My fourth year at grammar school was a surprise, especially to me. I got only one detention and only one caning. It seemed I had starting growing up, or learning from my past mistakes. The account below is as I remember it, though the names are changed. The description of the teacher is accurate as I kept a diary and recorded the details.

My single caning came in the summer term. I was fifteen at the time and it was 1967. One lunchtime, another lad made some rude comments about a girl I fancied, including calling here the local bike. I was furious and grabbed him. Before we knew it, we were fighting. A group obviously gathered and were chanting, “Fight,Fight,Fight etc”.

Teachers in the playground noticed and came to break us up. One of them was Mrs Broadbent, the Senior Mistress, who ordered us to wait outside her office. While we were waiting, several kids walked past and giggled at our obvious discomfort, knowing we were waiting for the cane. After quite a while, we heard Mrs Broadbent coming because of her high heels clicking. She opened the door and ordered us in.

Mrs Broadbent was in her forties, short blond hair, tall, slim, and that day she was wearing a white polo-necked, clingy top, tight black skirt and black high heeled shoes. She demanded to know why we were fighting. We replied that it was over a girl. She, incorrectly, concluded that we both fancied the same girl and we did not put her straight. She explained that fighting was not the answer and we should have talked it through, before saying that fighting was also against the rules. She continued by telling us that it was an automatic caning offence. This was not a surprise.

She placed a chair in the middle of the room. I watched as she went to the cupboard and selected the longest, thickest crook-handled cane from the rack. I was sent to the corner and the other boy bent over the chair without being asked. Like me, he knew the procedure well. I watched excitedly and terrified in equal measure as Mrs Broadbent walked towards him. She looked so beautiful and well-dressed at all times, but the cane gave her an extra attraction to a teenage boy.

I watched as she tapped his bottom with the cane before lifting it high over her shoulder. It swished down so quickly and cracked loudly. The boy tensed as it hit. Mrs Broadbent repeated the stroke and I was fascinated as it hit the lad’s bottom hard. His back tensed again. The third and fourth strokes were the same and got a similar result. The fifth stroke appeared to have extra effort from Mrs Broadbent and the lad let out a slight yelp as it hit. Mrs Broadbent lifted the cane for the sixth time. I noticed a slight change in action which obviously produced the diagonal stroke, and the lad jumped up as it hit and yelped loudly. Mrs Broadbent stepped back and told him to stand next to me.

I was then called forward and immediately bent over the chair and grasped the seat tightly. My previous visits to Mrs Broadbent told me I was in for a painful time at her hands. Excitement had disappeared now, and sheer fear had taken over. Mrs Broadbent soon touched her cane. I felt the tapping which seemed extra hard this time. Before I knew it, the cane had lifted and had hit my bottom hard. I tensed as the expected burning pain arrived. The cane touched again and swished to its target. I tensed even more as the burning increased. Mrs Broadbent and the bigger cane made this a truly painful punishment, and I was not yet halfway though. The cane tapped again. Even this was painful as it touched a previous mark. It soon swished down and a third burning line arrived. I stamped my foot as the burn increased. Mrs Broadbent continued and the fourth stroke soon bit home. I stamped my foot again. The fifth stroke was extremely hard and low as usual. I wriggled my bottom as the pain arrived. I was determined not to cry out. Mrs Broadbent told me to stay still or get extra strokes. Mrs Broadbent then delivered her trademark diagonal stroke to finish. It was so painful as it crossed the other cane marks. I could feel tears but managed to subdue them. I was relieved when I heard her high heels walking away.

I was told to stand by the wall and we both watched our names being entered in the punishment book. She dismissed us and we left the room, no longer fighters but more comrades in arms, and headed to the toilets to inspect the damage. Six bright red angry raised wheels were present in a perfect five bar gate pattern. Well done Mrs Broadbent! This was my only caning in a whole year but one of my most painful yet. It was worth it, though, as I made good friends with the lad and earned the respect of my peers for the fight. But even better was I got a date with the girl when she found out I defended her honour.

NN

For those of us who were regulars at bending over to get whacks with the slipper, it was always encouraging and somewhat amusing when a ‘good girl’ got it.

Like one occasion it happened to one ‘model’ pupil in our class. If we were a bit slow changing after gym, the gym mistress would sometimes hurry us up by announcing that the last one out would get the slipper. I particularly remember when Sandra, who was very brainy and a real top dog in the class, was unaccountably last. She looked really shocked when she was told she had to bend over for a whack with the slipper. I don’t think she could believe it because she was never usually in trouble.

However, bend over she had to in the presence of those of us who were collecting our things outside the changing room. We watched interestedly as she got a right stinging whack on her shapely bottom which caused her to yell and clutch her bum. But although obviously discomforted, she took i6t like a real sport and was able to raise a smile on her very red face as she walked off rubbing her behind.

“Wow! That didn’t half sting!” she was heard to mutter.

My opinion of her went up after that!

WW

When my cousin and I stayed with my granny during our first year at college, we thought we could come in any time we liked after partying. Granny, however, had other ideas, as she made abundantly clear to us with the help of the same paddle she had used on our moms. She may have been getting on in years but she still had a pretty strong right arm.

The two sophisticated young ladies were soon reduced to bawling little girls as we went over her knee one after the other for a good walloping with the paddle. Even with the passing of the years, Granny had not lost her touch when it came to spanking naughty girls! We went to bed much chastened with bottoms that were on fire and in danger of scorching the bedsheets.

The next day, granny told us she was having some nice young people round that evening for us to meet. I didn’t want to meet them and was really mad with her for spanking me, especially as I could feel the after-effects of the spanking in my butt when I sat down in church that morning. So, just to annoy her, I put on a real short skirt, much to granny’s disapproval.

One young man, however, obviously enjoyed the leg display as he chatted to me all evening and then asked me out on a date. I was so thrilled that I quickly forgave granny for spanking me. Another guy asked my cousin out, so she was really happy, even though both of our bottoms still felt quite tender from the spanking.

The boy and I had our date and fell in love, and he became my husband. So, thanks to granny who brought us together, even in an indirect, pretty painful way. And yes, my husband still likes me in short skirts!

Kr

This is a spanking recollection that I did not witness and only heard about after the fact. It involved the older of my two younger brothers, who was around 13 at the time. When this incident took place, I was already married and out of the house, but my sister Cara, who was around 16 then, was there and witnessed it. I asked her to share her recollections of an episode she says was both memorable and surreal.

Spankings in our house were not uncommon. Both my folks believed in their effectiveness and all of us got them into our mid-teens, mainly from mom, but sometimes from dad, who only used the strap when he did spank, and that was an experience to be avoided!

We had a set of cousins, the children of mom’s sister, and like us, they were also subject to spankings, always from their mother. My aunt and uncle raised six kids: Judi, was my sister’s age, followed by fraternal twins, Jackson and Jordan, who are around my age, then Julia, a year younger, and Jason, a year younger than Julia and around the same age as the older of my two younger brothers. My aunt and uncle later adopted a boy from Vietnam, Jeremiah, who is about 5 years younger than Jason.

My aunt and uncle lived about four blocks from us, but their house was on a dead end street that backed up to woods. They had a large lot and a pool and a built out recreation room with ping pong, air hockey and a pool table. It was a fun place to hang out, but as the cousin counterparts my age were boys, and candidly, both kind of jerks, I did not spend nearly as much time over there as my sister or brothers.

When this event took place it was between Christmas and New Year’s Day. My brother Patrick, who was 13, had stayed at my aunt’s for a couple days after Christmas, immersed in some new game that Jason had gotten. During that stay, Jackson, one of the twins, got into serious trouble for causing some major problem with his dad’s computer. This was at the dawn of the home computer age, and the COMPAQ Presario (!) was kept in a basement office that my uncle ran a couple of side businesses out of. The office was strictly off limits to all the kids, as was his computer. As relayed to my sis from our cousin Judi, Jackson had been busted a couple times before for going in the office. She thought he was looking for cash that my uncle sometimes had in there. The last time he was caught in there, my uncle’s computer turned up not working right.

So, because of his priors in this area, Jackson was presumed to have gone into the office and, again, screwed up his dad’s computer. My aunt, who was judge, jury and executioner, sentenced him to a paddling. This would have been a huge deal there. My aunt definitely played favorites, and Jackson was the golden boy who she always gave every benefit of the doubt. It was extraordinarily rare for him to be punished, let alone paddled. To the rest of us, he was smarmy, sneaky and deceitful, but to her, he was the clear favourite.

I truly wish I had been there to see that spanking, not only because it was so rare that he got one, but also because, according to Judi and my sis, Jackson was very generously endowed. I should mention that because my sis had run off and gotten married so young, my folks kind of kept tight reins on me. I was not yet allowed to date at that point and so my only exposure to male anatomy came when I saw one of my brothers or cousins have to pull down their pants for a spanking.

Fast forward to a couple days later. My aunt calls my mom and relays what had happened and how she had punished Jackson. It seems about a day after that, Julia had come forward and told my aunt she had seen my brother Patrick coming out of the office that day and looking very nervous. You have to understand the relationship dynamic between my mom and my aunt. There was a very weird competitive thing they had around the kids, not just for things like academics or sports, but also around behavior. If my brother had indeed been guilty of this crime, it was making mom look bad as a parent and woe unto you if you were the reasons for that.

I was upstairs, but I could hear mom talking to my brother. She started out asking some innocuous questions about his stay at my aunt’s, then she subtly shifted the conversation to the computer incident and Jackson being punished. I knew from years of experience with these kind of interrogations that she was laying her traps and eventually, if my brother was guilty, he would trip himself up.

“You don’t go in Uncle John’s office, do you?”

My brother says no.

“And you weren’t in there any time when you were over there this week?”

Again, my brother denies.

“OK, well why would Julia tell your aunt that she saw you coming out of there?”

My brother mumbles an ‘I dunno’.

Mom starts to press and panic sets in and slowly my brother starts to crumble. Mom brings it back full circle.

“I am going to ask you again. Were you in that office and did you touch your uncle’s computer, and I better get a straight answer.”

By this time, I have made my way to the living room and can see into the kitchen where this conversation is taking place.  My brother hems and haws some, shifting from one foot to the other. Well, yeah, he may have been in the office, but he doesn’t know about the computer. Mom stares at him, arms crossed.

“You want to try again?”

My brother has not yet developed the skill of total denial to the bitter end. He caves and fesses up to playing with the computer. Mom says nothing, but the glare she is giving radiates anger. Now she will have to call my aunt and concede that it was one of her kids who not only caused this problem but let one of her kids take the fall for it.

She dispatches my brother to an empty corner in the kitchen, a precursor in our house to an imminent bottom warming. I fully expect her to light up my brother’s backside, but I am not prepared for what happens next. I hear her on the phone with my aunt telling her what she has uncovered. The call is brief and ends with: “OK, I’ll be here. See you in a few minutes.”

About 15 minutes later there is  knock at the back door. Mom tells me to answer it. It is my aunt and she has Jackson in tow, looking even smarmier than usual. As they enter, the first sight they see is Patrick with his nose stuck in the corner and hands at his side. Mom comes in the kitchen and asks if my aunt wants tea. She puts on the kettle and my aunt dispatches Jackson to our living room to watch television. It is an odd conversation they are having, minor chitchat about this and that, all the while paying no attention to the boy standing in the corner.

They have finished their tea and mom calls me down to the kitchen. She tells me to get my little brother and go to the living room. I give her an odd look, but I can sense that she is on edge and I don’t want to risk getting crossways with her. I find my brother Kevin, who is 10, and tell him mom wants us in the living room. He starts to fuss with me, but I cut him off.

“Dude, Patrick is in huge trouble and mom is in a mood, so I would just do what she asks right now.”

Kevin and I get to the living room and find Jackson there, sitting in the chair that is usually reserved for my dad and aimlessly watching sports on TV. He does not acknowledge us. Kevin and I sit on the couch. My aunt makes her way from the kitchen to the living room, followed closely behind by mom and Patrick, who has that ‘condemned man’ look, equal parts morose and anxious.

There is a hassock in the living room that goes with one of the easy chairs. My aunt moves it to the center of the room and sits on it. My mom is in the alcove between the two rooms, with her arms folded and a look on her face that I am not sure is satisfaction that justice is being served or irritation that my aunt is making this such a production.

My aunt focuses her attention at Patrick.

“All right, young man. I need you to go get the paddle.”

Though my brother had to know this was coming, he is nonetheless deflated, and, looking quite sad and pathetic, trudges upstairs to retrieve our paddle, a firm plywood ping pong paddle that had the rubber removed from one side and that had been sanded and varnished. Ironically, mom had discovered it at my aunt’s house one time when she was spanking my sis, and she took it home with her.

Patrick shuffles back down the stairs and glumly hands over the paddle to my aunt, who is still seated on the hassock. My brother had on the official uniform of winter when we were at home; sweat pants, a long sleeve shirt, socks and slippers. With a wave of the paddle, my aunt tells him to get his pants down. Every spanking at our house and at my aunt’s house was given on a bare bottom, so ‘get your pants down’ was understood to mean pants and underwear. My brother’s face was flushed and his ears turned bright red as he slid down his sweats and boxers in one motion. He was at that age where the embarrassment of the spanking ritual had surpassed the physical discomfort of the actual spanking.

It was bad enough being exposed in front of mom, but now here he was on full display in front of his aunt, sister and other witnesses. The puberty fairy had completed her work since the last time I saw him spanked. The stray wisps had given way to a thick mat of black curly hair above his penis and a thin rat tail of hair went from above his public line to his belly button.

My aunt was really dragging out the lecture and prolonging Patrick’s embarrassment. Just when I thought she was finished, she made him turn and face Jackson and apologize to him, in what had to be complete and utter humiliation. My brother mumbled out some apologies, but Jackson did not respond, just stared at him with that shit-eating smirk.

The preliminaries were over and now it was show time. Now, most of the spankings we got from mom were given over her knee. The exception was when she used the strap and then should make us bend over and grab the seat of a chair. My aunt, though, always spanked with you bent over, whether it was for their paddle, the strap or the vinyl mini-blind wand called ‘The Stick’. I don’t know why she decided on having Patrick go over her knee, but it was definitely a big departure from her usual procedure. The hassock was lower than a chair and Patrick’s hands and feet easily touched the floor. He may have been around 5 feet at this time, but he had picked up the body type of dad’s side, sturdy with broad shoulders and a wider butt. Even though he had the dark hair and eyes of my mom, he definitely had the fair white pasty complexion of the Irish side (dad).

My aunt drew back the paddle and brought it down with a solid smack to Patrick’s lily white bum. He let out a small grunt and then counted the swat.

“One.”

“One, ma’am,” my aunt corrected, insisting on a protocol that we did not use at our house but that she used at hers.

She settled into a cadence of swats. THWAK, count, pause, .pause, THWAK, with a force that seemed to intensify as she went on. My brother croaked out the swats in an increasingly higher voice, often with a leg kick or a bucking or writhing motion that flashed his privates at my brother and me seated on the couch. My aunt, like my mom, always gave swats in groups of 12. After 24 swats, with Patrick’s bum now transformed from lily white to flaming red, she paused.

“That was for disobeying a rule and breaking the computer. This is for letting your cousin take the blame for it.”

With that, a fresh round of swats commenced. My aunt was quite thorough in the application of the paddle and covered every inch, top to bottom and side to side. The last six swats seemed to be delivered with much gusto, prompting loud grunts and leg kicks from Patrick. After the 48th swat had been dispensed, Patrick was ordered up and he immediately began a vigorous rub trying to put out the fire on his back porch, which had now gone crimson. Mom told him to get back to the corner, and with pants and undies still around his knees, Patrick shuffled back to serve his embarrassing public corner time, his blazing red bottom on display.

Mom and my aunt headed to the kitchen for more tea. Jackson made no move to leave, so I bolted to my room at the first opportunity. I was up there maybe 15 minutes when I heard mom calling me. I ducked in the kitchen.

“Honey, would you go up and get me the strap?” she said in a way that was so casual, like sending me up to get some towels.

I saw Patrick slump when he heard her. I said nothing because I was still fearing I might find my way into her crosshairs. I had not been spanked in about six months, but my sis had gotten one at past 16 and I was under no illusion that they were off the table for me.

The strap was kept in the upstairs hall closet where all the spanking tools lived; wooden spoon that was now only used on my little brother, wooden hairbrush and the paddle my aunt had just used. The strap had its own hook on the back of the closet door. It had been a tool belt used by my grandfather. All the pockets were long gone and now it was doubled over and permanently creased, about 18 inches long, 2 inches wide, thick but supple. I had been on the receiving end a few memorable times and I remembered the welts I had carried with me for a few days after.

I brought the strap to mom and handed it to her. In the time I was gone, she had gotten Patrick out of the corner and made him bend over and grab the sides of a kitchen chair. I had a profile view and I noticed that from anxiety or embarrassment or some other reason, Patrick was in a state of arousal. It was not a full erection but it was definitely pointing out more and looking bigger than what I had seen earlier.

I made a hasty retreat from the kitchen and took up camp in the living room, where I could see Patrick but stay out of mom’s sightline.

Mom said little beyond: “This is what you get for lying to me.”

I did not see the first lick, but I definitely heard it, a loud crack that sounded like a pistol shot. I did see Patrick lurch forward, making his equipment bob up and down. He let out a low moan and counted the lick. Eleven more followed, all evenly paced and delivered with the same level of intensity. The exception was the seventh or eight, which must have been the one to find the top of Patrick’s thigh. He let out a howl and took a couple of breaths before counting the swat.

After the 12th lick was delivered, mom banished Patrick back to the corner. She called for me to come to the kitchen and put the strap back upstairs. I caught site of Patrick’s bum, now a mass of flaming red horizontal stripes. The mark at the top of his right thigh looked especially nasty and would no doubt turn into a bruise.

I put the strap away and headed to my room. I heard my aunt leave with Jackson about 15 minutes later. Mom released Patrick from the corner about 15 minutes after that. It was one of the longer corner sessions that I could recall in our house. He was restricted to his room the rest of the break, except for the list of chores mom was making him do to pay for the repair to my uncle’s computer. The only break he caught was my dad being out of town on a project or he no doubt would have caught the strap from him as well.

Epilogue: My brother was still sporting marks from that spanking five days later. I asked him to show me his butt and he did.

LC

We were at the pool one day when the girls were younger when I remembered I’d left something in the car that I needed. I made sure I had my ticket on me and went out to the parking lot when I heard a kid yelling. I went round and just down from my car I saw the back door of another car open and a couple of legs sticking out and kicking vigorously. It was quite obvious that the owner of the legs was being very well spanked.

The spanking, together with the kicking and yelling, continued for a short time, after which a young teenage girl in a swimsuit got up and jumped around holding her bottom.

Then, who I assumed to be her father got out the back of the car. He wagged a finger at the girl who was by this time tearily rubbing her butt and said: “Now, Mary-Anne. Don’t you ever speak to your mommy like that again!”

“Yes Daddy!” gulped the girl through her tears, frantically trying to rub the sting out of her butt.

The dad then put his arms round the girl to comfort her: “Now when we get back you say sorry to Mommy, is that understood?”

“Yes Daddy.”

After another hug the father locked the car and together they headed back to the pool. They hadn’t been aware of my presence which, I was grateful for. I noticed as they walked away the girl had a very red bottom. No doubt she was keen to cool it off in the water.

I smiled as I mused on the scene. I could certainly identify with the girl. A generation before, it could’ve been me with my legs sticking out the car having my butt well warmed. But it was good to know old-fashioned discipline was still around.

Kr

When we were mid-teens, I was playing table tennis with my boy cousin who is a year or so older than me. We were (and still are) great friends and there was really something between us. I loved him dearly and he treated me somewhat between a girlfriend and a sister.

Anyway, the ball went under the table and as my cousin bent down to pick it up, I swatted him on the butt with my bat.

“Ow!” he said. “Stop it!” as the ball went a bit further under the table.

He bent down again to pick the ball up and I couldn’t resist giving him another right good swat on his cute bum. Unfortunately, he also banged his head on the table as he jumped.

“Ow! You brat!” he yelled, jumping up.

The result of course was predictable! He grabbed me, took the bat out my hand and led me over to a chair.

I squealed, “No! No!” but over his knee I went.

Spank! Spank! Spank!

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I yelled. The bat was hard! It stung!

Spank! Spank! Spank!

“Oweeee!” I yelled as he let me up.

I got up clutching a stinging butt, which was now a good deal warmer than it had been!

“Rat!” I said.

“Now let me get that ball,” he said, “unless you want another paddling.”

“No I don’t! That really stung.”

“Good!” he said and grinned. “You deserved it.”

I rubbed my butt as he got under the table again and retrieved the ball. We got on with the game, me with a stinging butt. Despite (or because of) the spanking I was overcome with fondness for the guy.

Kr

I am the oldest of four, with a sister two years younger, and brothers five and eight years younger. Though my parents were, and are, progressives, when it came to child-rearing, they were decidedly old-fashioned. They had very clear rules and expectations, and spanking was the first response consequence if we broke them. All of us were spanked into our mid-teens.

By the time the older of the two boys was born, mom had stepped aside from her classroom teacher career and was a full-time stay-at-home mother. I would estimate that 90 percent of the spankings at home came from her. She oversaw the day-to-day running of the house and also closely monitored our behavior at school. A note from a teacher, a detention or some other disciplinary incident at school would guarantee us a paddling at home. The former teacher always gave the current teacher the benefit of the doubt.

She followed an elaborate procedure that included corner time before and after, a lengthy lecture, fetching implements and making us count the swats out loud. From the time we were sent upstairs to wait until we were released from the corner after, as much as an hour could have gone by. The whole process was designed to be a hassle, an ordeal we would not want to experience again.

The overwhelming majority of spankings from mom went unreported to dad, and he never knew that most of them had even happened. There was never a ‘wait until your father gets home’ with mom. She took care of business and we all carried on afterward, and it might never even be on his radar.

Now, dad did spank, though his tended to be much more impromptu and for line-of-sight type of things, like ‘screwing around’ with his power tools (older of the boys), breaking the neighbor’s lawn mower (younger of the boys) or running down the battery playing with the electric seats in his truck (my sister).

On occasion, though, mom might feel an incident was serious enough that he needed to know about it, too. An encounter with dad was the nuclear option in our house, and on those times when mom had informed him of some particularly egregious thing we had done, it was after she had already taken us across her knee for a dose of paddle or hairbrush to our bare bottoms. Now, we would be faced with his wrath as well as hers, and his wrath was definitely not something you wanted to provoke.

Dad always, and only, used the strap when he spanked us; the old leather tool belt that his dad had worn and had used to discipline my father and his siblings. All the pockets had been removed and it was a couple inches wide and permanently creased over, firm but supple, and in his hands a truly fearsome implement. He never used it in anger, but it was clear when he did he was not happy with our actions and we definitely would feel the effects for a couple of days after.

He had far less procedure than mom. No corner time before and very rarely after. Most times, he’d go get the strap then have you drop your pants and grab your knees right in the kitchen. As sis and I got older, he afforded us a bit more modesty and would take us downstairs to the basement recreation room or sometimes, in warmer weather, out to the detached garage.

I managed to keep my encounters with him rare. It wasn’t that I was perfectly behaved, but I was better at hiding things from my folks than my siblings were. The last strapping from him came when I was just about 14. Mom caught me sneaking out (actually sneaking back in) from seeing my new boyfriend illicitly.

Following an epic paddling from her, she told my dad when he got home from work. That earned me a trip to the basement, him holding the strap in one hand and my arm in the other. I had to drop my shorts and bend over the arm of the couch, and I got 10 sound licks on my bare butt and an admonition not to sneak out of the house again or it would be worse. I never cried with spankings from mom past age 8 or 9. I was stubborn and never wanted her to have the satisfaction, but I was always in tears if I was in trouble with my dad, even before the strap fell.

When my little brother Kevin was in 9th grade, he broke the window of the school behind our house when he was flicking rocks with his hockey stick on the way home from practice. He tried to run away, but the pastor of the church spotted him and called our house. Mom was furious with him, especially because of the embarrassment of the pastor calling. I was not living at home by then, but I happened to be there visiting when this took place and had a front row seat for the paddling he got from mom before he even changed out of his hockey gear.

My dad came home a short time later. Mom told him what happened and that the head of the volunteer maintenance committee at the school had called. Could he come over and help with clean-up and temporary enclosure until the window could be replaced? My dad’s jaw tightened and he headed to the stairs. Moments later, he returned with little brother in one hand and strap in the other.

“I have to go help fix this window you broke,” he said to my brother. “And we are going to have to pay the insurance deductible on this. Well, we’re going to figure out how you are going to repay us for that, but meantime I’m going to take a deposit out of your butt. Drop your pants.”

My brother looked equal parts scared and embarrassed. He shucked down the sweats he was wearing, and his boxers, and he bent over and grabbed his knees while my dad went to work. There were 12 licks in all, given in rapid fire succession, and he covered his bum from the top down to the tops of his thighs. My brother toughed it out without crying but it was evident from the grunts and gasps and squeals that he was in distress. My dad told him to stick his nose in the corner until he got back from the window clean-up and that is where my brother stayed for the next hour, his striped bottom on display for everyone to see.

I remember a serious strapping my sis took from dad in 7th grade, when she was caught with cigarettes. Both my folks’ dads had serious health issues related to smoking and it was the one thing my parents had zero tolerance for. When my mom found the cigarettes, she paddled my sister in front of the rest of us and left her standing in the corner with her red bottom showing until dad came home.

When he heard the news, he went upstairs and came back with the strap, called her out and gave her a dozen licks on her bare bottom while she was bent over grabbing a kitchen chair. She was howling and sobbing after he was done, hopping up and down and rubbing her crimson behind while flashing her dirty blond pubic triangle at me and our ogling brothers. That was another rare time where dad made someone stand in the corner afterward as a lesson to everyone. It was a very subdued dinner we ate, with my sis with her nose parked in the corner just a few feet away from the table. We shared a room and I saw marks from the strap for several days after when she changed.

A similar fate befell Patrick, the older of my two younger brothers. When he was in 8th grade, he, one of our cousins who was in his class and another kid were caught drinking behind the maintenance garage during recess at the Catholic school they attended. My cousin had taken these single shot rum bottles from his parents and the three of them were taking swigs from them when they were caught. This was a BFD and there was an after school conference with the moms and the principal (a nun). The upshot was that the three of them would have two Saturdays of detention, which meant a half day of tasks like cleaning classrooms and doing yardwork around the school. That was the least of my brother’s worries.

When they made the short trek home from school, mom sent him up to change and told him to bring back the paddle and be quick about it. While the rest of us sat at the kitchen table doing homework, she made him drop his pants and underwear and go over her knee for a paddling on his bare bottom. She made him stand bare butt in the kitchen in the corner for about a half hour, then sent him to his room with a: “I’m sure your father is going to want to deal with you, too.” All of us at the table gulped because we knew what that meant.

When dad came in, mom briefed him on the incident. You could see the color coming to his face, but to his credit, he waited about 15 minutes before he sent my little brother up to their room to tell Patrick to come down and bring the strap with him. It was just before dinner and all of us were at the table when my brother came down, strap in hand. My dad pulled a chair from the table and placed it in the middle of the kitchen, took the strap from my brother and told him to get his pants down and bend over.

“I am going to show everyone what happens to kids who drink and who embarrass this family.”

I had a profile view of my brother and could see my dad draw back the strap and bring it down with a loud crack in the center of my brother’s bottom. My brother let out a hiss and I saw him thrust forward. My dad was not as measured or methodical as mom, and the licks came in a rapid succession of CRACK..CRACK…CRACK. Patrick was not counting, but I was, and dad gave him 18 in all that left his bottom a criss-cross of angry red horizontal stripes. It was the most licks I remember any of us ever getting from him. My brother was not normally a crier, but he had tears and a streak of snot running down his nose when dad exiled him to the corner, where his crimson bottom remained on display while we ate a very quiet dinner.

EPILOGUE: My cousin Judi told me her brother, who had taken the rum, got both a dose of the strap and 12 licks with the stick, a vinyl mini-blind wand they considered to be the nuclear option at their house. Years later, Patrick told me he and our cousin had compared butts the next day at their Saturday detention and they agreed our cousin got the worst of the deal.

LC

When we were teens at school, there was a bit of a rise in talk of students’ rights in the media. Anyway, one of my friends, Carol, had been reported to our form teacher for wearing a skirt far too short. She had had at least one warning already, to my knowledge, and continual offending usually meant a meeting between our form teacher’s slipper and the offender’s bottom. Things were not improved for Carol by the knowledge that this lady could really sting your bottom.

Carol said to us, “It’s not fair! We should be allowed to wear our skirts how we like. Who are they to tell us what to do? I’m going to really tell Miss Phipps that we have our rights!”

We all admired Carol’s guts, but all said that such talk might make matters worse not better with Miss Phipps, who was strict but fair. I got on quite well with her in spite of the fact I’d collected more than one hot bum off her, courtesy of her slipper.

But Carol would not be dissuaded, and went off to see Miss Phipps in high dudgeon.

At the end of break, we were waiting to go into the class when along came Carol looking red-faced and teary-eyed, and walking somewhat stiffly. We all had to suppress a grin.

“What did Miss Phipps say about our rights?” someone asked.

“Owach!” said Carol as she stood rubbing her bum.

WW

When I was 15, I had a sleepover with some of my friends for my birthday. My folks put us in the basement in sleeping bags which was great fun. When we had gotten into our pajamas, one of my friends asked me if I’d had a good birthday. When I said I had and it was lovely she told me that a good birthday needed a good birthday spanking to complete it.

With the help of the other friends, she got me over her knee and spanked me 15 times very firmly on my cute little butt, plus the ‘one to grow on’. It stung like anything and made me yelp and squeal. But then all the others wanted to give me spankings too, so by the time they finished I had a red hot bottom.

They all laughed as I hopped around rubbing myself.

I told them to wait till it was their birthdays.

I think we all got birthday spankings that year, with the birthday girl sleeping on her tummy and squirming around in church next morning. It was all great fun – if it wasn’t your birthday.

Kr

When I was about 10, we had a winter of snow which lasted a long time into April and where we all got used to throwing snowballs at school. Most teachers didn’t mind kids being kids, but they did object to being the target as I found one day to my cost.

We were throwing snowballs before school when the whistle went as the teacher on duty came into the playground to line us up. Now my friend just caught me a good one with a snowball as the whistle went, so I decided to re-pay in kind. So I grabbed some snow and threw it with all my might.
Unfortunately I didn’t notice the teacher had strode into the way, and the snowball, to my horror, hit her straight in the neck. It was certainly the best shot I ever had with a snowball in my young life, but the target was unfortunate.

Sadly, the teacher did not appear to have much sense of humour at the incident and, ignoring my mumbled apologies, she told me to stand with my face to the wall, hands on head.

I did this as the teacher got everyone else lined up and, after an exhortation to stop throwing snowballs when the whistle went, got the pupils marching into school. I wondered what fate waited me. Would I be sent to the head for my crime? I was not long finding out as the teacher, obviously most annoyed, told me to take my coat off and report to her in the hallway.

I did so, and received a right telling-off and told to, “stop when the whistle goes!”

I nodded obediently but this did not save me from what followed as the teacher sat down, pulled me over her knee and proceeded to take out her annoyance by raising my skirt and spanking my up-turned bottom.  She smacked hard and I was so reduced to tears. It was also most embarrassing as some kids stood round to watch the show before they went to class. I knew what their chief topic of conversation would be for the rest of the morning.

I went to my class with very teary eyes and a burning bottom. I had to explain to my classroom teacher what had happened and got another telling-off and was made to stand in the corner. I didn’t mind that much as it was preferable to sitting on a hard seat with a freshly spanked bum.

When eventually I took my seat and sat down very gingerly, the seat appeared hard and unyielding to a sore bottom. I looked longingly at the snow outside. I could have done with it to cool my bum down.

WW

I guess I am one of the older readers of this site having been born in 1946, but I look forward to another reader disproving me. I am a sprightly pensioner who remains active and still enjoys mild spankings from my Edward. I also continue to be fascinated by space exploration, having lived through the exciting exploits of Sputnik, the Apollo missions, the first man on the moon, the international space station, Mars exploration and now the Chinese landing on the dark side of the moon. However, I thought I would comment on the realities of corporal punishment as I have lots of experience, some of which matches the fictional stories made by contributors to the sister fiction website.

I was born in India just nine months after my father came back from the war in Burma and elsewhere in SE Asia. He had a very good job as the British Raj came to an end, but had the good fortune to be asked to stay on for some years. We loved India and the lovely people but his job meant that he was away often and for prolonged periods. When I was a teenager, my mother would accompany him on his trips and they engaged a Governess (Miss D) to keep a watchful eye on me. I probably needed that as I was a tomboy and enjoyed going around the district with friends.

School was nearby and fun but very strict. The slipper was used, and the cane. I was slippered a number of times. Yes, I was caned. I had turned 18 by the time I was caned. The cane hurt and I was well marked each time but it dealt with the matter quickly.

The first occasion was for a play-fight that got out of hand and my friend and I were told in no uncertain terms that “young ladies never fight”. The following stinging six strokes of the cane across my bottom emphasised that message. I had quite a lot of explaining to do to Miss D, my governess, at bathtime that evening.

The second occasion, not long after, was the consequence of a tantrum in a game of hockey after another player kept riling me. This other girl and I were sent to the Principal straight from the playing field. After a brief wait outside her study, with hockey sticks in hand, we were ushered in. The Principal expressed her deep displeasure and stood. We were told to put our hockey sticks to one side. She drew a cane from her cupboard and informed us that she had no hesitation in deciding to cane both of us and it would be six of the best. It was a good length with the traditional curved handle.

The other girl was told to bend over and her skirt was raised. I watched and counted the strokes; six in all. The sound of the swishing cane and the sound when it met her rounded, knickered bottom were magical. To witness another girl’s caning was super. She deserved it for annoying me and I was not that bothered that I was to be caned as well. I was then told to assume the position. I bent over and waited. My skirt was folded up and the cane tapped my lower cheeks. Six strokes were given. They were applied very firmly indeed to my amply padded lower bottom area. Again the sound was amazing, but this time they hurt, but I was fascinated by corporal punishment.

We left the room in silence, holding a hockey stick in one hand and rubbing our sore bottoms with the other. We went back to the sports pavilion where the other players were changing. They were eager to know what had happened as it was a new sports mistress who had sent us the Principal and she had sent a clear warning to us all. We undressed and joined our friends in the showers and they quickly saw the results of our visit. Our stripes were inspected and, while drying a few minutes later, the new sports mistress even commented on them. My bottom had six raised weals and did they hurt!

My Governess was a fine lady, an English lady who became a real friend and shared our passion for India. She was also strict and had a free rein in dealing with me. Sometimes I would accompany my parents on shorter trips, so visited Delhi, Amritsar, the Khyber Pass and other marvellous places on the sub-continent. I even saw Everest from a distance.

Miss D, the Governess, encouraged my sketching and water-colour painting ability, and this was put to good use when travelling. When my parents were away she attended to meals, ensured I studied, made sure the laundry was done and dealt with discipline. She had a heavy hairbrush and used it to good effect on my bottom. She also used a leather-soled slipper. Lying across her lap on her thighs I found quite exciting even though the hairbrush or slipper stung and marked me.

Later she acquired a cane. This occurred after my second caning (the hockey incident) and she called me to her rooms at one side of our extensive bungalow. It was there on her table; the message was clear and being aged 18 made no difference. It was about three feet long with the traditional curved handle and supple, and remarkably heavy for quite a thin rod.

For various misdemeanours (remember, I was a tomboy who enjoyed the rough and tumble of the district) I might get a couple of strokes or perhaps three. There were times when six of the best was given. Canings hurt. I marked well with red stripes. My friends and I referred to the marks of the cane as ‘tiger stripes’. Thick knickers did not help. The first time she caned me was for insolence. She took me to her rooms and picked up the cane. I was told to bend over. Three well placed strokes were given across my pants. My guess that the cane would hurt was correct, and it marked well.

Corporal punishment was heralded by her saying things like, “I think we should deal with this matter right now”, “Judy, fetch the cane”, “face the corner while I fetch my cane”, “this needs resolving right now, young lady”. I usually had to bend over and touch my toes, and the strokes were given over knickers or pyjamas, but if it was bathtime a bare bottom caning was not unknown. Yes, even at 18, 19 and 20, Miss D was present during my baths. I always deserved the corporal punishment she dished out so have no complaints. Moreover, giving two or three strokes of the cane got the matter over with there and then. I can also say that I found the canings very thrilling on account of Miss D’s manner, the way she handled the cane (as though she had years’ of practice) and the act of bending over, plus, of course, examination in private afterwards. I never found out if she had used the cane in previous appointments, but would not be at all surprised if she had done so.

There was also an episode when she dealt with me and a close friend, which continued my CP interest into adult life. I had a dear friend called Alice and she lived nearby. Her father was away often too and I always sensed that her lovely mother was never quite sure how to discipline her. Alice was a tomboy like me, but perhaps a little more rebellious. I know her mother visited the Principal to discuss her behaviour as Alice told me she had to sit through a very awkward 45 minutes in her study. The outcome was that, as a first step, Alice was to be caned. From what she told me later, Alice was caned there in front of her mother; six strokes across her knickers, but it did nothing to curb her sense of adventure.

It wasn’t long before we left the college. We were both 19 and, pending a return to England at some stage, had teaching jobs without qualifications, helping students improve their English, but I also learned shorthand and typing.

Miss D still ruled the roost when my parents were away, and one day Alice had brought her dress to our house ready for a ball that evening. We had been out all afternoon and were late back. Miss D was very cross and had spoken several times to Alice’s mother, and clearly the conversation had a specific element to it. We rolled in with just enough time to bath and change before leaving for the ball.

Miss D sent us to her rooms at one side of the large bungalow we occupied. She entered and gave us a dressing down for being so late and missing our afternoon tea. She also told Alice that she had spoken to her mother to see if she knew where we were. Miss D then picked up the telephone and dialled Alice’s home. Her mother was relieved we had come back, but Miss D told her that she planned to cane me. Alice’s mother then said, and we could hear the conversation, that, as discussed, could she also cane Alice? Alice looked dismayed but cheered up when I grinned at her and told her just to take it. Later, we agreed that we really thought we would be forbidden to attend the ball.

Miss D replaced the handset and told us to go to my bedroom and undress for bath. We went to my bedroom. It was a large room and our dresses for the ball were hanging there. Our shoes were by the bed and Miss D had laid out fresh underwear for me. We could hear the bath being run along the corridor. We undressed to bra and knickers as Miss D entered holding her cane. Without any fuss she instructed me to bend over. I realised, of course, that Alice would witness my caning just as I had been present for that awful girl after the hockey incident, but I found it strangely exciting. I took my position finger tips on my bare toes. Six stinging strokes were laid across my bottom and they really hurt. I stood and rubbed my cheeks. Miss D was in no mood to ease off.

Alice was told to face the bed and bend over. She did this and her knickers were like a drum skin across her beautiful bottom. A similar six strokes were given, making her wince at each. She stood and hopped from one foot to the other several times as she rubbed her bottom. Miss D went to check the bath and Alice and I studied our well-marked bottoms. Miss D then escorted us naked to the bathroom. We had a large bath and Alice and I were told to get in. As we washed, Miss D provided hot water to wash our hair and then handed us large soft towels to dry ourselves.

The ball that evening was marvellous though sitting was difficult. Several times during the ball I caught Alice’s attention and she smiled knowingly at me. I danced several times with one young man and later in a quiet corner of the dark garden outside we kissed and his hand moved down my back and rested on my bottom. If only he knew!

There was a sequel to this event. As mentioned, Alice’s mother seemed to be concerned that she was not managing her daughter. Alice was not particularly naughty. Well, she was in the view of her mother and Miss D, but neither was she an ideal, model, young colonial lady.

One day I saw Miss D going to Alice’s bungalow and then, on my way home, I saw her leave and Alice’s mother seeing her off at the door. A few days later, I came home and walked past Miss D’s rooms. I could hear her talking to Alice’s mother, so paused to eavesdrop on their conversation. I could hear the creaking door of Miss Dunn’s cupboard open and then she said: “I bought this for you to use on Alice.” Alice’s mother thanked her and assured her she would use it. Miss D wisely cautioned her to use it sparingly, but effectively. They went to the far end of the room and had tea but as the tea cups rattled I slipped away. Some years later, I discovered how the commitment to cane Alice developed.

In due course the time came for me to leave India for England. My parents were also returning, but not immediately, so they made arrangements for me to live with an aunt close to where I had secured a secretary’s job. Leaving India was a sad day and leaving Miss D, who was going to a new post in Bombay, was difficult as I loved her dearly. I actually felt that I would miss the canings she gave me, but at this stage never thought I would continue the liking for CP in England.

Once the date for my departure was known, I wanted a final taste of that cane and I wanted it really badly. The last few weeks flew by and packing had to be done and farewells made. One evening, I had to be home by a set time and the ever wise Miss D warned me not to get caught in a monsoon downpour as she did not want extra laundry to prepare. She was most insistent on both counts. I had been with Alice and a couple friends and lost track of the time; that is my excuse.

My arrival was very late and on the way I was caught in a tremendous downpour and looked like a drowned rat. Miss D was not amused. She set a hot bath running and told me to go to my room and take off that sodden dress. She disappeared and returned a few minutes later with the cane. I was holding my heavy, soaked dress and stood there in bra and knickers, which also were soaked.

She took the dress. A chair was pulled to the centre of the room. Miss D announced I was in for a final taste of her discipline. I had to go over her lap, but rather than her hairbrush she used her hand to spank my bottom clad in wet clinging knickers. She gave me at least 20 slaps and they stung, as you would imagine. She told me to stand. The chair was moved and the cane flourished with a sizzling swish.

“Really, Judy, however will you manage in England? Face the bed and bend over,” said Miss D.

I faced the bed but continued to rub my stinging cheeks.

“Bend over!” came the female voice behind me. I really wanted a caning but had not bargained on having rosy red stinging cheeks as well. I bent over, looking forward to what was to be my last caning possibly for ever.

Some readers will have experienced a supple cane applied to a wet bottom. If not, I can tell you that the six strokes Miss D applied with expertise really, really stung! She placed them on my lower cheeks where there was more padding. I was able to hold my position, but did they sting!

Miss D then told me to finish undressing while she went and checked the bath. I peeled off my bra and knickers and, picking up a large towel, walked naked to the bathroom. As I prepared to get in the bath Miss D’s gentle touch was felt on my sore cheeks. In the mirror I could see six livid stripes.

While I washed in the hot bath, my Governess commented that I still had a naughty streak in me but she hoped that the spankings and canings she gave me would stand me in good stead in later life. I told her that I had deserved all of them and appreciated her efforts to deal with me. If only she knew just how much I appreciated them! After washing, I climbed out and she wrapped me in a large towel. She hugged me and whispered that she would miss me when I went to England; I said that I would miss her too.

My return to England and being reacquainted with corporal punishment can be kept for another time, but a day later I said goodbye to Alice. Her parents were going to Singapore and she would accompany them. I longed to ask her certain questions but it would be 5 years later before we met again. Very soon, I boarded a train to take me to Bombay where I joined a ship for England. No cheap flights then. The voyage was wonderful and took me via the Red Sea and Suez, across the Med and Bay of Biscay to England. A train journey took me to the aunt’s local station and then her Morris Minor delivered me to the house. It was a lovely rambling house and she was such a sweet lady. My trunk was manhandled up to my room.

The next day I unpacked it. At the bottom, placed carefully between some dresses, was Miss D’s cane! I held it closely and kissed it. But did she expect my aunt to use it? Had she written to my aunt telling her to deal with me in appropriate manner? I never saw Miss D again and, though we corresponded for several years and I once mentioned the canings she had given me, but I did not ask about the cane in the trunk. In reply, Miss D merely said that, “the necessary experience of corporal punishment would stand me in good stead.”

Several years later, I had the good fortune to accompany my boss at the time to a conference in the south of France. Alice was leaving Singapore and moving to England and we wrote often. At this time she was travelling overland across Italy and France and she was to be nearby before travelling to Paris. We met one afternoon and went to the beach. It was a nudist beach and we had no hesitation in undressing and sun-bathing and swimming stark naked.

I admired Alice’s body and studied her bottom when the opportunity presented itself. Later, we went to her hotel room and she suggested we shared a shower so we could wash off any sand and salt. As we stood there naked she commented jovially that my bottom was in better shape than when she last saw it; that is, no cane stripes. She even commented that I had no ‘tiger stripes’! I laughed loudly. If she had known my CP activities since arriving in England, she would have been amazed. In the large shower cubicle I plucked up courage to ask her if she had in fact been caned at home. I did not let on that I knew Miss D had provided her mother with a cane. Alice frowned briefly, put her arms round my waist and held me close under the cascade. She said that she had discovered a cane at home but it had never been used on her. So it seems that her mother never followed Miss D’s wise advice.

A few days later, my boss and I returned to England. It was another 2 years before Alice and I met again in England and we could reminisce again. Happy days.

JG

I remember a somewhat painful experience I had with mum’s hand and slipper when I was a somewhat obnoxious teenager. The weather was hot so I had shorts on and I had been out with friends. Unfortunately, I lost track of the time and came home late, much to mum’s displeasure. I didn’t help matters by showing typical teen ‘attitude’ and mouthing-off to mum when she started to tell me off.

I had been pushing the envelope quite a bit and really pushed it too far that time. She grabbed me by the ear and led me into the living room to a high chair she used for spanking daughters who had displeased her. Amid my cries and pleas, the momentum propelled me over her knee. I can remember dad looking over his paper as his errant daughter’s bottom appeared high over his wife’s knee. My shorts and underwear soon disappeared and mum started with a good hand spanking, which soon switched to the slipper unfortunately she was wearing. All this was, of course, to my howls and yells and pleas which were unavailing.

When mum finished she was quite out of breath, but I managed to do a marvellous dance round the room holding my sizzling behind before being sent to the corner. Dad glanced at my bright red bum and commented to mum who was getting her breath back, “I think she really needed that. And so did you!”

WW

It is one of the ironies of my high school life that I got one of my most painful paddlings from my favourite teacher. The factors that contributed to how much it hurt were just how thin my gym shorts were and the fact that she was a really fit young lady with a strong arm. She was pretty new to the job and I think I was one of the first girls she ever paddled, so maybe it was her inexperience combined with my thin shorts that made it so painful.

But it was my own fault as I went to school in a dress that was far too short to show it off and was reported to the AP. When he interviewed me he said I’d already had one warning from him and so this time it would mean the paddle. I did point out that the dress I had on was longer than the cheerleaders’ uniform we were allowed to wear on match days, but that didn’t seem to cut any ice with him.

So, I was booked for a sore bottom. Even worse, because this was my second paddling I would get four swats. I thought I’d have to bend over then and there, but the AP said he had a meeting on so I would have to wait till later.

I wasn’t very pleased with this as we had a fitness session after school with coach B. She was young and good looking and we girls really liked her. She ran this fitness session for the girls’ teams after school, so we team girls all willingly went along as she was really fun. I certainly didn’t want to have to take part with a sore bottom, so I waited anxiously for the call from the AP for my paddling.

The call never came, so I assumed that I’d have to wait till the next day to get the spanking. I made a mental note to put on a pair of thick jeans and two or three pairs of panties! I took part in Coach B’s training session with great enthusiasm. However, when it was finished and everyone was heading for the changing rooms, she called me over and, with a somewhat embarrassed look on her face, told me that the AP had asked her to look after the girls’ paddlings that day as he had meetings on.

She said she had dealt with another girl before she left but hadn’t wanted to spank me before the workout; she probably thought I wouldn’t work out too well with a sore bottom, but she had to do it before we left school.

I thought it was a bit sad. I really liked her and I think she liked me too as a student. And now, although I hadn’t done anything wrong in her class, she had to spank me. Anyway, we went into the office where she rang through to one of the secretaries to come to act as a witness. I noticed with trepidation the paddle lying on the desk ready. While she was waiting for the secretary to arrive, Coach B told me she was sorry I was in trouble and she had to do this, but that this was part of school life and discipline. She asked me if I’d been spanked in school before and I said I had a few times, which was a slight understatement as my butt and the paddle were on pretty familiar terms.

With that, the secretary arrived and Coach B told me to bend over the desk. I did and felt my bottom to be very vulnerable because of my thin shorts. Of course, I could have asked to change, but my skirt was very short and might not have covered the subject anyway.

“OK, Kerry, I’ve been asked by the AP to give you four swats of the paddle, so let’s get it over with,” said coach B in a kind but firm voice.

I felt the paddle rub on my butt, then WHAP!

Boy! It hurt so much! I don’t think she’d made too much allowance for how thin my shorts were. I yelled and jumped up clutching my butt, tears in my eyes, as I felt the heat spreading through my cheeks.

Coach B told me to bend over again and repeated the process, and WHAP! It hurt quite a bit more than the AP’s spankings and the tears flowed freely. The process was then repeated for the third swat, WHAP! and I instinctively jumped up again clutching my butt in floods of tears.

“One more, Kerry,” said Coach B, and I tearfully bent over again and felt the paddle rub against my thin shorts before, WHAP! the fourth swat landed. It hurt so much I hollered and actually did a dance clutching my butt, which appeared to be on fire! It was embarrassing in front of the secretary and my favourite coach, but I couldn’t help it.

Coach B then said she hoped she wouldn’t have to do that again and I could go. So I made my way tearfully into the changing room where every eye appeared upon me. I quickly dressed and went into the shower and cried my eyes out at the end of it. Mega-embarrassing as no doubt everyone could see my red butt, but so what? It hurt!

I changed as quickly as I could and tried to look as normal as possible, which is very difficult when your face and your butt is very red. Thankfully, a friend of mine had her mom picking her up and gave me a lift home. I had a job sitting in the car and when I got home I had an inquisition from mom as to why I had got paddled. I think she thought I’d been rather hard done by, but she said if I must break school rules I must expect to get spanked. Anyway, that night I slept on my tummy and when I woke up I was still sore and it hurt when I sat down.

Next day, I was still far sorer than usual than when I’d been paddled, and had a couple of small bruises on my butt. I didn’t want to meet Coach B but as it happened she was the first person I bumped into in the hall. I flushed with embarrassment but she smiled and asked if I was OK. I said I was still a bit sore, resisting the temptation to rub my butt. She looked a bit embarrassed again and said he was sorry she had to spank me but she hoped I realised she was just doing her job and it had to be done. I smiled faintly and nodded, though wishing to myself she hadn’t done her job quite so thoroughly!
One thing I’m glad about is that the spanking didn’t sour our relationship. In fact, I was still in touch with her after I left school during my first year at college and we actually became quite friendly, despite the fact she could give a heck of a butt spanking and that first time was by no means the last.

Kr

I only have given three spankings in my life which was back in the late 1970s. I have not seen that girl since then until this weekend. My wife and her are now friends who met because they have a common hobby which take either day trips or weekend trips.

Starting at the beginning, I was 16 and in high school. I liked to play table tennis (ping pong) with friends. One friend was more into tennis but had a friend who was obsessed with table tennis. He was only 15 and was too young to drive, but wanted to go to this club which was an hour away and met on Tuesday nights and on Saturday mornings. He offered to pay for the gas so I decided to try it out. I had fun playing but most players there were better than me. I did meet this one girl, Sandy, who was 14 and was cute. We ended up going on long walks, holding hands and kissing. After a few weeks, we were in my car and I made a move putting my hand up her shirt and she just froze. I felt bad and stopped and we went in to play table tennis. The following week I decided not to go up anymore, not because she didn’t let me feel her up but because I felt bad that I scared her.

Weeks passed and I got a card in the mail. She wrote on it in tiny letters, ‘I miss you,’ and signed it.

After another week I decide to go back up and she was there. She understood that I was 16 and wanted more, but she was not ready for anything more than just kissing. So we decided just to be friends who kissed, held hands and talked. After week or so she told me something she had never told anyone. She said she wanted to be spanked as a therapy thing. I just listened and, even though I did not understand, I agreed to spank her. She wanted to be spanked with my hand only on her bare butt over my knee.

My car was a 1970 Chevy Caprice so there was plenty of room in the back seat. She told me not to stop until her butt was dark red, and not to stop just because she was crying. I was a 16-year-old who had a 14-year-old girl across my knee with her jeans and undies down to her knees. It did not take long for her butt to turn pink, then red, then a little purple. I told her I was finished. She pulled up her underwear and jeans, gave me a kiss and said, “thank you,” and I held her in my arms until she stopped crying. The next time I went up, she thanked me for being a good friend. We played table tennis, went for a walk and held hands and kissed some more.

A few weeks later, she told me she craved another spanking but this time wanted it to be embarrassing. We thought it out a little and came up with the idea that on a Saturday morning we would go to a park a few towns over where no one would know either of us and we would pretend she was my sister who dropped a pack of cigarettes with other children around, but no adults, and I would tell her that that was going to get her ass whipped by dad when we got home. She would promise never to smoke again then beg me to spank her instead. I would agree but would tell her it would be just like at home, her being nude. She asked here? I said no in the woods and if any of these kids followed us they will get to watch.

Back then, they did have a lot more words than nowadays. We were just going to look for a place and work it out and come up with more details later but since the conditions were right she whispered to me now is the perfect time, let’s do it.

There were six kids, four boys two girls, and all followed us into the woods. It was warming up so I took my jacket off and just dropped it on the ground because I was going to see Sandy naked for the first time. This was the girl who would not let me even feel her up but was going to get undressed and let me spank her. She started to undress and I was staring at her but then decided to look at the other kids looking at her when I noticed one of the girls was probably around 12 taking my wallet out my jacket.

I told Sandy to stop and went over to the girl and grabbed my wallet out of her hand. She said she was sorry. Her brother was there yelling at her and thought she should have learned her lesson from getting caught shoplifting last month. I said Sandy’s spanking is off and I’m going to report this to the police. It was just a bluff. Her brother really wanted to see Sandy spanked. We did not use our real names. A compromise of me spanking his little sister a few feet away in private with her pants and panties down then Sandy would get spanked. I gave her a quick spanking. She barely cried but I felt she did learn her lesson.

Now it was time for Sandy to get undressed. This blew my mind. I could never undress in front of strangers and be seen completely nude without dying of embarrassment. There she was standing waiting to go over my knee. It was not as long as the first spanking I gave her but her butt did turn red. When I was done I told her to stand up to and put hands on her head for one minute before getting dressed. After about 45 seconds of everyone really starring, just guessing on time, I told her to get dressed then we had to get to our car without them seeing us because I did not want them to know what kind of car I drove.

On the way back to the table tennis place, I thought she was going to be upset and hate me, but she thanked me and said that was what she needed for a while but it wouldn’t be the last one. It was. A short time later I started dating a girl on my street. I never went back to see her or play table tennis there again.

Fast forward 40+ years and she and my wife met when she found out my wife’s last name and mine. She put two and two together and when I picked my wife up all three of us went out for food and drinks. She told my wife how I helped her be what she is today and how I did the spankings as therapy and not as a sex thing. I kept my mouth shut and did not say what a turn-on it was for me. Sandy was retired and a widow, and was raising her three grandchildren because her daughter divorced and puts getting high before raising her kids. She went on by saying that none of her three children were spanked for punishment and thought the idea of spanking for therapy to them was strange. She went on to say that the gene must have skipped a generation because her 12-year-old granddaughter understands it and gets it and will be just like her. I really do not think there is a gene.

She even asked if I would be available to give another therapy spanking next month. Somehow, my wife agreed to this but would have to be there. I know my wife isn’t into spankings. Sandy also mentioned that her granddaughter would be there too. My first thought was, wouldn’t that be embarrassing? Then I realized that she likes the embarrassment part. Then I thought that the spanking with her granddaughter there would be embarrassing for me. Then I thought, say nothing and be grateful that my wife is going along with this.

Da

Now on Sale

Eight new stories from Kenny Walters, all unique to this ebook.

Contents

A Traveller Abroad

A woman travelling in the Far East is caught with a quantity of cocaine in her luggage. She knows she didn’t put it there, but is unable to prove who did. Consequently, she has to choose between prison or a caning.

The Gym Mistress

A sixth form girl enjoys a friendly relationship with her gym mistress, until she finds the mistress has been assigned the task of slippering her.

Hello Uncle Mike

After continual problems at home, a girl arranges a visit to her Uncle Mike. He has brought up children of his own and she reckons he will know how to deal with the brat she has become.

The Predicament

After a serious incident at school, a sixth form girl runs home to her mother. Eventually, they both realise there is no alternative to going back to school and facing the music.

The Eight Chairs

A story set in an American school. A twelfth grade girl has difficulty finding a parking space, which results in a row with a staff member. She finds her punishment has to be carried out over two days.

An Arrangement

A shy sixth form girl seeks the help of her favourite teacher as a means of avoiding more serious consequences. She gets her wish, but not quite as she envisaged.

A Homely Spanking

Two American girls have disobeyed their respective parents and stayed out well beyond their curfew. One girl is happy to see her friend disciplined, but there is a shock in store for her.

She Didn’t Do It

A sixth form girl is found in the act of stealing, although she claims all is not as it seems. She, and a friend who supports her, are then tormented by other girls until justice, as they see it, is carried out.

To view this and other Kenny Walters ebooks,

please click here

When it comes to spankings in a day, my little sister sure holds the family record. She was going through a bit of a bad phase in behavior as you do as a mid-teen and had collected a paddling at school for sassing a teacher. She had to report to the AP who was not amused by her remarks and made her bend over for three swats on her cute butt, which made sitting super sore all day.

Unfortunately for her, mom somehow found out. I don’t think sis would’ve been spanked again, but she showed lots of attitude when she was being lectured, which displeased mom. So mom put her over her knee and gave her another good butt warming, which made her squirm in her seat over our evening meal.

Later in the evening, mom told her to go to bed early, as she was obviously tired, but there was another display of attitude, lots of mouthing-off and the banging of the door.

Then I heard dad run up the stairs and my sister say, “No! No! No! I didn’t mean it!”

This was followed by the yells and squeals of another good spanking going on.

When I went to kiss her good night, sis was lying face down trying to cool her butt.

“Ow!” she moaned, “You could fry an egg on my butt!”

I did manage to get out the room before I burst out laughing.

Kr

Around 20 years ago my then girlfriend and I, both aged 15, had to be rescued by lifeboat in the North Sea after swimming to a sandbank we had been told not to go to.

After the rescue, and still cold from exposure, we were severely lectured by my girlfriend’s mother back at her house and then she phoned my mum.

It was agreed we would both be spanked.

I bent first, swim shorts were pulled down and I received a bakers dozen with a leather slipper. Girl friend’s mum was wearing a short beach dress and I could see her knickers, but that vision became blurred as my poor bottom reddened and stung like blazes.

My girlfriend bent next. However, her bikini bottoms weren’t pulled down, though her bum cheeks were seen to redden nicely.

Meanwhile the stinging in my bottom went on and on.

My girlfriend took her spanking well and, unknown to my girlfriend’s mum, we showed each other our red/purple bottoms afterwards and rubbed cream into each other, but it was all respectful and innocent and went no further.

Would you believe, the next day when I got home, my mother insisted in punishing me again. My poor bottom was bared  and I got  a strapping in front of my two younger sisters.

AB

The second spanking I got from my favourite teacher, Coach B, was when we had been out cheering and were coming home on the bus, which was a fairly small bus which we cheerleaders all crowded into. We were all pretty excited and in a rather silly mood. One girl had an orange, which another girl pinched, and we decided to throw it around, which was okay until someone threw it a bit far and it hit the driver. He was very annoyed, stopped the bus and told us to get off.

We were all very chastened and thought that might be the end of it, but the supervisor who was with us told coach B when we got back. She took us into the gym and tore a strip off us at our dangerous behavior. To our dismay she then produced her paddle and told us all to grab our ankles and not to get up until she told us. She then went round the upturned bottoms and planted two good swats on each. It must’ve been quite funny to see and hear as each bottom received its swats to the yells of each girl. However, being on the receiving end we did not find it amusing.

When it was done, Coach B told us to stand up which we did rubbing our bottoms vigorously with tears in our eyes. Sitting down was not a priority for us for the rest of the day but we sure learned a lesson! Don’t throw oranges on buses! I’m reminded today every time I eat one of the pain in my bottom that day.

Kr

The fourth caning I got at school was during my fifth year of secondary school. I know I had received a detention for some reason or the other; to be honest I’ve forgotten what I got it for, but the consequences were dire. The problem was that one of the girls had a birthday and being one of her friends I was invited with some of the girls to the local café after school for tea and cakes. Now  that might not sound much these days when eating out is quite common, but in those days it was quite a spectacular treat which I did not want to miss. So, in the display of teenage foolishness, or foolhardiness, I decided to give the detention a miss in the hope that my absence would not be noticed.

So, it was off to the café after school instead of the detention room. We had a really lovely time with scrumptious cakes and I managed to explain to mum that I had gone after the detention, an explanation which she looked doubtful about, but none-the-less said nothing, much to my relief. My mother was one who tended to allow the school discipline to remain at school rather than sticking her nose in. That is unless too many detention slips were served up for her to sign, and then the slipper might act as an extra reminder to behave!

However, on this occasion nothing was said and I did my homework and went to bed. I was somewhat nervous at going to school in the morning but to my relief nothing was said in assembly and I assumed I’d got away with it.

Unfortunately, that proved not to be the case as during the first period I was summoned to the headmistress’s office and asked to explain why I was not at the detention class. I mumbled an excuse that I had forgotten, but the headmistress said she noticed I had not forgotten to go to my friend’s party. With that, I realised I was done for and confessed all rather tearfully, not to say fearfully.

The head then said the penalty for deliberately skipping detention was six of the best from the cane, something which I knew anyway. She went to the cupboard and produced the traditional cane she kept there. I had had it before, but it still terrified the life out of me.

The head then tapped the small desk at the side of the office and told me to bend over it. She lifted my skirt, tapped my bottom with the cane and then whacked it. I had the usual sensation of feeling momentarily nothing and then a sharp burning pain which was agonising. I caught my breath as the second whack came, which was excruciating, and at the third stroke I started bawling my eyes out. The headmistress was a very just and fair lady, but she certainly wasn’t afraid to hurt girls when they had misbehaved, and after the fourth stroke I stamped my feet. The fifth and sixth whacks of that cane still live with me.

When she finally told me I could get up, I was bawling like a little girl and jumping up and down holding my bottom. The headmistress then gave me a tissue to blow my nose and told me I could go to the medical room, which was next door to her office, to recover for 15 minutes, after which the secretary would tell me to go back to my class. The time passed all too quickly and I had to go back and face the class, all of whom fixed their eyes on me as I went back to my seat and very gingerly sat down on the hard unyielding wooden chair.

Of course, mum was not pleased I had skipped detention and deceived her, but she did think I had received enough punishment and, apart from an early night for a naughty girl, she didn’t punish me any further. Years later, she did tell me she had been caned for a similar offence when she was at school, so I think it was a bit of déjà vu for her!

So there were those delicious cakes at the party, but an awful price to pay for them!  You would have thought that by now I would’ve learned my lesson but, teenage hormones being what they are, it was not my last trip to the headmistress’s office for the cane.

WW

When I was about eight, I had a Sunday School teacher called Sharon who was a senior at the high school. She was very pretty, but very firm, and I loved her dearly. One Sunday, I arrived for class nursing a sore bottom as I had been the object of my mother’s wrath that morning. I had been playing up with one of my sisters and mom had settled things with a good spanking over her knee for us both.

I was still feeling the effects and shuffling on my poor little butt during class, so Sharon asked me what was up. I must have looked a bit shame-faced but admitted to her I’d been spanked.

She smiled and gave me a hug.

“Never mind,” she said. “It happens to us all sometimes.”

“What? Even to you?” I gasped.

“Oh yes,” she said. “My mom sometimes gives me a spanking over her knee to keep me nice.”

“Oh,” I said. “Same as me?”

“I guess,” she said, givng her shapely butt a rub. “Over the knee on the bare bottom. I don’t think Mom knows any other way!” she giggled.

“Wow!” I said. “Even at your age?”

“Yes,” she said. “Mom believes you’re never too old for a spanking!”

That is something which, over the years, I have learned to my cost.  I did appreciate her sharing with me, though, so honestly.

Kr