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
“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:“WHAP!” “WHAP!” “WHAP!”
“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:“WHAP!” “WHAP!” “WHAP!”
“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.“SPLAT!”
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:
“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.