From kindergarten through high school, I attended a small catholic school that did not allow much freedom for the students. The school had one class per grade, each with about 30 students. Having grown up together, my classmates and I knew each other almost too well. We formed tight friendships, but tended to be cliquish. The education was reasonably rigorous, although several of the teachers and aides were just church parents who worked at the school out of convince because their children attended. In the lower grades, one teacher would handle all of the classes except for physical education (PE), music, computers, and Spanish, which had a separate teacher come to class several times each week. By the time we got to junior high, we would rotate classes. There were separate teachers for social studies, math, and science too. The homeroom teacher for our grade handled grammar and English, electives such as art, and religion.
I had been tagged as a “problem child” since the first grade, when I frequently argued with our teacher, Mrs. Simpson, about taking off my jacket when I came in from recess. It was very childish, I know, but then again, I was a child. We all had to wear uniforms that consisted of short-sleeved white polo shirts and navy blue pants. Boys (and probably girls too, although we rarely did) could also wear navy blue shorts. Girls in grades K-5 could wear a green plaid jumper dress, and when you got to junior high, you could wear a knee-length, pleated, grey skirt. We also had a navy blue uniform sweater with the school name, St. Francis, and a picture of our mascot, a tiger, on it. During the winter, we were allowed to wear a non-uniform jacket outside. When I was in the first grade, my family could barely afford the school tuition, so my parents opted not to buy the expensive sweater. As a result, I would try to keep my coat on when coming in from recess. Mrs. Simpson would ask me to take it off because it wasn’t part of the uniform. What probably started as me being chilly from recess, quickly turned into a battle of wills. I would try to push her as far as I could, short of getting in real trouble. This defiance colored her opinion of me, and she never really let it go. Unfortunately, for me, when I was in 3rd grade, our kindly principle, Sister Mary, retired and the much sterner Mrs. Simpson took over the administrative duties.
I was always a very intelligent child and regularly questioned authority. As a result, I was frequently in trouble throughout my schooling, and was well versed in the school’s disciplinary procedures. Typically, I was sent to the office where I was made to sit on a couch primarily reserved for students who were in trouble. The couch was also in the lobby so that I would be left on display for any student, parent or teacher heading to the office. I would have to sit and think about my misbehavior for a period of time depending on the severity of what I had done. After Mrs. Simpson felt enough time had passed, she would call me into her office and lecture me. If I was lucky, she wouldn’t call home. If I was particularly unlucky, she would call my mom in at the end of the day. When I was little and my parents found out that I was in trouble, I’d have to go over my dad’s lap for a spanking when he got home. However, by the time I got to the 4th grade, this tapered off in favor of extra chores, taking away TV or computer time, reduced opportunities to see my friends, being made to miss extracurricular activities like soccer, and other grounding type punishments.
My dad always insisted on having dinner together as a family and we would sit around the table and talk. Sometimes, my sister, knowing that I had been in trouble, and that my parents had not found out, would take this as an opportunity to “stir the pot”. One of her favorites was to ask dad what happened when he was in trouble growing up. He would always tell us that he never go in trouble (and for some reason we believed him), but that back in his day they used to paddle troublemakers. I was fascinated by this, and on several occasions tried to get as many details as I could from him. He never told us that much about it other than that those students had to bend over the back of a chair, grabbing the seat, followed by getting their butt whacked with a wooden board. As I got older, I found that I became increasingly fascinated with spanking and would often fantasize about it. When I started noticing boys around the 8th grade, I would daydream about a cute boy being called to the front of the room for a paddling. One time, at a sleep over at my friend Emily’s house, we were playing truth or dare mostly just as an excuse to talk about our crushes. My school spanking fantasy came up, and she told me, “I don’t think that’s even legal anymore.”
Neither of us had ever heard of it happening to anyone we knew, and we both knew it was not allowed at our school, but I adamantly disagreed with her, mostly just because I wanted to be right. Telling her, “I can’t imagine that they would have made a law about that,” lead to us waiting for the dial-up modem to connect to AOL so that we could search for the law. The parental controls kept us out of the sites I probably would have found most interesting, but had no idea existed at the time. We did find that school paddling was technically allowed, but in practice was only implemented in one or two religious schools that were on the other side of the state. Ultimately, my daydreams continued, but I never thought that I would ever actually be involved in school spanking in any way.
Being 16 is an awkward age for everybody and I was no exception. I was 5’6” and athletic with shoulder-length, fiery-red hair that has soft curls, green eyes, and a temper to match. I had started developing curves about two years prior. While I was pleased to be getting attention from the boys, I was relatively shy and modest when it came to flirting back. My tendency to question authority had progressed to regular rebellion, and my friend group had similarly rebellious tendencies. I tended to push the envelope more than most of them because I had progressed to the point where I was I had taken the trip to sit on that couch in the office so often, that it had become comfortable to me. It was no longer much of a deterrent. As this happened, Mrs. Simpson became increasingly upset with me. I always got the feeling that if she could have found a way to expel me from the school, she would have. But, the school didn’t really have procedures in place for this, relied on tuition from the students to keep running, and it would have been problematic with my two sisters and brother also attending. Instead, she started placing me in what was effectively “in-school suspension” although it was never called that. When I got in trouble for anything serious, I’d still be sent to the couch. After waiting, the secretary would talk to Mrs. Simpson, and then take me to a chair in the back room of the office that was a combination storage, mail and copy room, and nurse’s station. I think not telling me how long I’d be there was part of the punishment, but at the end of the day, my parents would come pick me up from the office. I’d be told to report there the next morning. Depending on the offense, I’d spend up to three days in the office before being summoned to Mrs. Simpson’s office to be lectured. Once I caught on to what was going on, I’d put magazines in my backpack to read after finishing the work my teachers sent, and it wasn’t so bad. I could finish the work in a fraction of the time without having to sit through class, and aside from not seeing my friends; it wasn’t really much of a punishment. I think Mrs. Simpson caught on to that and it added to her frustration.
In 10th grade, a boy in my class named Ken used to tease me. He was tall and lanky with short cut blonde hair. He came from a wealthy family, and made sure to frequently remind anyone who would listen. One day at lunch, we had a squabble. I don’t even remember what he teased me about to start it, but after lunch we had PE, and I was still mad at him. Our school had two asphalt basketball courts and our teacher, Mr. Frank, brought out basketballs. He had us form four lines behind each free-throw line as a warmup. We were to shoot a free-throw, then rebound the ball, and pass it to the next person in line. Ken wound up in line behind me and I was still pissed about earlier. I shot the ball, ran for the rebound, and suddenly saw a chance to get even with him. He wasn’t paying attention, talking to a friend, and I thought no one would be able to tell if I passed him the ball with a little extra zing. I launched the ball at him putting all of my pent up anger behind it. It caught him square in the crotch, he let out a yelp, and crumpled to the ground crying in the fetal position. For a split second, I was elated, but quickly realized that I had screwed up big time when Mr. Frank yelled, “Stephanie! Go sit down now!,” pointing to the bench beside the court.
Mr. Frank went over and calmed Ken down as best he could. He then radioed to the office, and the secretary and computer teacher came out to the basketball court. The secretary helped Ken to the nurse’s station to rest, and the computer teacher walked me to the couch. The computer teacher, Mr. Ross, had always been one of my favorite teachers and I remember being oddly affected by how disappointed he looked. I sat on the couch quietly for about an hour and a half while Ken’s mom came and picked him up, giving me death stares as she passed. Ken wouldn’t meet my eyes as he walked out. After another half hour or so passed, Mrs. Simpson called me into her office. The lecture began, and she quickly dismissed my cover story that it was an accident. She told me how badly I could have hurt Ken, and how she didn’t know what to do with me anymore. She told me that I needed to take responsibility for my action and realize that there were real consequences. Then, she surprised me. She told me that I had been in trouble so often, that she wanted me to think about what should be the discipline policy at school. She then handed me a note pad and told me that I was to write a progression of discipline that I though should be implemented at the school. I was sent to the chair in the back room office with the note pad.
I was very angry at the whole situation, especially because I thought I would get away with my behavior this time. I was also a little scared because I thought this list was an excuse for Mrs. Simpson to try to have a clear path to expelling me. She had made it very clear to me that the list had to end with expulsion. As a result, I tried to think of every punishment I could to add to the list to make it as long as possible. First I put down a verbal, and then written, waring, starting first from the classroom teacher followed by the principle. Then I listed varying amounts of time to sit on the couch in increments of half-hours up to the length of a school day. Next, I padded the list with half-day increments of in school suspension up to a week. Feeling secure that I would never progress through this entire list, even if she implemented it, I then decided to round out the list with all of the school punishments I could imagine. Extra math homework; I loved math, so this wouldn’t have been much of a sacrifice. One that Mr. Ross liked to use in place of sending someone to the office; copying verses from the bible. Then thinking of Mr. Ross, and how he jokingly threatened to “beat us with a wet noodle” when we were bad, I was reminded of my dad’s school paddling stories. I thought this would be a great way to throw Mrs. Simpson off her game as she read the list. I also didn’t really think there was any way she would ever be allowed to use it. I added “10 spanks with a wooden paddle” to the list. Then I moved on to letters home, missed recess, eating lunch in the office, and cleaning chalkboards.
Once the list was as long as I could possibly make it, I tore out the page and recopied the punishments into a list ordered on severity. I’m not sure, but I think I put the paddling somewhere nestled in the various lengths of in-school suspension. I finished the list, threw out the first sheet I had made, and sat staring at the wall, and daydreaming about what it would be like if Mr. Ross (who I also had a major crush on) were to paddle the boys in my class. The secretary came after a while and took my list presumably to give to Mrs. Simpson. I hoped she would glance at how long it was and give up on the idea of having me write my own discipline schedule. About 45 minutes after the last bell rang; Mrs. Simpson came into the room with my mom in tow. She told me to report to the office on Monday.
My weekend sucked. I got the quiet treatment from mom and the opposite, a loudly yelled lecture, from dad. My plans with friends were canceled, replaced with cleaning the house, followed by early bed. By the time Monday rolled around, I was bored out of my mind. As I put on my plain flesh tone bra, a uniform polo shirt, the grey pleated skirt, a pair of sheer white cotton panties, and my saddle shoes with ankle socks, I hoped I might get a chance to see my friends for a few minutes before or after school. I figured I’d be stuck in the back office all during the school day, so I loaded my backpack with “Reader’s Digests” before getting in the car for mom to drive my siblings and I. When we got to the drop off line, mom told me to wait in the car while she dropped off my siblings and then pulled around to park. When she got out of the car, she was carrying a package with her. I was more focused on what I was sure would be a nasty lecture from Mrs. Simpson when we got to the office. Walking in, I sat on the couch, and my mom let the secretary know she was here, handing her the package. The bell to start the day rang, and after morning prayer, the pledge of allegiance, and announcements, Mrs. Simpson called us into her office.
She started her lecture as usual…disappointed, irresponsible, yada yada. I got a little nervous when she came to a crescendo with “I spoke with your mother last Friday, and showed her your list.” I was worried that I was going to be in more trouble for not taking that assignment seriously. What she said instead hit me like a slap across the face, “We came to the agreement that you would benefit from a paddling.” My heart pounded. “Nothing else seems to affect you anymore and this attitude you have has to stop. You’re going to be an adult soon, and you need to learn that you cannot be a productive member of the community if you continue these behaviors.” I looked over to my mom and saw that she was stoned faced. Mrs. Simpson continued, “You wrote 10 swats on your list, but having never been paddled before, we agreed this was excessive. Instead, you are going to get 5. I hope it will be the wake-up call you need. You will wait in the back office until I call you. While you’re waiting, I want you to copy Proverbs 23.” I was too shocked to speak and felt light headed. This couldn’t really be happening. My mom and Mrs. Simpson stood, and, somehow, I made it to my feet and walked out of the office in front of them. The secretary, who in hindsight obviously knew what was happening, took my arm gently and guided me to the back office with a bible and a notepad. I heard my mom and Mrs. Simpson go back into her office. I got to coping the verse right away, hoping this would all be over soon. I was a little surprised when about 5 minutes later, I heard my mom saying her goodbyes and leaving.
When I got to the part of the verse “Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell,” I thought to myself, “Simpson is such a bitch.” I finished writing and realized I should have taken more time so that I wouldn’t have to sit and worry. I hadn’t realized yet that this was part of Mrs. Simpson’s plan. As I sat my mind went back and forth between the spanking fantasies featuring Mr. Ross, that I frequently obsessed about, and picturing the reality of having to bend over a chair in Mrs. Simpsons office. The reality of picturing myself in that position was terrifying. When it got overwhelming, I would try to focus on Mr. Ross making a boy drop his pants and bend over a chair. I would get excited, until I realized this would be me with Mrs. Simpson soon, and the cycle would start over. At least I wore a skirt today instead of pants. The long, thick, pleated material would probably absorb a lot of the swing. I resolved that I would not let Mrs. Simpson know she was hurting me, no matter how bad it was. Eventually, I pulled out a “Readers Digest” and turned to the jokes to try to take my mind off my situation. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to even make me smile. I couldn’t really focus on reading anyway. I was left in the office during lunch, and tried to eat a bit of the sandwich my mom had packed, but I wasn’t really hungry. I was left waiting all day until the final bell rang. When I heard it ring, I was hopeful that the priest who oversaw the school, or someone from the district, had intervened and decided I couldn’t be spanked. The noise from the pickup line outside died down and eventually, Mrs. Simpson came back to get me. I followed her into her office. The secretary was still outside as we walked into the office, but the rest of the school seemed empty. Any remaining students would have gone across campus to the church room used for after school care.
Mrs. Simpson’s desk had been cleared off and the only thing that remained was the package my mom had left with the secretary that morning. Mrs. Simpson opened it to reveal a humongous wooden paddle. I don’t remember the exact size, but it seemed large enough to cover my entire bottom. It was a dark colored, oak, rectangle with rounded corners and many small tapered holes drilled in it. When she set it on the desk, I could tell how solid it was from the thud it made; I shuttered. My mom must have had one of the men from church make it this weekend without my knowing. My heard began pounding again as she said, “Stephanie, I need you to stand with your toes on the tape marks and bend forward resting your body on my desk.”
I looked down to see two pieces of masking tape about two feet from the desk and at least three feet apart from each other. This sadistic bitch had planned this out in detail. Placing my toes on the line and leaning forward, I thought how different this was than my fantasies, which had always involved bending over the back of a chair. I carefully lowered myself to the desk, which left my weight uncomfortably pressing my breasts into the hard surface. Mrs. Simpson spoke again, and I could tell she was trying to hide the glee in her voice, “Raise your skirt.”
I stood up and turned around, my face flushed hard, and I exclaimed, “What?!”
She was standing there holding the paddle with both hands on the grip. “Stephanie, your parents and I have planned this out in detail. As the first student ever to be paddled at this school, we went over every aspect. Your skirt would dampen the effects of the paddle, and we want to make sure you remember this for a long time.” I weighted my options and realized I didn’t really have any. I could run out of the room and she couldn’t stop me, but my parents were in on this. I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. I briefly considered running away and calling child protective services, as my friends and I had joked about before. I quickly concluded that they wouldn’t look fondly on a well-cared for teen trying to use them to get out of a spanking. I was stuck and Mrs. Simpson realized it. She waited as I came to this realization, placed my toes back on the tape marks and lowered myself to the desk again. I was frozen with fear and my heart was beating so loudly I felt lightheaded. After a minute, she said again “Raise your skirt.”
I reached back and ever so slowly lifted my skirt hem and pulled it up until it was resting on my back. It was so humiliating having this woman that I hated, staring at my panties stretched tightly across my ass, which was prominently on display to her in this position. She shifted to my side and instructed me to “reach forward and grab the edge of the desk. Keep your eyes straight ahead and do not move from that position.”
I felt the paddle tapping my butt, and then it was gone. There was a pause, a whoosh, and a loud “POP!” that sounded like a firecracker exploding. A second later, my entire bottom was covered in indescribable pain. It was like nothing I ever felt before. It seemed to knock me senseless. My eyes instantly watered and, slowly, I was able to think again. My ass was on fire, like a hot iron had been pressed to it. I strengthened my resolve not to let her know that she had hurt me, but I knew that it was going to be a losing battle. She clearly wanted to hurt me as much as possible. After what felt like a full minute at least, I felt the solid weight of the paddle pressing against my throbbing bottom again. Then it was gone and time seemed to hesitate for a second.
Swish…POP! I yelped loudly as the fire that was my bottom got hotter and let out a deep sob as I started crying. Just as I began to catch my breath and get my tears under control, I felt that wicked paddle pressing against my ass again. I tried to prepare myself as I felt it disappear, and then heard it whistle through the air… POP!
I heard myself scream and it felt like I shot up from the desk. Although I know in that awkward position, it must have taken effort on my part. The next thing I knew I was dancing foot-to-foot, hands under my skirt furiously trying to rub out the inferno in my panties. I was openly crying so it was hard to tell, but I think Mrs. Simpson was smiling. She must have seen this as revenge for all of the times I had smarted off to her. I begged through my sobs, “Please don’t do that again. It hurts so much. I’ve learned my lesson.” Nevertheless, my pleas fell on deaf ears. She waited until my crying had calmed to quiet tears. I became self-conscious and pulled my hands from beneath my skirt.
“Stephanie, back into position,” she said firmly. “If you move again, we are going to start over.” I had a feeling she had adlibbed this part, but I didn’t doubt she would use any excuse to prolong my misery. Resolved to let her give me the last two swats, and be done with this, I got back into position with no hesitation this time as my breast were crushed against the desk. My hair cascaded around my face and several strands clung to my tear soaked cheeks. Having lost all concern for modesty, I flipped up my skirt before she could ask. Mrs. Simpson took her time lining up the paddle and tapped it repeatedly on my butt. I dreaded the moment when the tapping stopped. SWOOSH! POP! AHHHHGHH! I couldn’t think for the first few seconds and came to weeping uncontrollably. At that point, my butt had probably started to numb up a little but there was already a deep ache in my glutes to go with my sizzling rear. She seemed to move a little bit quicker than with the previous swats, but I’m not really sure. I realized the pressure from the paddle was there again, and then it wasn’t. I heard it whistle through the air and I was momentarily deafened by the sound of the firecracker popping against my bottom. I know I screamed again and I sobbed uncontrollably, laid out across her desk. Eventually, the fire that consumed my bottom lost its urgency and faded to the feeling of a bad sunburn. My sobbing slowed.
“You may get up Stephanie.”
I complied and she pulled a chair from the corner for me. I could see her watching me as she moved back around her desk, still holding the paddle. As my butt contacted the hardwood seat of the chair, I felt a sharp pain, like someone poking at a bruise. “I hope you’ve learned that you are too old to keep behaving this way. I pray that this will turn around your attitude, and set you on a better path.” She handed me a tissue. As I wiped nose, and then my eyes, I could clearly see my mascara had run down my face. She continued, “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Knowing I had no option, “I’m sorry Mrs. Simpson. Thank you for not giving up on me.” This seemed to satisfy her but she continued, “I want you to write an apology to Ken as well. You can give it to him first thing when you return to class tomorrow.”
She then stood and escorted me to my spot on the couch. My mom came shortly and picked me up. We didn’t talk on the car ride home, and my siblings in the back seat were oddly quiet. When we arrived, I went straight to my room and laid on my stomach on the bed. Eventually I made my way to the bathroom to inspect my still aching rear-end. I had a large round bruise on the right cheek and a smaller one on the left. What wasn’t bruised was still deeply red. I washed my face and returned to bed until I was called for dinner. I know my parents noticed me wince as I sat down, but we didn’t talk about it then. That night, I drifted off to sleep, still plagued by a sensation like a nasty sunburn. I slept on my stomach all night. By the time I woke up the next morning, my ass didn’t hurt nearly as much, but was still very sore. The soreness gradually faded over the next few days with the last reminders being twinges when I sat on a hard surface. The bruises dissipated over the course of a little over a week. My behavior *mostly* improved, in a large part because I had realized that I had to learn to control my temper by the time I left high school.
Years later, I asked my dad about the incident. It turns out he had been in on the phone when my mom and Mrs. Simpson had talked on the previous Friday. When they saw I had added spanking to my punishment list, both mom and Mrs. Simpson initially brushed it off. He told them how much it had helped him when he was paddled in school. After he convinced them it was worthwhile, they came up with a plan. The paddling would be after school so it wouldn’t be an official school-sanctioned punishment. He had contacted a friend of his from church to make the paddle and my mom had picked it up that Sunday. She had also been the one to point out that my skirt would be too much protection. They decided if I wore pants, no issue, but a skirt would have to be raised. Mrs. Simpson wasn’t thrilled at the idea at first, mostly because she was worried about liability. They convinced her that they were fully onboard. When they did, she confided it was a punishment she used on her children when they were younger. She got the okay to paddle as hard as she wanted (short of injury,) and to bruise my bottom. My mom was hesitant to this at first, but my dad and Mrs. Simpson convinced her that the aftermath was an important part of the punishment. When dad first told me, I resented him for it briefly, but soon realized that it probably did help me turn things around.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/eqqyt2/getting_in_trouble_at_school_ffspankreluchumlno
So Nice indeed