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Title: The Janitor (M/f rl)
Date: 02.12.00
Author: rcg (rcg1574@yahoo.com)
Notice:
The following short story includes a spanking scene involving a child. This is a mature subject matter. If you are under the age of majority in your area, or if you are uncomfortable with this subject matter, please stop reading now. This story may not be reproduced, archived, or distributed without the explicit permission of the author.
rcg
The Janitor (M/f rl)
This is a story which happened to a friend of a friend of a friend of mine. Actually, I'm just kidding. It happened to a personal friend. This is a mostly a true story. Everything including the spanking was real. However, as I have never heard the exact details, I have been liberal in my embellishment. Anyone who cares to know is free to ask. Names and locations have been changed or excluded to protect the identity of those involved. For a little bit of historical perspective, the events described in this story happened around 1987-9. I hope you enjoy, and I look forward to reading any comments you have.
Ours was an school in an old neighbourhood. It was completed in 1931, during the height of the depression. Nonetheless, the ceilings were arched, the floors paved with marble, the outside steps made of limestone, and the trim, doors and banisters furnished in solid oak.
The basement was small, and contained a gym, a library, the boiler room, and the Janitor's office. The gym was small, only slightly larger than a volleyball court, and with a ceiling lower than any of the classrooms. At one end was a small stage on which various gym equipment was stored. Adjacent to the gym was the library. Until it was flooded one summer, it housed an immense collection of books, including every edition of National Geographic Magazine back to 1927.
The furnace room was the one place in the school where we never went, and never saw. The large steel door which led to it was always shut and bolted. What we did know, was that the school had originally been heated by coal, and when the school converted to gas heat, sometime during the 60's, the furnace had not been replaced, rather just converted. As a result, there were more than a few frigid days in January during my 7 years there, that we were let out of school because the furnace failed.
The last room in the basement was the oddest of all. Tucked away in a corner was the Janitors room. It was always open, having no door, and most kids liked to peek in on occasion, for it was a sight unlike any other. In it was ancient couch, an old fridge, a table with an antique radio that was always on, and a desk. As a result of these features it looked more like an apartment than an office. The unique part however, were the birds and the plants. There were two bird cages, one in each corner, containing a pair of budgies each. The plants were of every type. I can recall cacti, citrus trees, flowers, herbs, vegetables, ferns, along with many regular house plants crowding the room. The odd furnishings of the room combined with the musty humid odour of soil, the chirping and singing of the budgies, and the soft noise of music coming from the radio's scratchy speaker gave it an almost surreal quality.
The Janitor was, as he seemed to us kids, almost as mystical an entity. He was a great, tall, old man, who appeared next to most people like a scarecrow. His face was sunken and his cheekbones protruded like those of some starved creature. I can't recall for certain, but I believe that he was of Romanian descent. His english was good, but he spoke rarely. In the winter he drove a gold Volkswagon beetle, but in the summer, spring, and fall, he was always on his bicycle. He frequently spent time during the day, riding around the school grounds picking up any garbage that had blown into the chain link fence. How old he was at the time, I do not know. However, his hair was already white, and he had several young grandchildren. You may envision a pitiful sad person, but the aura around him was more like he was one of another world, who was living in a different age.
Anyways, away back in grade 4, I was one of those bright cheery kids. I loved physical activity, and made gymnastics my major pastime. The true love of my life is drawing and painting, but at that time my capabilities were just beginning to flourish. I was good friend with most of the girls in my class, but thought that boys were just silly and gross.
One day, me and some of my friends were sitting at a lunch table in the gym, having finished lunch. My friend Megan, sitting next to me began to bug me about liking some boy in our class. I didn't think it was very funny though - you know, cuties and all - so it hit her lightly on the arm. She punched me back, and I returned, only harder. She however, did not continue the pattern, and instead grabbed my lunch pail, and hurled onto the stage and behind the curtains.
I remember that I reacted by starting to argue whose fault it was versus who started it. Just then, the bell rang to usher us outside for 30 minutes of play time before we had to come back in for afternoon classes.
We were hustled outside by the supervising teacher before I had a chance to do anything about my lunch box, and I decided that it could wait until later. If I came home without it, it wasn't the end of the world, but my mom had been going through a lot of stress lately, and I didn't want to give her any reason to be upset with me.
Even though the stage area was of limits, and we were expected to go home after school unless we were supervised, I decided that the best thing to do would be stay after school and get my lunch box then. The play period, then the rest of the afternoon passed quickly.
After the final bell rang, I told the friends that I usually walk home with that I was going to the school library to get some books. I went downstairs, but instead of going into the library, I went through the unlocked doors of the gym. Nobody was around.
I had just climbed onto the stage and started to look for my lunch box, when a heavily accented voice spoke behind me. I hadn't heard anyone approach, so I just about jumped out of my skin.
"Why are you here?" the janitor said in a deep and authoritative voice.
"I, I, um ...nothing." I stammered at being caught off guard.
The janitor paused for a moment, seeming to consider the situation, then spoke again. "You aren't allowed to be back here, this is out of bounds. Come over here."
I walked quickly over to him, unsure of what to expect. When I got close, he grasped my hand and kneeled down like one who were about to be knighted. He was so tall that he was easily able to bend me over his knee. Before I even knew what was happening, he flipped up my dress, and delivered 5 or 6 sharp spanks to my panty covered derriere.
He set me back on my feet, looked me in the eyes and said "Don't come back here without permission again. Now go on."
I took that as my cue to leave and quickly did so, giving my bottom a few quick rubs on the way out. It didn't really hurt, but I was dismayed that he had exposed my panties, let alone touched my bum The whole scene had taken at most 20 seconds. I ran home, having completely forgotten about my lunch box.
When I got home, I half expected my mother to know that something had happened, but she gave no indication of having any motherly sixth sense. When she asked about my lunch box, I said that I had forgotten it. She tsk'd, and packed my lunch in a paper bag. Luckily I was able to claim my lunch box from the lost and found the next day.
I quickly more or less forgot about the event, but every time I passed the janitor in the halls the next two and a half years, I would begin to feel embarrassed, and want to run from him.
NB:
The Janitor still works at the school. In fact, I saw him there yesterday as I drove by. He looks much, much older, but still displayed aura of quiet wisdom, even at a distance. This is the only spanking I have ever heard that he gave, though I imagine that there might be more. You will notice that this story is told in the first person. This does not mean that I was the main character. I merely chose to tell the story in this way to give a more personal feel to the events described. It is in fact mostly true, and was related to me through events not really worth describing.
rcg