Smacked at last

When I was 11 years old I moved to a new school. My new teacher was called Miss Cawthorne. She was a tall, well-dressed lady who smelled sweetly of violets and kept a little bell on her desk by which to bring the class to attention.

She was the first really strict teacher I had ever encountered, and coming from a school where corporal punishment was extremely rare, I was soon in for a rude awakening.

I witnessed two spankings on my first day. A boy called Ian was called to the front of the class for persistent talking, made to bend over with his hands resting flat on the seat of a chair and then smacked three times with a very worn plimsoll.

The spanking wasn’t particularly hard but I remember being shocked and strangely excited by it. Later in the day, when Miss Cawthorne smacked a little girl’s bottom several times while the girl was standing disgraced in the corner, my head was reeling.

I went home and replayed the two incidents over and over again, imagining what it would be like to bend over and feel the sting of Miss Cawthorne’s plimsoll on my bottom.

Once I had settled into the class, my mischievous nature began to assert itself. I was warned several times that I would end up being spanked. Miss Cawthorne’s ominous words, always delivered face-to-face while she grasped the child’s hand to be sure of their full attention, made butterflies swoop inside my stomach. How could something I longed for so badly fill me with such dread?

One afternoon, I was being particularly difficult during an art lesson. Miss Cawthorne drew me to one side, her hand firmly holding me under the armpit, and lifted me to the tips of my toes. She then reached around and smacked my bottom almost lovingly three times. She then sat down and brought me to her side, where she could speak to me face-to-face.

“The next time I smack your bottom, young man, you will be in tears. Is that understood?” That was understood. I was a good boy for the rest of the day. So good in fact that I barely lifted my face out of a book. Miss Cawthorne was delighted with the result, and said the smacked bottom had done me the world of good.

However, a few days later I was up to my old tricks again. While the rest of the class were sent out to play, I was kept back and told to approach the desk, where Miss Cawthorne sat sternly on a chair.

“You won’t understand this,” she began, “but good children need to be smacked more than bad children. And while some children need one or two smacks with my slipper, others need a good old-fashioned spanking to keep them on the right track.”

I knew what was going to happen next. That was strange, because I had never seen a child being spanked in the way that I was about to be spanked, except in comic books and once in a television movie, but I gazed down reverently at her lap and knew for certain that I was soon to be positioned across it.

That day she was wearing a black trouser suit. She had strong, broad thighs, over which I was now gently laid. My feet didn’t touch the floor and my arms hung limply down the other side.

I was expecting a rapid salvo of stinging smacks, each new slap delivered before the pain of its predecessor had even time to register – but they didn’t come. For a long time I lay over her knee while she lectured me in kind, concerned way. Then there was a pause. I tensed, relaxed, tensed again and eventually went limp, resigned to the fact that Miss Cawthorne would spank me in her own good time.

At that precise moment, the first blow fell – and it was a blow, not a slap. Her hand thumped the seat of my thin shorts like a heavy book. The wind left me in a grunt of pain and surprise. The next blow fell a short time after. Again it was solid and hard, as though she was using a leather paddle on my bottom.

I twisted my head around just in time to see Miss Cawthorne’s empty palm descending. I cried out and kicked my legs. Miss Cawthorne secured me by the waist and delivered an incalculable number of hard, rhythmical spanks which landed musically on my bottom like perfectly-timed drumbeats.

When I was eventually let up and steered sobbing into the corner to consider my punishment, my bottom felt stiff and bruised and sore as hell. The fire she lit there glowed for more than an hour and didn’t fully subside until much later that evening. It was still sore to the touch for two days, during which time I padded my school chair with my coat.

Needless to say, I was a model pupil from then on.

Contributor: Gary

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