My first ever slippering

I was never very good at school work. Fortunately for me, the school I attended had stopped using corporal punishment before I began attending it (some time ahead of it being banned nationally).

So I never got smacked at school – but unfortunately for me, my parents definitely believed in spanking.

Of all the aspects of school, I perhaps hated report days most. My reports inevitably touched on how I mucked about in class and put in little or no effort. When I got a bit older, 10 or so, they mentioned me wagging off too.

Perhaps my worst school report came when I was nine years old. One specific remark in the report, which is absolutely burned into my memory, was: “John is a disgrace, and I truly think he would be better placed in a boy’s school” – meaning some kind of reform school.

Although my siblings never did very well academically either, their reports were generally OK – but mine was just bad,

On this particular occasion, Mum read through my report with a red, angry face, then sent me up to my room with the ominous, traditional warning: “Wait ’til your father gets home.” Of course, I knew that meant a sore backside.

As I waited for Dad, I did briefly consider escaping out of my window, climbing down the apple tree and buggering off – but I knew I’d have the arse tanned off me if I did.

Dad got home, and had dinner before coming up to deal with me. He had his slipper with him. I’d never been slippered before this but my older brother had, and he had said it was 100 times worse than Dad’s hand.

Dad didn’t say much, except: “Stand up, bare your bottom and bend over the bed.” Although I was panicking internally, I obeyed his commands almost on auto-pilot.

After I bent over, I felt dad lifting the tail of my shirt to expose my buttocks, then his hand pressing into the small of my back to keep me in position.

Then there was a ridiculous loud ‘whack’ as the sole of the slipper hit my bottom. The burning was instantly followed was horrific – but I had very little time to absorb the pain before the next stroke came.

Dad gave me ten, and I’m not ashamed to say I cried. My arse was burning and my legs were shaking. Once he’d given me my punishment, Dad dropped the slipper on to the floor, shoved his foot back in it and gave the backs of my legs a meaty slap with his hand. “Be good!” he said simply. It didn’t work long term – but I had learned my lesson for now.

Contributor: John

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