Forgive Me Father 2

I was in boarding school, and things were different back then. I think they still have corporal punishment in some states, like Texas, but in most places it’s been phased out. But we were good Catholics, or we were supposed to be, and if you spared the rod, you’d spoil the child. Hell, that was what my parents put me there for in the first place. My father couldn’t stand to say no, and my mother couldn’t say anything but, and they decided, between them, that someone else should raise their daughter.

So the nuns and the priests attempted to curb my voracious appetites for four years. They failed miserably. By the time I was a senior, my birthday just passed in a haze of alcohol and sex—the drinking age hadn’t yet been changed from eighteen—I’d been disciplined more times than I could count, suspended from classes, and nearly expelled, twice. I was always scraping by, just barely, but it was enough for me.

Father Hamilton had the task of disciplining me for my latest transgressions. The nuns had pretty much given up and handed me over to the priests, which was fine, as far as I was concerned. The priests were more direct. They liked to use the paddle—a thick piece of wood that Father Lowery, who taught physics, had drilled several holes through for less air resistance—and while it stung, it was over pretty quick. And the good thing about Father Hamilton was that he hated to give sermons. It was always straight to the punishment.

“Over the desk, Amy.”

I knew the drill. I bent over his wide desk and lifted my skirt—they weren’t supposed to touch us except with objects—exposing the seat of my white cotton panties. It was a typical school uniform, navy skirt, white blouse, white knee socks, Mary Janes. We looked like drones running up and down the halls on our way to class.

“For every blow, you must say an act of contrition.”

“Yes, Father.”

I waited, my heart hammering in my chest.