I was at a grammar school from 1967 to 1972. I was not good at French and found it very tedious.
But in my second year, we had a female French student teacher – she was about 21 and very pretty. You can imagine the interest she created in an all-boys school. She would take us for one French lesson per week, in place of our normal teacher.
She was only slightly taller than me, but very pretty. She always wore a crisp white blouse and a short navy blue skirt. She had long hair that went down to her shoulders, always worn loose.
I got off on the wrong foot with her almost immediately – she admonished me for not paying attention. She told me to wait behind at the end of the class. I was told in no uncertain terms that if I caused any kind of disruption in the future, even though I was 13 she would punish me strongly (her wording). I never gave it much thought at the time. It was pretty routine for a master to give you the slipper or cane, but only ever three or four strokes and they stung rather than hurt.
The next time we had a lesson with this French student was on a Monday. The last period before lunch. I was called out for talking again, and she whispered to me to stay behind after the class was finished.
When all the others had gone, the teacher told me to stand on a chair with my hands on my head. I did as I was told. She went and locked the door, and also pulled down a blind at the window which looked out into a hallway. I felt pretty stupid standing on a chair with my hands on my head, but not really worried.
She approached me. “You are a rude boy. I will give you a lesson in manners.” She then proceeded to tie her hair back in a pony tail, take off her jacket and roll up her sleeves. I started to worry.
My uniform was grey short trousers, grey shirt and a tie, long grey socks, black shoes, and grey sports jacket. Long trousers were for the 3rd year and above.
Once she had made her preparations, she came behind me, pulled down my socks and began to slap my calves. At first it did not hurt much but she just carried on and on, never saying a word. After a few minutes, I was grunting in pain with every slap.
When I started to hop from leg to leg, she said: “Bon.” She then came round to the front and did exactly the same on my thighs. After another few minutes, she stopped and looked up at me – I was near to tears, but not crying.
She told me to get down. I thought that was it, but she then said I was take off my jacket and shoes. I asked why and she slapped my face and told me to do it. She pulled a chair into the middle of the room and sat on it. She called me to her, I stood in front of her, and she told me to turn around. She pulled my shirt out of my shorts and then did the same at the front.
I said: “Please Miss, I’m sorry.” In silence, she spun me round, then my stomach jumped as she undid my shorts and pulled them down. She made me step out of them, then she pulled down my underpants and did the same. I was so ashamed.
She then took me over her lap, put one arm round my waist and lifted my shirt well clear of my bottom, Then she spanked me for what seemed like ages. I started to kick and struggle, but she held me firm – I was reduced to crying like a baby. She only used her hand the whole time but she hurt me like I’d never been hurt before.
Finally she stopped, and told me to get up and get dressed. When I’d dressed, she hugged me and told me that if she had reason to punish me again, she’d use her strap. It was the only time I was in trouble with her, and whereas we all told each other when a master caned us, I have told no-one…until now.
Contributor: Andrew