The Romance of Chastisement

The Romance of Chastisement

Friday, August 31, 2012

Becky Brown's Bible (F/f, F/m)

This is a cute little coming of age story from the very earliest days of the internet. The author is, as far as I can tell, someone named Adrian Vance and the story was posted on ASS in 1995. While the previous story, the "Megan Lowry" account, sounds like a true story, this one clearly is not. But it's cute and I thought I'd share.


Becky Brown’s Bible

We were in Miss Coleman’s third grade room the first time Becky Brown got me paddled.  The most galling part was that “old Maude” had Becky carry the note to the Principal telling him what I’d done and how many swats to give, and she stayed to watch!

“Bend over!” he ordered.

I bent over and grabbed my ankles.

Smack! Whack! Pop!
Three times the paddle smacked my butt---hard.

It was my first time and I couldn’t believe the power of that paddle!
My mother had hit me on the butt a few times, but this stung like crazy and tears just flowed as I wailed, “Ahooo...” while between my legs I could see Becky looking and smiling.

“Does it hurt?” she asked cutely as we walked back to the classroom.

“No.” I lied as tears continued to flow.

“Then why are you crying? And, your face is all red, bad boy.” she commented cutely skipping along in her black patent leather shoes, short skirt bouncing as she danced.
“You got a spanking!” she sang, pointing to me as she spun around.

I may not have known about sex, but Becky was the most beautiful girl in the Spring Street Elementary school and I had a crush on her that was terminal.  I would die for her, and to be spanked in front of her was far and away the worst punishment I could have ever endured.

“It’s your fault.” I rejoined.

“You’re not supposed to tease me.” she said crisply with a shake of her head.  “And if you do, you’ll get paddled, bad boy!” she pointed at me and skipped.

The little witch was celebrating her power.  All she had to do was complain about a boy and then he was paddled and Becky giggled again.  Still, I never knew her to lie about our misdeeds, but she was very consistent at reporting them! I can’t remember how many times she walked some poor love crazed boy to the Principal’s Office and stayed to watch the boy take hard licks with the paddle.
It was the same story in Miss Pringle’s fourth grade, and it seemed like Becky was walking me to the Principal’s office every week or two for a session with that paddle.
And, I hear the “bad boy” stuff all the way back to the classroom.

But fifth grade was different.  Miss Long, did her own spanking and boys didn’t mind because she was a beautiful brunette didn’t hit too hard and our hormones were rising.  Her paddle was small and light.  If you wore corduroy pants her swats only burned a little, but the poor guys who wore Levis had to drop them because of the rivets.

“I don’t want any marks in my paddle.” she would announce, ordering us to “Loosen your belt and bend over.”

Miss Long had great decorum and let you keep your shorts up or the girls their panties in place.  That helped, but she just swung away until she got what she wanted and sometimes it was a lot of crying.
It may have been demeaning for a boy to cry from a girl’s paddle, but there was always something exciting about Miss Long’s spankings.

It was a strange honor to be sent out in the hall, wait while she put math problems on the board for the class, hear her high heels coming, grab your ankles and gaze at her’s, waiting to see her take a backswing and then:
Splat! The paddle would sear your backside.
Miss Long had no system for swat penalties, unlike our sixth grade teacher Mr.  Richardson.
“One for talking or tardy, two for disturbing the class, three for chewing gum, four for “breaking the wind,” five if it was in a girl’s face or for throwing something at a girl, six for copying homework, seven for writing in a book, eight for writing something dirty anywhere, nine for doing or saying anything “suggestive” to a girl and ten for smoking or cheating on a test.” he said the first day of class holding his “Board of Education” as he spoke.  It was the real item: two feet long, swirling hardwood grain, high finish and frightening. 

 Miss Long’s paddle was thin, had weird Greek letters on it, and was kind of joke, but:
Miss Long spanked everyone.  No one was exempt:  her pets, even girls, all learned the stinging power of her “swat,” but usually they just got one or two.  We were sure she kept a list and saw to it that everyone felt her “board of education.” Few escaped and it was a great fun to see the “goody two-shoes” boys and girls wobble out to the hall on rubber legs and hear “WHAP!” as Miss Long expanded his, or her, education.
We also learned that on “certain days” she was a terror and you would be sent out for virtually nothing.  On these days she would sometimes give an oral quiz and if you missed a question your name went on the blackboard.  After she had caught all the people she wanted she would announce, “All girls on this list go out into the hall and line up.” Normally half the girls in the class got up, red faced, marched into the hall and the next thing we heard was:


“Thank you mam.” as each stepped forward, bent over and:


“Thank you mam.” and another red-face girl would return to the room.


One by one they would put heads down on desks and some whimper.  Miss Long had “equal opportunity for girls” decades before it became a national movement and she loved to talk about her sorority days, where she got her beloved paddle, which was hanging from the wall just behind her desk at the front of the room.  During work periods, if you were out of line, she would point to you, aim her finger at the hall and out you would go followed by the lady in black high heels.

On one “girl gang spank” the boys laughed too loudly and when our turn came our stunningly attractive brunette teacher, with paddle in hand, ordered all boys to the front of the room and gave each of us three swats in front of the girls, who enjoyed it mightily as we each broke into tears.  Being near the end of that line was terrifying as your rectum winced each time the board struck another butt.

The difficult “Long days” followed the phases of the moon, leading some to speculate that Miss Long was really a vampire, “Or something like that!” so we were especially careful on mornings following moonlit nights.  On one of these days I foolishly wore Levis without underwear and stupidly threw a spitball at Becky.  Miss Long saw it out of the corner of her eye and my heart stopped as she pointed to me and then to the hall.  She was especially sensitive about spit balls being “filthy,” she would say and you could count on her worst if you were caught throwing one.

“Out in the hall!” she yelled in a voice that could curdle milk.  The cold hole where my stomach had been told me I was in serious trouble and when I heard the chalk hitting the blackboard as she wrote problem after problem I knew that she intended to be out in the hall for a long time and I started shaking.
“Oh Jesus...” I trembled in fear.  Then I heard her coming and my knees became butter.  I could not move! Miss Long emerged, paddle in hand, with fire in her eyes.
Instead of coming to me she turned away, going down the hall from classroom to classroom shutting doors, waving the paddle at the teacher within signaling she wanted to spare them noise: My cries!
She strutted straight to me with fire in her eyes, “Do you have to go to the bathroom?” she asked.
“Yes’um.” I affirmed.
“Be quick about it.” she gestured to the “Boy’s Room” with the shining board and I wobbled to the enclave. 

  Inside I saw a sixth grade boy.
“How come you’re here without a pass?” he asked.
“I’m gonna get paddled.” I cried, tears rolling down my cheeks.
“Oh,” he said, “that’s nothing.”
“Oh yeah!” I responded, “She’s on a tear.” as he left smiling.
I stood there shaking, not able to pee a drop, but I had to go! In a moment the door burst open and he returned!
“She sent me back here to tell you to hurry up.  Boy is she pissed.” and he left.  I felt faint, but managed to button my fly and walk to the door, pulling it open slowly and there she was! Waiting with eyes like BB’s and virtual smoke coming out of her ears.  I was going to get her utter wrath!

“Miss Long,” I begged in shaky voice.   “I want to apologize for throwing that spit ball at Becky.  It’ll never happen again.”
“That’s right.” she affirmed with eyes flaming, and for a foolish moment I thought she was buying it.   Then she looked at my Levis and said, “Turn around, loosen your belt, bend over, grab your ankles and DON’T - LET - GO!” The last three words were emphasized.
“Miss Long,” I said, “I’m not wearing any...”
“Doesn’t matter, bad boy.” she interrupted, “Do it!” she screamed.
“Oh Jesus...” I started to sob as I turned, loosened the belt and bent.  Suddenly my pants were down around my ankles, which I grabbed and:
Whack! Splat! Crack! Three hard licks that made me see stars.
The paddle broke! But, did it sting! “Oh!” I moaned.
“You!” she screamed.  “Look what you’ve done to my paddle!”  “What luck!” I thought, “It’s over!” but she yelled, “Stay right there.” and strutted down the hall to the Principal’s office.  Then she emerged with one of his paddles; one with holes!
“Oh please Miss Long.  Please.”  I begged, but it only made her more furious.
Smack! A terrible raging sting engulfed my backside.

The first whack from the Principal’s paddle told me I had entered a new dimension of stinging.  It was incredible and she continued with swat after swat as I bawled, choked, gasped, moaned, pleaded and begged.  Finally, I collapsed to the floor and she quit, and as she walked around me I got new respect for anything in high heels.  From that moment on they meant “authority.”

“Get up and go to the nurse’s office.” she ordered as I viewed a worm’s eye view of her fetlocks, feet and footwear.

“Guess you won’t be throwing anything else at Becky for a while.” observed the lady in white as she inspected my red buttocks.   “You’ll be OK, but I’m going to spray a little alcohol on it just to disinfect.”
I heard the atomizer squirting and for a moment the spray was cooling, but then the alcohol gripped my butt and the stinging returned afresh.

“Oh Gee! Please stop.” I begged, but it was too late and then the spirit really bit.  All I could do was bawl like a baby and she closed the door, smiling back at me like a lady who knew more than she would tell.
“Did it hurt?” Becky asked as we walked home.
“It was awful.” I confessed.  “It wasn’t too bad until she broke her paddle and got the Principal’s.”
“Well,” she said smartly, “maybe you’ll learn not to throw spitballs at me, filthy boy.” and with a toss of her blond hair she turned into her gate and marched to her house.  I stood there for a long time with stinging butt and said, “I love you Becky Brown.” with about as much hope as a frog to become a prince.

For the next two years I managed to stay out of trouble over Becky Brown and there was only the occasional paddling in sixth and seventh grades.  The first year of junior high school was swat free for me, but the lady Principal, Miss Poindexter, would get some poor jerk out in the hall once a week and put the school on notice that she was in charge.

We'd hear the smacks as they echoed in the hall and sometimes the sobs and pleas.
And we winced, worried and wondered in our seats if we were next.

Only five-three in “stocking feet,” she was never without a pair of four inch heels and had the most diabolical paddling procedure in the school system.
Miss Poindexter would sentence the miscreant on one day to paddle the next, giving the condemned the opportunity to “...bring your parents to school with you and we’ll discuss it.”  The few fools who dared usually got worse at home, after the school version, so it was a rare event.
When paddlings were scheduled, all teachers would have their doors open.  Miss Poindexter would come to the classroom where the miscreant, or miscreants, were to be found, call out their names and conduct them to a small oak chair fixed to the floor in the portico at the end of the building.  It was like a round sun room that had become a spanking shrine.

Generally there was only one “sacrifice” per day, but on some Friday’s several were in need of Miss Poindexter’s “Singing Board,” she swang and you sang.  So you would have to wait in line while she worked her way through the list.  If you had to watch more than one paddling, you were just about unglued by the time your turn came.

“Next!” she would announce and direct you to the chair.  Then you would loosen your belt, bend over a little chair.  Grab the sidearms and vow to hang on for dear life, down went your pants, or up went your dress, and soon Miss Poindexter was soon at work with her Brazilian rosewood implement giving you a genuine “white knuckle” experience.   It was something of an honor to have “gotten it,” but one you would gladly pass if you had a brain in your head.
It was awesome hearing someone “getting it” and chilling to imagine being there.  As a result, discipline was not a problem at our junior high school.

By then I had learned to manage my crush on Becky and she had warmed to me considerably.  We were “steady” in a puppy love way.  I could not have been happier.   The one difficulty in our lives was Algebra and in spite of hours of studying together we just couldn’t crack it.  Here we were approaching final week and both of us were in risk of getting D’s.  We needed to “ace” the test to pull C’s or maybe even B’s if everyone else fumbled so we crafted an elaborate set of crib notes with equations and definitions we would need.

Carefully written on tissue, we could sneak these things into our pockets and hide them in a hand.  Need I say we were caught five minutes after the test started and were quickly in the Principal’s office emptying pockets and purse casting nervous glances at the paddle hanging on the wall. 

  Then Becky caved in:
“I confess.” she said.  “It’s all my fault.”

“Becky,” I exclaimed, knowing she had never felt the board, “you don’t know what you’re saying!”

Miss Poindexter cocked her head slightly to analyze the moment, but said:
“You’re both guilty of the most serious offense you could commit at this school.  I presume you know what that means.”

Becky sobbed quietly without a clear idea of what was coming and I was about to pee my pants petrified with fear.

“Now of course, you can bring your parents to school tomorrow and we can discuss it.” and we said nothing.

“You may leave, but be here tomorrow.” and we left with Becky crying quietly into her tiny handkerchief.

“It was stupid of us to cheat.” I said as we walked.  “Now we’ll both
get F’s”

“No I think we can take the test after the spanking.” she said.

“Oh swell.” I said, “That sounds like fun.” and added, “Surely you’ll bring your parents.”

“No! Never.” she exclaimed, “They’re going away early in the morning.  They have to visit my sick Grandmother in Middleville.  I’ll be alone for a couple of days.  Never.”

“Becky,” I pleaded, “you have no idea what this is like! You won’t believe it.  It’s terrible!”

“We did it.” she said quietly, and I felt we were bonded! It was incredible to be that happy knowing what was coming.

We walked in silence, hand in hand.  It was hard to tell who was trembling more as we could only think of the young toughs screaming and begging for mercy in the hall.
“Remember Donney Miller?”
“Yeah, he threw up.”
“And what about Frank Smith?”
“He crapped all over the floor, didn’t he.”
“Yeah, she beat the shit out of him...”
When we arrived at her gate she was still calm.
“What are you going to wear to the spanking?”
“I dunno...” I fumbled.
“Would you wear a white shirt and tie, for me?”
“What will I tell my parents?”
“We’re having an assembly, or something...”
“OK, but why?”
“I think this should be a dress up day for us.”

It was then that I got my first solid inkling that women are weird.  Here she was going to be paddled by the Principal and she could only think about what she was going to wear!  I watched as she went up the long walk to her house, turned and waved to me as she entered brightly, playing the carefree school girl home from junior high school.

“I love you, Becky.” I said aloud and my heart sank thinking about how I had dragged us down and how she was accepting it without blaming me.
The next morning I showered and dressed with care, not saying anything to anyone and managing to get out of the house unseen by my parents who normally awakened an hour later than I anyway, but felt funny in a starched shirt, stiff collar and tie going to school.  I got to Becky’s house early and waited but when I noticed her parent’s car was gone approached the porch.  It was late and I was getting nervous.  Suddenly she emerged and I didn’t recognize her at first.

Bobby Sox, saddle shoes and innocence were gone.  Nylons, white high heeled pumps were on.  Her dress was white long and flowing, gathered at the waist with a belt.  I was stunned, as she carefully came down the steps hanging on to the hand rail carrying a white Bible!
“How do you do it?” I said.
“I’m not supposed to wear these out of the house, but I’m going to today.” she said referring to her shoes while I had been thinking of her white Bible.
“The Lord will protect me.” she said from glazed eyes and I feared she had gone stark raving mad.   There were lines of strain on her face.  The girl apparently thought God would intervene in her punishment.
“Becky...” I said in a pleading voice.   Surely, this would make no difference to Miss Poindexter, but we walked to school hand-in-hand slowly as she wobbled on.
“This is the first time I’ve ever worn them out of the house.” she announced, and I took her hand proudly.   This was something, shameful as it could be, that we were doing together.
“I hope I can make it.” she said as we arrived at the school after the half mile walk.  “My feet are killing me already.” But she stayed in the pumps the whole day and we were the center of attention.  Becky was the only girl in “heels” and I the only boy wearing a white shirt and tie.  The stiff collar was just about killing me.
In our conversations we admitted we had cheated, we accepted our punishment.  We had every class together, but one, “Phys.  Ed.” and nothing was accomplished in that school that day as every teacher avoided the obvious and all seemed nervous.   The prettiest girl in school was going to be paddled!  The teachers pretended to teach and the students pretended to learn while Miss Poindexter pretended to administer, pondering the only paddling she ever prayed would not happen; that of someone everyone admired.

Knowing that you’re going to be paddled focuses the mind and you see everything differently.  The wood molding in the classroom fascinated me for a while, then it was the chalk in my teacher’s hand and then the blue sky.

The big hand made seven trips around the clock and was on the last lap before the big event!  Becky decided we should go to Miss Poindexter’s office rather than have her come to our homeroom.
“It’ll be less disruptive.” she said with the most adult tone I had ever heard her utter and we walked there, hand in hand.

“We’re here, Miss Poindexter.” she announced with confidence.   “We thought it would be better this way.” Clearly the woman was moved and said nothing.   Becky sat, and I followed, she folded her hands over her white Bible and Miss Poindexter shut the door.   The clock ticked on like a diabolical machine.
“Soon it’ll be over.” and the minute hand jumped another mark and I winced.  My collar felt tighter and I bent down to put my elbows on my knees and said, “Oh Becky, God.  You don’t know?”
We didn’t have long to wait as the school nurse appeared in the doorway, surprised to see us in the reception room, she stopped quickly, dragging a heel.  Only on these occasions, or the visit of a board member, did she wear pumps, and again I thought, “Gee, women are weird.” as she passed by us and into the inner office.

Miss Poindexter emerged saying, “It’s time, Becky.” and the girl sighed deeply.  The Lord was not going to protect her now and as much as Becky hoped God would intervene, He was absent today and she rose slowly.

“I want to apologize for having made this necessary, Miss Poindexter.”

“Thank you.” and the administrator directed her out the door.  “You wait here.” she instructed me, with glaring eyes..
The cadence of three women in heels marching in step filled the hall and masked the sobs of poor Becky as she approached the chair, bent over it without being told, was tied, dress pulled up, panties pulled down, paddle touched to buttocks and then:


With first hard swat Miss Poindexter accomplished several things:  A new spankee learned that he, or she, should take this seriously and most victims suddenly had to urinate so the nurse would put a large ladle, expressly purchased for the purpose, between their legs to catch the urine.  Often this was so loud we could hear it in the near classrooms then the victim began to wail when the stings emerged from his, or her, stunned buttocks.  Then:

“Eyaooo!” she sang and I felt like a cold spear had gone through my heart.   Miss Poindexter liked to  do “triples,” pause and let the spankee catch his or her breath.   The girls became hysterical, but it stopped the choking.  As the noise settled down it was soon broken with:

“Oh! God! Oh!” and my heart was pounding furiously.  I could take no more and had to see what was happening.   I carefully sneaked a peek around the doorway and there at the end of the hall was Becky’s butt, bare and blushing red with Miss Poindexter and the school nurse standing by while she gagged, coughed and tried to breathe.  I could not see her face, but her long legs, poised on pumps, gave me an immediate erection and in that instant Miss Poindexter saw me looking! I pulled back and then:
“WHAP!”  “WHAP!”  “WHAP!”

“Ahooo!” she wailed like screwed cat and I could hear heels dancing on the floor as she tried, fitfully, to run away. “Oh! Aaoooo...” she wailed and it was over.

Now it was my turn and I felt like I was going to pee my pants as the nurse led a sobbing Becky, with head down in shame, past the door on her way to her office and a cot.
“It’s time.” announced the Principal and I rose like I was just learning to walk.
“Miss Poindexter,” I sobbed, “I’m really sorry, you don’t now how much.  I...”
“Take your punishment like a man.”
“Oh yes’um, I will, but...”
“But what?” she asked.
“Could I have extra?”
“No!” she spat back not understanding the meaning of my request and the depth of my guilt.
I was glad to bend over that chair, feel my arms being tied down and the cold breeze on my bare butt as I saw her moving into place.
All the years of my getting spanked for my clumsy attempts in expressing my feelings to Becky, and her fumbling ways of dealing with her natural power were more than repaid when she carried off this crisis with an elegance, grace and style beyond her years, I could do no less.
A searing fire exploded across my fanny, then:
“WHAP!”  “WHAP!”  “WHAP!”
The first triple was done and I was propelled into the stinging pain of the paddled.  My ass was a throbbing mass of stinging, burning pain, but I did not utter a sound so welcome was the board.
“WHAP!”  “WHAP!”  “WHAP!”
Came the next set I had to acknowledge that she had gotten to me with the “singing board.” “Aaaoooo!” I wailed and she responded with “Yes...”
“WHAP!”  “WHAP!”  “WHAP!”
Came the last “triple” and I left the ground, cried, screamed and wailed because the stinging was that of a thousand bees on my butt, the flames of a forest fire and the pain enough to give me visions of much of my life, my life with Becky.
“And this is for looking!” she yelled and I set the record for the highest number of swats ever given at the junior high school.

“WHAP!”  “WHAP!”  “WHAP!”

“Oh, Aaooo!” I wailed and it was done, but the throbbing, stinging of my beaten buttocks would be with me for a week, and I knew it.   Untied I was taken to the nurse’s office where poor Becky was still sobbing, but on hearing me enter she stopped, called my name and came to me.
She was all woman when she came to me and we embraced.

“It’s over.” she said, “It’s over and we’ll never do it again.” she sobbed.
The bell rang and school was out.  We could hear the kids running through the halls while we waited on our cots, stomach down, butts in flames, deep in pain, but done with it, beyond the terror of Poindexter’s “Singing Sword.”  I could not help but feel we had won something even though we were wrong to have cheated.
“Becky?” I called.
“Let’s go home...”
In a moment we were in the hall of the empty junior high school and felt the resonance that only that kind of place can bring; a school.
We turned and left, out and into the sunlight of a 4:00 PM June day in middle America, 1949.  We walked hand in hand and with every step our butts were stinging.
“I’m sorry, Becky.”
“I did it too.”
“You wouldn’t have if I hadn’t asked you to.”
“But I did...”
In that physically painful moment I felt closer to her than I ever had.  Becky been playing with me for years, like a toy, winding me up and turning me one, laughing when I got spanked for clumsy attempts at impressing her and now in my one success at turning the tables I was overwhelmed with remorse.   And, she had gained strength, impressing all around her.  It was stunning and fitting with her astounding looks, a face carved by the gods.  We arrived at her house.
“Come in.” she ordered and I followed.
When the door closed she turned to me and said, “I’m going to look at my butt.” and she walked to her room, but did not close the door.  I did not enter, paused at the door and could see her bending over in front of a mirror, pulling down her panties, looking at the redness and the bruises.  I entered the room cautiously and she looked up.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.” she said crisply as she stood.
“May I use the mirror?”
“Be my guest.” she said as she gestured to the mirror.
“Let’s look at our butts.”
I was shocked, but then she said, “I can’t see mine and you can’t see yours, but you can tell me about mine and I can tell you about yours!”
Her words ran like a bubbling brook bringing ebullience to this most bizarre of all occasions and I laughed.

“I love you!” she announced an kissed me on the mouth!

My head was swimming, my butt was stinging and I felt so close to Becky I could only feel joy in it all.
“You first.” she stipulated.
“Isn’t it ladies first?” I tried.
“Not for this.” she annunciated.
I loosened my belt, turned around and dropped my pants, she yanked down my briefs and:
“Oh God!”
“What is it?”
“Red and bruises.”
“Is mine?” she asked.
“Turn around.” I ordered and she bent over.  I lifted her dress, yanked down her pants and:
“Yes, pretty much the same picture.” I said.
“Let me see you.” she said rising and turning to gaze on my genitals.
“Oh,” she laughed, “you look like a dog!”
“OK, smartass,” I rejoined, “show me yours!” and she did.
Becky Brown’s “fuzzy” was as pretty as anything else of Becky’s.
“Oh,” I exclaimed, “it’s beautiful.” admiring the regular, combed texture of her vaginal pelt.
“Let me see.” she said, pointing to my penis and I turned to her.
“Let me touch it.” she asked and I remained still as her hand approached and soon enveloped it.  I was profoundly moved and as her hand began to work and I closed my eyes.  In a moment I was flying through an open sky in my mind.  Becky was touch me, “there!” A familiar sensation erupted within:
“Oh!” I yelled as sperm shot and she directed it, like a hose, to the floor.
“Is that it?” she asked.  “Is that what makes a baby?” and she looked at it as if Lucifer had concocted the stuff.
“Yes, Becky.” She stared at me with utter amazement.
We had come so close.  We were so together.  Freshly paddled and stinging, but we had come too close too soon and like brother and sister would never have sex.
I walked home feeling closer to Becky than I could ever have imagined, but so far away.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

A Classic Story -- Megan Lowry

I'm going to shift gears a bit now. So far this blog has been all about my stories. But long before I ever wrote, the usenet groups, and (SSS) were loaded with spanking stories. Sadly many of these writers have retired from the scene. Fortunately, I collected many of these stories, and over the years they have resided on various hard drives of mine. It occurs to me that some of these works should be made available again, especially in cases in which the author is either unknown or cannot be found.

I will say at the outset to any author who objects to my posting of his or her story, I will promptly remove it as soon as you notify me of your objection, no questions asked.

With that, let's turn to a curious classic, the Megan Lowry story. This story appeared probably on usenet in the mid 1990's. It is written in the first person in a psuedo-documentary style that is so restrained that it has the sound and feel of a true account. I personally do not believe it is a true story, but a fictionalized retelling of the Dunn, North Carolina incident, which did happen. The lady in question (name withheld) actually testified before a congressional committee about it.

My Meeting with “The Board of Education”

It was Spring, 1993, and I was an eighteen year old high school senior in the Sandhills region of North Carolina. Our school district issued a parent/student handbook each fall containing some rather vague references to corporal punishment but with nothing too clearly spelled out beyond its availability as "a disciplinary option." A few years before, the county school board had voted for some modifications in paddling policies, largely in response to an incident in a neighboring town where three girls were severely paddled, some would say excessively, by a male assistant principal. That affair led to a lawsuit against the district which, though thrown out of court in one day, focused a good deal of unwanted media attention on the paddling issue. One significant change to come about, however,  was the imposition of a same gender rule, i.e., that girls were to receive licks only from a female administrator or, at least, that girls' paddlings be witnessed by a lady staff member if given by a man.  Our school district still authorizes corporal punishment, but I recently learned its current policy (as of the 1998-99 academic year) no longer makes reference to a same sex requirement.

Although I was well aware licks were authorized, having many times seen the "evidence" in the showers after p.e. class as well as hearing from my friends about their own experiences, I had never received corporal punishment in school. During 10th, 11th and 12th grades I had some disciplinary infractions which I could have resolved with either three or five licks, but always opted out for after school detention or, on one occasion, three days of i.s.s.  On one occasion in middle school, however, Yours Truly came close to being mixed up in a group paddling for being an active combatant in what certain of my classmates humorously (and otherwise) called "The Great Food Fight of 1989."

This messy affair was sparked by ill will between two opposing student cliques, and began with verbal taunts in the lunch line.  It rapidly escalated into all-out confrontation during which I fired off a paper cup of applesauce. The gooey projectile failed to strike its intended target and sailed through the double doors into the hallway, where it splattered against the lockers just as Principal Beasley was hurrying down the corridor.  While several belligerents were rounded up and marched away to face the summary justice of three licks outside the principal's office, my role remained undetected as none of my pals squealed on me.   Still, that afternoon I passed three of the most anxious hours of my fourteen years until the bell mercifully rang at 3:20, dreading from moment to moment that the intercom would buzz with the order to report to Mr. Beasley on-the-double.  It didn't, for which I was sincerely grateful to whatever kindly providence spared my backside.

Paddling was a subject discussed now and then around school, particularly when a person who was well liked got one.  Some of the guys who had been paddled tried weakly to laugh it off as a joke. "Licks" "pops" or "swats", whichever term one preferred, were a fairly frequent occurrence, with probably two or three students paddled every week.  At the time, it seemed to me that it was largely us working-class or "Blue Collar Redneck" kids who took licks, seldom the rich kids.  However, the use of corporal punishment in our local elementary school, our middle school and high school appeared to enjoy the support of most parents and of our community at large.

I began smoking around age 16, an admittedly bad habit I picked up from my friend Amanda. While my mom never actually forbade me to smoke, she disliked it and missed no opportunity to say so. Mom was a lifelong nonsmoker and was equally disapproving of my dad's pipe. So, wearying of her maternal admonitions against the evils of tobacco, I let her believe I had quit when in truth I hadn't .  I continued to smoke when out with friends, and occasionally sneaked a puff in my room.

On a Wednesday in May we were enjoying very warm spring weather, and during lunch period everybody congregated outside on the lawn or in the parking lot. Amanda and I were sitting at a picnic table on the west side of the building when she made the gesture of pulling on a cigarette and exhaling. She nodded towards the building, and I understood her to mean we should go to an upstairs washroom for a quick smoke, something we'd done many times before. I didn't refuse, although a couple of weeks previously I'd served 120 minutes detention for smoking in the parking lot.

Amanda and I went through the doors and up the staircase. The 2nd floor washroom was just to the left as you came up, and we were glad to find the corridor entirely empty. Marlboro 100's were my brand of choice, and I had a pack with three cigarettes rolled up in my pocket. We hung out for 15 minutes before it was time to head back downstairs. As luck would have it, just as we were going an old hag art teacher, Mrs. Gilly, pushed open the door and confronted us: "Are you girls SMOKING in here?" Busted ! There was no way to deny what we were up to because, first, the smell made it obvious, second, a blue wisp of smoke hung in the air catching the sunlight, and third - most damning of all - the red and white Marlboro pack was conspicuously in my right hand. She confiscated this contraband and marched us down to the Assistant Principal's office.

Entering the school's main office, off the central corridor, to the far left there was a door marked "Assistant Principal." Through this door was a small waiting room with a window to your right and a few office chairs. Directly in front of you was the door to the A.P.'s inner office which the three of us entered.  Amanda and I plopped down on chairs in front of the A. P.'s desk. She was a lady in her mid 30's named Jessica Dodd, a few years into her administrator job, having once taught Math.   Twice before, as a sophomore and a junior,  Mrs. Dodd had offered me a choice between licks or detention. She listened to what Mrs. Gilly had to say and took my incriminating Marlboro pack from her, so I lost a perfectly good cigarette on top of everything else.  Once Mrs. Gilly left the office,  Mrs. Dodd asked to hear our side of it.  With adolescent monosyllables like "um" and "yea" we effectively conceded our guilt.

Ms. Dodd lectured us on smoking: "Don't you realize it's bad for your health?" and "Didn't you know this campus is smoke free?" (We couldn't plead ignorance on No.2 - the student handbook clearly stated this, and No Smoking signs were prominently displayed beside every entrance.) Neither Amanda or I offered much in reply. Mrs. Dodd stood up from her desk and went to the grey metal filing cabinet in the corner. Taking out two manila folders, our disciplinary files, she returned to the desk and began reading through their contents. Finally laying them to one side, she looked at us and said she saw from our records that this was the third violation that quarter for us both.

Unfortunately for Amanda and me, that was right.

As mentioned before,  I'd been nabbed smoking in the parking lot and had also played hookey in mid April.  Amanda had skipped with me that day, and she also had another violation that I don't recall.  Mrs. Dodd explained a policy long ago enacted by the county school board, that a third infraction in any given quarter entailed corporal punishment, while suspension for the duration of the quarter with failing grades was automatic for anybody who refused to take their licks.  That rule had never been clearly explained to me, verbally or in the student handbook, and she caught me off guard.  Was Mrs. Dodd saying this meant actual suspension - with failing grades - or having to take licks?  Amanda glanced at me with an angry expression, then quickly looked away.  I had a hundred questions to ask, but the situation was moving way too fast and I was tongue tied.  What Mrs. Dodd said next gave me an electric charge in the pit of my stomach: "I think both you ladies could benefit from paddling. Sorry, but I really do. Sometimes I've got to be tough."

Opening her desk drawer,  Mrs. Dodd tore two orange slips of paper from a pad. These were Parental Consent Forms whose use was mandated by the Board ten or twelve years before. She handed one to each of us, said to have our moms or daddies sign them, and to report back to her office at 7:30 Thursday morning. Today, parents here sign a single document at the start of each school year permitting or refusing paddling in all disciplinary situations that may arise over the course of the following nine months. One huge advantage of the current system is that if a kid has got to be paddled, it will happen right off the bat. However, the rule in 1993 was that parents had to indicate by checking a form and signing it as to whether corporal punishment could or couldn't be dished out for each individual violation.  Even when a student was ready and willing to opt out for licks and take them right away, he or she was stuck with a miserable overnight delay to think about, and dread, what was going to happen.  In most cases, in-school-suspension or after school detention was assigned if parental consent for licks was denied.  For Amanda and me, however, having gotten into this "three-violations-in-a-quarter" fiasco, it would mean being suspended - with failing grades - two and a half weeks prior to graduation.

Mrs. Dodd stood and told us to get ready for our next class at 12:45 and we walked out into the corridor. Once out of her office, Amanda was nonchalant "Don't worry about it. I got it in 9th and it wasn't too bad." I assured her I was not worried at all because "My mom will *never* let this happen."  While I hoped that was true, I knew full well my parents had allowed both my older sisters, Kim and Laurie, to take licks instead of after school detention the few occasions one or the other got into hot water.

Mom was bitchy and unsympathetic when, at 4:00 that afternoon, I 'fessed up about what happened. We engaged in verbal sparring for the better part of an hour.  Mom was irritated. She was upset at more trouble in school when I'd just pulled detention for skipping, plus the revelation of my having also served detention for a previous smoking infraction, something she hadn't known. Mom also felt I'd lied to her, having led her to think I'd quit smoking when I hadn't. To cut to the chase, Mom said she'd give her permission for me to get licks because suspension would probably delay graduating on time and leave me stuck in summer school.  I didn't want that either and gave up arguing with her.  She took the orange paper, made a large check mark on the line reading  "I GIVE permission for corporal punishment," signed it "Jan Lowry" and wrote the date: May 12th, 1993.

That evening I had some English homework on The Merchant of Venice and I remember the movie I was half watching when my boyfriend Jeff stopped over around 7:30.  The flick starred Johnny Cash as a sheriff in the 1940's and Andy Griffith as a guy who'd killed a hired hand for stealing a cow. It was probably an okay movie, but my mind was distracted and I was growing more and more apprehensive. Jeff asked if something was wrong. I lied and said no. Out of sheer embarrassment, I intimated nothing to him then about what had happened that afternoon and what I was now trying to accept would happen next morning.  After Jeff left, I called Amanda.  I had the idea that if her dad had refused to sign her Permission Form, my mom might recant.  Part of our conversation went something like this:

"Your Daddy didn't really okay that, did he?"

"Hell yeah he did!  Hey, I'm not gonna miss graduation."

I understood that this close to graduating, getting kicked out was not a cool option.  I was trying to maintain a respectable g.p.a. as was Amanda. By the time I hung up I was still pissed off, but resigned to take my licks.

I went to bed around 10:00 and had no trouble falling asleep. My alarm went off all too soon, and I got up to get ready for school. I put on jeans and plain white cotton panties, with a Pepsi Cola t-shirt and sneakers, no socks.  I wore a bracelet on my left wrist, a gift the previous Christmas from Jeff.  Mom had piled my books and stuff on the kitchen counter. Protruding from between the pages of one, where I couldn't fail to see it, was the orange consent form. Had I known she'd really give her permission, I might have forged her signature and left her in the dark.  I have no memory of breakfast, only that I had no appetite. I left without the usual Good Byes, giving the door a slam - but not as hard as I'd have liked to.

My wheels took the form of a 1975 Monte Carlo my dad had found for me in Fayetteville, one of those with a radical long hood, light blue with white vinyl roof. With eight blocks to drive to school, I drove through the Stop-and-Go lights down the block and switched on the radio to WDKS-FM. The morning D.J. was playing The Alan Parsons Project "Eye in the Sky" as I turned into the parking lot and pulled up in my usual spot. Needless to say, hearing that song today always sends me right back to that time and place.

I walked into the building and went to my locker to grab a chemistry book I'd need for Second Period.  Almost blushing with self consciousness, I went through the main office where, thankfully, no one paid any attention. I was happy to see only one school secretary and no other kids hanging around at that early hour. Two desks had been dragged into the waiting area since yesterday, and Amanda was seated at one, writing on some lined paper. I said hi, and she said "hi" back in a barely audible voice, nothing more.  Her emotions were in sync with mine: fear, anger and embarrassment.

Amanda was wearing white Levis and a red pullover with the school logo in yellow. She was a member of our high school's danceline troupe that performed at games, Homecoming and so on. Mrs. Dodd stepped out of her office and demanded the consent form which I had folded up small in my hand - very small, that is, not wanting anyone I might encounter to suspect what was happening. She scanned it, then handed me some lined paper. "Megan, I want you to write these sentences fifty times. 'I was paddled for smoking on school property. I will not commit this offense again.' When you're done, just sign it at the bottom, understand?" I understood. I sat down and began scribbling these words of wisdom.

Amanda had been at it awhile and was halfway through her sentences. I made an effort to stimulate conversation but she had nothing to say and remained intently focused on her writing. For just a moment she put her head down on her arms and I thought she would start crying.  Thankfully, she didn't. I desperately wanted to say something to my friend that might help, but could think of nothing at all. Amanda put down her pen and ran her finger down one side of the paper and then the other, making certain she'd completed all fifty sentences. She stood up quickly and walked into the office, her whole demeanor seeming to say "OK, FINE, LET'S GET THIS OVER WITH NOW." I overheard Jessica Dodd click the intercom and say something about "come down now..." She was summoning another faculty member to act as witness, a precaution required by North Carolina law in the event Amanda or I would claim our punishments were excessive or abusive.

The witness knew what she was coming for, but hadn't been told who was involved. The door from the main office opened a minute later and she walked in. Her name was Andrea Kelly, somewhere in her mid 20's, an English teacher who was also in charge of the drama club. I knew Ms. Kelly but never had one of her classes. "Oh, hi Megan" she chirped, just like she'd run into me at the mall or somewhere. "What are you doing in here?" I told her quickly what had happened, hoping maybe she would or could do something to get us out of our predicament. No such luck. She arched her eyebrows in a somewhat concerned look, said "Hmm, well...." and shrugged.  Then Ms. Kelly went into the office and shut the door behind her.

Sitting alone at the desk, cheery spring sunshine beaming in the windows, my stomach doing flip flops and feelings of anxiety heightening by the second, I emphatically did not find the notion of being paddled to be a joke casually laughed off. The situation was truly intimidating. I was worried I'd cry when getting spanked and hoped I'd be able to hold it back and not show any emotions. I feared if Amanda cried, I'd be more likely to when feeling the sting of the paddle a few minutes later. I reasoned if I could survive the licks without tears, Mrs. Dodd - and Ms. Kelly - would think it hadn't much hurt and I could save face.  I was not a happy camper, as they used to say, but I was acutely aware we were being punished for willful infractions of the school rules and that punishment isn't meant for fun.

From inside the office I could hear voices, the words unintelligible through the heavy door. Then suddenly there came a loud and startling *CRACK!* followed by complete silence. I was thankful Amanda hadn't screamed. I was as nervous as the proverbial long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, so if Amanda had screamed so would I.  A few seconds later came Amanda's second lick *CRACK!* followed a few seconds later by her third, again followed by that unnerving silence. Amanda was doing okay with it until, that is, she got her fourth lick, answered with a sharp yelp of "OUCH GOLLY !"  Seconds later was her fifth and final one, at which she seemed to gasp and sob in the same breath. Apart from this I heard nothing, and felt a certain relief that Amanda's paddling hadn't seemed quite as severe an ordeal as I'd feared.

A minute later Amanda came out, her face flushed and eyes moist, appearing pouty and sullen as she brushed her hair back with one hand. Looking at her I stammered "Did it hurt?" (Dumb question, huh?) Amanda shot back, "My GOD, Megan! Do you HAVE to be such a BABY about EVERYTHING ?" She rolled her eyes, grabbed her shoulder bag from beside the chair and stormed out.

Jessica Dodd came to the door, telling me to "hurry up and finish writing." Done at last, I forced myself away from the desk and entered her office. For the sake of drama I wish it were possible for me to write that I was replaying in my mind the "Last Mile" scene from some corny Jimmy Cagney movie, but I wasn't. All I was thinking is that I wanted this over and done with, and right now.

Mrs. Dodd shut the door. She took the paper from me, and I was ordered to "sit down for just a minute" while she and Ms. Kelly tinkered with a FAX machine on a small table.  Sitting in the exact same spot as the day before, on a cheap office chair in front of her desk, it occurred to me it was still within my power to stop this. Nobody could prevent me from simply walking out, firing up the Monte and driving home. But, to avoid being punished by leaving would have brought about what I knew was a worse punishment: academic consequences I could not afford. I stayed put.

My eyes darted all over the room with its tacky aqua carpeting and walls painted off white. There was a window behind the large mahogany desk, its venetian blinds drawn closed but swaying in a warm breeze.  As I sat there, a semi or heavy Diesel truck rumbled past on the street and its driver for some reason gave a blast on its deep air horn. Why this sticks in my memory I can't say.  I looked around for the paddle, but it was nowhere to be seen. At my high school a paddle was humorously called a "Board of Education." They were made downstairs in the woodworking shop, and rumor had it they were retired from active duty once fully covered with kids' signatures.  Uncomfortable and hot, anxious and edgy, I felt like screaming at Mrs. Dodd and Ms. Kelly "CAN WE PLEASE DO THIS AND GET IT OVER WITH, DAMN YOU ?! "  Of course, I said nothing.

Whatever the problem was with the FAX, the two of them got it resolved. Mrs. Dodd told me to stand up, and Andrea Kelly walked over and shoved my chair to the left and up against the wall. Mrs. Dodd asked if there was anything in my back pockets, and I removed a pocket comb and my car keys and laid them on the desk.  Mrs. Dodd walked over to the same filing cabinet that held our records, reached in beside it and removed the paddle from a hook on the wall. Seeing it gave me a start.  I had seen the paddles used by our p.e. coaches, but this one was a lot more intimidating.  About 24" long and 3 1/2" wide, it looked to be about a quarter inch thick. It was made of light colored wood and appeared heavy. One end was beveled on both sides to form the handle which was wrapped in black tape. My sister Laurie and boyfriend Jeff later told me this is done to provide a better grip. Several small holes were drilled though the paddle's uppermost seven or eight inches to allow for a faster descent and more painful slaps.

Mrs. Dodd stood by the filing cabinet. "Okay Megan, the sooner we do this the sooner it's done with. I need you to just bend way over my desk now and poke your seat out." She spoke in a surprisingly gentle tone of voice. The usual clutter, including a letter holder and a rotary telephone, had been pushed to one side. Being out of options I did as ordered, reaching across and grabbing the edge of the desktop's other side.  As I bent down the first bell rang, and from out in the hallway filtered in the sound of kids running back and forth, locker doors slamming and all the mundane noises of the start of the school day. The faded blue denim of my jeans stretched tightly across my upturned backside and was suddenly uncomfortable. The psychology of “Assuming - the - Position” is, in itself, punishing: I'd offended against the Rules of Authority and now had to - quite literally - bow down before that Authority's representative to receive my correction. The truth of this simple proposition struck me with jarring abruptness at that moment like a lightning jolt to my spirit. My emotions were a confusing jumble of fear, self-pity, anger and blushing shame.

Wide eyed, I watched as Jessica Dodd walked away from the filing cabinets and to my left and a little ways behind. Andrea Kelly stood to my right, near the door to the waiting room, arms folded and staring at the floor. She didn't seem happy at being there. Turning my head to see what Ms. Dodd was doing, I saw she had the paddle in her right hand and was tapping it against her leg.  We had a moment's eye contact when she said to position my feet a little further apart and "Get ready."  I was still looking back when she took the paddle in both hands and touched it to the seat of my jeans. I remember that spooky pressure only too well. "Look straight ahead, Meg. You're not to turn around. Got it ?"  I swallowed, nodded, and quietly answered "Yes, Ma'am."  Her paddle felt hard, solid and cold. There was no pain yet, but the sick thought that mere heartbeats from now it would burn like hellfire raced through my mind.

Mrs. Dodd tapped the paddle against my bottom, aligning it to take aim. Jeff, ever a fountainhead of information, would tell me this is done as a precaution in order to avert striking the lower back or legs. I sensed it when Jessica Dodd swung the paddle far back to her right. I stared forward and concentrated on the venetian blinds.  I tensed up, clenching the muscles in my butt, clenching my toes, clenching my teeth and telling myself "OKAY HERE IT IS AND IT ISN'T GOING TO BE SO BAD......"

*CRACK!* The sound and the sensation were like a firecracker exploding. And *HURT* ? It scalded  as if I'd just sat on a waffle iron. I swallowed hard, determined this wouldn't make me cry. A couple of seconds passed. Jessica Dodd again lined up the paddle against my fanny and delivered the second lick. With buttocks already hot and throbbing, the second *CRACK!* scorched across my bottom with such intensity that I quite literally saw stars. I kid you not, as Bogart says in The Caine Mutiny.  She whacked me with enough force to knock me forward a little and up onto my toes. Struggling to stay in control, I steeled myself and concentrated on not breaking down. The Assistant Principal repeated the routine, again lining up the paddle on my now badly hurting  backside for a few seconds, and *CRACKED!* me a third time. On top of the accumulated pain of two slaps within less than ten seconds, the sting was sharper than I'd anticipated. Salty tears began to well up in my eyes. And, just like my pal Amanda, my self control couldn't endure the fourth *CRACK!* I squealed "YEOW!" and jumped up from the desk, placing both hands on my bottom. With a hot tear dripping down one cheek, I half sobbed and half whispered "Mrs Dodd I just can't take another one..."

Andrea Kelly walked over and asked, very quietly, if I was all right. I bit my lip and nodded, afraid my voice would crack if I answered aloud.  Mrs. Dodd said I was required to take all five licks "or none of this counts" but added "it's okay if you need a second to get ready." Ms. Kelly handed me a Kleenex.  I got a hold of myself because, more than anything, I had to avoid breaking down completely.  I stood there about 15 seconds, my bottom feeling like I was sitting on sunbaked asphalt, and I burned inside with a kind of shame and humiliation I'd never felt in my entire life.

Andrea Kelly came over and placed her hand on my arm. With a sad face and in that quiet little voice, she said "Meg, it would be better if you took the last one while you're still numb" and gave me a wink. Avoiding eye contact with the Assistant Principal, I quickly bent over. After two or three more light taps,  Jessica Dodd gave the last lick *VERY* hard. I winced and gasped but, thank God, managed to stifle a cry. "That's all, Meg. Stand up" she told me.   Ms. Dodd laid the paddle on her desk, offered a pen and said I should sign it as this was a "school tradition."  Taking her felt tip Bic I wrote "M.E. Lowry", thinking it was a stupid tradition.  A couple of dozen signatures were scrawled across the hardwood surface, and someone had drawn a "Smiley Face" in red.  Ms. Dodd, unexpectedly, extended her right hand and I took it lamely. She shook it twice, nodded and said "Okay. Head on down to homeroom now."

And, that was that. 

The paddle had a small hole and a string loop at the end of its handle. I saw Ms. Dodd return it to that hook beside the filing cabinet as I picked up my comb and car keys and walked into the waiting area to grab my books. I thought to myself "Why does she hide it back there like that ? Is the bitch ashamed of it ?" A twenty-something secretary named Jane Shaw and a couple of student office helpers stood behind the counter in the office area.  Two turned away with grins on their faces as though sharing a private joke, and one looked directly at me with a tiny smirk. They'd obviously overheard Amanda and me being punished and found the whole thing funny.

Andrea Kelly followed me out into the wide main corridor.  She put her arm around my back and asked "Hey, Meg ? You ever get a spankin' before now ?" I admitted to Ms. Kelly that, yes, sometimes I was spanked by Mother or Daddy, but not even once before here in school. She slowly shook her head. "Well, I think y'all took it like a pretty good sport, anyway. I'm sure this'll be the only time, hon." By our community's standards Andrea Kelly was something of a rebel.  An Alabama native, her car bore a N.O.W. bumper sticker and she'd alienated some folks locally, especially my family's Baptist pastor, with a strongly worded letter to the editor of The Daily Record in defense of Roe versus Wade.  Although popular with her male peers and once engaged to a local pharmacist, she was rumored to have a girlfriend, a female attorney, upstate in New Bern.  I had a distinct impression Ms. Kelly did not approve one iota of what she'd just seen happen and perhaps wished to say more, although she didn't.   She quit teaching at our high school the end of that year.

I walked to the washroom, splashed cold water on my face, combed my hair and went to homeroom at 8:30. The intense sting wore off in a half hour, but I was sweaty and headachy all day and sitting on those hard desk chairs added to my discomfort. For the remainder of that Thursday the sensation in my nether regions was like a bad sunburn.  My jeans felt tight and they chaffed. The paddle had raised a welt that rubbed against the cotton fabric of my panties with a nasty itching that hurt like a boil. When I returned home that afternoon and walked in the back door, mom gave me a hug and asked if everything was all right. "Yeah I'm fine, Mom" I told her and went on upstairs to shower and check for damage in the bathroom mirror. My bottom was still reddish to dark pink with some major bruising on the right cheek and lesser black and blue marks on the left one. After toweling off and getting dressed I lay on my bed sobbing into the pillow for a good ten minutes. Seething with embarrassment and anger, the tears I'd mostly held back before now flowed. My bruises lasted a few days, but the redness was largely faded by the next night. For a while I experienced an annoying "twang" of discomfort when sitting on a hard surface or moving in just the wrong way. The most irritating part was the welt which, as it healed, continued to itch.

At the time, I had a part time job on Thursday and some Friday evenings at Food Lion, working at the courtesy counter from 5:00 to 8:00 PM. So there I was, a young woman old enough to vote or marry, drive and hold employment, conversant with the facts of life and mature in most ways, yet at my job with sore buttocks because of being spanked like a little eight year old a few hours before. The irony was not lost on me, not then and not now. Legal adult ? Heck, the lingering heat and soreness throughout that long evening served as an unpleasant but pretty effective reminder that I was still just a kid.

For awhile after taking licks I carried around feelings of having been treated unfairly. You might say the paddle had stung my pride more than my 18 year old backside, and perhaps that's true. Yet to take licks, and for it to be known you'd managed to take them without too much fussing, could earn you a degree of respect from friends and peers who had themselves been on the receiving end. It was a sign of being tough, so to speak, with the realization that no matter how tough you were, the hardwood paddle swung by that particular Assistant Principal was going to mean real pain and a tear or two. Those thoughts, articulated to me by another girl and a couple of the guys, made my memory of the whole ordeal much easier to bear.

That Sunday after church I told this whole story to both my older sisters, Kimberly and Laurie. They were sympathetic to the pain and to the emotions caused by taking licks, but not to the behavior that caused it. Laurie helped me place it in clearer perspective when she said,  "Yeah, I know it sucked big time but now it's over and done with. It's not that big a deal and it's sure nothing to blame Mom over, Megan." She told me that, everything considered, "It's probably for the best that Mom said OK to it." Laurie believed the smartest thing would be to simply regard the whole incident as nothing more than one small part of growing up. My Sis offered me some wise advice that day.  I stopped being mad at our Mom and started getting ready for finals.

Amanda and I were dear friends since elementary school and remain so today.  For a short time I harbored feelings of angry resentment towards her.  After all, wasn't it she who suggested we sneak upstairs to smoke?  I also resented her attitude in calling me a "baby" during those stressful few minutes the next morning.  In reflecting on it, however, she hadn't forced me to accompany her to the washroom and light up, and her bitter words were spoken in an ugly moment of severe pain and blushing shame.  The following Wednesday evening Jeff and I stopped at the Blue Light Drive In and saw Amanda and her future husband eating at an outdoor table.  After a few minutes of icy quiet we began talking.  When Amanda reached in her purse, withdrew a Pall Mall and lit up, I couldn't stop myself asking "Are you sure you need that? You've already GOT a smoldering butt!" Forty five minutes later Amanda and I parted company with a small laugh and a big hug, pals again.  Fifteen months later I was one of her bridesmaids.   Should my friend ever think back to the events of May 13th, 1993, it's a sure thing she'd wholeheartedly agree with my sister's opinion: it was all nothing more than one small part of growing up.

(_|_) (|||||||||||)==O  The End

Saturday, August 11, 2012

I'm Interviewed by Renee Rose

A big shout out and a thank you to an author of excellent romantic fiction with a spanking angle, Renee Rose of She interviews me today so stop by and take a look.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Who Was Will Henry?

Who the hell was Will Henry? He is mentioned every now and then in various spanking story forums, but so far no one has really explained who he was and what he had to do with TTWD. The short answer is that he was a writer. His real name was Will Deer and he was a lawyer in a suburb of Chicago. He wrote pulp fiction in the ‘60’s, 70’s and up through the mid 80’s. He died in the fall of 1986. Before explaining his contribution to our art form, a little history is in order.

Before the internet, before DVD’s, even before VCR’s, there were books. In the mid ‘60’s erotic media consisted essentially of magazines, grainy 8mm film and books. Books were sold in “adult bookstores” which were located the seedier parts of the downtown cores of major American cities. “Dirty books” were big back then, and these crummy porn shops had racks and racks of them. At that time the spanking fetish was little understood by the producers of mainstream porn who furnished the content for adult bookstores. It seemed to be lumped in with “sadism and masochism” or “bondage”, stuff featuring mainly female domination. In New York City there were the Nutrix pamphlets and other very short booklets that featured spanking stories and a few drawings or cheesy pictures. Spanking content in magazines was rare and poorly presented, if at all. You were just as likely to see a photo of some crazed misogynist whacking some woman with a tennis racquet or a frying pan as an actual spanking, yet they called it “spanking”. I actually remember a magazine I once saw called “Hit and Fun”.

Prior to the 1960’s flagellant literature was dominated by the classic Victorian pieces probably penned around the turn of the century, and a bit later by Eric Wildman. All of it came from England. There were no American writers of note. Will Henry and Paul Little changed all that by providing spanking erotica from a uniquely American perspective.

Will Henry was an oasis in a desert of porn that displayed no understanding of what readers having an interest in spanking really wanted. But he did. He wrote under the names Will Henry and William St Cyr. There were several other pseudonyms. Some of his more famous titles were: SPANKMANSHIP, SUBURBAN SPANKING, SPANKING STEWARDESSES, MODERN SPANKING and THE HEADMASTER. Many of his books were actually collections of “case studies” which were first person accounts of wife spanking, sorority initiations, spanking clubs, and family discipline. These read a lot like the “letters” featured in magazines like “Mr.”, which are here in the library. Some of these, I suspect, were actually penned by Mr. Henry himself. He tended toward M/F but did include a good bit of F/M content as well.

The following passage from THE PASSIONATE PRISONERS is typical:

With little difficulty, Dale managed to pull his attractive victim into
position over his knees, her long, nylon-clad legs up on the bed and in
full view. Her girlishly buxom, pantie-clad bottom wriggled anxiously
over his lap,…

With his free right hand, Dale slowly began working her black panties
down. Contrasting vividly with her black panties, her pink-white
buttocks were thoroughly breath-catching as they slowly came into view.
Perfectly rounded and femininely plump, the two satiny smooth mounds
wriggled and flexed in pretty anxiety as Dale slipped the panties down
to the tops of her stockings. Feeling the soft breeze from the nearby
window against her bare charms, Judy moaned softly through her gag and
tried to brace herself for the spanking to come.

Slap! Dale applied the first spank quite lightly squarely across her
right buttock, letting his hand remain in place for a moment afterward.
The spank stung mildly, and Judy squirmed with embarrassment and
excitement as she felt his masculine palm resting familiarly on her
exposed bottom. The pretty young secretary always found it exquisitely
humiliating to be spanked like a small child, yet her mortification was
always mixed with sensual arousal.

Judy's right buttock was slightly pink when Dale finally raised his
right hand. Slap! The second introductory spank landed on her left
buttock, and once again Judy wriggled prettily across his lap….

 Forced to move in unison by the ropes at her knees and ankles,
Judy's nyloned legs swung back prettily as if to protest the violation
of her curvaceous buttocks.

Smack! The third spank landed with a crisp smacking noise squarely
across the crevice of her buttocks.

… she instinctively
turned her face back over her shoulder in a futile effort to plead with
him to stop.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Working slowly and systematically, Dale began
spanking her plump buttocks with crisp but not brutally hard spanks.
Each smack produced a muffled yelp and a pretty, almost snakelike
wriggle from his comely victim. In a few moments, Judy's cute bottom was
a light shade of pink on both cheeks and it was quite apparent that the
spanks were beginning to raise the temperature of her pretty nates.

"Mmmmmm! Mmmmmmm!" Judy tried to protest, although she knew only too
well that she would have to take it as long as he chose.

Here is an F/M scene from the same work:

From the beginning, Arthur was kept under extremely strict discipline.
There can be little doubt that his Aunt Helen was a sadist. For the
slightest infraction of her rules, Arthur was soundly spanked with the
hand and hairbrush. He was always spanked on the completely bare bottom,
and his aunt did not even permit him to prepare himself. Instead, his
aunt personally lowered this trousers and shorts for him, even after he
was a mature young man well into his teens.

The spankings were never laughing matters by any means. Pulling her
skirts up out of the way, his aunt would make him stand sideways between
her legs and bend over her left thigh until his head was nearly touching
the floor. Holding him firmly between her strong thighs, she would apply
a long and sound spanking. Her procedure was almost always the same. She
would commence with her hand and spank until her palm was stinging too
much to continue. She would then switch to the hairbrush and apply it
almost unmercifully. Finally, she would toss the hairbrush aside and
finish up with her hand, once again smacking away until her palm stung
too much to continue. Although her hand was large and capable of
imparting much more pain than might be imagined, it was the hairbrush
that really hurt. Arthur inevitably wound up howling and sobbing long
before the spanking came to a halt.

Henry’s books were sold by several publishing houses including Satan Press and Eros Goldstripe. They were also pirated by many others and republished under altered titles. Henry was famous for writing very evocative scenes that got right to the heart of the erotic spanking fantasy. He never dwelled on plot or characterization, preferring instead to paint lurid word pictures of spanking scenes frequently followed by sex. His novels featured multiple characters and scenes, usually one pairing per chapter. He’d describe a scene then quickly move to something else, like a different pair of characters. His emphasis was on home and school spanking and while there was a bit of bondage, he never strayed very far into BDSM. He pioneered many themes which readers now recognize as familiar. For example, the male disciplinarian in an apartment shared by several females is, to my knowledge, his invention. I’ve used it several times as have others. He was probably alone in featuring sorority and club initiation scenes in both his “case studies” and novels.

The thing that distinguished Henry from other writers of his era like Paul Little, Gerda Mundinger and Joe Weiss, was his emphasis on setting. His books were nearly always set in a suburban late 1950’s-early 1960’s America. They most always dealt with domestic or school discipline. Today it’s like reading a spanking story set on the old prime time soap opera “Peyton Place”, or in an episode of “The Donna Reed Show” or even in “Mayberry RFD”. One can well imagine spanking scenes in a show like “Mad Men”, and if they were there, they would sound like Will Henry had written them. The characters are ordinary people in the heartland of country America or suburbia. The milieu has a veneer of mom and apple pie innocence, under which the reader often finds a smoldering sexuality fueled by consensual and semi-consensual spanking. Husbands spank wives, girlfriends spank boyfriends, roommates spank each other, high school athletic clubs have paddling initiations. Sometimes wife swapping clubs form that feature spanking. You don’t find exotic locations, New York chic, or elements of BDSM in Henry’s works (except occasional bondage), but you do find spanking and sex----and plenty of it.

Today, many of his novels are available in ebook form from Of  course now with the explosion of  self published ebooks, any author can write literature of any sort and place it out there for public consumption. BDSM novels number in the thousands on Amazon. The meteoric rise of the “spanking romance” genre is another example of the popularity of self publishing in niche markets. Today if you read Will Henry his prose sounds quaint and dated, certainly compared to our many talented authors writing in the same field. But sometimes it is instructive to return to one’s roots if for no other reason to see where it all began.