This happened when I was in eighth grade, which would be in the mid-1980s. I was 13. I’ve changed the teachers’ names just in case.
I, like most kids when and where I grew up, was spanked as a child. In my case, it was relatively mild. Hand to fully clothed bottom, or whatever I was wearing. Probably once or twice when I was very little, I got in trouble without being clothed, but you understand.
My spankings certainly weren’t nothing, but compared to what some other kids I knew got, or to what I see some kids got in the stories on your website, they were pretty light. The spankings were enough that I cried, but I was never still sore the next day.
They also stopped around the time I was 10 or 11 (the last time I was spanked before this day was sometime around my 11th birthday – also for getting in trouble at school)
I went to a school that had corporal punishment but it was rare for boys and virtually unheard of for us girls. Technically, yes we could be paddled, but up through the start of 8th grade, I never knew a single girl who was. There were rumours that a girl had been a few years ago, but I have no idea if that was true. Maybe one or two boys each year managed to get in enough trouble for the board, but not much more than that.
At the end of seventh grade, our principal Mr Anders retired. He was replaced by a much younger woman – the first woman principal at any school in the area, as far as we knew.
Mrs Jamison was probably not quite 30, and I vividly remember a friend’s father being outraged that the authorities could believe that ‘a little girl can control a school full of hormones’.
Well, it turns out that the idea that she would be a pushover, or soft and lax, was very much a mistake – as myself and my friend Caroline found out in the second week of her first term.
A rather common thing for 13-year-old girls who are bored in geography to do was passing notes. And, of course, that brings the risk of said note being intercepted by a teacher. So, hey, probably get called out, maybe the note gets read to the class, at worst we have to write a few lines. No big deal.
Except one of us (and I’m afraid 35 or so years later, I’ve forgotten which one) wrote a mild profanity. In this case, ‘ass’. Not really a bad word but one not allowed at school, of course. And especially not in the class of the one teacher at the school who could best be described as an ‘old church lady’.
She caught our note, she began to read it, she saw the offending word and off to the office we were sent. Well, damn. I hadn’t been in enough trouble at school for my parents to be told since my last spanking.
I wasn’t particularly worried I would be spanked (although for years ‘in trouble at school’ had meant a spanking) but I was pretty sure I was about to spend a week grounded.
Caroline and I bring both the note we were passing and the one our poor, scandalised teacher wrote for us. We gave it the secretary, who gave it to Mrs Jamison. Then we sat and waited for an eternity until she called us in.
I remember this so perfectly. She was calm – no hint of anger, but also no hint of warmth. She coldly asked us about the note. We admitted we had been passing it. I recall clearly she never once asked who wrote the offending word. I guess we were just equally guilty.
Then Mrs Jameson calmly told us she was calling our parents to inform them we would be paddled, then she would deal with us. She said it so casually and in such a matter-of-fact manner that I missed the import for a second.
I looked at Caroline and saw abject horror on her face and knew she had heard it too. It’s maybe worth noting that Caroline was one of just two classmates that I knew for an absolute fact still got spanked even at our advanced age, now in our teens.
We sat there stunned as Mrs Jameson first called Caroline’s house, then mine. We only heard one half of each conversation, but nothing indicated a great protest on the other end. Next thing I knew, the secretary was called back in, and I was asked to go sit outside again.
I sat there until I heard a thunderclap. I jumped. Then a second and something that might’ve been a yell. Then a third – and definitely a yell. And then…shit! A fourth, and now a scream.
An eternity passed in the next few minutes. I have no idea how long I actually waited between that last swat and the door opening. Probably not long but it felt like forever. Caroline wasn’t quite crying but the pain was obvious – and I was quietly gestured in.
It was handled quickly, and again calmly. I was told to bend over the desk, stretch out. Spread my legs a bit. To try and stay still because it would be easier. I felt Mrs Jameson tap my jeans with the board and thanked God I hadn’t been allowed to wear the kind of short skirt I would normally have wanted.
Then…oh God! It hurt so much worse than I expected. I mean, I knew it was going to hurt but damn! The second swat was lower and caught part of my left thigh. Mrs Jameson then waited for me to steady myself and the third was back on target and I confess, I started to cry. Like for real crying. Just a spanked little girl. I don’t know if Caroline was just tougher than me, or if it was because she was more used to being spanked.
At any rate, my tears moved Mrs Jamison exactly not a jot, and I swear the fourth one was even harder. She then told me to stand up and get my butt back to class. No follow up, no comfort, no further lecture.
What’s more, I knew, deep in my heart, that I was still in big trouble at home. Misbehaving at school was quite possibly the rule my mother felt strongest about. You can read all about that in another story.