A second helping

During my primary school years in France, there was essentially a legal gap regarding the practice of corporal punishment – it was neither authorised nor forbidden. The choice was left to the teachers, and some were pretty avid spankers. I unfortunately had two of them (when I was nine and 10) and received some of my most embarrassing spankings from them.

There was something very humiliating in having to settle yourself obediently over your teacher’s waiting lap in front of a whole class, then getting smacked (usually two dozen stinging slaps) until you cried, even if you tried not to. The march of shame back to your seat – sobbing and trying not to catch any of your classmates’ eyes – was really a bad moment too.

However, once the correction had been administered, there usually weren’t any further consequences. The only exception was if you were sent to the headmistress, where your trousers and underpants would be taken down for a more severe smacked bottom and a formal note was written for your parents.

Fortunately for me, for a long time Mum was under the impression that she would be warned each and every time I was smacked in school. Had she known my teachers had put me across their knee, I would have been certain of a further smacking from my mother, so through this assumption I escaped a lot of sore bottoms at home!

This run of luck abruptly ended one day when Mum came to collect me from school after our Saturday morning lessons (this was common practice in France for many years). I was enjoying a childish argument with a classmate while both our mothers chatted to each other.

I was mocking my friend’s recent clumsiness in a football game, and said: “At least I know how to score a penalty kick!” To which he immediately shot back: “Well, at least I haven’t been smacked by Mrs Lavaux, like you have!”

I was preparing my retort to this jibe, but was cut short by my mum. She had a dark look on her face and her hands were on her hips. “Oh yes?” she inquired. “Well, I’d be very interested to know when that happened!” Mum didn’t question my friend any further but I had the unpleasant feeling that she wasn’t finished with the subject.

In the car back home, Mum remained unusually silent, while I prayed she had forgotten my classmate’s unfortunate words. I was soon disappointed. Arriving home, she sent me to wait for her in my bedroom, which was the usual overture to a spanking. When Mum finally came in to see me, she was wearing her slippers – her favourite implements for chastising me) and was obviously unhappy with me. 

She sat on my bed and asked me why I had been smacked, as my classmate had mentioned. My answer was neither fast nor sincere enough for her – she quickly lowered my trousers and underpants to below my knees. I finally confessed that I had been caught talking in class several times. At that, I was dragged roughly over Mum’s lap, into the typical spanking position

Her open palm began raining down on my defenceless backside and I was thoroughly smacked and scolded for several minutes. During the spanking, Mum lectured me about the importance of my studies and the respect I should show towards my teachers.

Then she suddenly stopped. For a moment, I dared hope that my spanking was over but Mum continued to hold me firmly face down over her lap.

Then she asked me: “Daniel, why didn’t you tell me you had been punished in the first place?” I decided the only option was to be truthful with her. “Because I knew you would smack me too at home later.”

Despite my answeer being very obviously the very truth, if anything it seemed to make Mum even angrier. “That was a very unwise choice you made, my boy,” she said, “and I’m afraid it has only made this spanking the worse for you.”

At that, I felt her kick off her right slipper and lean forward to pick it up. Before I could protest or plead anymore, Mum started to whack my already sore bum relentlessly with the slipper. I was crying, howling in pain, punching the air and madly kicking.

Then, my correction was interrupted for the second time. Mum asked me: “Tell me, Daniel, has this also happened before?” I didn’t have an answer for that and Mum correctly took my silence as a confession. She began slippering me again, and beat me until I literally had no more tears to give. I was left like a limp rag draped over her knee, and my backside was incredibly sore.

Finally, the slipper came down for a final time and she rested it against my hot, crimson behind. I was shocked to notice through my throbbing buttocks that the sole of Mum’s slipper was now warm from the smacking it had just administered.

Mum let me up from her knee and put the slipper back on her foot. “Now, young man,” she said, “you will stay in your bedroom for the rest of the weekend. And tomorrow, I will spank you again at bedtime, for deliberately hiding your school troubles. If you are smacked in school in future, I expect to be told – and you can expect the slipper every time on your bare bottom. Do you understand?” I nodded, feeling my bottom continue to throb as I did so.

I spent Sunday in my bedroom, bored, alternating between homework and reading books, and hoping with all my heart that Mum would spare me another hiding.

However, that night, when I came back from brushing my teeth, I found her already seated on my bed. Her right sleeve was rolled up and the slipper was in her right hand. I was left in no doubt about what I was supposed to do. Without being told – and with tears beginning to well up in my eyes again – I obediently took down my pyjama trousers and bent over her knee. Mum grabbed my right wrist to prevent me from covering my bottom, then gave me my second sound spanking of the weekend.

After that, I never once failed to tell Mum about my school punishments, even if it invariably cost me a well-slippered bare bottom at home. The risk of a ‘second helping’ was always enough to prevent me from ‘forgetting’ to mention my misadventures again.

Contributor: Daniel

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