I was 16 years old, late in my sophomore year of high school. It was the early 1990s. I went to a school that paddled fairly regularly – not at the drop of a hat, and only the vice-principal or principal could decide you had earned one, but it wasn’t super rare either.
Under normal circumstances, girls were actually paddled by a female gym teacher, boys usually by the vice-principal. This wasn’t an official rule though, just a general policy – one that I found out, painfully, wasn’t beyond being bent or broken if need be.
I was young, and felt very much like attracting the attention of as many young men as I could. On occasion, I took to not wearing a bra with shirts that definitely needed one. This was a definite violation of the school dress code, but I got away with it three or four times. Then one day…I didn’t.
I was sitting in my second to last period of the day when rather suddenly Mrs Jackson asked if I would please speak with her privately at her desk. She was either embarrassed to say it out loud, or trying not to embarrass me, but she apparently saw some, let’s say, jiggling as I had moved around.
Very quietly she told me she was pretty sure I was violating the dress code and that she was going to send me to the office. She wrote a quick note and I went on my way down. I knew there was a decent chance my ass was going to be paddled but I was hoping for detention – and crossing my fingers that my mom wouldn’t freak out when she found out. I had no idea just how bad my day was about to get…
At the office, I waited for probably ten minutes before Mr Washburn, the vice-principal, called me in. He asked me point-blank to my face: “Are you wearing appropriate underwear?” I just went ahead and told the truth – it saved both him and I the awkwardness of him getting a woman to check, I guess. He pointed out, correctly, that this was my third trip to the office that semester. He said that he saw ‘no recourse except corporal punishment’. Those were his exact words. Who talks like that?
I know some schools delay corporal punishment a day or two, or a note has to be signed first etc, but ours wasn’t like that at all. They tended to just get it done immediately. I was getting ready for Mr Washburn to either send me to the gym or call Mrs Bradford down to the office when he dropped a bombshell. Mrs Bradford was on her way to coach an away softball game that was far enough away that the team bus had left before the end of the school day. That meant Mr Washburn would have to, regrettably, handle this himself. He called my mom, talked for less than two minutes, then had his secretary come in to witness my punishment.
I’d been paddled before, I knew the routine, but suddenly this was so much scarier. Mr Washburn wasn’t a particularly large man but he wasn’t a small one either. As I bent over his desk, I thought for a moment about the fact that he was staring at my ass in slightly too tight jeans, but even more about what was about to happen to my behind.
Well, for one thing, he was a lot quicker than Mrs Bradford. Pop, pop, pop and and it was over in less than 20 seconds. But oh my Christ! I swear the first pop alone was worse than a full paddling from Mrs Bradford. I screamed my head off. I legit cried. Not a few tears and sniffles, I mean I was crying.
I had to sign a form, and then Mr Washburn told me he was really very sorry that he had to do the paddling (and I honestly believed him, and still do to this day) and he told me I could take my time composing myself as long as I got back to my last class in time to be told the assignments.
I did what any sensible, well spanked teenager would, and ducked into a bathroom to cry and check the damage. And, again, oh my Christ! My butt had a huge purple mark on the right cheek, a smaller one on the left and red all around both. There was no doubt bruises were in my immediate future. I struggled to get my jeans back up, dried my eyes as best I could and slipped into class for the last 10 or 15 minutes, keeping my head down so nobody saw my face.
Thankfully, I walked to school, because riding a bus would’ve been torture. My mom still loomed, and I knew she wasn’t going to be happy. Breaking school roles and being ‘slutty’? I was in a whole hell of a lot of trouble.
As I got into the house, there was mom, and laying at my ‘spot’ at the table was a pair of scissors. I knew what it meant, instantly, and started begging: “Please, mommy, not a switch! I’m sorry! My butt is already bruised. I’m sorry! Please, no, please, please” etc. She literally didn’t say a word, just waited until I talked myself out and then pointed at the back door. So out a-switch-picking I went.
Switchings were very rare. This was only the third of my life. They were for only the most severe punishments. As I found a decent branch of the bushes behind our house, I started crying again, cut it, and cleaned off all the twigs and leaves and bumps, getting it ready to tan my own hide.
Slowly I walked back into the house, and my mom finally spoke. “Strip.” “What?” “You want to show off your body? You can show me.”
Well, off went my clothes, and I cried some more. My mom told me to get my little ass over the back of the chair, and as I turned around, I heard her gasp. I don’t think she had believed me when I told her how bruised I was. For a moment, I thought I would get a reprieve, but just as I started thinking that…swish, swish, swish, and I was screaming again.
In all honesty, it was the shortest switching I ever got – probably not more than 20 licks (usually it was more like 50) – but given the state my butt was in, it was also the worst.
Later, Mom told me she almost decided to wait a day but felt that might’ve been too mean, a whole day waiting for that whipping, and then her giving me the full thing. Gee, thanks mom! So merciful!