The afternoon bell rang, signalling the end of the day's classes at Franklin Roosevelt High School. In the busy halls, a slender, naturally pretty girl collected her things from her locker.

Two other girls approached her. "Hi, Stephanie," said the taller of the two. "We're going to the mall this afternoon. Do you want to come?"

Stephanie shook her head, her auburn curls framing her face. "I can't today, Andrea. I've got to visit Mr. Hudson."

Her classmates exchanged bewildered looks. "That geezer? Honestly, Stephanie, I don't know why you waste your time on him."

The senior watched their retreating backs. You wouldn't understand, she thought. Nobody understands -- well, nobody except Mr. Hudson. Thank God _he_ understands.

******

Stephanie still remembered when Mr. Hudson first moved in next door to her, during the fall of the year she turned seven. It hadn't been an easy year for Stephanie; six months earlier, her parents had divorced, and her father moved across the country. Stephanie's father, a distant, aloof man who apparently thought that, since he'd provided for his family financially, he had no need to attend to their emotional needs, accepted a promotion and transfer to a different office. It was simply easier for Stephanie's mother to stay behind. The divorce was uncontested, the father not asking for custody or even visitation rights with his only child. The first few child support checks contained a hastily scribbled note to Stephanie; now, although the checks kept coming, the notes did not.

Walking home from school that bright September day, Stephanie had been surprised to see a station wagon with a U-Haul trailer parked in the driveway of the house next to hers. The house had sat vacant for some months, the previous owners having moved out last spring. Curious, Stephanie walked up the driveway, noticing a tall, silver-haired man rummaging in the back of the trailer.

"Hi," she said, somewhat cautiously.

The man pulled his head out of the trailer and looked down at her. His face wasn't exactly friendly, but it wasn't unkind, either. "Hi," he responded, and went back to rummaging.

"Are you moving in?" Stephanie inquired.

"Yup."

"I live next door."

"That's nice."

She looked around, not seeing evidence of any other people. "Are you married?"

He emerged from the trailer again, looking at her distractedly. Stephanie felt a bit uncomfortable under his gaze. Finally, he asked, "Are you supposed to talk to strange men?"

Her eyes widened; she hadn't thought of that. "No," she said slowly.

"Well, I'm not supposed to talk to strange little girls, either. Is your mom or dad at home right now?"

"My mom is. My dad doesn't live here any more. We're divorced," she explained matter-of-factly.

"Oh." A momentary look of pity crossed his face. "Well, before we both get in trouble, why don't you tell your mom there's a new neighbor moving in and you'd like to meet him?" And he smiled. He _did_ have a kindly face when he smiled.

Stephanie scampered off home, returning minutes later with her mother in tow. The two adults exchanged introductions; the man's name was Paul Hudson. Stephanie's mother then introduced her. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Stephanie," he replied, putting his hand out for her to shake. When she did, he gave her a sly wink. She grinned back.

The grown-ups chit-chatted a bit longer, with the result that Mr. Hudson accepted an invitation to dinner that night. It was an enlightening evening for Stephanie. She found out her new neighbor was a free-lance commercial artist who worked out of his home. A lifelong bachelor who'd recently celebrated his forty-fifth birthday, Mr. Hudson had a witty, charming personality. He lavishly complimented Stephanie's mother for the meal. He also extensively questioned the girl about her interests and activities, and seemed genuinely interested in her answers.

When he left their house that night, Mr. Hudson turned to Stephanie and said, "You come visit me any time, okay?"

Stephanie took him up on the invitation the very next day. She spent the afternoon helping Mr. Hudson unpack and set up his studio. She returned the next day, and the day after that. Her mother cautioned her about making a pest of herself, but Mr. Hudson didn't mind.

One day, about two weeks later, Stephanie wasn't her usual lively self. Mr. Hudson noticed and asked her what the problem was. "My mom got a job," she answered glumly.

"Really? That's wonderful! I'd think you'd be happy for her."

"I am," Stephanie replied, "but ... she won't get home until after 5:00, so now I gotta go to day care after school."

"And you don't want to go." It wasn't really a question.

"No. Day care's for _babies_," she said sullenly.

"Have you told your mother how you feel?"

"I can't, Mr. Hudson, I can't! She's so happy to get this job, and I can't ruin it for her." Stephanie's mother didn't really _need_ the job, but she'd been trying to create a new life for herself, and this was an important step.

He sat silently for a while, staring into space and scratching his nose, which meant he was deep in thought. Finally he spoke again. "Is your mom home right now?"

"Yes."

"Well, let's go talk to her. I can't promise anything, so don't get your hopes up, but we'll see if we can't work something out."

Stephanie's curiosity grew as Mr. Hudson led the way to her house. Inside, he gently suggested she go to her room for a while, so he and her mother could talk in private. She anxiously paced the floor, dying to know what was being said downstairs. Finally, when she felt she'd burst if she had to wait any longer, her mother summoned her back to the living room to hear the result of their detailed negotiations:

1) Mr. Hudson offered to hire Stephanie as his assistant. Her hours would be on school days, from after school until her mother got home.

2) For looking after the girl, Stephanie's mother would pay Mr. Hudson the same rate the day care center charged.

3) Mr. Hudson would pay Stephanie an hourly rate which worked out to precisely one dollar a day more than the day care cost.

4) Mr. Hudson's day care payment would be withheld from Stephanie's wages.

"Of course," Mr. Hudson said when the explanations were done, "the whole deal depends on your acceptance. Are you interested?"

Two giant bearhugs later, the adults had their answer.

******

Stephanie strode up the familiar steps to Mr. Hudson's door, steps she'd been walking for ten years now. She entered without knocking. Setting her books, purse, and jacket on a table by the door, she called out, "Mr. Hudson?" Despite their long relationship, he was still Mr. Hudson to her, always would be.

"In here," came his voice from the studio.

She walked down the hallway to the small room. He was seated at his drafting table, sketching away. "Still working on the Delmonico project?" she asked as she put her arm around his shoulders, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Um hmm," he said distantly, one arm encircling her waist and squeezing gently. "How was school?"

"Oh, same-old same-old," she answered, noticing his tea cup was empty. She scooped it up and went to the kitchen, rinsed the cup in the sink, then put the kettle on the stove. Returning to the studio, she casually remarked, "I aced my biology test yesterday."

"Good for you! That's my girl," he responded, never pausing in his drawing. After a few more seconds, he laid his pencil down and swiveled on his stool to face her. "Stephanie," he asked, his voice suddenly serious, "did you do anything naughty today?"

"Yes," she replied without hesitation. "I used the school's computers to hack into the computer system of a multinational corporation. I transferred their entire pension fund to a secret Swiss bank account. Thousands of retirees will go hungry next month, while I'm off tomorrow to my private South Sea island."

She'd done no such thing, and they both knew it. Still, his face was grave. "My, you certainly _were_ naughty." He stood up, placed the stool in the center of the room, sat again, and extended his arm to her. "Come here."

******

The first time she was naughty, Stephanie had worked as Mr. Hudson's assistant for almost two months. Her duties consisted mainly of mixing paint, cleaning brushes, and brewing the many cups of herbal tea he consumed during the day. Other than that, she was free to work on her homework or amuse herself; mostly, though, she preferred to sit in his studio and listen to him describe his current project.

One day, he'd completed a scale model of a sculpture for an office park. He needed to move the model to a nearby table, so he could take pictures of it from several angles, to submit to the design committee. "First, though, I'd better get rid of my tea," he said, getting to his feet.

"I'll move it for you," Stephanie offered.

"No, it's pretty heavy. Just wait till I get back. This won't take but a minute."

The girl, a bit miffed, decided she'd show him. She put her hands under the model and slowly lifted it. It _was_ heavier than she expected, she thought, as she took a step toward the table ...

Suddenly, it slipped out of her hands, breaking to pieces on the hardwood floor.

Stephanie stood paralyzed over the ruined model. Mr. Hudson ran back into the studio, his look of concern changing to anger as he realized what she'd done. "Didn't I tell you to wait? Didn't I?" he yelled. She couldn't answer, her eyes already tearing up.

Still furious, he seized her arm, dragged her to his stool, sat, and roughly pulled her across his lap. Before she could react, he administered a half-dozen firm swats to her rump. "Next time I tell you not to do something, you better listen!" he said as he placed her back on her feet. The girl turned her back on him, one hand rubbing her bottom, sobbing loudly.

His anger transformed back to concern. "Stephanie, what's the matter? I didn't spank you that hard."

No, he hadn't. Her bottom tingled more than anything. But ... he was the first man who'd ever shown more than cursory interest in her, and now he was angry at her. Moreover, on the rare occasions that Stephanie'd been spanked by her mother, she'd been banished to her room immediately afterward to "think about what she'd done." Surely Mr. Hudson would do the same. She felt her whole world crumbling. "I'm ... I'm a bad girl ..." she sniffled.

"WHAT?" He sounded incredulous.

"I'm a bad girl," she repeated, "and ... and you want me to go away ... and ..." She could get no further, lowering her head and wailing loudly.

She felt his hands on her shoulders. "You're not a bad girl, Stephanie. And I don't want you to go away."

Suddenly, she spun around and flung both arms around his waist. By instinct, he bent down and scooped her up in his arms. Moving quickly, he carried the girl from the studio to his living room.

In one corner of the room stood an antique rocking chair. Mr. Hudson sat in the chair, cradling Stephanie to his chest, and gently rocked her as he softly whispered comforting words. She sat on his lap, crying into his shirt, for a long, long time.

Eventually, her tears subsided and she peered up at him through red-rimmed eyes. "You ... you really don't think I'm a bad girl?"

"No, of course not. You're a good girl." Again, instinct told him what she needed to hear. "You're _my_ good girl. You were just a little naughty, that's all."

"And you're not going to send me away?"

"Stephanie, I'll _never_ send you away. You were naughty, I punished you, and now I forgive you." He smiled. "Anyway, I need you to help clean up that mess in the studio."

Returning his smile, Stephanie felt the last of her tension slipping away, replaced by a warm feeling deep within her. The studio didn't get cleaned up that day. Instead, they sat together, rocking quietly, until Stephanie's mother got home from work.

******

Mr. Hudson never mentioned the ruined model again. For the next week, though, Stephanie couldn't get that day out of her mind. Although she still sometimes sat on her mother's lap, she hadn't been rocked for years, and her father ... well, Stephanie couldn't remember her father _ever_ holding her, much less rocking her. She remembered the warmth she'd felt sitting on Mr. Hudson's lap, and knew she had to experience that feeling again.

But how? Well, last time, she was naughty, he'd spanked her, and then he'd rocked her. If she was naughty again, maybe she could get rocked again too. It might mean another spanking, but if that's what it took ...

Now, what could she do that was suitably naughty? She didn't want to break another model or otherwise mess up his projects; that caused him too much extra work. What could she do? Then the answer came to her: his tea. Mr. Hudson drank only a special brand of herbal tea, and he was very particular about it: precisely two spoonfuls of sugar per cup, no more, no less.

So, the next afternoon, when he asked for a cup of tea, Stephanie put three spoonfuls of sugar in it. She set the cup by his drafting table and stepped back; he took a sip, made a face, and said, "Too sweet, Stephanie. Get me another cup, please."

She put four spoonfuls in the next cup. "Still too sweet! Try again."

Sometimes he was _too_ patient with her. Back in the kitchen, she made another cup of tea and put _five_ spoonfuls in. She stirred the tea, picked up the cup, turned around ... and saw Mr. Hudson standing in the doorway, watching her, his arms folded.

"Stephanie," he said, "that tea is very expensive. You _know_ how to fix it, and you deliberately ruined that cup. Do you want me to spank you again?"

Here it comes, she thought, and took a deep breath. "Yes," she answered, then added quickly, "if you'll rock me again, too."

Understanding slowly replaced the confusion on Mr. Hudson's face. "Stephanie, if you want me to rock you, you only had to ask. I don't _have_ to spank you first." He took her hand and led her into the living room, sat in the rocker, and gathered her onto his lap. Stephanie snuggled against his chest as his arms enfolded her, then relaxed and waited for the warm feelings to start again.

But the warmth didn't come. Instead, the whole situation felt too artificial, too forced. Stephanie could tell Mr. Hudson felt the same. After a few minutes, she realized what was missing. The last time, she was naughty, she'd been punished, then she'd been forgiven. They'd left out the middle step. The forgiveness, the warm feeling, couldn't come until after the punishment.

Stephanie knew what she had to do. She removed Mr. Hudson's arms and got up off his lap. Leading him into the studio, she placed the stool in the center of the room, then looked up at him, expectantly.

"All right, Stephanie," he said slowly. "I'll spank you. But it won't be a little spanking like you had last time. It'll be a long, hard spanking, and I promise you, you'll cry."

"All right," she replied. He sat on the stool and turned her over his knees. Mr. Hudson made good on his word; Stephanie clearly felt the hard swats. He didn't stop until she was crying freely. Then, as before, he carried her back to the living room and resumed his seat on the rocking chair.

_Now_ the warm feeling came; not just from her rump, but from all over. Even as she cried, even as her bottom burned and stung, Stephanie felt at peace. She sat happily as Mr. Hudson rocked and comforted her, knowing there was no place in the world she'd rather be.

******

Two weeks later, Stephanie started getting antsy. She fidgeted constantly and couldn't concentrate on anything. Deep within her, she knew she needed another punishment/rocking session. But how to arrange it this time? Stephanie was, by nature, a very good girl, and naughtiness didn't come easily to her.

Mr. Hudson seemed to read her mind. One day, out of nowhere, he suddenly asked, "Stephanie, did you do anything naughty today?"

"No," she said, confused. True, she'd been _thinking_ about it, but she hadn't actually done anything -- yet.

"Oh." He went back to drawing. A few minutes later: "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," she replied.

"I was watching the news at lunchtime today, and they had a story about a little girl who looked just like you who was riding the ostriches down at the zoo. Are you _sure_ that wasn't you?"

"No!" Riding the ostriches? Anyway, she hadn't been to the zoo for months.

"Well, that was a _very_ naughty little girl, and I think she deserves a good spanking. I hope she gets one," and, with that, he went back to work.

Stephanie pondered Mr. Hudson's words. She _hadn't_ rode any ostriches, (and, truthfully, she didn't think anyone really had), but he thought that deserved a spanking. So, if she _told_ him she was the one, maybe he'd spank her, and then ...

"Mr. Hudson? It ... it _was_ me. I-I skipped out of school this morning, went down to the zoo, and rode the ostriches."

"Well!" he said sharply, swiveling on the stool to face her. "You've been naughty indeed! Missing school, riding the ostriches, and then lying to me about it." He shook his head, then extended his hand to her. "Come here, you naughty girl!"

A few minutes later, as the well-spanked girl rocked on Mr. Hudson's lap with the warmth flowing through her again, she reflected on what she'd learned that day. She didn't actually have to _be_ naughty. False naughtiness still gave her the result she needed.

******

Stephanie worked as Mr. Hudson's assistant the rest of that school year. Her mother, perhaps feeling guilty about placing her child under another's care, devoted evenings and weekends to mother/daughter projects. Her summer was split between various camps and visiting her grandparents' farm. When the next fall came, she again spent her afternoons with Mr. Hudson.

As the years went by, and Stephanie became more involved in extracurricular activities, she no longer served as Mr. Hudson's assistant. He remained an active part of her life, though. With her mother, he attended her soccer games, her performances with the school choir, her science fair presentations. On the rare occasions that Stephanie's mother had to travel out of town, she stayed at his house.

And, of course, if she ever felt "naughty," he was there to provide the remedy. Two or three times a month, Stephanie found herself in Mr. Hudson's studio, confessing some transgression. Some were real; when she hadn't studied for a test and failed miserably; when a friend talked her into trying a cigarette; when she jilted a "nice guy" for a date with a more popular boy (who turned out to be a real jerk). Others, such as the ostriches or the pension raid, were imaginary. To Mr. Hudson, though, it made no difference; he treated all her offenses the same, spanking her until she cried freely, then carrying her to the living room and rocking her tears away.

******

Stephanie swiftly moved to Mr. Hudson's right side, bending over as he lifted her across his lap. He wrapped his left arm around her waist, securing her in place, patted her bottom lightly, then drew back and delivered a resounding swat. She yelped, bucking slightly as he repeated the blow. By the eighth spank, she was squirming on his lap; by the fifteenth, kicking wildly. He continued spanking impassively until her struggles subsided. A moment's pause to regain his breath, then he easily rolled the girl over and cradled her in his arms as he slid off the stool.

They were both ten years older, and Stephanie no longer the little girl he once knew; nevertheless, Mr. Hudson had no trouble carrying her to the familiar rocking chair in the corner of the living room. There they sat, rocking gently, her crying copiously into his shirt as he stroked her hair and whispered, "There, there, Stephanie. It's all right now. You're still my good girl."

And so she was. For those few moments, Stephanie wasn't a confident young lady on the verge of womanhood, ready to take her place in the world around her; instead, she was seven years old again, resting securely in the arms of a man who truly loved her.

– The End –