What we did at the seaside

I attended a girls prep school in Kent during the 1970s. The school was a boarding one and really strict, with emphasis on old-fashioned values. I should say that this suited my own parents down to the ground, as they always took the view that strong discipline helped create good citizens.

Having said that, I was never an especially naughty child – rather timid, in fact. This had not prevented me receiving my share of spankings at home. These were nothing terribly brutal, just pants down and the flat of my mother’s hand across my bare bottom.

Such smacked bottoms were administered for pretty run-of-the-mill offences, such as cheek, temper and untidiness. But these punishments were far different from some of the real thrashings some of my friends received from their own parents. Some even got the strap, and would show the damage to us the next day. That said, by the age of 11, when this story takes place, I was getting into a more rebellious stage of my development, just like most of my friends.

Our school had a strict punishment code for serious offences, and we had certainly witnessed girls getting slippered in class for less egregious ones. These slipperings were administered by the class teacher and although sore, they were not brutal. The offender was hauled to the front of the class and put over the lap of Miss Richards, our otherwise rather nice class teacher. Then their skirt would be flipped up and the spanking given on the seat of their knickers.

As I say, it stung but not so much as to generally bring about tears or other hysterics from the recipient. I was punished a couple of times in this way myself. Puberty had definitely kicked in and in a funny way I kind of enjoyed lifting my bottom up to be punished. I think I was turned on by the thought of the other girls watching me get spanked in this fashion.

However, things took a more serious turn altogether on a half-holiday when four of us girls decided to visit nearby Margate for the afternoon. Some among our number had managed to acquire some cigarettes and we strolled along the promenade, smoking and feeling very grown up.

Unfortunately, a lady passing by recognised the distinctive maroon uniforms we were wearing and rang our school, expressing her disgust. Only us four had gone out that afternoon, so identification was simple, and when we returned to school later we were all summoned to the office of the headmistress, Mrs Morgan.

Of course, we all knew we were in deep trouble. It was common knowledge that Mrs Morgan’s punishments made the slipper from Miss Richards look like a walk in the park. Furthermore, according to the few girls I knew who had experienced such discipline, Mrs Morgan rather enjoyed administering corporal punishment.

So as we all shuffled into her office, guilt no doubt written all over our faces, we were all quaking and I for one was close to wetting myself with fear.

Predictably, Mrs Morgan looked furious. “Well, girls,” she said, “do you know why I have summoned you all here?” Denial being our first defence, we all said ‘no’ as bravely as we could. This got Mrs Morgan even angrier. “Well then, what have you been up to in Margate this afternoon?”

We innocently recounted our trip out – avoiding any mention of smoking, of course. However, I was shaking at this point and my legs were like jelly, because it was obvious we had been caught out. 

Mrs Morgan unexpectedly stepped forward and put her face close to my friend Wilma, to smell her clothes. Afterwards, she took the girl’s left hand and brought it up to her nose, smelling it again, and repeated the manoeuvre with Wilma’s right hand. She did the same with all four of us, but remained silent. 

Mrs Morgan stepped back and the dreadful silence went on and on for what seemed like hours, although it was only a matter of minutes.

Then suddenly, Wilma broke down. She blurted out a confession to having smoked, and floods of contrite tears followed. The dam having burst, my other two friends followed Wilma’s lead and went to pieces in front of the headmistress. In retrospect, I should have followed their example and done the same, but I remained silent. Although I was shaking, part of me was strangely thrilled by this experience.

Well, to cut a long story short, my three friends were subject to the mother and father of bawling outs, all centred on the dual themes of breaking a serious rule and letting the school down. Then, with some obvious relish, Mrs Morgan went over to her cupboard and took out a huge plimsoll with a rubber sole. 

One by one, my friends were the put over the head’s knee, their skirts were turned up and their knickers pulled down. They were each spanked slowly on alternate cheeks and they howled at each smack delivered to their bare behinds. 

During all this, Mrs Morgan ignored me completely and made to watch each girl in turn receive her due. I must admit, my knickers were slightly wet as I watched each girl being punished, especially the sight of their bum cheeks reddening. At the same time, I was understandably worried about my prospects! When they had all been done, my three friends were sent packing in floods of tears and I alone remained, standing petrified in front of Mrs Morgan’s desk. 

There was another long silence, then at last the headmistress spoke. Her voice was now low and controlled but that made things seem even more awful.

“Well, Christine,” she said. “Your little friends may all have sore bottoms, but at least they confessed to their offence. Whereas, you have persistently lied.” I felt this pretty unfair, because we had all originally agreed on blank denial as our strategy.

Then came a bombshell. “With that in mind, I am going to telephone your mother to tell her what has happened, and we will have to see what is to be done with you.” By now I was in floods of tears, fearful that I was going to be expelled.

The head went to the phone on her desk, dialled our number and there was quite a long wait before my mother answered, and Mrs Morgan told her what had happened. I was unable to hear my mother’s exact words, but from the noises coming out of the receiver I could tell that she was outraged. 

After a long discussion (during which the prospect of expulsion was indeed mentioned), I heard Mrs Morgan say: “Very well, Mrs Sykes. If you are happy with that solution, I will punish Christine now and that will be end of the matter – at least as far as I am concerned.” 

Mrs Morgan put the phone down, then without another word she went back across to the cupboard – and this time extracted a cane. It was only a thin junior one, about 3ft in length, but Mrs Morgan began to swish it around experimentally in a manner which nearly made me poo my pants, let alone wet them!

The headmistress’s voice was calm but commanding. She tapped her desk with the cane and said: “Bend over there and stick your bottom out!” I obeyed, my legs shaking with fright. Then I felt Mrs Morgan’s hands go up my skirt and she took down my knickers, before lifting my skirt up my back to reveal my bare backside.

“I have agreed with your mother that you shall receive six of the best, Christine,” she said quietly. She had barely finished the sentence when I heard a swish and a wave of pain flashed across the centre of my buttocks. I was already in agony, but each successive stroke was worse than the last, and I screamed in pain as I received my punishment. 

When it was all over, I literally tottered out of the room. Mrs Morgan said no more to me, which made it feel worse as I had not had any chance to apologise and be forgiven, as I would normally have at home.

Still crying, I went straight back to my dormitory, where my friends were rubbing cold cream on their red bums. Ruefully, we compared the damage – and I was clearly the ‘winner’. My cheeks were not red but purple, with a clear mark across my bottom where each stroke had landed. 

There was much sympathy for my sorry state, but I found it hard to forgive my pals for caving in. Curiously, as the pain in my bottom gradually wore off, I again felt that funny feeling in my vagina. 

As you might have guessed from that telephone conversation, I was not yet out of the woods either. The summer holidays began just ten days later, and my mother came to collect me. She remained stonily silent all the way home in the car to London, but once we got home she grabbed me by the wrist and took me into the bathroom. There, a leather belt was waiting for my bottom. 

Mother then proceeded to give me a telling off which more than matched Mrs Morgan’s. I was a deceitful liar who had let the family down, was basically her theme. Then she pulled my knickers down and inspected the now-fading bruises on my behind. “Well,” she said, “Mrs Morgan appears to have made a good job of you, but now you are going to be really sore. Bend over and put your hands on the bath.”

I complied, knickers still around my ankles, and my mother lifted my skirt to bare my bottom again. Then she gave me a thrashing with that belt such as I had never had before in my young life. I screamed blue murder and my crying resonated around the tiled bathroom. And this time I did wet myself – about halfway through my punishment – which made my mother even angrier. 

Afterwards I was sent straight to bed for the rest of the day. And eventually, as I lay there with my backside throbbing under my nightie, the pain gradually subsided and I again felt the arousal return. I suppose that both of these punishments fuelled my lifelong fascination with being spanked.

Contributor: Christine