shivered. My naughty sorority sister winked and quickly moved away. At that instant, Mrs. Cooper, one hand behind her back, reentered the room, catching me, face scarlet, in that hideously compromising situation. "Well, Sarah, I am surprised." She turned her attention to the young man. "As for you, sir, how dare you allow yourself to get into such a state before all these young women. Just look at you."

He looked down. "Oh, Jesus! It's not my fault. Really it isn't. I couldn't help it. She did it to me."

"Who? This young woman?" Indicating the still red-faced me. "Are you accusing this innocent young pledge?"

"No, no, it wasn't her. It was one of the others, but I don't know which one."

"A story like that only makes things worse for you. So now you'll pay for your sins."

With a nod of her head, Mrs. Cooper indicated I should accompany her to the far end of the room. Once away from the group, she spoke sotto voce. "Sarah, I tolerated your skepticism, but now it's time for you to participate. At each session, one pledge takes the spotlight, and tonight you're elected."

"But--"

"Don't interrupt. You will now have your first experience at disciplining a man." She took her hand from behind her back. In it, she held a bundle of birch switches, tightly bound together with red and blue ribbons, the ribbons forming a handle. Also an old-fashioned hairbrush, its wooden back, wide and flat and at least a quarter of an inch thick. She held them out to me. "Now, choose. And whichever you choose, you are to apply to that saucy young fellow's bare bottom--"

"Oh, no! I couldn't."

She smiled wickedly. "Remember what I said earlier about pledges who refuse to obey their housemother's requests?"

"But--"

"No, buts. You'll either apply one of these to that young man's bottom, or he'll be let off, and you'll take his place. And I'll personally birch you."

"Oh, nooo."

The thought of being birched by Pamela Cooper was more than I could bear. My knees went weak. I almost fainted on the spot. I held out my hand and took the hairbrush.

"Aha! I've noted that hairbrushes seem to be the instrument of choice among American women. Well, no matter. Time to get down to business. And if the saucy fellow doesn't kick and beg sufficiently, it'll be your turn." Then she smiled. "You may not believe it, Sarah, but you're going to learn something about yourself tonight."

"I...I am?"

"I assure you that, before you're done, you'll find yourself enjoying it."

She must have sensed my disbelief. "Sarah, given sufficient provocation even the most compassionate, the most saintly woman discovers dark corners of her soul she can no longer keep hidden from herself. Witness the flagellation rites of religious orders. Now come along. It's time."

Reluctantly, I followed her. She's wrong, I told myself. The thought of blistering another's bottom-male or female-repulsed me. Before that night, I couldn't have conceived of any woman doing it. If it weren't for the threat of being birched myself, I thought, I couldn't possibly carry out her order. And I most certainly would not enjoy it. Why didn't I simply refuse? It wasn't just the threat of being birched. For you see, I longed to be in a sorority. And it was terribly important to my mother. She'd been jubilant when I'd called to tell her I'd been pledged. But if I walked out, no one else would have me. I had to carry out Mrs. Cooper's orders, regardless of my personal principles.

When we rejoined the group, Mrs. Cooper held up her hand. "All right, ladies, we're about to resume. Sarah has volunteered to see to it this insolent fellow regrets his earlier loss of control and his present impudent state."

She turned to me. "Do you have your music?"

I retrieved it from under my chair and handed it to her.

"What are the tunes?"

"'True Love' is on the first band and 'Unforgettable' on the second."

"Oh, those are lovely songs. And so appropriate." She turned and addressed the pledges. "I've found it an excellent idea to play music while chastising a man. It helps fix the experience in his mind. And yours. Ever after, whenever or wherever you or he hears that tune, you'll both remember the occasion. And relive it. It'll be 'your song', so to speak. As Sarah's song says, it's unforgettable."

She signaled for the young man's arms to be lowered. His wrists remained secured by the cuffs, hands in front of him. "Now, sir, Miss Sarah Page will take over your discipline. You are to obey her every command. You will count aloud each stroke so that all the ladies can hear you. All right, Miss Page, you may proceed."

A piano bench had been brought for me to sit on. I took my seat, then looked to Mrs. Cooper. With an impatient gesture, she indicated I was to begin. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt, took a deep breath, and beckoned the young man to me. "Sir," I began, voice faint and quavery. I cleared my throat. "Sir," I resumed, in what I believe was a fair imitation of Pamela Cooper's authoritative tones, "lay yourself across my knees so your bottom is readily accessible to me. Instantly!"

Without a moment's hesitation, this large, muscular male obeyed me. The alacrity with which he did my bidding astounded me. No one had ever before submitted to my requests so quickly. The first intimation of what Pamela Cooper had meant by saying I would enjoy myself flitted through my conscious mind. I gazed admiringly at the fleshy white buttocks displayed on my lap. Although somewhat faded, five angry red welts were still prominent.

But I'd forgotten he had a firm erection. Now, with him lying across my lap, I felt it projecting between my legs, a few inches above my knees. And, when I'd positioned him across my thighs, my skirt had ridden up, obliging his stiff male organ to rub against my stockings.

Flustered, I couldn't think what to do. I glanced at Mrs. Cooper. She was obviously impatient for me to begin. Taking another deep breath, I raised my arm and brought the back of the hairbrush down on that captivating white bottom. A soft splat was my reward. Not moving, my victim, in a calm voice, called out, "One."

Worried, I glanced at Mrs. Cooper. In the background, Bing Crosby was singing "True Love." Face set, she made a sharp gesture with her hand which I interpreted to mean that, if I didn't want my own bottom paddled, I'd better get busy.

My second stroke was more convincing. This time a slight bucking of my victim's hind quarters-and a massaging of my stocking by his penis-rewarded me. This time he grunted, gritting out the count.

"Two!"

A change came over me. Feeling him buck and wiggle a bit was exciting. A reddening had even appeared. Less inhibited, I raised the hairbrush and brought it down more forcefully.

THWACK!

He couldn't help himself. He let out a loud, "Ahhhh!"

"Count!" I commanded.

"Three!" he yelled.

Again I brought the hairbrush down. Much harder. He couldn't restrain himself. Legs kicking, he howled. "Ooow. Oh, God, that hurts! Stop, please stop."

"Count!"

"Four!" He bellowed it.

The hairbrush descended twice in rapid succession. Hard. He bucked and squirmed. I could barely hold him. He'd dispensed with all pretense of dignity. "Ahhhh! Ahhhh! I beg you. Stop! Please stop!"

I paused. He still squirmed. "Ask nicely. And count! If you lose count, we'll start all over." The hairbrush descended again. He tried to rear up, but two giggling pledges came to my aid, grabbing his arms to hold him down on my lap.

"Oh, please, please. Pretty please. Stop, you're killing me." He paused. "Oh, God! I'm sorry. I couldn't help it."

For a moment, his apology puzzled me. Then I realized what had happened. I felt a wetness on the inner thigh of my nylon. And his male member had gone soft.

"You've...you've...oh, how could you?" Then I really laid into him. The hairbrush rose and fell. He bucked and kicked, squirmed and wiggled. Two older girls, laughter pealing, joined the action, helping to hold him down. Watching his futile efforts to escape, hearing this great, large fellow pitifully howling, begging for mercy, I became aware of a great sense of exhilaration. Elation swelled in my chest. I was later told my hair was flying, my eyes alight. That a satanic grin lit my face. A modern day Boadicea.

Somebody tugged at my arm.

I looked up. A laughing Pamela Cooper was restraining me. "I think you'd better stop now, Sarah."

"Oh, no. Let me use the birch. Please, please, Mrs. Cooper. Let me birch his bare bottom."

She took the hairbrush from my hand. The young man was still wiggling and squirming on my lap, buttocks a fiery red. Tears streamed down his face. She smiled at me. "You certainly looked as though you were enjoying yourself."

"Oh, I was, I was. You were so right. Please. Let me birch him. I want to make him dance."

"Next time, Sarah. I think he's had enough for now. Listen to him blubbering."

He was, too. When we released him, I told him to take my place on the piano bench. Gingerly he started to sit down, then abruptly sprang up. "Oh, I can't," he wailed. "I can't sit down." .

In the background Nat Cole was singing "Unforgettable." I turned to Mrs. Cooper. "What did you mean by next time?"

"Just that. He yours. He'll never want anyone to know about this. And we have some lovely pictures. In color. Including shots of his red bottom. So, whenever you're ready, tomorrow or whenever, just say the word." She turned to the mortified young man. "If you don't want to be the laughing stock of the campus, you'll do whatever Miss Page demands of you. Understood?"

"Yes, oh yes. I know."

I smiled. "In the future, you'll do as I say?"

"Oh, God, yes. Whatever you say."

"Whenever, I say?"

He nodded vigorously. "Whenever you say, Miss Page." Then he smiled bashfully. "But, please, ma'am, how am I going to get home. I...I don't have any clothes."

Feeling devilish, I turned to Mrs. Cooper. "Shall we make him walk home naked?"

"Oh, no!" he moaned.

The housemother laughed. "Well, Sarah, that sounds like a lovely idea, but if we want to keep this just among us girls, not too practical. No, I took the precaution of getting some of his clothes beforehand, so he'll be spared that humiliation."

I looked again at the young man's bare bottom, then put my arms around Pamela Cooper and kissed her. "Oh, you were so right, Mrs. Cooper. I feel so...so good. So absolutely on top of the world. And," I felt myself blushing, "I'm embarrassed to say this, but you were right about something else."

"What's that, dear?"

"Power is a great aphrodisiac. I'm just so excited, but," it was my turn to smile bashfully, "I'm afraid I'd better go home and get into some fresh underthings."

More than thirty years have gone by, but that night changed my life. And I sometimes wonder what happened to Pamela Cooper. She'd be in her seventies now, but I'll bet if she's still alive, somewhere out there, young men are still dancing and capering at the urging of her switch.

And she taught us girls well. I still attend sorority reunions and, looking at pictures of the sweet demure things we were, I have to laugh. Comparing notes, most of the girls-funny how then we insisted on being called young women, but now call ourselves girls-are still using hairbrushes and switches on men. I'm a bit on the wrong side of fifty now, but it still gives me just as much a thrill as it did that first time. Maybe more.

In case you're wondering, I did birch that young man just a few days later. He was reluctant to come to the sorority, but he knew what'd happen if he didn't. And it was absolutely priceless, watching him prance and caper as I laid that birch across his bare bottom.

And guess what. I kept at it even after he pinned another girl in the Kappas. He didn't dare refuse. He couldn't take a chance on Lucy's color photos being passed around the Kappa house. I often wonder how he explained the welts on his buttocks to his sweetheart. She probably couldn't understand why at times he wouldn't take off his clothes. I'll bet it put a crimp in their sex life.

I did teach high school for two years, but wouldn't you know? There was some trouble over three insolent senior high school boys. But that's another story. Anyway, I resigned and changed the focus of my

instructional efforts. I still discreetly advertise and find women who are feeling frustrated and teach them the things Mrs. Cooper taught us. And it's turned out to be quite profitable. As well as exciting.

Modern technology has been a help, too. Now, one of my young apprentices uses a camcorder. It catches all the frantic begging as well as the frenzied capering and prancing. When the poor fellow sees the humiliating session played back, his expressions are priceless. And threats to distribute the video cassette render him fully cooperative. He can hardly wait to obey my "invitation" to return.

For some who may have annoyed me, there's a special treat. I describe what I want, and after a bit of horrified refusal, they finally give in and agree to a bare bottom switching before a women's bridge club. And clubs pay generously for the entertainment. Someday, when I have time, I'll tell you about one of those sessions.

And these days, it's much easier to get a man to cooperate. Just say the magic words: sexual harassment. It's extremely difficult, you know, for a man to defend himself against such accusations. I suppose it's unfair, but just the threat of being accused-justly or not-is usually sufficient. Rather than take a chance on expensive lawsuits-or even criminal charges-the poor fellows meekly submit.

And no matter how important they are, they can hardly wait to strip and lie across my lap or across a piano bench, bare bottoms in the air in front of their female accusers. In fact, the more important they are, the more they have to lose, so the quicker they obey. Listening to some large, arrogant fellow beg his petite accuser for mercy as the switch lands on his bare bottom is just too delightful for words.

And I think you'll agree I provide a public service. My methods may be a bit old-fashioned, but they certainly reduce the overload on court dockets and save a great deal on legal expenses. Plus my methods satisfy some deep seated, atavistic need in a woman's soul. From what my ladies tell me, for a woman to be able to turn her now helpless oppressor across her lap and paddle his bare bottom, making him kick and squirm and beg for mercy, goes much further toward soothing her sense of outrage than could even a large monetary award or a prison sentence for the insolent male. And there's no possibility of him wriggling off the hook as there might be in court.

But we'll have to pursue this later. An incensed forty-year-old divorcee is bringing her arrogant thirty-year-old lover over for an initiation. Isn't he in for a surprise, though?