This is the memory of the worst spanking I ever got.

When I was 11, my friend was spending the night and my parents had taken us to Wal-Mart and out to eat. Of course, in Wal-Mart my friend and I were showing off to each other and throwing balls across aisles and stuff at first.

I was swatted across the butt by my dad, and we both got yelled at. Fast forward a little bit and I, being a dumb 11 year old, thought it would be hilarious to open a bottle of shampoo and let it run down the shelf and onto the floor. I, to this day, don’t understand why I did that. My little sister saw me do this and told our parents.

I got chewed out in the store and once we got home I was taken to my parents’ room. I figured I was going to be spanked with a belt. I was embarrassed enough knowing my friend was downstairs, but to get a major spanking made it worse. Except my dad didn’t take his belt off. Instead I was told my friend would be going home early tomorrow and, when he did, I was to go out and get a switch. We were both then sent to bed for the night.

The next morning after breakfast, my friend went home and like clockwork my dad was there with the shears to get my switch. I went out to the bushes located by the garage and started looking for something straight and long enough. I found something that would work and cut it off. I pulled off the little leaves and used the blade of the shears to take off the little bumps. When I knew he would be satisfied with it I brought it to him.

He always ran his hand down the switch to make sure it was smooth so while he made sure the switch was safe and the way he wanted, I knew to pull my shorts and underwear down and lean over the table, placing my hands flat on the table.

He gave me a horrible spanking with that switch and I got to the point I could not force myself to stay leaning over and he held me by the arm as he struggled to continue my spanking. The switch stung so bad. When he finished, my butt hurt so much I ended up with a bunch of welts and it was one of a few spankings where it did hurt to sit down for a bit.

AF

I went to an all boys direct grant grammar school in the 1960s. The school had a junior department, so I started there at the age of eight. This was the era of corporal punishment in schools and at my school all teachers were allowed to use the slipper and the headmaster could cane.

My parents had occasionally given my brother and me a smack, but I had never experienced any formal kind of corporal punishment. This was to change a few weeks into my first term. My science teacher that year was Mr K and we were waiting for him in our classroom. When he arrived, he demanded to know who was making all the noise. Nobody owned up so he asked again, and once again nobody replied. So he said that if nobody owned up he would slipper the whole class. Still silence. He then took a large plimsoll out of his brief case and called us up five at a time. For most of us, this was to be our first taste of the slipper. As I watched the first group get the slipper I was both curious and fearful. A few boys cried when they got whacked and soon it was my turn. I was told to bend over and felt a hard pain to my bum. It hurt, but I didn’t cry and I went back to my desk rubbing my bum.

That year I was to be slippered three more times, each time one whack. Two were from the PE teacher, Mr Sutton, who slippered the entire class. We formed a long row and he went along it giving each of us one hard whack.

My final taste of the slipper that year was when I didn’t hand in my homework to Mrs Harris and she sent me to my house tutor, Mr Lawrence, and told me he would slipper me. I tried to explain that it was my birthday and I had been taken out by my parents. She wasn’t prepared to listen. Fortunately, he was more sympathetic and gave me a very light tap.

In my second year I was slippered once more, and again it was from Mr Lawrence. He caught four of us misbehaving in the classroom when we should have been in the playground. He told us to go and wait for him in the gym whilst he fetched his slipper. He quickly arrived and told the four of us to bend over. Then he went along the line giving us two hard whacks. This really hurt and for the first time I had tears in my eyes.

My final slippering was also the worst. This occurred in my final term. Our maths teacher that year was the deputy head, Mr Swift. I hadn’t being paying attention and I had already been warned. When he asked me a second question and I still didn’t know the answer he got cross and told me that he had something in his study that would help me concentrate and that I should come with him at the end of the lesson.

Mr Swift had a reputation for being the hardest whacker in the school and for the last ten minutes of the lesson all I could think about was what was going to happen.

All too soon, the lesson came to an end and I had to accompany him up a narrow flight of stairs to his study. In the past I had seen boys on that staircase sobbing and I knew that very soon that would be my fate.

When we got there, he told me that I had a very poor attitude and that he thought three with his slipper would help improve my attitude. He then took out an old slipper from his desk and told me to bend over his desk. I was on the verge of tears and knew that my short grey trousers and pants would provide little protection. As I bent over I felt my shorts tighten over my bum. The first whack was the hardest I had ever had, and I began to cry. The second was even worse and tears were pouring down my face. I screamed out loud at the third one and was still sobbing when I was told to leave his study.

I stood on the stairs for a few moments rubbing my bum, still crying. After a few minutes I composed myself and walked slowly back to class. It hurt for the rest of the day. When I got back to class, all knew what had happened, but they were generally sympathetic. After all it had happened to most of them!

JSm

In my previous posting I wrote about the number of times that I was slippered in my junior school. In this post, I recount my experiences in the senior department of the all boys direct grant grammar school that I attended in the 1960s.

One of the differences was that all teachers could cane as well as slipper. We had thought this would lead to more corporal punishment, but in fact it didn’t. Most teachers didn’t use the slipper and the cane was reserved for serious offences.

One of the exceptions was Mr Brady, who had the nickname of Basher. In my first two years he slippered me three times. It was always the same; two whacks for minor misdemeanours and always in front of the class. It hurt a bit, but by the end of the lesson the sting had gone.

They were the only slipperings I received. I also managed to avoid the prefects’ court. If a prefect caught you misbehaving you could be summoned to the court where the prefects would decide how many whacks with the slipper you would get. One of the prefects would then carry out the slippering as the others watched. This rather archaic practice had been abolished by the time that I became a prefect.

I began to think that i might avoid the cane, but towards the end of my fifth year, when I was fourteen, my luck ran out.

We were doing mock ‘O’ Levels at the time and at the end of the exam a number of us helped ourselves to any spare paper that was left. I usually took it home, but on that fateful day I forgot.

The following morning, the teacher that was taking registration told us they had become concerned at the amount of paper that was going missing, that a substantial amount had been found in my desk, and that I was to report to my housemaster, Mr Mason, in the small staff room at the beginning of lunch time.

The small staff room was no more than an office adjacent to the main staff room, but it was also the room that was used for canings, so everyone knew what was going to happen.

Like Mr Swift in the junior school, a number of the teachers had a reputation for being hard caners, but none of my friends had ever had the cane from Mr Mason. He was quite a big man, probably in his late 40s, so I assumed he would cane hard.

Fortunately, that morning we didn’t have a mock exam, so I spent most of the morning thinking of what was to come. My emotions were very mixed. I had long thought about what it was like to be caned, but as all canings at the school were in private I had never witnessed one. In fact, I had never even seen a real cane. I also knew that it was going to hurt a lot more than the slipper.

Lunchtime came and I made my way to the small staff room and knocked on the door. Mr Mason was already there and he told me to come in. One of the first things I saw was three canes hanging on the wall. They were all about the same length, with a crook handle. The thickness of the canes appeared to be different.

In no uncertain terms, Mr Mason told me that this was stealing, that I had let the house down and that the punishment for theft was four strokes of the cane. I was feeling very scared at this point as four was more than I had ever had with the slipper.

He selected the middle cane from the wall, told me to take my blazer off and to bend over the back of the chair that had been placed in the middle of the room. As I bent over, I heard him stand behind me and then heard the swish of the cane as it landed on my bum. I gasped with the pain; I had never known anything like it.

The second stroke seemed even harder, and tears were welling up. The third was a bit lower and I was crying freely now. The final stroke seemed to cross the others and I screamed out. The caning was now over, but I was still crying and still bent over the chair. After a few moments, Mr Mason told me to get up, put my blazer on and to get out.

I limped out of the room still crying. Fortunately, the entrance to the small staff room was in a fairly secluded part of the school and nobody saw me in this state. I went straight to the nearby toilets and went into one of the cubicles. I pulled down my trousers and pants to look at the damage. I could see four distinct weals across my bum.

I was in a lot of pain for the rest of the day. The stripes lasted for about a week. I was fascinated by them and kept looking at them and touching them.

Whilst I can’t say that I enjoyed getting the slipper and the cane, it has left me with an interest in school punishments that is just as strong today.

JSm

I was at a primary school in a leafy London suburb during the 1950s and 1960s, and a lot of my reading at home had included various incidents of school punishments ranging from Little Noddy getting the slipper to Billy Bunter being caned by Mr Quelch.

I was, quite honestly, fearful of being beaten before I even set foot in the door of the school at age 7. Prior to that I had gone to a private infants school run by two very gentle spinsters who never administered more than a token smack on the back of the hand.

All went well for the first year or so, then things changed.

Our regular teacher, Miss O, who became Mrs B, was away and the fearsome Mr S took our class. He had to leave the classroom for a brief period but warned us to remain silent until he returned. I shared a desk with Geoffery who had some wine gums in his side of the desk. When he looked in the desk he found there was a black one missing. He accused me of taking it. I protested my innocence and, during the time we were arguing, Mr S walked past the room on his way to returning to the class.

He tapped on the glass window separating the room from the corridor. We looked up and he was ominously pointing at me and Geoffery. We were beckoned outside the room.

“Wait here,” he ordered.

He returned with a large, old and floppy gym slipper.

The glass partition went down to the floor, so our classmates could see all that occurred.

“Touch your toes,” he said to Geoffrey. “You can share 6 of the best.”

The boy bent over and Mr S delivered 3 fierce blows to his bottom.

After Geoffrey stood up, I saw tears in his eyes and I immediately felt scared.

It was just before the summer holiday and the weather was very good, so I was wearing very thin cotton shorts which I guessed would offer little protection.

I bent as instructed and, while waiting for the first whack, I glance to my right only to see Susan G staring at me in what I took to be fascinated delight.

Then the first whack landed. My immediate reaction was surprise; it hardly hurt. Then the stinging, burning sensation began. I looked at Susan briefly and tried to smile.

Within seconds the smile turned into a grimace of pain. That one really hurt, and it took a great effort not to emit an ‘ouch’. The third was even harder and my bottom was burning and boiling with an intense fury. I did not, however, cry out or cry.

When I got home and had my evening bath, I saw in the mirror a dark red patch which, within a day, had become a blue and yellow bruise which was still painful to touch. It took about 8 days to disappear but I know I had earned the respect of many of my school mates.

Well worth a wine gum, I’d say!

HL

By the time I was 8, I was no stranger to being up in my room, over dad’s knee with my trousers and pants around my ankles. Whilst I am sure they were deserved, I never felt like that at the time.

This changed, though, when I started to feel genuinely bad about some, but not all, of the things I did. On this occasion, I was running through the house to go out when my coat sleeve hooked a vase off the shelf in the hall. Mum came through at the sound of breaking china and was visibly upset when she saw what had happened. It had belonged to her mother and wasn’t worth anything as such, but had sentimental value.

She didn’t shout at me, she didn’t even tell me off. She just checked I was ok and started clearing the mess up. I was confused by any lack of reprisal and went to my room, because that’s just what I thought I should do. A while later, Dad came up to see me. Again, no telling off but a gentle chat about not running in the house and I now knew why, also reminding me how upset mum was.

I was sent down to apologise. She wasn’t especially forgiving but didn’t have a go at me either. She just suggested I stay in my room for a bit. I duly went back up. I knew Dad was still there and I thought I knew what was coming. Again though, just a few more gentle words and he got up to leave. I must have had a very puzzled look on my face as he asked what I was thinking. I asked if I was in trouble and he said I wasn’t popular but I wasn’t in trouble. After all, it had been an accident. I had quite expected my trousers to be coming down. Whilst this was a relief, it sort of didn’t feel right either.

Roll on to the following Friday evening.

I hadn’t had a good week. I’d been pushing my luck almost each day. Finally, at tea that evening, I said something, probably cheeky, and Dad got angry and lectured me about my behaviour that week.

It concluded with the question: “Do you want to go over my knee?” There was a long pause, followed by: “Well?”

Normally, this would result in a hasty ‘no’ and an apology, but that time I heard myself saying ‘Yes’.

The look on my parents’ faces was of total amazement and they just stared at me. The biggest coward about being spanked surely didn’t just say that. They kept looking at me, and I felt I needed to explain. I was also petrified at the same time.

I said I felt really bad about the vase and should have been punished. I’d behaved a bit badly all week to get punished, but that hadn’t worked.

Eventually Dad found his voice and told me to go to my room. I asked if he could do it where we were so .mum could see, as I’d upset her so much. I was then taken over to the sofa and he sat down. I was asked again if this is what I really wanted to happen. I started to feel tears building up but still said ‘yes’.

I stared upwards as my trousers were undone and pulled down. I was duly pulled across his knee and the back of my shirt moved out the way. I felt 4 hard smacks across my pants before the customary pause while they were also pulled down. I was already in tears by this point as 4 more smacks landed on my bare bottom. When I got up, Mum hugged me and said all was forgiven. That’s all I’d wanted from that time the previous weekend. My bottom hurt a lot, but despite that I felt I’d done the right thing. I’d finally realised that sometimes spankings were necessary and I was much more compliant from then on.

GF

The following doesn’t relate to any specific incident, but just explains how boys and girls naughty enough to be reported to the headmistress at my primary school were punished back in the 1970s.

When I was at primary school, spankings, for the most part, were given by the headmistress. The occasional smack on the bottom would sometimes be given in class, but this wasn’t that common. Anyone reported to the headmistress, or unlucky enough to be caught in the corridor if sent out from class, was duly summoned to be dealt with in the lunch break. This was bad enough if you got into trouble in the morning, but if you were in trouble in the afternoon the situation was compounded by an anxious wait until the following day for your punishment.

Anyone waiting for punishment had to line up in the corridor outside a particular classroom until she came along and called everyone in. Sometimes you’d be the only one (I hated that) but usually there would be 3 or 4. The most I remember lining up were 8 of us. I can’t remember why there were so many but can only assume a group got into trouble.

While boys were the worst offenders, girls certainly weren’t exempt. When in the classroom, you lined up against the wall and listened to a general telling- off. You were then called out one at a time to explain your specific behaviour. You would then go over her knee for spanking, or have to bend over a desk for the slipper.

Punishment was given on underwear and you watched each other get their punishment. This certainly built the tension until it was your turn.

I managed to avoid this until my 3rd year, so I think I would have been about seven. I was extremely nervous. I can’t remember why I was there, but do remember being very reluctant to step forward when told. I was the only one that day and didn’t know what to expect. I eventually shuffled forward and had my shorts taken down. This seemed normal as it happened at home too, so I thought nothing of it. I was duly put over her knee and given a firm spanking but, to my relief, not as bad as I got from Dad, and she hadn’t pulled my underpants down. I don’t think bare bottom spanking was allowed in this school then but at the time I didn’t know this. It certainly hurt and made me gasp but I managed not to cry. I was pretty good at school and didn’t get spanked too often; about once, occasionally twice, in a term.

Whilst I saw others get slippered, I managed to avoid it until about 9. I was aware from reactions I’d seen that it hurt more, but hadn’t to that point experienced it. On that day, when instead of being put over her knee I was instructed to bend over the desk, I remember my stomach tightening, but duly bent over, trousers at ankles and waited for what felt ages but was only a few seconds. The slipper rested on my bottom, then SMACK. Normally when I cried, it built up slowly from a sob, a moan, then open blubbing. On this occasion, I literally burst into tears straight away.  I had a very sore bottom that day and any other time I was slippered.

An additional issue for me was that my mum was a classroom assistant/dinner lady at the school, so she always was told about my punishment. This usually resulted in a boring lecture on the walk home but usually went no further.

I am happy to be contacted by other UK readers with any questions on guyfarnbank@gmail.com

GF

I attended a mixed sex comprehensive school in the North West of England from 1968 to 1973.  It had an upper and lower school on different sites, with the lower school catering for the first 2 years; those aged 11 and 12 respectively at the start of each year. Until shortly before I attended, it had been a fairly prestigious grammar school and my year was one of the early comprehensive intakes. Many of the students at the Upper School were still from the grammar school along with most of their teachers. The Lower School had been a secondary modern, and most of those teachers were still there as well, so far as I could gather.

The Lower School had its own Headmaster (and Deputy). The middle school (13-15) and Upper School (5th & 6th form) did also, but they were both at the Upper School site and so were co-located with the Headmaster for the whole establishment. Consequently, it seemed the Lower School Head had more autonomy because the overall Head never seemed to visit the Lower School: at least I never saw him.

It was pretty standard for its time and discipline was, for the most part, fair and reasonably liberal by standards of the time.  Detentions were given out for such things as late arrivals, and assignments, lines mainly, for minor infractions, late homework etc.

There was corporal punishment too, for more serious misdemeanours.  Most form teachers, including the female ones, used it, albeit infrequently. It usually took the form of the strap (like a tawse but no split) administered to the hands. Two or three strokes was the norm. Some used a slipper. particularly in the middle and upper schools, and this was administered to the backside. One to three swats seemed to be the norm. Both methods seemed to have equal approval from the powers that be.

The Head also administered the strap to those sent to him, but in this case it was administered to the bottom and it was a fairly common sight to see groups of lads caught smoking behind the bike sheds being marched through the playground to the Head’s office to have their cigarettes confiscated, ears burned on the evils of the weed and backsides overheated.

More than three late arrivals in a week could also earn a trip to the Head’s study. A single tardy meant 30 minutes after school detention, supervised by a bored teacher who would half-heartedly invent a written assignment to occupy the time. Punishment only applied to boys. Girls did not seem to get punished. I’ve no idea what happened if they were caught smoking, though not as many smoked, it seemed to me, though obviously that’s an impression; I can’t prove it. There was a senior mistress but I don’t know if she used corporal punishment on girls sent to her.  It never occurred to me she might, so it never occurred to me to ask any of the girls I knew.

One day when I was still in the first year, we were summoned in the early afternoon to the school gymnasium along with the rest of the Lower School. I wasn’t sure why we were going, but expected some kind of announcement, I suppose. There was no precedent, in my limited experience, to being summoned to the gym in this way. Stood next to the Head was a boy of around our own age, 11, perhaps just turned 12. Let’s call him CK. The Head explained that CK had been extorting money from other pupils with the help of another boy, who he named, from the year above. Thankfully, I didn’t fall victim to either of this pair, but it was an 8 stream school so there were around 250 pupils in each year. We were told the other boy had been dealt with, but the younger boy would be made an example of before the school because, apparently, he was the ringleader.

The strap the Head was holding was a substantial piece of kit. It was quite heavy looking and maybe 2 to 2.5 feet in length maybe 2.5 inches wide, dark brown and solid. No holes or tails etc.

“Bend over and touch your toes,” he ordered.

The boy did so. He was wearing standard grey long school trousers, which was an option, though many of us in the lower school wore short trousers. They tightened across his backside and the Head took a step back. He was short to medium height but a fairly stocky individual and he swung with most of his might; CRACK.  The strap landed across the boy’s backside like a pistol shot that echoed round the wooden floor and hard walls of the gym.

The unfortunate miscreant stood up, tears already running down his face.

“Get back down!” the Head shouted.

He did. CRACK! CRACK! Two more pistol shots rang out across the gym and then CK was told to stand. The apprentice extortionist and thug had tears running down his face. I didn’t feel sorry for him; he deserved what he got, particularly by the standards of the time.

That was that. There were plenty of private punishments that I heard about, though to be fair most teachers went out of their way to explore alternatives before resorting to corporal punishment, but I didn’t witness any others before the school. I think this is a good thing. I’m not personally in favour of making a public example of people in this way.

CK was a fairly unpleasant character, but he could have been dealt with privately in the Heads’s study like, presumably, his partner in crime. I guess the Head wanted to send a message.

DU

Several years ago I started dating a woman named Becky. We were both in our early 40s. We were in a restaurant and a couple of teenagers were being rude and disrespectful near us.

Becky said to me: “I don’t know what it is with kids today. Most of them act as if they need a good spanking.”

This kinda really caught me off guard. I had always had an interest in spanking for as long as I could remember, and her bringing this up kind of struck a nerve instantly.

I asked her if she was spanked growing up.

She said she got a few ‘good whippings’ from her dad growing up. “Pretty much just when I really needed it,” she said.

I was kinda dumbfounded. I was really interested in what she was saying but didn’t want to seem turned on by it or act weird about it.

I asked how old she was when she last got in bad trouble with her dad.

“Probably 16,” she said. “I came home late one afternoon from being out with my friends. I could tell something wasn’t right when I got home. My mom and dad both seemed agitated about something. I went to my room. I could hear my mom talking to my two younger brothers about going to town. I came out of my room and asked if I could ride along also.

Her mom immediately said: “No!” She was to stay home.

She said from past experience she had a pretty good idea what this meant. When one kid was in trouble and probably going to get the belt from dad, mom would take the other kids and ‘go to town’. She said she went back into her room and kinda waited for what was next.  She really had no idea what her parents had on her but she was sure she was going to find out.

As soon as her mom and brothers had left the driveway, her dad yelled for her to come downstairs. She slowly walked down the stairs, she said. Her dad had a small black 35 mm film case. This was back in the late 1980s and those film cases were commonplace. Brenda said she knew exactly what her dad had. She had marijuana in that case. She said her dad asked where she had got that marijuana, and she said she just shrugged her shoulders.

She said she knew she was in for it. She was sure she was going to get the belt. It had been a few years since the last time she got a whipping, but it was always bare butt over the sofa, and she was sure this would be the same.

She said her dad sat the film case down and motioned for her to come to him.

“Girl, drop your shorts and panties and bend over the sofa,”

As he said it, she could hear the belt buckle clang and the strap being pulled through his trousers loops. In the few years it had been since she had last been in this situation she said she had developed into a young lady and having to drop her shorts and panties in front of her dad was punishment in itself. But she knew better than to argue with him. In her house, he was the judge, the jury, and the punisher. Arguing would either result in a worse whipping or even getting smacked across the face.

She said she turned to the sofa, bent over the arm, and then slid her shorts and underwear down to hide her front side from her dad.

She said he whipped her a good 12-15 times. She said she told herself before he started not to let him make her cry. She said after about the 5th stroke she had tears running down her face. She said this was the last whipping she ever got and was definitely the worst. Her dad told her if he ever caught her with marijuana again he would beat her ass far worse than he had ever done before.

SJ

Up until I fled the compound in 1976, I was part of a religious cult where you were often married off to a ‘bishop’ by the time you were 15.

We were in a compound located in Hillsdale, Arizona. I was born in 1948 and spent the next 28 years there. Many reports have been released regarding the perversion of the church leaders in regards to punishment. I have written some accounts of my encounters with being spanked and how in some strange way, I came to like it some.

It was approximately two months after my first night session when I would again feel the wrath of Mr M’s hard smacking hand. Around 7:45 pm he came into the 1st to 3rd grade living quarters for his nightly inspection and began to scope out the sleeping areas. After two minutes or so, he asked in his gruff voice: “Who’s bed is this?” pointing at my bunk.

“It’s mine,” I said, and I knew immediately I was in trouble. I did not make my bed up after I had awakened that morning, which was against the church’s regulations.

He said: “Rachel, come with me and don’t argue,” as we walked to the doorway.

He stopped until I had walked in front of him, and he proceeded to point toward his office.

I had learned by now that you do not plead or argue with him as this just resulted in more punishment. After the long walk, we came to his office where he opened the door and gave me a slight push in the back as we entered. He then closed the door, grabbed my right arm and led me to his desk.

He sat there for a moment with his head down and then said: “Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Why do you make me have to do this? You know the beds must be made up every day and you know that those who don’t get punished.”

I just stared at the floor and waited for his next comment.

He then asked: “Do you have any excuse for not doing it?”

I had no excuse and no reply.

He then asked why my hair was up in a bun.

I looked up and said: “I was trying to look like Grace Kelly in the Life magazine.”

“You are much too young to be presenting yourself like that and I don’t want to see it again,” he gruffed in response.

He then went to his chair, sat down, leaned over to his right, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to his side.

He paused for a moment, then said: “Raise your arms.”

I did and he proceeded to remove my sleeping smock and placed it on his desk. He then told me that I would get 15 swats for not making up my bed and 15 for my ‘mature’ hairstyle.

“Bend over my lap and grab the chair legs,” he said.

As I bent over he, as before, used his left hand to press my shoulder blade to push me all the way on to his lap. That hand then shifted to the small of my back. He took his large, rough, well-tanned hand and placed it on my bared butt, patted it twice and then delivered the first swat. POP!

As always, my entire backside was stinging like an army of ants was biting me. He paused for a few seconds and delivered the third, fourth and fifth spanks in quick succession. I was now crying and I waited for the spanking to continue. He repeated the rule about making your bed, which took about 10seconds or so, and then delivered the sixth.

He paused about 5 seconds between the next several swats as he slowly chastised me about my hairdo.

He said: “You are a child of God,” (SWAT). “What you see in those worldly magazines?” (SWAT). “It is not something you want to imitate,” (SWAT). “Those people live immoral lives,” (SWAT). “And they spit at God whenever they get a chance,” (SWAT). “From now on,” (SWAT). “You are to dress and present yourself as the child you are,” (SWAT). “Do you understand?”

I was crying, but I managed a: “Yes Sir,” to which he replied: “Good,” paused for about 10 seconds or so and then gave the final 17 spanks or so in rapid succession.

I lay on his lap for about 30 seconds or so as he lightly patted my behind and told me how he hated to spank us. Then he released his left hand off of my back, helped me up and handed me my smock and said to put it on and get in bed.

I said: “Yes Sir,” as I quickly left the room and headed back to the living quarters. I got into bed and could still feel the stinging sensation. No one asked where I had been as I guess it was quite obvious. After a few minutes, I was asleep. The next morning my bed was made up as soon as I got out of it.

RB

It was around the ages of 9 or 10 that I began to feel strange feelings. In the cult environment I was raised in, you had no one to talk to or ask about these sensations. As I have read elsewhere, we were groomed for this and I have zero doubt ‘the bishop’ enjoyed spanking us. Instead of hitting us real hard for a few times, he would give us many, many light whacks, something he sometimes called a ‘slow roasting’ or a ‘bottom warming’.

My parents immigrated from Germany in 1957. I was born in 1963 and in 1966 my parents were killed in a car accident. I became custody of the state authorities and was placed in a ‘Christian’ orphanage. This place became my home, school and church.

Spanking was a very common occurrence and my first memory of it that stuck in my head was walking down the hallway to the lunchroom and seeing a boy in an adjourning hallway bending over a chair being paddled. I remember the noise of his crying would fluctuate every time he was struck. My 1st grade teacher was not much of a spanker, but my 2nd grade teacher was an avid participator.

When it was determined you had done something bad you would be called up to the front where you had to bend over her lap and she would lift up your dress, then hit you 4 to 6 times with great force. I received this punishment at least 25 times during the year.

Everyone 6th grade and under had to be in bed by 8:00 pm. The principal, Mr M, was a man in his early 40s, 6 ft plus and he would come by the living quarters to make sure everything was in order. At least once a week he would single someone out for an infraction and take him or her to his office for ‘some needed correction’. The victim would always return sobbing, climb into bed and roll over to face the wall so no one could see their pain and embarrassment. When you asked what happened, all they would say is they were spanked and that they were not to say anything else.

Unfortunately for me and my friends, Cathy and Stacy, our curiosity was cured in a most terrible way. One night about 8:20, we were in our beds which were across the small walkway from one another. We were making burping noises at one another and giggling heartily. Suddenly Mr M walked in and asked what was all the racket about.

A girl in a nearby bed, probably fearing she would get in trouble, said: “Rachel, Stacy and Cathy are burping on purpose and laughing.”

His face became contorted as he looked at us and said that this behavior was not acceptable, and then asked us three to come to his office. We begged and pleaded for mercy and said we would not do it again, but it fell on deaf ears. He grabbed me with one arm, and Cathy with the other, and told Stacy to walk in front of him. We were taken to his office, which was located at the other end of the facility. We were three terrified 9 year olds and we continued to tell him that we were sorry, but we kept looking ahead as he led us to his abode.

He opened the door to his office, pushed us in and closed the door. He then began a long speech about how such bad behavior was not going to be tolerated and we were going to receive a reminder not to do it again. He walked over to us and told us to raise our arms up. He proceeded to remove our sleeping smocks, which left us totally naked in the cold room. He then pulled his chair out from his desk, sat down and grabbed a paddle that was about a foot long.

He told Cathy to come to him where he instructed her to bend over his knee. As she began to lean over, he put his free hand on her upper back and pushed her all the way over. He then placed the paddle on her buttocks and tapped it lightly a couple of times and then whacked her hard. I remember the screams she let out which sent shivers down my back. He would whack her and then let the paddle rest on her butt for about 5 seconds and then do it again. She would scream and try to move, but his left hand that was pressing on her back kept her firmly in place.

After about 15 strikes, he let her up and told her put her smock back on. He then motioned me to approach him where I received the same punishment. When he stuck me, I felt as if my whole backside was burning. By the 5th or 6th hit, I was having a hard time breathing and was choking as I cried. What really made the event worse was his period of delay between smacks. What could have been done in 20 seconds or so was stretched into two to four minutes.

When he was finished with me, he beckoned Stacy over who was given her beating.

We then were told to get back in bed and warned he had better not catch us again participating in such behavior.

When I was in the sixth grade, I was called down to his office for another of the many evening sessions along with three other girls, two of them fellow sixth graders and one a fourth grader. Again we were told of the evil behavior that we had exhibited and that we would receive 12 licks. Then he told us to get ready over the table. This meant completely disrobing by removing our smocks and bending over a long portable table. All of had been here before so we knew there was no point in arguing as that would only result in more whacks.

After we were in position he became upset because Mary’s (the 4th grader) butt was not on an even plane with the rest of us, so he made her stand on two phone books. Can you believe this? He was upset because he may have to stoop a bit and we are about to be beat!

As always, he took his time as he would whack one and then step to the next one until he arrived back where he started. After he was finished, we were instructed to remain in position for several minutes while we thought about what had led to this. He would then go over and sit at his desk while we waited for his permission to get dressed and return.

When we would receive spankings from him during the day, because of something bad we had done during recess or lunch, we did not have to remove our entire school uniform, we only had to lower our underwear. He would give us a choice between 15 whacks on our bare butt or 40 on our panties.

Of course, no one I knew ever took the panty route, which is no doubt is the way he wanted it. He would tell us to pull down our panties and bend over the table. He would then use his left hand to push our skirts back and to keep us down. He would remind us that if we got out of position it would add another 5 licks to the ordeal.

The first time I had my first daytime spanking from him (all of the previous daytime beatings were done by the class teacher) was about a month after I entered the 5th grade. I was given my options and I lowered my underwear to just below my buttocks and bent over the table.

He approached and said: “I want these here,” as he used the paddle to push my panties to my knees, “and next time remember or it’s an extra 5.”

There isn’t the slightest doubt in my mind that this man was supported by this so-called Christian operation. How can his actions be justified as simple correction? I probably received over 500 whacks during my 8 years there and there were others who got it a lot more than I did.

When I was in the 7th and 8th grades, I worked as an assistant in the administration office and I saw several students go to his office for their beatings. I would hum to myself or go into the supply storage room so I would not hear their cries. And even though he spanked both boys and girls, through my fellow classmates I learned that with boys, it was in and out fairly quickly. With girls he took his time.

RB

While some might argue that ‘bishop’ M was just doing his job in spanking us, I have no doubt he enjoyed these sessions. If he had wanted just to give us correction, he could have really busted our tails. Instead, he gave us a lot of light swats with a light paddle that stung, but really did not hurt; that is, when he did not use his hand. I think he did things the way he did because he liked being in control.

In our cult compound school, we went to school from 8:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. Monday through Friday. We had to wear uniforms that consisted of the following:

Boys: Dark blue slacks with a white dress shirt, black socks and black loafer shoes.

Girls: Blue, black and white plaid skirt with a white blouse, and white ankle dress socks with black Mary Jane shoes that had one strap that you buckled.

It was approximately November of 1957 when trouble found its way to me again. It was about 2:00 p.m. and I was in ‘sister’ G’s 4th grade class. Beside me was my good friend, Cathy. Marisa was sitting behind her, and Geri was in front. In front of me was Paula.

When ‘Sister’ G left the room for a moment, Marisa, with a devious look on her face, said: “Let’s go hide in the storage closet.”

“Why?” I asked.

“So when the teacher comes back she’ll think we just left.”

I knew it was a dumb idea, but I was bored and in need of some adventure.

Geri said: “C’mon, let’s go,” and the five of us got up and went to the closet to hide. Just before Geri closed the door, she told the class not to say anything, which was met with giggles and the nodding of heads. As the door closed, she turned on the light and I looked at all of the assorted books and supplies that were on the shelf.

“Look!” Cathy said with excitement as she showed us a box full of new Marks-a-lot felt tip markers.

As she opened the box, Marisa grabbed one, removed the lid and said “I like the way these smell.”

We then began probing for other goodies when we heard ‘sister’ G ask: “Anybody know where Geri, Rachel, Cathy, Paula and Marisa are?”

Suddenly I began to think that maybe this was not such a hot idea. Then I heard the teacher inquire again as to our whereabouts, which was followed by a few laughs. Suddenly the door opened and there was an angry looking ‘sister’ G.

“What do you think you are doing?” she asked loudly.

“Hiding,” replied Geri. “We were just playing a joke.”

Then ‘sister’ G saw the opened box of markers.

She said: “You all had no business in here whatsoever! Follow me.”

We went out into the hall and down to ‘bishop’ M’s office.

As we walked, I heard Marisa say in a low tone: “I knew it was a stupid idea.”

As we arrived at his office, ‘sister’ G opened the door and directed us inside. As we entered, bishop M turned around to see what was going on.

The teacher then said: “I went out of the classroom for just a few moments and these five girls left their seats and went to hide in the classroom storage closet for a joke. Not only that, but they opened a new box of felt-tipped markers and no telling what else.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said in a non-chalant tone, to which she replied: “Thank you,” and left.

He looked at us for a moment and then said: “Well girls, being in the fourth grade should be enough education that you would know better than this, but I guess you need a reminder of 30 swats.”

He then got up and told us to sit at the bench to his right. He removed his jacket, hung it on a nearby coat rack and then stretched his arms like he was getting ready to workout.

He then sat back down, motioned his hand toward his lap and said: “When I call your name, come here lower your underwear to your knees, bend over my lap and grab the chair legs. Any argument or hesitation will result in more.”

“Geri, you’re first,” he said.

Geri got up and walked to his right side. She reached up under her blue, black and white plaid skirt and lowered her panties, then bent over and grabbed the chair leg.

He pushed her all the way onto his lap and she made an ‘uhh’ sound as she landed. With his left hand he pulled her skirt all the way back, exposing her small pale derriere, and then placed it on the bare exposed small of her back.

Geri had very pale skin which contrasted with her long dark hair pulled into a ponytail with a blue bow on the end. As bishop M rubbed and patted her butt a few times for the warm-up, I heard her inhale through her teeth. Then he gave her the first ten spanks spaced about 2 seconds apart.

She soon squealed: “Ahhh hahh,” and began crying.

He paused for about ten seconds, as he always did, and said: “Don’t ever go into places that you don’t belong!”

Then came the second set of ten spanks.

Geri cried even louder and began crossing and uncrossing her feet, to which the principal commented: “Quit moving your legs unless you want more.”

She replied with a broken: “Ok,” as he delivered the third set of ten spanks.

She was crying and said: “I won’t do it again. I promise.”

He finished the set and she lay there for about 30 seconds.

He told her to get up and return to the bench, which she did promptly.

“Ok Rachel,” he said, as he looked in my direction.

I got up and walked to his side. I reached under my skirt to lower my panties and pushed them to my knees, which sent a shiver down my back. Like Geri before me, I bent over and grabbed the chair leg. Just as I did, I felt him pull my skirt back and then push me onto his lap. As he placed his left hand on the bare small of my back I remembered how rough his hands felt.

Than I felt his hand tap a few times, which made my butt and legs tingle. Then the first ten hit and I gripped the legs hard as I ‘took in’ the first few blows. As his hand found its target, that strange painful, but also enjoyable prickling sensation soon enveloped my entire backside.

As he paused, his left hand pressed harder on my back, which was somewhat uncomfortable. Then he gave me the second set of ten spanks and I tried to shift my backside a bit, but I didn’t have much success. I looked under the chair and saw my black shoes bobbing up and down a bit as I received each swat.

During the third set I saw and felt my panties sliding farther and farther down my legs until they were at my ankles. I could also feel my brown pigtails swishing around as I moved my head up and down. After the last swat, he reminded me of why I was lying there and then told me to get up. I pulled up my panties and, as I returned to my seat, I could see the worry on Cathy, Marisa and Paula’s faces.

“Paula,” he blurted as he pointed a beckoning finger towards her.

The red-headed, and pale complexioned girl got up and began crying, perhaps hoping that it might help, but of course it didn’t.

She paused at his side for a moment, which made him say: “Hurry and lower your panties, please.”

Still crying, she reached under her skirt, lowered them and bent over. As he pulled her skirt back, she began crying a bit louder and then made an “uhh” sound like Geri did as he pushed her onto his lap.

As she began receiving her first ten spanks, I watched intensely as his tanned large hand struck her small rounded, but very pale butt. I felt weird, but for some reason I enjoyed watching the delightful bounce it made on each smack. She cried in a medium tone as being too loud brought additional swats.

As the second set found their destination, I would focus on how she would tense up on his lap and then relax, which made her hips rise a bit. By the time he was finished with the third set, her butt was a light pink all over. He scolded her a bit and then let her up.

Then it was Cathy’s turn. She glanced at me quickly with a worried expression, then lowered her panties. As she began to bend over, he took his left hand and in one move pulled her skirt back and pushed her into position. She too began wining a bit as he tapped his hand on target zero. When the first ten came, she jerked her head up shaking her blonde dog-ear curls all over.

As set 2 arrived, she cried a bit louder and made soft “ow” sounds as his hand smacked her little bottom. She too shifted her legs but was careful not to do it too much. Finally the last set came, and her butt too now had a nice pink glow to it.

Last, but not least, was Marisa. Marisa was of Italian descent and had a nice tanned complexion. As she bent over into position, she pulled her skirt back and lowered herself onto his lap. He told her that he did not tell her to pull her skirt back herself and that was another five for not following orders.

‘Good god,’ I thought. ‘He looks for any little infraction he can find.’

As the swats began, she started crying immediately and making “ahh” sounds every other swat or so. Like the others after me, I was fascinated at the way her butt bounced after each swat.

Since she earned’ an extra five, he included it on the last set, so 15
whacks found their way to her backside. She really cried louder and, like Geri, apologized by saying: “I’m sorry for what I did.”

As she lay there after the last swat, he said: “Apology accepted. Now get up and you girls get back to class.”

Marisa stood up, pulled up her panties and joined the four of us who were starting to head toward the door. As we walked back to class, I could still hear Paula and Marisa and wondered if anyone else found spankings exciting. I wish I had the nerve to say something, but I couldn’t.

RB

It was now late November of 1958. This was the year I began to suspect something was odd about the way Bishop M conducted the spanking sessions, but due to the times, my young age, and the atmosphere of being in a isolated religious cult, I did not realize that he was getting his kinks from spanking us. He just made us do strange things, as will be noted in this story and the next few.

In our school, we went to school from 8:00 am to 3:00 pm Monday through Friday. Most of the time, we had to wear uniforms that consisted of the following:

Boys: Dark blue slacks with a white dress shirt, black socks and black loafer shoes.

Girls: Blue/Black/White plaid skirt with a white blouse and white ankle dress socks with black shoes that had one strap that you buckled.

Today was different in that we were having our pictures taken for the school. So today we got to wear our dresses we wore for Sunday’s services. Mine was a medium blue with a yellow bow. Cathy’s was red and white checkered with a red bow.

It was just after lunch period, around 12:15 pm or so, and my friend, Cathy, sixth grader, Sandi, and I were told to go to Bishop Montgomery’s office.

I looked at Cathy and Sandi and asked: “What did we do now?”

“I have no idea,” replied Sandi. “But I bet we’re getting a spanking.”

Cathy sighed in a disgusted tone, but realized there was nothing she could do to change his mind, if that is what he had planned.

The door was partly opened so I just pushed it further and went on in. Sandi was right behind me and Cathy trailed a few feet behind. Once inside, Bishop M looked up at us, got up and went and locked the door, which always meant we were getting it.

Then in his growly voice he said: “You three girls are here for three different reasons. There are more besides you, but I am quite busy and can only do so much at a time.”

Poor guy is so overworked!

“Sandi, you are here because you got a ten on your first semester exam. It was obvious from some of your smart-alec answers, that you both neither tried nor even cared.”

His voice then went from a loud tone to almost a yell as he continued.

“After my discussion with you last month, when you were in trouble again, you promised me you would straighten up and buckle down. You didn’t, and in fact you did worse, so now you will get the correction you deserve. You must learn to respect those who God has placed in authority if you have any chance of getting past the heavenly guards.”

“Dear, I know you’re angry, but don’t be too hard on her,” requested Mrs M to her husband from her office nearby.

“No pupil of mine will act like this in my school. She needs to learn some respect for authority, and she’s going to be one sorry little girl by the time I’m through with her,” her husband coarsely replied.

12-year-old flaming red haired Sandi looked up at him with her sad blue eyes and acknowledged her error by bowing her head. In an incensed tone, Bishop M began to explain the reason me being here.

“Rachel, I was talking to Sister G (the cafeteria lady) and she told me she overheard you tell another classmate that the brownies looked like dog crap. That is unacceptable conversation here at this school. And you, young lady,” he said, pointing at Cathy, “laughed when she told you that, which shows your approval of the comment.”

Cathy’s face then displayed a look that can only be described as: “I can’t win for losing,” look.

I felt bad for her because her only crime was that she laughed at what I had said. It seemed like he made any excuse in order to spank us, even though they were not too painful.

Then Bishop M did something that, for years, really puzzled me. He told us to follow his instructions exactly as told, and if we didn’t we would get more swats.

“First, remove your dresses and place them on my desk,” he said, as he came behind us to unbutton the first few buttons in the back.

’How weird,’ I thought. ‘Why do we have to do this for a spanking?’

But I didn’t want to rock the boat, so I slowly slid my dress over my head and placed it where I had been directed. Cathy and Sandi did the same.

Once all three of us had completed the task, he instructed us to place our hands on top of our heads and then showed us by doing it himself. We were standing there in our shoes, socks and panties and nothing more. He looked at us for a moment and then went to the back wall and grabbed one of the familiar metal framed wood chairs and placed it in the middle of the empty area.

“O.K,. Sandi. You’re first,” he gruffed.

I usually expected the principal’s lectures to drone on for a bit, but this time he cut to the chase. He bluntly stated: “We will not tolerate this type of laziness and deception, young lady. You’ve got 35 swats coming. Now pull down your panties, bend over the chair and grab the lower rung.”

Young Sandi was visibly shaken by this news, and tears immediately began to stream down her face, which was weird, because she usually seemed to ‘like’ being spanked, like I did. She then began to plead by apologizing.

“Quiet!” Bishop M interrupted, not in the mood for feeble excuses. “Do what you’re told; you’re only making this worse for yourself. Get those panties down now, girl, and bend over!”

Fear of this impending punishment really started to take hold of Sandi as she began to pull her white cotton panties down to her knees. She then bent over the back of the chair and grabbed the lower rung below the seat, presenting her pale, but well rounded derrière to the principal for punishment. Sandi began to whimper a bit as she waited for the first smack of the paddle. Her wait was not long as the principal wasted no time in beginning to teach her a lesson.

He tapped the paddle a few times in preparation, and then swung it back a bit before striking her bare buttocks seven times in a medium-paced succession, about two seconds apart.

The pain from these light strokes was not too much, but for some reason Sandi was making a big deal, and she let go of the rung and straightened up a bit. Sandi had felt the wooden paddle before many times before, so why was she acting like this?

“Bend back over, please!” ordered Bishop M, and his left hand pushed her back into position. “The next time you straighten up like that, you’ll be getting extra.”

Sandi replied: “Yes sir,” and presented her rear end for more. I then noticed how her pert breasts would jiggle a bit on each swat.

During the next seven swats, she continued to plead.

“Please, Bishop M! It stings, it stings! I’m sorry! Don’t give me anymore, please, PLEASE!” She shifted her legs a bit causing her panties to fall on top her black dress shoes.

Ignoring her appeal, Bishop M resumed the spanking by landing a harder stroke on Sandi’s buttocks. The cry of pain that Sandi was displaying was really shocking me. She had never done this. Her bright red pigtails swung to the beat of the paddle.

Much to Sandi’s dismay, the paddle continued its assault on her reddening backside at an intense pace once again. The fourth set of ten came her way.

During the pause for the last set, Sandi again attempted to beg the principal for mercy. In between her cries, the young girl asked: “Please, PLEASE, stop Bishop M, no more, please!!!!”

While her current verbal manners were impeccable, the request went unheard. Bishop M continued the paddling of the child’s already well- punished, exposed bottom.

“Your bottom is nice and pink, Sandi. Don’t you think it’s better to do better in school rather than goofing off and having to get your bottom spanked? I am not going to hesitate to spank you again, so you better shape up, little girl!

“All right, stand up and pull up your panties,” ordered Bishop M.

Sandi does as she is told. As she stands up, the punishment is evident on her radiantly pink, aching bottom, and the shape of the paddle is imprinted on the cheeks of her butt.

Then he points at a red book bag as she still tries to regain her composure.

He stated, “You’re going to need this, Sandi. You’re grounded until the next report cards come out. That means no TV and no playing with your friends until I can see you are changing your attitude. Now go and stand by Rachel and put your hands back on your of your head.”

Then he pointed at me. “Rachel, you are next, my dear,” he said as he pointed to me and then the chair.

I approached the chair, pulled down my panties and bent over and grabbed the rung. I hate the way the chair back jabs into my navel area. I then feel his rough left hand on the middle of my back, followed by a few paddle rubs. He then says I am to get 30 swats for my comment. I normally had my hair in pigtails, but since today was picture day, I had curled it a bit and used hair berets to keep it out of my face.

I inhaled deeply in anticipation of the first stinging smack of the paddle, my naked buttocks trembling softly. The paddle rose and fell on its target at about the same pace as he did with Sandi, with each stroke sending a fresh explosion of pain. Why is it the first swat always seemed to catch me so by surprise? How could I have expected anything else?

He placed his hand again in the small of my back, tapped the paddle against my punished pink bottom. I breathed in deeply, tensing as the next set arrived. My head jerked up a bit and I let out a small cry, but in reality it was not something I hated. The sting just kept getting more and more intense as the swats found their target. I’m sure in his mind he thought the sting was a-mean-old-rotten-you-sure-are-gonna-be-sorry-by-the-time-I-get-done-with-ya-kinda-nasty-sting.

He paused again before the final set of ten. I heard the rush of air and felt the paddle smack into my rear. He was pressing rather tightly on my back and I couldn’t move much at all. As he smacked me with my final ten, he commented that I should respect both the food provided from God and the ones who prepared it. He kept me in position for a minute or so as he blabbered on, and then let me up and instructed me to stand by Sandi with my hands on my head.

As I approached Sandi, I noticed her eyes were still wet and a few tear tracks were on her cheeks. Then he called for Cathy.

“Cathy, you will get 30 as well. Laughing at a disrespectful comment is just as bad as saying it. Bend over please.”

Cathy assumed the position, but did not pull down her panties. Bishop M did not seem to notice as he delivered the first set of ten. After giving her ten strokes with the paddle over her panties, he ordered her to get up and pull her panties down. Crying, she stood up and quickly pulled her panties down to the middle of her thighs and again assumed the position.

I was surprised that he did not give her extra for leaving them up, as he often did. Then came set number two. As hard as the previous spanks were, the newly applied spanks to the bare skin really stung the crying girl as she tried in vain to escape the wooden whacker. She twisted and turned a bit, causing her blond pigtails to dance, but the paddle kept on smacking down on her rounded bottom.

As Bishop M scolded, he continued to spank, and Cathy’s crying soon changed to outright sobbing as she seemed to barely be able to stand the punishing blows. Just before the last few swats landed, her panties fell to the floor on top of her shiny black Mary Jane shoes. He kept her in position for a moment as he checked out his ‘work’, and then instructed her to join Sandi and me.

Once she was standing by us, he stated how he hated to spank us, but our actions and Gods commandments required it. Then he told us to dress, wash our faces and return to class. As we walked down the hall, my mind was asking questions of which I had no answer.

Why did we have to take off our dresses to get spanked? Why didn’t he just pull up the hem and pull our panties down? If we were supposed to be naked, why didn’t we take off everything?

What a weird day!

RB

I attended an Ayrshire primary and secondary school in the 1960s, when corporal punishment was still in vogue. On this particular morning, as an eight year old, I was playing by myself in an area that was technically out of bounds for pupils. It was on the main pathway leading to the main reception area for the primary end of the school, and was immediately adjacent to the playground separated by a knee-high wall.

I was only there for minutes when the main reception door opened and I was beckoned by the headmaster to come into the reception area. He, Mr Reid, was a very tall man who had a reputation for being strict, and I was gripped with dread as I obeyed the summons without question. He questioned why I was playing in the wrong area and not in the playground, but I was tongue-tied with fear and could give no real answer.

The reception area was a main thoroughfare in the school but, fortunately for me, things were quite quiet at that time, save for the janitor who Mr Reid, the headmaster, had been talking to.

After scolding me for being out of bounds, he puzzled me by telling me to turn around. Then he told me to walk forward, then told me to stop. I was then instructed to touch my toes, which I stupidly found confusing, never having been asked to do so before, and I remember wondering if this was in some way seeking some kind of penance.

I did notice the janitor was smiling as I was obeying instructions, but I really had no idea what was happening.

I was in the ‘touching toes’ position for perhaps ten seconds or so when there was an almighty whacking sound and I found myself propelled forward and almost fell over with the force of the strike of the headmaster’s hand off my backside, coupled with a sharp stinging feeling. I was wearing short trousers but they were quite thick so the redness of my face was more to do with embarrassment than with pain.

The janitor was smiling quite openly now and in those days the feelings of a small boy being punished quite publicly was of no concern to adults in school. I was dismissed and I rushed away blushing furiously.

I obviously didn’t learn my lesson as a month later I was again caught in the same area with someone from my class and another older boy.  Mr Reid took us all upstairs to his office and brought out his tawse. He recognised me from before and made some comment about this punishment being more effective.

He gave me and my classmate two strokes each of his belt. The older boy got three. I did learn my lesson then.

WF

It was the first week in May 1957, just three weeks from the end of the school year, and everyone was looking forward to the summer break. Unlike ‘normal’ kids who stayed at individual homes during the summer, we still remained here when the school year was over because this was our home too. I was sitting in class waiting for the day’s final bell to ring. At 3:00 it rang, and we quickly headed to our living quarters to change into play clothes so we could go outside. On Fridays, we were allowed to play outside until 5:15, and then we had to come inside and get ready for dinner, which for us was at 6:00.

While we were out in the playground area, a bobtail truck was coming down the street that went along the east side of our compound. For some reason he lost control of his truck, ran up on the curb and struck a fire hydrant, severing it at the base. Immediately a large column of water with a slight western slant began spraying in the air and falling on our schoolyard. He must not have been insured or something because he quickly backed up a bit and took off.

All of us were admiring the large spray of water when someone suggested, “Let’s go get in it!”

At first, I hesitated but it looked like so much fun so I took off towards it. About 6 kids were in front of me and about twice that amount followed. Soon we were frolicking in the water and kicking at the puddles that had formed. Unfortunately, the area was quickly becoming quite muddy and messy. I had enough sense to take my shoes and socks off before getting wet, but some of the others did not.

Soon there were about 24 or so kids in the water when the fun came to a quick stop. Our teacher, Sister E, and the 2nd grade teacher, Sister B, were screaming: “Everyone! Everyone! Get out of the water this instant!”

Soon, everyone was out and the teachers began their inspection of the convicts. “Look at you,” they would bark at a student, pointing at their soiled clothes and shoes, and then say: “This is a serious offense that will cost you.”

Some one had evidently informed Bishop M because he soon was coming across the yard to see what had happened. As soon as he arrived, the teachers acted as if they were kids themselves by telling him: “It happened so quickly we didn’t have time to keep this from occurring.”

He looked at them while shaking his head and said: “I didn’t say it was your fault, but I’ll handle it,” which was followed by a smile.

He then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pocket spiral notepad, then ordered everyone to stand in a straight line. He went to each of us kids and asked each one their name, grade and teacher. There were eight girls in the group and about 16 boys. As he took each name, he made notations as to how messy they were and to whether or not they had messed up their shoes and how muddy they were. He told us all to go straight to the showers and clean up and put on our sleeping attire. He added: “You will eat your dinner in your bed, but before then I will take care of this outrage. I want all of the boys to meet me in my office at 5:00 pm, and the girls at 6:00, and no one had better be late!”

He then escorted us into the building up to the point where the boys went their way and we went ours. I was not as nervous as I had been before because I was getting used to being on the receiving end. I quickly showered and got into my smock and went to sit on my bed till the time arrived.

Around 5:55 Cathy, one of the ones who had been with me on my first night session, said: “I guess we had better get going.”

I let out a sigh, got up and followed Cathy to the hall where Stephanie, a 2nd grader, met us. As we started ‘the walk’ down the long hallway we saw a 4th grade girl, Vicki, two fifth graders, Sandi and Beth, and two 6th graders, Donna and Samantha, walking head of us.

Soon, we were all inside his office. He didn’t appear to be in the office at first, but then he walked out of one of the attached offices with his wife, Caroline, who worked in the Filing Department. He informed her of what was about to happen and asked her to sit in as a witness. He didn’t always have a witness and I still don’t know what criteria he used to determine if one was needed or not. She had a ‘Readers Digest’ as she sat down on the one of the chairs at the back of the office, glanced at us for a moment, and then resumed her reading.

The Principal looked at the group and then told the 4th through the 6th graders to sit on the bench that was on the left side of his desk and the rest of us on the bench on the right side. Then his phone rang and he started talking to some person about some room heaters that needed fixing. He talked about 5 minutes and as he did I looked across the room at Vicki, Sandi, Beth, Donna and Samantha and noticed how different their composures were. Vicki, Donna, and Sandi just had a look that seemed to say ‘Can we hurry and get this over with?’ while Beth looked quite worried as she kept crossing one leg over the other and then switching them. Samantha just had a blank upward stare and hardly moved at all.

When he hung the phone up, he was dramatic as always, banging his fist on his desk as he stepped on his soapbox.

“Girls, girls, I can’t believe what I witnessed just a short time ago! It was bad enough that you got your good play clothes wet, but some of you ruined your garments as well as your shoes. These things cost money and I would hate to think what the brethren would think if they found out what you had done!”

At the time I didn’t know what a brethren was and I assumed it must be some kind of high order policemen or something like the FBI.

He continued, “The punishments will vary depending on the severity of your offense and, looking at my list, it looks like it ranges from 25 to 40 swats. Who wants to go first?”

No one volunteered, so after about 30 seconds he said: “Fine, we’ll start with the older ones first, since they really should have known better, and the younger shall see what the price is for such conduct.”

This was the first time I had seen anyone above the third grade get it. He then took one of the four metal frame wooden chairs that were lined up against the back wall and placed it at the center of the large space between his desk and the back wall of the office.

“Samantha,” he said with a gruff tone, “You’re first. Remove your smock, place it on my desk, place your feet together, bend over the back of the chair and hold on the cross rung. Do not let go or stand up or you will received additional.”

With the still gazed look, she got up, took off her smock and placed it on the desk, then bent over the chair as instructed.

She was about four foot ten inches with light brown hair that was in a ponytail that reached down just past her shoulder blades. I was amazed how much more mature her body was compared to mine. After she bent over into position, her head was about four inches lower than her well-rounded backside. He grabbed the light wooden paddle that was lying on his desk and went and stood to her left side, placed his left hand on her back just where her hair stopped and placed the paddle on her butt.

He said, “You get 40 because of the ruined shoes and, being 12 years old, you should know better.” Then he reared back and delivered the first swat.

Her head jerked slightly and then returned to looking through the space between the chair seat and back, but she didn’t make a sound. He paused for a few seconds then delivered 9 in rapid succession. She uttered the first sounds, saying: “Ayyee, Ooooh or Sssssssss,” after each swat.

He waited for 5 seconds or so and delivered the next ten at a slightly lower pace. She again would say: “Ayyee, Ooooh or Sssssss,” after each swat and began relaxing one leg then the other, making her butt shift left and right as he delivered the swats.

“Be still,” he said. “Or I’ll add ten more.”

He paused again for ten seconds and then said, “Are you ready for the last twenty?” to which she slowly nodded her head. He placed the paddle in position again and gave the final twenty and the last one was noticeably louder. She was now lightly crying as Bishop M asked, “Will you do this the next time?” which was one of those really dumb questions, because who was going to say ‘yes’?

Naturally, she said: “No,” in a sniffly voice, and he took his left hand off her back and told her to put her smock back on and wait by the door.

Still standing in the same place, he looked to his left and said: “Donna, you’re next.”

She immediately got up, took off her smock and assumed the position. Donna was also 12 and about four foot ten inches, red hair in pigtails, and a really white complexion. Something that I really noticed was that she was beginning to develop breasts, which made me look down at my chest where there was, of course, nothing. He told her she was to receive 30. Her feet were about a foot apart so he instructed her to keep them together along with her knees as he rubbed his left hand on her back slightly.

He delivered the first ten with about a 2 second delay between them. She, like Samantha, didn’t say much except a low “uhhh” after each swat. After the first ten, he paused for about ten seconds, or while lifted his left hand off her back to scratch his neck. He then put his hand back in position and began set #2. In the middle of this set, he paused, looked down and placed the paddle against her pinkening behind and said: “I love using the Lord’s provided rod to correct those who stray from the path.” Then he continued on spanking her.

He looked upwards for a moment then delivered the last set of ten swats, which resulted in a loud “Ahhhh ooohh!”

I was impressed with her control.

He asked her the same dumb question he asked before and then let her up to get dressed and wait with Samantha.

He must have gotten a bit warm as he turned around and took off his sports jacket and placed it on the back of his desk chair, then returned to the ‘spanking’ chair.

He pointed toward the bench where the older girls were and said: “Beth, you’re next.”

She stood up, took off her smock and placed it on the chair back, which resulted in Bishop M telling her to put it on his desk. As she walked by us in a slow shuffle to lay her smock on the desktop, I could see goose bumps all over her naked body. She looked at us with a worried look and then returned to the chair and got into position.

Beth had about the same hair color as Samantha, but it was only shoulder length and she had it in a ponytail, albeit a small one. Even though at 11 she was younger than the 6th graders, she was leggier and taller, standing about five foot. Unlike the others, her stomach
barely touched the back of the chair when she bent over. He told her she was also getting 30 and placed the paddle in the ready position. With his left hand steadying her in position he delivered the first ten at about the same pace as he did Donna.

Unlike Donna, however, she began crying after the second or third swat and was shifting by standing on her toes then back to the flat footed position. He shifted his left hand from the middle of her back to just above her butt and pressed down while saying, “Keep still unless you want more!”

“No, No,” she said between her cries as she readied for the next ten. After several seconds they came, which resulted in her crying more loudly. He rubbed the paddle horizontally on her butt a few times before delivering the final ten.

“Get your smock on and go stand with the others,” he declared in an irritated voice. As each girl walked by us to get their smocks I would look to see how red their behind was.

With his finger he beckoned and said: “Sandi,” who got up and walked to the desk to put away her smock and approach the chair. Sandi was ten years, almost 11, four foot eight or so, of Irish decent with red hair set in pigtails. I always thought her hair looked more orange then red and, like Samantha, she had a round bubble-butt. He told her that because she had also ruined her shoes she would get 30.

“Bend over please,” he said, lightly pressing on her shoulder to get her started, and she went over and grabbed the edge of the seat.

He paused and said: “I said grab the chair rungs, not the seat. I want the head down,” as he pushed on her shoulder blade helping her into position.

She complied with a sigh and seemed to be quite tense. He delivered the first ten at the usual three-second between-each-one rate. I didn’t hear anything out of her until he paused, when I detected the light crying. He then delivered the next ten at the same speed.

During the swats Sandi made “Uhhh” sounds and, like Beth, she was standing up and down on her toes that made him again tell her to keep still as he shifted his hand to just above her butt as a reminder. He then looked over at us and told us to quit whispering or we would get extra. He then turned his attention back to Sandi, tapped the paddle lightly on her bottom about four times and delivered the final ten swats. As he spanked her I was focused on how her butt would compress and pop back into place with each swat. He then let her get up to get her smock and, as she picked it off the desk, she looked at her backside for a moment and then put it on.

It was now Vicki’s turn, who hesitated for a moment and then began saying that she was sorry and only did it because others did.

“I don’t care,” said the principal. “You knew it was wrong and did it anyway. No one forced you. Now get over here!”

She removed her smock, placed it on the desk and bent over the chair. Vicki had golden blond hair set in braids that touched the tip of her shoulder blades. She had just turned ten and was quite short at four foot four or so and had to stand on her tiptoes to grab the chair rung because the chair back was really pressing into her stomach. He said she was to receive 20 and reminded her to keep still as he gave her the first five and paused.

Of all of the girls so far, Vicki made the most noise as she squealed after the 5. His wife, who had been silent all this time reading her magazine, said: “Hubert, this is the girl I was telling you about that Sister W said had threw away her carrots at lunch.”

“Oh really,” he replied almost with a perky tone as he removed his left hand from her back, “I guess she’ll get another 15.”

“No, please no Bishop M, I won’t do it again!” as she stood up, which resulted in a stern reproof of: “Don’t argue and never get up until I say to!”

He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her back over and again said, “Grab the rung.”

He put his hand back on her back and gave her the next ten swats.

“Ohhhh, owwww, owww!” she said as the swats hit before returning to a steady cry.

He looked back at us for a moment and then then gave the next ten swats.

Vicki was crying quietly, but audibly, and I could see tears falling on the chair seat. He cleared his throat, flexed his shoulders and gave her the final set of ten and the last one really popped. Vicki cried even louder.

Then he said: “I hate the mess you made with your clothes, but I really hate food wasting. Will it happen again?”

“No, No,” she said as she cried and shook her head.

He then let her up and she retrieved her smock and joined the other four at the door. He looked at them and reminded them that this better not happen again or they would get a repeat performance. Then he told them to get back to their quarters. I was relieved a bit that the audience for mine would be smaller.

He then put the spanking chair back against the back wall, hung the paddle on a wall clip and then went to sit at his desk chair.

“Rachel, come here.”

Just my luck, I would be the first.

“Raise your arms,” he said, and he removed my smock and placed it on the desk in front of him. “You will get 20 for your transgression because you at least took off your shoes. Bend over, please.”

I had just started to lean over when his hand began spanking my butt with the first 5 swats, which knocked me all the way over on to his lap. I grabbed the legs and I felt his cool left hand on its usual place on my back, as he got ready to give me the next ten spanks.

He patted me four or five times and then delivered all ten.

I was crying now as I looked back under the chair at my dangling feet. He then asked his wife, who was still reading, what time it was, to which she replied, “It’s about 6:25 or so.”

He let out a grunt of recognition and then gave me the last 5 spanks. I lay in position for about thirty seconds and then he helped me up and called for Cathy.

Cathy always had her blonde hair in her ‘Cindy Brady’ look and, as she took off her smock she began whimpering. She approached his left side and he said she was getting 20. Then he told her to bend over. She bent over and positioned herself on his lap and grabbed the legs. She, like me, had been here several times and knew the routine. He placed his hand in the usual positions, but then began to cough so he grabbed a handkerchief as he composed himself.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Let’s get back to business.

He placed his hand on her butt and gave the first ten swats. Like I remembered before, she would pop her head up and down making her little curls bounce wildly. She also began crying after the third or fourth one.

Then came the last ten swats. Almost as soon as the last one hit, he picked her up and handed her smock to her. She kept crying as she turned and put it on, then she sat next to me while I was still sniffling.

Then he told Stephanie, the sole 2nd grader and the youngest one here, to come.

Stephanie was part Asian of some sort, perhaps Japanese but I am not sure. During all of the previous girls’ spankings, I noticed her nervous look but I thought she was quite composed for an eight year old. She removed her smock and placed it on the edge of the desk, but it fell to the floor. He told her that she was to get 15 because she too had at least removed her shoes.

“Bend over,” he said, and she quickly complied just as Cathy did, which told me she had been here before.

With his left hand on her back he gave her the first 5 spanks quickly and then did his customary pause of ten to 15 seconds. Stephanie was crying, but not real loud, which impressed me because I was not that controlled. He then let out an audible breath and then gave the last ten spanks. As she received each swat she would let out a “huh” sound that sounded like the sound you make when someone quickly squeezes you in the chest.

She was now crying a little louder as she lay there for 15 seconds or so. He then helped her up and she picked her smock up from the floor and put it on. He looked at us and gave the same comment he gave the older girls and sent us on our way.

Looking back to this day, I believe it was this one I began to find spankings interesting and somewhat exciting.

RB

This was the first of only two times I misbehaved on purpose in order to get a spanking.

It was February of 1961 and I had just turned 13. I found myself thinking about
paddling quite often. On this particular day, I was really craving to be paddled, but I knew that you just don’t get it on demand. I remember the mental conflict I had within myself because I did not realize that this desire was as common as it was. I really thought something was wrong with me.

It was around 4:30 on a Friday and I was in the library instead of being outside playing with the other kids because the recess routine was becoming more and more boring. I wanted to do some casual reading so I was thumbing through the pages of the series known as ‘Childcraft’. It is essentially a kid’s encyclopedia.

It was so strange that, as I was flipping through the pages of Volume 6, I was thinking about being paddled when I came across some pages talking about schools of long ago (the 1800’s). On one page was a story describing how schoolmasters of that era conducted classes. On the flip side of the page were various illustrations showing the schoolmaster ringing a hand bell to announce that classes were starting, another one where he was teaching, and another where he was loading a furnace in the wintertime.

But the one that caught my attention was one where he was spanking a boy who was sprawled across his lap. The teacher looked as if he was really into what he was doing, although the boy looked to be uncomfortable. The more I looked at it, the more I got that feeling again.

Suddenly, a crazy idea came over me. What if I was to make up an offense just to get a paddling? I though about it for a moment, trying to weigh out the pros and cons. After a lot of devil versus angel debates, I decided to do it.

I waited a few minutes until Sister R, the librarian, left the checkout counter and went to the back room. Then I quickly ran behind the counter and took one of the small forms that said:

‘From the desk of the School Librarian’. I went back to my table, sat down and wrote a note that said: ‘I have sent Rachel Beatty to you because she said a bad word while in the library, Sincerely, Sister R.’

Then I went to the principal’s office and went inside. Bishop M was on the phone talking to someone about his daily job as a principal. Ironically, here I was to get a paddling and, about two minutes after I got inside, he made a comment that went something like: “Well, things are pretty good here at Grapevine. We don’t get too much trouble from the kids and when they do, we warm their bottoms a bit.” Then he paused for a moment, then laughed and said, “You’ve got that right.” He then started talking about his car when he noticed me standing behind him.

He looked at me with an expression that said, “What do you want?” so I handed him the note. While he continued to talk on phone he looked at the note and after a few seconds told his caller: “Well, I have to run and take care of some business, so I’ll catch you later.”

He looked at the note again, then looked at me with a frown and asked: “What did you say?”

I clasped my hands behind me, paused for a moment, then declared, “I said shit.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I could not find a book that I was looking for,” I retorted quickly.

“Well, that is not acceptable,” he responded. “I do not tolerate bad language from anyone here at Grapevine, and especially not from a child! That will be 30 swats.”

He went over to his desk, grabbed the paddle that hung from a small hook on the side, then went and grabbed one of the ‘guest’ chairs from the back wall and placed it in the center of the room. Then he did something he had not done before. He took the cloth cushion from his chair, placed it on the ‘spanking’ chair and said, “So you don’t bump your head on the seat.” That was odd; he had never done that before.

“Lower your panties and bend over and grab the rung, please,” he said as he turned and walked back to his desk as he took his jacket off. While he hung it on the back of his chair, I bent over and grabbed the rung but did not pull down my panties.

When he came back, he pulled my skirt back, paused for a moment, and then popped me lightly with the paddle and said: “I told you to lower your panties. Since you cannot follow directions, that will be another 10.”

He proceeded to grab the waistband on my panties and pull them down to my knees and I felt a quick shiver. Then with his left hand, he pulled my skirt back as far as he could and then moved his hand to the bare area of the small of my back. I remember his hand being colder than usual.

He placed that paddle on my backside, rubbed it back and forth a few times and then gave me the first ten swats. As the stinging intensified with the first few strikes, I began concentrating on that stirring feeling in my groin. It seemed like each paddling made the feeling more intense. I also again noticed how my blue plaid skirt would flutter after each swat.

He paused after the first set to again tell me of his intolerance for bad language and then dispensed with the second set of ten swats. I began my usual shifting of my butt from left to right as the swats found their target. As I shifted, my feet separated by about a foot and finally he said: “Please quit moving around and keep your feet and knees together. Ok?”

“Ok,” I said between gasps.

After a few seconds he said, “That’s a good girl.”

I really liked it when he said that, and the only reason I can think of was that I was pleasing him somehow. Then the phone rang and he told me to stay put while he answered it. I was glad that I was here alone as it allowed me to enjoy the moment with less apprehension.

While he tended the phone caller, I was tingling with a remarkably good feeling that covered my whole mid section. It was the most bizarre combination of part pain and part pleasure. Wow, what a feeling!

After about a minute, he hung up the phone and resumed his position beside me. Again he commented me with a “good girl.”

Then he tapped the paddle a few times and then gave me the third set of ten swats. Just as the last swat landed, I felt his left hand relax the pressure on my back and I stood straight up and said: “Owww!” and started rubbing my backside.

He then placed his hand at the bottom of my neck and said: “Do not get up until I say to do so!” and then pushed me back into position.

Immediately, he began with the fourth set and on the third pop I again said: “Oww,” and started to stand up.

“I said, bend over!” he blurted in an angry tone as he placed his left hand on my back just below the neck and pushed my head down to the seat cushion. I want your head down and bottom up! And do not get up again. You just earned another ten. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I replied in a rude tone. “But it hurts!”

I was trying to make sure he didn’t realize I liked paddlings, which was why I was being terse.

“It’s supposed to hurt, and do not use that tone with me girl. You now have another ten.”

Then he tapped the paddle on my butt, harder than usual and then started again with the fourth set pf swats. I could tell that he was swatting me with a little more intensity than before.

Then came set number 5, and during this set I shifted my knees so much that my panties fell to the ground. His left hand was really putting a lot of pressure on my back to make sure I didn’t stand up again. I was really enjoying the delightful stinging sensation.

Before he gave me the final set, he again said that if I used bad language again I would be right back where I was, and then delivered them I could feel a tingling sensation going up my back to my shoulder blades as the paddling came to its conclusion.

After the last swat, he kept me in position for another minute as he again gave me his sermon, and then he said I could stand. I reached down, grabbed my panties and pulled them back up as he told me I could return to my quarters.

On the way back, I thought to myself that I could hardly believe I did what I had done, but after thinking about the ‘reward’, it was quite likely that it would happen again.

RB

I attended an all-boys prep school on the south coast of England at the end of the 1960s and early 1970s. The application of discipline was a bit haphazard, I believe due to the Headmaster, a scholarly individual, disliking disciplining pupils and somewhat leaving this to the rest of the masters.

One master used a large wooden spoon which made a tremendous whacking sound, whilst others used an array of instruments from long rulers to plimsolls. We had one Australian master who would just rap your knuckles with his. The latter was particularly painful, but used sparingly, and as he doubled-up taking us for rugby & cricket, he was a firm favourite amongst the boys.

I had been slippered once, but only two whacks, smacked with a ruler by a female teacher, and had my knuckles rapped, but on the whole had little experience of corporal punishment. My first serious experience came in the second year I was at the school, when I was 10.

We had one English teacher, Mr A, who made a big show of being ex-public school, took great delight in humiliating boys when they made mistakes and was roundly disliked by most of the school. He was tall, quite athletic, short fair hair with a trimmed brown beard, and probably in his late 20s or early 30s. He occasionally took us for rugby or cricket, although it was considerably less enjoyable when he did.

Our playing fields were a short distance from the school and we would jog there and back, which only took about 10 minutes. On the way, there was a large house with one of the best conker trees in the area. We had often stopped to throw sticks at the tree to bring them down. I believe some sticks had gone astray and damaged some flower beds. In morning assembly, the Headmaster ordered us not to throw any further sticks, due to the damage, but mentioned that the elderly gentleman who lived there, had kindly volunteered to bring round any conkers that had fallen to share out. He had an old connection to the school.

A couple of days had passed and we hadn’t seen the promised conkers, and on jogging past the garden, noticed some large conkers on the trees. Coming back from rugby, it was decided to climb trees nearby, then use a long and thick bamboo pole we found in the garden to knock the conkers down. What could go wrong!

I was one of three in the tree when the old gentleman appeared from nowhere in the garden. Everyone scattered, but I couldn’t get down from the tree quickly enough. The old gentleman managed to catch me. I could probably have escaped his grasp, but felt I would just get a ticking off. However, I almost froze when Mr A appeared.

He found out what had happened, tweaked my ear, which was very painful, and then told me we would run back to school together. Mr A could run much faster than me due to his height, and kept shouting at me to keep up. I effectively sprinted the whole journey and was absolutely exhausted by the time we reached the school. He gave me a filthy look and just left me at the entrance to the changing rooms. I assumed that was my punishment.

The next morning at assembly, the Headmaster again stressed that under no circumstances could we enter anyone’s gardens on our jog to the playing fields. Our class then had a double English lesson with Mr A. It was only at the end, as I was leaving for the break, he lightly grabbed my arm and told me to wait for him outside the staff room immediately after the break, and not to be late.

I was convinced I was to be further punished, but had no idea how. I assumed I might be slippered, so was quite concerned. When the bell sounded, I went and stood outside the staff room. Teachers, one by one, slowly emerged and headed to their next class. After some time, Mr A appeared and told me to follow him inside. The room was quite smoky with a strong smell of stale coffee. There were a number of old armchairs in two rows at each end of the room, with a very long table strewn with books and papers in the middle.

Mr A exploded, telling me that I had disgraced the school and effectively had stolen from the old gentleman’s garden. He said he knew others were involved, but he was only able to catch me, and therefore was going to set an example and I was to be caned.

I thought I had misheard him, but he then walked to a tall wooden cabinet, opened the door and returned holding a cane. My blood absolutely froze. I had never seen a cane before, didn’t even realise the school had one, and was amazed at its colour and how flexible it was in his hands as he bent it almost in two.

Mr A said: “Your behaviour has warranted a serious thrashing, and therefore I am going to cane you six times across your bottom.”

I was too stunned to respond. I wanted to run but knew there was no way out, apart from hoping Mr A would take pity on me. He pulled out one armchair and then told me to take off my shoes, drop my shorts, step out of them and fold them on the table.

Then he very quietly almost sneered: “Move over to the chair, take your underpants down and bend over the arm of that chair,” which he pointed to with the end of the cane.

I moved forward, pulled my pants down and bent over the arm of the chair. Mr A pushed my shoulders down with his spare hand, pulled my shirt up to almost my shoulder blades and then said: “Stick your bottom out so I can cane you thoroughly as you deserve.”

I kept saying over and over in my mind: ‘I am going to be caned, I am going to be caned.’

I still couldn’t quite believe it, but had an incredibly strange feeling of abject fear mixed with excitement. My bottom could feel the cold air of the room, and I had a horrible sense of my bare bottom being very exposed, but in a totally helpless position.

I could see Mr A move a couple of steps backwards, then he said: “Now prepare yourself and hold still,” and then raised the cane high in the air. He again said in a calm but clear voice: “Bottom out.”

I stuck my bottom out as best I could and then Mr A took a big step forward and the cane made a whistling sound before cracking in to my bottom. The pain was a combination of a deep thud plus an almighty sting. It was far worse than I imagined, and I let out a yelp of pain. I was trying desperately not to cry, but wondered how I would cope getting through the remaining strokes.

At that point I heard the staff room door open, and in walked my French teacher. She stopped in her tracks, quizzically looking at Mr A.

He coolly said: “I am giving Cooke a whacking in respect of the issues the Headmaster raised at assembly. I can take him out in to the hall and continue to cane him there, if you wish.”

Mrs O’S said: “No, don’t let me disturb you,” but she stayed in the room.

I was now doubly disturbed and acutely embarrassed that Mrs O’S could see my bottom, and I was ashamed that she was going to witness me being caned. Mrs O’S was actually one of the few teachers I would describe as being normal. She was an extremely good teacher and I enjoyed being rather good in her class, and one of the better French pupils. I knew she had a younger son at the nearby state school, as I sometimes saw her with him and a younger daughter in town, so guessed she was in her mid-thirties. She was quite petite, attractive, with shoulder-length reddish-brown hair and always impeccably dressed. She was very feminine in quite a male dominated environment.

Mrs O’S then took a seat at the end of the row of armchairs where I was being caned. Mr A was now in his element, and took another stride back before bellowing: “Cooke, get that bottom up and sticking out so I can cane you properly.”

I again pushed my bottom out and the second stroke lashed against my bottom. The shock of the pain caused me to move slightly, without getting up, only for Mr A to shout: “Keep your position and don’t move.”

I was now trying not to cry as I was intensely aware Mrs O’S was watching my bottom being thrashed.

Stroke three was harder than the first two and I cried out. My eyes were now watering and I couldn’t stop them. Stroke four had me crying, and I was desperately holding onto the armchair, oblivious to anything else around me, apart from the searing pain in my bottom.

The fifth stroke was low and hit the top of my legs, and took me completely by surprise.

There was a big pause whilst Mr A announced: “Now, last one. Let this be a lesson to you, Cooke.”

With that, he literally ran two paces forward and lashed the hardest of all across the previous strokes. I cried out in pain, and then slumped in the chair in absolute agony, but almost ecstatic that it was all over.

After about 30 seconds, Mr A softly said: “Get up, Cooke, and sort yourself out.”

I gingerly pulled myself up from the armchair, and turned around to look for my pants and shorts through my tears. I caught Mrs O’S’s glance. Her eyes were wide open and she moved her gaze from my bottom to my bare genitals.

Mr A’s face was bright red and he looked demented. I was rubbing my bottom because it was so sore and hot. Mrs O’S was watching my every step and gazed at my bottom, or my genitals when I was facing her, but she was completely silent. After another lecture from Mr A, I was told to go to Matron and get cleaned up, which I did before returning to class.

Everyone knew I had been punished by Mr A, but when I told them I had been caned with six of the best, then showed them the damage in the toilets, I immediately became a bit of a class hero. The stripes went from red to purple, black, brown and finally yellow and took well over a week to finally disappear. We had group baths after rugby and hence again I was a bit of a celebrity for a week, showing my caning stripes.

I wasn’t caned again at prep school (was later although) but did return for a school 50th Anniversary event. Despite the above, I had really enjoyed my years at the prep school and was keen to catch up with some old friends who moved on to other senior schools. Mr A didn’t attend, although I held no grudges against him, but Mrs O’S was there. After telling her how much I enjoyed her classes, which was true, a small group formed and we started reminiscing about some of the teachers that hadn’t appeared at the reunion.

Mr M’s name came up, more for the pranks that were played on him, but also his use of the wooden spoon, and trying to avoid it. Someone mentioned Mr A and in no time stories of canings emerged. I mentioned the six I had taken from him on behalf of most of our class who were involved in the conker fiasco.

Mrs O’S stunned me by saying: “Yes, I remember that quite clearly.”

I laughed nervously, but wanted to quiz her privately. It was difficult to try and separate her from everyone else as she was a popular teacher. However, I managed to intercept her as she was leaving. I told her the incident had played on my mind in recent years, which was not strictly true, and mentioned that I could recall how closely she watched the entire punishment. She looked a little sheepish, but I assured her I was only curious.

Mrs O’S admitted it was the first and only time she had witnessed a pupil being caned so close up and in such a manner, therefore it had stuck in her mind. She was indifferent as to whether it was deserved or not, but just assumed it was. I asked her why she had looked at me so closely. She laughed, not sure if due to nerves or the wine, but said that when she was a schoolgirl, boys would be caned frequently at her school. They would never see it, but could often hear the caning if the boy was taken to the next class room to be caned.

I asked if the whole caning episode had excited her. She was quite curt, saying it hadn’t, although when she was at a grammar school, she and her friends got goosebumps when a boy was taken out, and then they heard him being caned, which she was ashamed to admit they enjoyed. I was unable to steer this any further, much as I would have liked to. I have had many dreams of being caned by Mrs O’S, but unfortunately was never able to deliver in to reality.

Ac

One of the puzzling things about Bishop M was, as a rule, he was fairly consistent in the way he conducted his paddling sessions, but on some occasions, he would deviate from the ‘norm’. Although he never fondled us or touched us inappropriately like some I have read about, looking back on those days I now believe that he got some type of thrill out of spanking us. This particular session especially makes me believe that.

Our classes ended at 3:00 pm and we got to spend the next 2 1/2 hours playing outside. When the final class bell rang, we would run to our living quarters and change into our play clothes, which consisted of pastel blue gym shorts that had ‘J Smith’ embroidered on the right leg, a light gray T-shirt with the same thing on the left breast area, and white socks and light blue canvas shoes.

Several of us were in a hurry because today was kickball day and I loved kickball. The rules say that when you change out of your school clothes, you are supposed to hang the blouses ands skirts up, place your socks in the hamper and put your shoes under your bed. Since they rarely checked our quarters during this period, several of us had gotten lazy in this area. I just threw my clothes on my bed and went outside.

I had been outside about 30 minutes or so when I heard Bishop M yell: “Stacy!”

He then pointed a beckoning finger at her. Then he called Terri, Brenda, Cathy, Sally, Me, Julie and Marisa, and did the same. Once we were all gathered around him, he said: “Follow me.”

We followed him into the school and to his office where he held the door open as we all went inside. Then he sat on the edge of his desk and asked us what the rules were regarding the proper procedure of putting away one’s school clothes.

“We’re supposed to hang them up,” said Sally in a low voice.

“That’s right,” replied Bishop M. “Is there anyone here who can honestly say they were not aware of that rule? And did anyone follow it?”

We all just shook our heads, to which the principal declared: “That’s what I thought! And you 8 are here because I went through your quarters and noted who had not followed the rules. Because of your laziness, you each will receive 30 swats that, hopefully, will give you some energy to remember to do things the right way.”

As he was speaking, I looked at the other 7 girls and realized that it was a blond brigade. Only Marisa and I were brunette. Everyone had their hair in pigtails except Terri, who had a ponytail. Also unusual was that everyone here was in the 6th grade. Usually, I was paddled with a few on either side of my grade.

Then he told us to remove our T-shirts and gym shorts, but not our panties, then to place them on the bench that was to our right. As we did as instructed, he took one of the chairs along the wall and placed it in the center of the empty area in front of his desk. 3 of the girls (Stacy, Sally and Terri) were wearing only panties, bra, shoes and socks. Me and the other 4 had no bra, since we had no use for one. After a similar session in the 5th grade, I had asked why we had to take off our shirts and was told because the shirts were long and got in the way during the paddling. How convenient.

Instead of his usual asking for volunteers he just pointed at Stacy, then to the chair and told her to lower her panties, bend over the chair and grab the rung. You would think that since we had been told not to remove our panties, why did we have to pull them down for the paddling? It made no sense to me.

Stacy lowered her panties and bent over into position. Bishop M took his paddle and lightly rubbed it back and forth a few times and then gave her the first ten swats. She yelped an “Oh!” then began breathing through her teeth. Her blond pigtails jerked back and fro in time with the smacks.

He paused for several seconds and then began to talk during her second set.

“I expect the rules (SWAT) to be followed (SWAT) and the rules about (SWAT) hanging your clothes up (SWAT) is no exception (SWAT). If you forget to do this (SWAT) in the future, you will (SWAT) be right back here receiving (SWAT) the needed correction (SWAT).

Stacy’s breathing intensified a bit about halfway through the set. I also noticed how one of her shoe strings was untied.

During set three, I noticed that her breasts moved a little, but her bra stifled much of the shaking. As swat number 30 hit, Stacy started coughing a bit as she tried to put on a brave face. He told her to get up and then called my name. She went over to the bench and began putting on her shorts and shirt.

“Ok Rachel,” he said, pointing to the chair.

I was excited since I enjoyed getting my paddling near the beginning and then watching the others.

I went to the chair and he said, “Pull down your panties and bend over, please.”

I slid my panties to just above my knees, bent over and grabbed the rung. I felt his cool left hand on my back as he rubbed the paddle in his right a few times on my butt.

I tensed up with a bit of excitement as I got ready for the first ten. The first one was always the most difficult because it brought about such a change. As I received the whacks, I would try to do remote viewing in that I would imagine a close-up view of my bottom. At the same time, I would concentrate on the good feeling the stinging would bring as I peered through the open space on the chair between the back and seat.

As I was being swatted, thoughts would go through my head; something like (SWAT), “Ooh that one really stung! (SWAT), There’s that feeling I like (SWAT), I wonder if anyone (SWAT) notices that I like swats. (SWAT) Oh, that was a good one. I’m going to shift my behind to the left a bit. (SWAT). Oh, that’s good, and now I’ll shift to the right. (SWAT) Yeah, that’s good. (SWAT) The feeling is really strong now (SWAT).

During his customary pauses between sets I would close my eyes and concentrate on the stinging for a bit and then get ready for the next set. After the last set, I would lie in position until he would tell me to get up. Then I returned to the bench with a distraught look on my face to avoid giving myself away and I put on my clothes.

Next he called Brenda. Brenda bent over and I noticed how she gritted her teeth and tensed up her face as she got ready. Brenda,. Like Stacy, began breathing through her teeth after the third or fourth swat and would bob her head up and down, making her short blond pig-tails wobble.

During the pause between the next set, she said in a broken voice: “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”

Bishop M replied, “That’s good,” and proceeded to give her the next set. She breathed even louder and would flex her legs slightly.

Then set number 3 was delivered and she inserted a couple of “Ow’s” in her breaths. He removed his left hand from her back, and she got up and got dressed.

Next was Sally who was among the more developed in our group. She had ample breasts and a really curvy derriere. She lowered her panties and bent over the chair.

As he rubbed the paddle on her bottom, I thought I heard him say: “Yeah!” but I was not positive.

Then Bishop M gave her the introductory ten.

She began saying “oh!” and “ow!” after each one, but in a very low volume. Sally, like Cathy, had a very light complexion and I noticed that her butt became pink very quickly.

As she received set number two, I watched her butt bounce back into shape after each paddle strike. For whatever reason, this reinforced my good feeling that I was still experiencing.

I noted how Sally would stiffen her arms while the swats were being given and then, during the pauses, she would relax them and turn her head to the left toward us standing by the bench. For the duration of her paddling, I watched her jiggling bra-clad breasts and her ever reddening behind.

Next was Marisa, the cute olive- toned gild of Italian ancestry. She pulled down her panties to just below her butt and got into position. Bishop M pulled them to her knees and then proceeded to give her the first ten. I never understood why they had to be at your knees since it didn’t make any difference on what you felt. She said “ow” to the first six or seven swats before finally breaking into a low volume cry.

Just as the second set was distributed, she scooted the chair forward a few inches which brought a stern warning from the principal.

“Please do not move, OK?”

“Ok,” came the weak response, to which Bishop M commended her with: “Good girl.”

I was kind of jealous that he had not said that to me. Her brown pigtails shook to the beat.

Then set number 3 came and she cried louder and shook her head more. He let her up and called Cathy over.

My friend Cathy was a common companion of mine during these paddling sessions because we were best friends and often got in trouble together. She started whimpering as she pulled down her panties and assumed the position. He rubbed the paddle on her butt about 8 times and then tapped it a few times. She looked behind her to anticipate the swats and, as the first ten arrived, she tip-toed on her shoes and then began crying loudly. Cathy tells me today that she liked paddlings some too, but I would have never guessed it.

The second set brought about the same reaction as the first. Cathy really would shake her head a lot during the swats which made interesting viewing.

Set three was not much different either, except by the time it was over her previously really white butt was now really red.

As she got up and came to where we were to retrieve her shorts and shirt, she said to me, “I only forgot to put up my skirt.”

“Terri, you’re next,” he said as he pointed at her and then to the chair.

She lowered her underwear and got ready. The first set brought a loud response as she let out an: “Eeeeooowwww,” followed by crying. She moved her legs a lot, which made her panties fall to the ground and brought a rebuke from Bishop M. I thought to myself that this group really has a low threshold of pain.

As he paused between the sets, he tapped her butt lightly about 15 times before giving her the real thing. Her bra-clad breast moved a bit, but not as much as the other two had.

He tapped her butt about 15 times again just before the third set and I wondered why he did this. I could see it brought more apprehension to her facial expression, but I’m not sure if that was his motive. Finally, he gave her set three and she coughed a little like Stacy had.

Last but not least was Julie. She was already whimpering slightly when she approached the chair and pleaded for mercy.

He looked at her and said: “Don’t argue with me, girl. Now pull down those panties and bend over, unless you want more!”

Her crying intensified a bit as she followed his orders and got prepared. The first ten brought an even louder yelp of “ahh” and she shook her blond pigtails hard.

He inhaled audibly during the pause and then gave her set number two. She tensed and replaced her arms several times, making her head bob up and down.

I thought it was over after he delivered the last set, when he noticed that she was not wearing any socks with her tennis shoes.

“Because I wanted to get to the playground faster,” she blubbered.

She started to stand up a bit when he pushed back into position and told her she was getting another 10, which he immediately gave her. She was now almost crying and he told her to tone it down if she didn’t want more. She quieted a bit and he removed his left hand from her back and let her up.

As she got dressed, he told us that he would be inspecting the quarters more often and if we wanted to be back here for more paddlings, then we just had to leave our clothes lying around again.

What a great idea!

RB

I’d be interested to know whether any other readers have received spanks or smacks, even token ones, as young adults. It’s happened to me several times.

My first was June 1987. It was three months past my 18th birthday and I was swotting like crazy for my imminent A level exams.

I came downstairs for a break from swotting and, this being the middle of the 1987 General Election campaign, was confronted with a politician greatly detested in our house on TV.

I bent towards the TV and gave the politician in question a huge two-fingered salute. Instantly I felt Mum’s hand ‘spank’ across my bottom. In shock, I spun round as the strong sting spread through my bottom. It felt as if my pyjamas and knickers had simply melted away.

“Mum!” I protested. “We don’t like them!”

“That doesn’t matter,” lectured Mum. “You don’t do that! Go and make us both a cup of tea!”

Er

As healthy 12-year old’s, Cathy, Sally, and me often found the compound and its school very boring. Even though it was in the swinging sixties, the school imposed strict rules regarding what we could do, where we could go, whom we could see and how we were allowed to dress. It was for this reason that we regularly seemed to find some trouble to get into.  In fact, I had just received a spanking the week before for not hanging my school clothes up after changing into my play clothes.

Each of us was dressed in the regulation school uniform of white blouse, blue plaid skirt, ankle socks and shiny black strap shoes. The routine on that Monday morning was the same as any other. Wake up, get dressed, go to school, play for a couple of hours and then get ready for bed.  On Wednesday, Friday and Sunday, prayers were said and Mormon hymns sung before retiring.

And so it was on a beautiful late summer morning just after the school year had began, we three girls were chit-chatting in the back of Sister Gann’s science class.

As we talked about simple nothings, Sally said, “Hey, I have something to show you.”

She then reached into her book bag and presented a pretty glass bottle of something.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Yeah, what is it?” chimed Cathy.

“It’s perfume, you dopes,” replied Sally. “Haven’t you seen perfume before?”

(Note: As Fundamentalist Mormons, we were told not to use things like lipstick, makeup, perfume and the like, as it was too ‘worldly.)

She handed me the bottle and, after turning the bottle around, saw it was something called ‘Chanel No 5’.

I sniffed the cap and said, “It smells cool.”

“Yeah,” agreed Cathy.

I looked at her and asked, “Where did you get it?”

“From Sister Anderson’s purse,” came the shocking answer.

She then took the bottle, sprayed some on my upper chest and neck area and then did the same to Cathy.  She repeated the actions on herself, except she gave herself and extra shot. We were so naïve at the time we did not realize how far the scent would travel, and soon most of the class was sniffing the air and displaying looks of confusion.

Soon, Sister Gann asked the class: “Who is wearing perfume?”

We three sat in silence, but our cover was blown when Greg spoke up, saying: “I saw Sally, Cathy and Rachel doing something suspicious in the back a few moments ago.”

“What an ass-hat,” I thought.

The teacher then walked back to where we were sitting and leaned in to
each of us and took a whiff.

“It is you three.  Who has the perfume?” she demanded.

“I do,” admitted Sally.

“And how did it get on Cathy and Rachel?”

I love Cathy and she is my best friend, but sometimes she’s sharp as a
marble, as her following reply will demonstrate.

“We let her put it on us.”

“Well, you three will be seeing the Bishop about this,” she retorted as she grabbed Sally’s book bag and took it with her.

Nothing else was said and when the lunch bell rang, we left and headed for the lunchroom. Upon our arrival, as we stood in line, everyone around us, including the ladies serving the food, all sniffed as we walked by. The same happened as we sat down to eat.

We heard several “What stinks?” or “What is that smell?” comments during the lunch period. Sister G walked by and told the three of us that she had spoken to Bishop M and he would be talking to us soon.

At the end of our lunch period, the Bishop made the normal routine administrative announcements.  Only right at the end of the assembly did the Bishop announce, “I would like to see Cathy, Rachel and Sally in my office immediately after lunch time.”

The whole school seemed to turn to look at us three girls, who blushed deeply.  Everyone knew what such a summons meant.

The three of us walked silently to his office, but nobody seemed overly disturbed by the unpleasant prospect of an appointment with the Bishop and a strong desire to exact revenge on the boy that had informed on us. All three of us had had an occasion to visit the Bishop on recent previous occasions, and we were acutely aware of what awaited us. Some of our friends gave us small smiles of encouragement, others were not so kind.

One girl even whispered, “I bet you and your pink behinds won’t be sitting comfortably tonight!”

Upon arrival, we opened the door and stood in the corridor that separated the hall from the Bishop’s office for a few moments. We all entered the Bishop’s office without even a glance at the large imposing father figure to our right. The polished wood floor creaked under our shoes as we walked inside. The big heavy oak door on the office closed behind us with a loud ‘CLUNK’.  The Bishop sat behind the big leather topped desk. The contents of Sally’s bag were spread on the desktop before her.  Besides the bottle of perfume, it also contained a pack of cigarettes.

“What have you three got to say for yourselves?” demanded the Bishop.

Cathy, Sally and I hung our heads and looked at the deep oak-brown floor.
Over the next ten minutes the whole story came out.  We were wise enough not to lie.

The Bishop lectured us for another 10 minutes. He reminded us that whilst we were at school, he was responsible for making us into respectable God-fearing children. The school rules were designed to protect us girls, not restrict. By disobeying the rules, we had placed ourselves at risk.  And then there was the question of the cigarettes. Smoking was strictly prohibited at the school; girls caught smoking were always punished.

I was looking forward to this session because Sally, like me, apparently found some kind of pleasure in getting paddled.

Finally, the Bishop passed sentence. “Cathy and Rachel, you will
each receive 30 swats on your bottoms for using the perfume. Sally, you will get 60 for the perfume and cigarettes.

We could see the wooden chair over which we would soon be bent, and the paddle lying on his desk. He then instructed us to remove our blue-plaid skirts and lay them on his desk.  Once done, we were then told to remove our blouses and place them on our skirts already on the desk, and then place our hands on our heads. As we stood there wearing only socks, shoes and panties, a cool breeze blew gently along our backs reminding us of our partial nakedness and vulnerability.  We had known the likely consequences of our actions but we somehow always believed we would not be caught; now Cathy and Sally wondered if it had been worth it.

Then the phone range and Bishop M went to answer it while we waited in silence, staring fixedly at the floor.  About five minutes later, he told the caller he had some business to tend to and hung the receiver in its cradle.

“Cathy, you’re first,” he blurted in his usual gruff voice, and pointed to the chair.

As she approached the chair, he stopped her, cupped her chin in his hand and said, “I do this because I love you girls and Gods expects me to do it, do you understand that?”

“Yes sir,” she replied in an uneasy tone.

“Now bend over the back of the chair and grab the rung just below the seat.”

Immediately Cathy bent over the top of the chair and grasped the rung, her legs pressed together.  He then grasped the waistband of her white panties and pulled them to her knees. Cathy’s bare bottom quivered slightly in anticipation.

After placing his dark left hand in the middle of her pale back, he rubbed the paddle on her small derrière a few times, let out a sigh and said: “Here we go.”

Then there was a swish and the sound of the paddle contacting on bare flesh.
As usual, he took about 5 seconds between swats.

During the pause between sets, Cathy began her usual pleading and begging to be spared further punishment, her promise never to be naughty again, but the sound of the paddle swishing began again and the smacking against bare flesh continued. Her short blond pigtails danced to the beat.

The paddling took longer than it otherwise might because Cathy could not remain completely in position over the chair; she kept trying to stand up a bit.

He then said, “Please do not try to stand,” as his left hand pressed harder on her back to keep her in place.  Cathy resumed her position before continuing with the punishment. Finally, it was over, and the Bishop gave Cathy permission to rise.  She stood up, reached down to pull up her panties and a tearful Cathy came and stood to my left.

I was next and I knew the routine. I bent over the chair and grabbed the rung. Like Cathy, I felt a shiver as my panty’s waistband slid across my 12-year old bottom as he pulled them down, which was followed by his cool left hand pressing on my back. His hands are cool all the time, so I decided he must be part reptile.

He often would perform some pious act during the paddling to “remind” himself why he was doing this.  As he rubbed the paddle on my bottom he said, “In the name of the Father, The Son, and the Holy Ghost,” and then commenced with the paddling. The first one lit up my bottom, giving me that stinging sensation that was both good and bad. The following nine added to the feeling that I was beginning to enjoy.

Then he said, “Stay in position,” as he went to his desk to write something.  As I stood there with the chair back pressing into my tummy and grasping the rung I could still hear Cathy sniffing to my left.  It was an experience that was not new to me, but it felt weird just waiting there in position. Like before, I would look at my knees in the open space between the chair back and seat.

Then he returned, rubbed his left hand up and down my back and said: “Good girl,” and he began to deliver the next ten swats. The good sensations became reinforced as the light, but numerous swats found their target. Like previous times, I would try to shift my butt a little between swats to even out the feeling.

As the third set began, I must have moved a bit too much which resulted in his pausing for a moment to tell me to be still. I thought about how it made me happy when he said “Good girl” to me. After swat number 30 was delivered, he told me to join Cathy, who was still sniffing away.

Bishop M turned, looked at Sally with a stern expression and said, “You’re last, but definitely not least,” and beckoned her to the chair.

As she walked by, I noticed the Bishop looking at her up and down.  Sally was a very pale complexioned girl with bright red hair and had a very plump rump. It wasn’t wide, but it really jutted out. In fact, it looked as if her panties could barely contain it.  It was a behind I envied.

Like Cathy and I did before her, Sally made her way to the chair and bent over it, grasping the rung below the seat. She felt her panties being lowered and he seemed to pull them down in slow motion. Every nerve in her bottom was alive as she waited anxiously for the punishment to begin. She sensed rather than saw the Bishop pick up the paddle from the desk and heard his footsteps approach.

Standing beside her, the Bishop again tested the paddle area by rubbing it a few times before beginning, and I noticed Sally’s cheeks clench in reaction to the preparation.

The Bishop’s voice said, “60 strokes, Sally, do not stand up until I give you permission to do so.”

Sally nodded and then felt the paddle tap lightly on her bottom, followed by the pain as the paddle smacked into her buttocks.

He took his customary ten-swat pause to enjoy his handy work and then began speaking during the next ten, “I (SWAT) do not expect (SWAT) to see you (SWAT) in here again (SWAT) regarding either (SWAT) smoking (SWAT) or stealing (SWAT). Do you (SWAT) understand me?” (SWAT, SWAT).

“Yes,” came the answer that did not seem distressed, followed by his “Well, good.”

During the next ten Sally tried desperately to remain in position, but her bottom insisted on shifting itself from side to side after each stroke like I had done earlier.  Between each swat, she’d shift her behind to the left and then to the right.

Each few times, he would tell her to stop moving and then give her the “Good girl” comment.

Like Cathy before her, Sally apologized and she swore she would never do anything naughty again, but the paddling continued.

After the 40th swat, his left hand shifted from the middle of her back to her shoulder as he pulled slightly and told her to stand and look at him. Sally, crying mildly, released the chair rung and stood up.

She turned to Bishop M who then said, “You will return the perfume to its rightful owner, do you understand?”

Sally nodded in reply and he grabbed her shoulder, twisted slightly to get her again facing the chair and then placed his left hand on the upper back and pushed her down over the chair. As she was pushed, her panties fell all the way down, coming to rest on her shiny black Mary Jane shoes. Her breathing intensified a bit as he rubbed the paddle on her bottom again and delivered the final twenty swats in one set.

I always became transfixed on how her bottom delightfully bounced back after each swat.  It seemed to reinforce my good sensation.

After all, 60 strokes had been delivered, Sally was allowed to stand and rejoin us.  We three girls stood facing Bishop M, still only wearing panties, socks and shoes, and our hands on our head.  Only when the Bishop had reiterated what brought us here for the punishments were we dismissed to put back on our skirt and blouse and return to our quarters.

Nobody said anything as we walked back to our ‘den’.  All you heard was the residual sniffing and the clap of our shoes on the tiled floor.  I was thinking to myself, ‘Why do I find spankings so interesting and kind of fun?’

It was an answer that was to elude me for years.

RB

Several of the girls on the estate where I lived were keen on playing football. Our parents all thought we should play it in the park at the end of the street but whenever we did, boys would come and join in uninvited and spoil the game by keeping the ball away from us, so we preferred to gather in someone’s garden.

As you can imagine, the location had to change every time we got banned from a garden, such as at our house when Mum saw the ball hit the kitchen window. Luckily, it didn’t break or I would have certainly had another spanking to tell you about!

On this particular day we were at the home of a girl called Flipper (she was really called Philippa) who’s parents didn’t mind us playing there. The good thing about her garden was that the neighbours on both sides were nice, and so were the people in the next street whose back garden was on the other side of the hedge from the end of Flipper’s.

This meant that if the ball was kicked over the hedge into any of the three adjoining properties there was no problem retrieving it. There was even a gap in the hedge at the back so that we could get it back without having to go round the block to the next street.

Unfortunately, the nice people in that house lived next door to Mr Brown. Mr Brown was a really grumpy old man who hated children and was always complaining, and no one on the estate liked him.

So it was with some dismay that I saw the ball I had just kicked go over the fence in the corner and land in his garden. We knew that if we went round and asked for it back, he would refuse. In fact, we knew about an occasion when someone else had kicked a ball into his garden and he had punctured it with a garden fork. The only way we could get it back was by sneaking into his garden.

Flipper and I went through the hedge into his neighbour’s garden. Typically for such a bad tempered old man, he had a very high fence around his property so we couldn’t see over it to see where the ball had landed, or even whether he was out there himself, although we guessed that if he had seen the ball he would have been shouting about it.

Flipper gave me a hand up so that I could see over the fence, and the coast was clear, so with her help I got over the high fence. I eventually spotted the ball nestled in one of his well-tended flower beds and ran to retrieve it. I ran back to the corner and threw the ball back into Flipper’s garden, then realised there was no way I could get back over the fence without assistance.

At the same moment I realised this, I heard a yell from behind me and turned to see he old man, red in the face, advancing towards me. I had to take evasive action, and the only way to do that was to avoid the lawn and run through more of his flower beds to escape at the front of his house.

I ran back to Flipper’s, where all the girls were in hysterics listening to the unseen pensioner ranting about what he thought about children in general and me in particular. It seemed that he had not seen me throw the ball back, though, and didn’t know where I had come from because he didn’t come round to Flipper’s house demanding justice.

We sensibly gave up the game at that point and went to the park to hang out on the swings, smoking fags and trying to look cool.

At teatime, I went home and Dad immediately informed me that he had had a visitor.

“You were in Mr Brown’s garden trampling over his flower beds.” He stated.

I admitted it, pointing out that it was the only way to get our ball back.

“You know what a miserable old sod he is.” I said, thinking that Dad would agree and we would just have a laugh about it.

“Yes, he is a miserable old sod, and that’s why I don’t want to have to spend my time listening to him rant about my naughty daughter. I don’t like the man, but he spends a lot of time on his garden and you have no right to go in there and destroy all his hard work.”

I turned away and looked out of the window.

“Sorry,” I muttered. I didn’t like being told off. I blamed the old man. I wouldn’t have needed to trample his flowers if he wasn’t such a grumpy so and so.

“Anyway, he reckoned you need a good hiding and I told him that’s just what you are going to get. Get up those stairs.”

I climbed the stairs, hearing the hall cupboard open and close as I went. Dad followed me into my bedroom and sat on the bed. He pulled down my shorts and pants and positioned me over his knee.

If Mr Brown was within hearing distance, and I imagine that he was, (If he thought I was going to get a whacking, he would not have wanted to miss it and was probably watching the house, waiting for me to come home), my dad made sure the old sod would be satisfied with my punishment.

He gave my bare bum thirty stinging whacks with the slipper and showed me no mercy, no matter how loudly I howled. When he left me, I examined my bum in the mirror and it was as vividly marked as any of my most severe spankings. As colourful a mix of red and purple as the flowers I had destroyed in Mr Brown’s garden.

H