I now believe every college town in those days had its own version of Ms. S, but you will not find this information in the history books.
You see, many of us girls still came from provincial towns where the morals and expectations of the late 19th century and first half of the 20th had pretty much carried over into the 1970s. Women like Ms. S played an invaluable stabilizing role for many of us during our college years as we were exposed to so many new ideas and possibilities.
The woman who played this role would usually be a private woman of taste and education, but also one with experience of the changing world, of its snares and the challenges we young women would face. Her appearance and manner and methodology no doubt varied widely by location. I can only speak of Ms. S---in outlook she was not reactionary; in fact, if we take her as an example of the type, then her ideas were rather progressive.
I think we can say with some certainty that all of these women would have understood the importance of moral clarity, self-discipline, courage, and consequences.
Like Ms. S, I imagine many of them lived in a small, well-tended house on a quiet lane within walking distance of the campus.
Her name and phone number would be quietly given out by the dean's secretary when a mother concerned about rumors of a daughter's behavior or her latest grades called to inquire. Once contacted, she would send the girl in question a note on her customary stationary (peach-colored, in Ms. S's case), the envelope small and of the same color or design, her script precise and flowing.
At our college, there wasn't one of us girls who didn't know what the peach-colored envelope meant when they saw another girl slide it out of her mailbox in the mailroom and quickly tuck it away in a book. It wasn't unusual for a certain overdramatic type to start crying when she received one, but most of us were better at hiding their butterflies, the cool blend of shame and fear running up the backs of their legs, the regret at their recent behavior suddenly strong.
Most girls who received such notes at their parent's instigation were no strangers to corporal punishment, mostly in the form of a mother's hairbrush. This instrument can be very thorough indeed when wielded with determination. But now they were young women, and knew that at their coming appointment they could expect a punishment of severity befitting their age. In fact, it was rare that more than one visit would be required to keep the young woman in question on the right path.
But you will want more detail about these matters. Here is my experience. The first time I walked up the path to the front door of Ms. S, I did so as if pulled against my will by many fine strings. I did not dream of disobeying the invitation. I had not been raised that way. But it is a curious sensation for a young woman on a warm autumn day to walk toward her punishment of her own free will. I still remember what I was wearing. A gray skirt of fine soft wool; penny loafers; a green cardigan sweater open over a black blouse. I knocked and was greeted at the door by Ms. S.
Hello, Lisa,” she said. “You are Lisa, aren’t you? Why don’t you come right in?”
I shook her offered hand. I’d pictured a more austere, lean, genteel, and older woman than the tall, even imposing thirty-something woman in a black dress who stood aside as I entered, studying me with a frankly assessing glance.
The house immediately gave me an impression of taste and care as I stood waiting while she shut the door and turned to me, again studied me for a moment, and said, “So Lisa, I understand you’ve gotten involved with a fast crowd that likes to smoke and drink, and that you stopped attending church here in town or even pretending to hide your superiority when you go home to visit. This is not how you were raised to behave, is it?”
Then, before I could say a word in my own defense, she had taken my arm, turned me a few degrees, and smacked me twice hard on the seat of my skirt.
Tears came to my eyes at this indignity. I had in some vague way expected to be treated as an "adult," whatever purpose I was there for. This was a blow to my ego. If I was actually to be punished by a woman I'd never met, there would surely be a quiet, difficult conversation first, a cup of tea, some connection formed, some kind of preliminaries at any rate. Not brisk bottom smacks in the front hallway like those given to a young child. Was there nothing unique about me, about my "case"?
Letting go of my arm, she watched me as I reached back in shock to rub the sting. The force of her smacks seemed to have set something in my entire pelvic region vibrating, and my breath felt a little shallow. She was a strong, handsome woman in a simple black dress, sheer stockings, and low heels, her black hair cut on a slant, with a remarkably clear gaze and beautiful eyes. She was stronger than the average woman, but she had the rare kind of athletic but feminine harmony of form and movement that is striking in person but doesn't come through in most photographs. Beside her, my slender frame felt small, vulnerable.
“I imagine you’re thinking we hardly know each other," she said. "But I’ve actually spoken at some length with your mother, who is very concerned that you may be losing your way. I assured her that I have met many another highly intelligent, pretty small town girl like yourself. She knows you well. I agreed with her surmise that this is a crucial moment in your maturation, and assured her that she could trust me to help you through it. In fact, I let her know that she could expect a call of apology from you later today."
She stopped and led me down the hall and into a small, simply appointed sitting room with windows onto the back garden. She closed the door, then crossed the room to a closet, opened it, and when she turned back to face me was holding a smooth, sturdy men's leather belt. Doubling it up and tapping it lightly against the side of her leg as it hung beside her, she said to me,
"Lisa, I think you know that you are here to be disciplined. I've found that it's generally best to get a girl's punishment out of the way first during an appointment. Then our talk afterwards about expectations will be more productive.”
“But I’m a grown woman,” I said, suddenly realizing how real the situation I'd gotten myself into really was. “I don't have to submit to a... a punishment.”
“Yes, but I believe you will, Lisa, because I can tell that in your heart you already know you’ve earned it. I never punish a girl who doesn’t appear capable of real remorse. There would be no point. I am certain that you are sorry for how you’ve behaved already, but too proud to admit it to yourself. This can become a lifelong habit if not stopped as soon as possible.”
I knew deep down that what she was saying was true. I didn’t even want to be doing the things I’d been doing any longer. But she was right. I was too proud to admit it.
“The best remedy I’ve yet found for such an attitude is this belt. You can start by taking off your skirt. And I think the sweater as well.”
I couldn’t quite believe I was obeying, unzipping my side zipper and stepping out of the skirt as she watched me. It was all happening so fast. My chest felt funny, the air thin, and I had a funny clenchy sensation in my bottom and, since we're being honest here, also between my legs in front.
But time was passing and I couldn’t stop it. When I had taken off my skirt and wore only my blouse, and below the waist just underwear and socks and shoes, I stood before her.
"What a graceful, lovely girl you are," said Ms. S. "It's a shame that you haven't behaved with such grace as you've been blessed with. Are you at all sorry, Lisa?"
I had to keep myself from crying all of a sudden. Yes, I was sorry. But my pride was strong, and I bit my lower lip and gave only a slight, begrudging nod.
"It must be a shock to find yourself standing here before me, Lisa. But I want you to know what I told your mother, who loves you very much: I am going to punish you no more than is necessary to make this a lasting lesson. The point where we will know this has been achieved is different for every girl, but together I think we will find it."
The longer Ms. S spoke to me, the more I felt like she knew me as I really am. As my fear and dread mounted at what was coming, so did my sense of trust that she had my best interests in mind. It was a very curious feeling. And I also had the clear impression that Ms. S was aware of my heightened state. She told me quietly to take off my shoes and then lie down on the couch, and I did so. She told me to take the pillow near my head and place it under my hips, and I did this too. I remember it was a small but plump red velvet pillow. I remember that she stepped forward and tugged my panties down to my knees in one swift motion and that I didn't resist, that my heart beat faster and something in me even thrilled at this intimacy, at the baring of the pert, pale, tender, neatly rounded bottom I sometimes admired in the mirror when alone.
Then she told me that I'd been a very naughty young lady, that she was going to give me a belt whipping that would be very difficult for me to bear and and even harder to accept with obedience, and that she believed I would do my very best no matter how long it went on. Then my lesson began, and I still remember it to this day.
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