I attended a small private primary school and unusually report cards were not a thing there. Communication between home and school was mostly in the form of a parent-teacher conference (held three times a year) and, for more pressing matters, notes or phone calls.
When I was 10 years old, the first conference of the school year cost me two sore bottoms from my parents. Maths was the main problem – I hated it, and thought it boring. As a result I didn’t pay much attention in class and didn’t do my homework.
To make things work, when my parents would ask if I had done my homework, I would lie and told them I had. If they ever asked me to show it them, I would just show them what we had actually done in class that day, or sometimes just claim that we hadn’t been set any homework.
On the day of the conference, my parents arrange to pick me up after a PE class, so while I was in the gym they met up with my class teacher. At first all apparently went well – she told them that I was a good boy for her most of the time, but like all other children I sometimes had problems with concentrating on my work.
However, she then went on to add that my maths teacher had informed her of problems lately with me not doing my homework. She had been informed that if I didn’t improve, I would not be able to progress to the next class and have to do the same grade as this, all over again.
Naturally, my parents were very shocked by this news. They assured the teacher that they would see to it that my work effort improved, and between them, they and the teacher agreed that they would get a letter every week with homework plans, so they knew what had to be done.
Unsurprisingly, my parents were not happy with me. As we drove home, I was told we would be discussing the meeting when we got home. Not long afterwards, I was sat on a stool on one side of the coffee table with my parents on the sofa opposite.
Dad took the lead and began with the positive stuff. He told me that he and Mom were proud that I was mostly well behaved at school, and a good friend to other kids.
However, inevitably there followed the revelation about my maths homework. I knew I had been caught out and began to cry, both with shame and the thought of what punishment would probably follow this talk. Daddy lectured me about the importance of school work for a while, then said: “Morten, go to your room while Mom and I discuss what the punishment should be for all this.”
I sat on my bed, crying softly, and after a while Daddy came in to my room. He was calm but looked very serious. “I need to make you understand the importance of your school work. I pay a lot of money for you to to to a good school, and I won’t have you repaying me by lying.
“Morten, you are going to get two smacked bottoms. I’m going to give you one right now for lying, and that is going to be on your bare bottom. You will also be spanked again at bedtime for not doing your homework. Stand up!”
I obeyed and Daddy sat down on my bed. Drawing me close to him he unzipped my jeans and pulled them down to my ankles. My underpants quickly followed them. I felt his warm hand on my bare seat as he guided me across his knee.
Then my first spanking began. As I have mentioned in other stories, I usually only got smacked on the seat of my trousers and although this wasn’t the first time I had been given it bare bottom, I had forgotten how much more a spanking hurts that way. By the second smack, I was already crying like a four-year-old having his first time over his father’s knee.
I was given my age in spanks, then Daddy held me tightly while I had a cry. He reassured me that he and Mom still loved me very much. After holding me for a while, he covered up my now sore bottom and I was ordered to do my homework for the day before it was time for dinner. I obeyed, but cried softly throughout the task as my bottom was so sore and I was having real trouble sitting at my desk – especially knowing that this was only ‘Act One’.
As dinner ended that night, Daddy turned to me again. “Go and get ready for bed, and when you are in your pyjamas call me, and I will come up and give you the spanking for not doing your homework.”
I went upstairs with my eyes swimming with new years. After shakily undressing, I went into the bathroom, used the toilet and cleaned my teeth. Then I returned to my bedroom and got into my pyjamas, wincing a little as the elasticated waistband of the trousers rubbed against my still very pink behind.
I stood there immobile for a minute, still crying quite freely, then decided to get it over with. I called down the stairs to Daddy that I was ready, and he came up about a minute later.
For this spanking I was allowed to keep my pyjamas up but the material was thin and I didn’t wear underpants to bed (Mom thought it unhygienic), so the smarting was almost as bad from the 10 more smacks which followed as there was little protection for my poor little buttocks.
After my second punishment, I was put to bed and cried myself to sleep.