One squabble too far.

He'd had enough of their interminable squabbling. They were both old enough to know better than to spend their time winding each other up, but no: all through supper one or the other had insisted on needling her sister. Both he and their mother had told them to knock it off, but after a couple of minutes of good behaviour they would be at it again. 

So he'd run out patience, sent them both up to their rooms, and finished the meal amidst stiff and forced conversation with his wife. Now they'd finished the washing up and she had said "OK, you'd better go and do what's necessary. It serves them right." He'd collected the paddle from his study and gone to Catharine's room. On the way, he told her younger sister Linda to join them. Linda had appeared from her room wearing sports clothes and claiming she was about to go out jogging.

"Fine idea," said her father, "but before you go, take off your shorts and trainers and wait there in the corner while I deal with Catherine."

He threw the elder girl over his knees, dragged down her tights, and started spanking first the right cheek and then the left. As her bottom reddened, Catharine squealed, kicked her legs, and tried to put her hand in the way. This simply resulted in the smacks becoming harder.

In her corner, Linda gently ran her fingers over her still-unmarked bottom. She wasn't looking forward to the next few minutes.

Extra for Anna.

Bexhill School Headgirl Flo surveyed the three bottoms she'd just tanned. They might have been seniors but the way they had been behaving in the showers - indulging in a full-scale water fight - they deserved to be treated as they had been. Now Flo pondered whether to give Anna, the girl on the right, two more. She was sure that Anna was the ring-leader and deserved an extra thrashing and anyway there was that rumour that Anna actually liked being spanked.

As Headgirl, Flo had the unique privilege of being able to carry and use a cane, subject to some restrictions, one of which was that she could hand out a maximum of six strokes. However, she could usually get away with giving a couple more if she claimed the victim had moved or funked a whack by putting her hands in the way. Flo made up her mind.

"Right, you two can get down," she tapped the cane lightly on the two behinds nearest her. "Anna, stay in place. I haven't finished with you yet: you know why. Now stick your bottom right out." She laid the cane across the exact centre of Anna's cheeks, where there was still a small area of unblemished skin. The two others stood back, transfixed, gently massaging their blazing backsides.

(Flo and Anna appear in the Bexhill School series of books)

The bite of the cane.

There were a few girls, who - never having felt the rattan across their backsides - denied that a caning could be as painful as people claimed. Emily was one of them. She scoffed at the howling that could be heard from within  the head's study as the whack of the cane across bare cheeks echoed down the corridor. "Sissies," she would mock them, as they emerged red-eyed and rubbing their bottoms, "drips, weeds, it can't hurt that much."
She herself had only been spanked twice: once with a hairbrush by the Deputy Head, and once with a slipper by her Dormitory Captain. On both occasions, although she would have denied it, she herself had yelped loudly as each smack landed.
Her under-estimation of the efficacy of rattan on bare skin led her to take chances that a more prudent girl would have avoided. Thus, when she was caught out of bounds buying sweets in the local shop, it was with some surprise and alarm that she found herself bending over the Head's desk, her knickers around her thighs, listening to the swish of approaching doom.
'I'm sure this can't be too bad,' she thought to herself as she felt the cane tapped against her bottom. 'It may sting a bit, but probably no more than the hairbrush.'
She sensed the cane being drawn back. 'If I grip tightly on to the edge of the table, I'll be able to get through this with no trouble. I'll show them.'
She heard the sighing swish of the descending rattan, the loud crack of the impact.
"OOOOUUUUUWWW!!"

(For what happens to girls who get caught out of bounds, read the Bexhill School series - see below)

The price of carelessness.

 

Miss Holloway had been an exemplary school secretary until just a couple of weeks ago, but recently her work had become sloppy. The headmaster had cautioned her, but now -  just as he wanted to leave early - it had happened again. Twice he'd had to send back the letter she'd typed to Sir Miles Ransome, the most prestigious parent Bexhill could boast, and he'd been just about to sign the third draft when his eye caught the salutation: 'Yours sincerly'. He was furious. He summoned the wretched secretary into the office, waved the letter in front of her, and told her that her services were no longer required. He'd find a new secretary who could do the job properly. Miss Holloway promptly broke down, pleading with him not to fire her.

The fact was he didn't really want to lose her, not least because he fancied the pants off her. A thought - a really wicked thought - occurred to him. Did he dare implement it? He took a deep breath. 

"Miss Holloway, if one of the girls repeatedly produced careless work, after I'd admonished her, what would happen to her?"

"I suppose you'd punish her, sir."

"How?"

"Well, if she'd been warned previously, the next time she'd probably be spanked."

"Precisely. So, Miss Holloway, I'll give you a choice. You can either clear your desk and not return on Monday morning, or accept a chastisement."

The secretary blushed deep pink. "But...sir...I mean..."

"Go away and re-type that letter and get it right this time. When you bring it back, let me have your answer."

Five minutes later, she tapped nervously on the study door and brought in the corrected letter. The headmaster took it, read it carefully, and signed. He looked up.

"The other matter - did you decide?"

Miss Holloway's face was scarlet with embarrassment.

"Yes sir...I...I'll take the spanking please."

"Very well." The headmaster got up and came around the side of his desk. He turned one of the guest chairs around and sat down.

"Over here and pull down those trousers and your pants, they offer too much protection. This will be on the bare. Come on, get on with it. Now, over my knees. That's right, and keep your hands away from your bottom. Are you ready?"

(Miss Holloway appears in the Bexhill School series of books - see below)

Pinned down.

I'd gone to the classroom early to prepare the blackboard before the lesson. Immediately I walked in, I knew that something was up: three girls were clustered around my desk, giggling. As soon as they saw me, they shot bolt upright, looking guilty.

"OK, what's up, girls?" I asked in a smiling, friendly way. All I got in response was some shuffling and nervous glances. I looked around my desk, but at first nothing seemed amiss. Then I saw it: a large, shiny drawing pin placed on the seat of my chair.

"All right - which of you put it there?" I demanded. More fidgeting but no answers. The wretched girls have this code of ethics that rivals the mafia's omerta rules: they will never, ever tell on each other. I suppose it's noble, but it's very frustrating when you're trying to uncover the culprit.

"One more chance," I frowned at them, "which of you put that pin there?" Total silence.

I went over the cupboard and fetched the classroom cane - it's thin and whippy and attracted nervous looks as I walked back, swishing it.

"Last chance." I tried to look each of them in the eye, but they were all studying their shoes. No one spoke.

"All right, bend over my desk, all three of you. Skirts up."

The desk is wide. They lined up along it, lifted up their skirts, and slowly bent over, their fingers grasping the far edge of the wooden surface.

I gave each of them three sharp whacks over their regulation cotton briefs. Every stroke produced a yelp of pain.

"Stand up, face me." They got up and turned around, clutching their bottoms. Three sets of tear-filled eyes looked at me. I flexed the cane in what I hoped was a threatening manner.

"Who put that pin on my chair?" It came out as a kind of hiss. No response, except a couple of sniffs.

Well, I can't back down now without losing face, and that would be unconscionable. There's not much choice. I'll have to tell them to get back over the desk, knickers down this time, and give each of them three more really fierce strokes on the bare. 

They're going to have to learn that loyalty sometimes has it's price, a rather painful price.

TV is bad for you (or at least, your bottom)

The strict rule when Debbie was staying with Aunt Alyse was: no TV until after all the homework is done.
So when the aunt returned unexpectedly early and Debbie was perched in front of the box watching Coronation Street, it was not surprising that Aunt Alyse asked to see the completed schoolwork. Of course it wasn't 'completed'; it wasn't even even started.
This was the bit Debbie almost hated most: the moment when Aunt Alyse told her to go and fetch the hairbrush. It was an evil implement, long and stingy. It lived in the second drawer down in Aunty's wardrobe.
When she got back with it, Aunty would - as now - be sitting on a chair. She'd silently hold out her hand for the brush. Debbie knew what had to happen next: she'd have to peel down her panties, and lower herself over Aunty's  lap. Then she'd feel her skirt being folded up, the air cool against her bare backside. That was the moment Debbie would let go of her aunt's knee and put her hands on the floor or grip the legs of the chair..
All this seemed to take ages: the awful prelude to what was about to happen. Any second Aunty would start. The whacks would rain down, each cheek addressed in turn, each smack of the wood against Debbie's reddening bottom feeling like the sting of a bee. She knew that within a minute she'd be howling and kicking, but the spanking would go on and on and on.
How she wished she wasn't addicted to Coronation Street.

(The photo is probably from Nu-West/Leda. Acknowledged with thanks to this seminal site)

Revenge of the Housemistress

 

"How dare you call me 'Thunder-thighs'! I heard what you whispered to your silly friends as I passed you in the corridor and how they giggled at your so-called wit. Well, this will teach you to make fun of your Housemistress! And the other little twerps can expect the same! You're going to learn respect even if it has to be thrashed into you! Now get your hands out of the way!"

Moral: free speech only goes so far. Making fun of authority figures can have painful results.

Do NOT be late home (2)!

Jane felt her stomach curdle as the approaching footsteps got closer. Her mother paused outside the bedroom door, knocked, and threw it open without waiting for a response. Her expression was furious, but it wasn't that which caused Jane to catch her breath and put her hand to her mouth: it was what her mother was carrying in her right hand.

Jane knew that she was in trouble the minute she got home from that illegal, post-school shopping trip with her friend Melanie. Of course she should have asked permission from her mother to come back late, but Melanie had sort of egged her on by saying that they wouldn't be long and anyway, if they asked their parents, they might be told 'No'.
So they'd headed into town and once inside the beguiling department store they'd lost all track of time. When she'd finally got home, the reception was frosty, to put it mildly. She'd been ordered to go straight up to her room. She'd spent the last few minutes nervously fingering her bottom, sure that her mother had gone to fetch that infernal, long-handled hairbrush of hers.
But mother wasn't holding a hairbrush. Swinging from her right hand was the horrible, heavy tawse with which her father thrashed her and her sister on those rare - very rare - occasions when the offence was too serious to merit just a simple spanking. Although her mother had never used it on her before, it seemed that history was about to be made. Jane looked up fearfully.
"How dare you go waltzing off shopping without telling me! Melanie's mother and I have been worried to death. We were just about to 'phone the police and the hospital to see whether there'd been an accident. You know the rule: you come straight home after school unless I've given you permission to be late. What have you got to say for yourself?"
Jane tried to look as contrite as she felt, or rather as contrite as that vicious leather strap made her feel.
"Sorry, mum," she muttered.
"Sorry, indeed! A bit too late now. Go on, take your panties off, kneel on the bed, stick your bottom right up."
With her mother in a mood like this, Jane realised that resistance would be futile. She might as well get it over and done with as quickly as possible. She took a deep breath, slid her knickers off and tossed them on to the chair. She prostrated herself the bed, and thrust her hips upwards.
"Higher!"
Her mother had put one knee on the bed and was pressing down on the small of Jane's back with her left hand. Jane lifted her bottom as much as she could.
She glanced back just in time to see her mother raise the tawse high above her head.

Do NOT be late home!

How many times did the girl have to be told? 'After school, you come straight home'. That was the rule and it was inflexible unless she had received prior permission to return later. So when she turned up an hour and a half late and wanted me to admire the new shirt she'd just bought with her friend Jane, she got short shrift. I fetched that little paddle (small it may be, but boy! it stings) and had her over my lap with her knickers down before she could say 'Please, mum, no - please!' 

"If you'd only had the basic respect to ask before you went shopping, I might have said yes. But you didn't, you just waltzed off with your friend leaving me and Jane's mother wondering what on earth had happened to you. We 'phoned the school and I was about to call the hospital. We were worried sick."

"Sorry mum,  I'm very sorry, but please no more, it really hurts."

"It's supposed to hurt and I'm going to keep on spanking you until I think the lesson has sunk in. Now stop wriggling and kicking your legs."

Not far away, Jane was waiting nervously in her bedroom. She'd been sent there as soon as she came home. Now she could hear the sound of her mother's footsteps coming up the stairs.

(See next post)

Painful memories.

 

Grandma is a star. 

School had been horrible: I'd been paddled by the headmistress for again handing in my homework late (I'd been carried away watching the ice-skating on TV). She'd given me six swats with the heavy paddle, the one with the long blade with holes in that covers both cheeks when she hits you, and it was on the bare. I'd yelled the place down and my friends had accused me of being 'wet' and a 'cry-baby' - no sympathy there.

When I got home, my eyes were still red. Grandma noticed immediately. She took me in her arms and held me tight and asked me what was wrong. I burst out blubbing all over again, and told her about the thrashing. She told me to go to my room and she'd bring some special cream. She started massaging the stuff into the purple marks on my bum. It smelled wonderful and almost at once the throb started to diminish.

"What's it made of?" I asked, but Grandma just said: "That's my secret! But shall I tell you how I came across it?" Grandma's stories are always good, so I said "Yes please."

"When I was at school - and that was a long time ago - the headmistress was very strict. I often got paddled; we all did. Then one day I got caught smoking a cigarette. I was very unlucky: it was the first time I'd tried one. One of my friends dared me to come with her behind the bicycle shed at break time and smoke one from her pack. They were Camels, I remember that. She had a joke: 'the only cigarettes with the factory on the packet.' Anyway, a teacher found us. My friend managed to get away, but I was caught and hauled up in front the headmistress. 

"She went mad: you might have thought I'd been discovered having sex or something (but of course we didn't do that in those days). She told me that the next day, after lessons were over, I had to wait behind in the classroom (there was only one, it was a small school). I wondered why she didn't just paddle me there and then.

"My goodness, next day I found out why. She wasn't going to paddle me, she was going to use a birch. This was very unusual. In fact we'd never heard of anyone being birched before. So you can imagine how I felt when she produced this bunch of twigs, told me to take down my bloomers, and bend over a desk. She gave me a dozen swats, and I don't know to this day how I managed to take it without getting up. It was just awful, and afterwards my bottom looked like a lattice work! And that's when my friend who'd escaped being punished showed me how to make this cream.

"So, dear, perhaps your paddling today wasn't so bad after all. How's your backside feeling now?"

I love Grandma, she's a real friend.

Sword of Damocles.

She might be almost nineteen, but there was just so much cheek he could take from Vanessa before he snapped and, as he had done so often in the past, threw her across his knee to give her a good hiding. To begin with, he had intended to let her keep her panties on, but she wouldn't stop struggling, clapping her right hand firmly against her bottom, kicking her legs. So he had pinioned her with his left arm and whipped those thin white knickers down to the top of her thighs. Her yells of outrage only served to reinforce his determination to give her a spanking that she wouldn't forget in a hurry. He was deaf to her indignant pleas that she was 'too old for this sort of thing'. He raised his hand high...

Bottoms Up.

  It really was so unfair. They had chosen the pub carefully because it was discrete. How could they possibly have guessed that the pastor would walk in (with his horrid little dog) just as they had settled down at a table with their vodka and tonics. As soon as their eyes met and he gave them a curt, unwelcoming nod as he left a pile of pamphlets on the bar, they knew they were in trouble.

Their parents were strict teetotalers and members of an austere church. Although the girls were old enough to drink, they had been strictly forbidden to do so, and entering a pub was considered tantamount to heresy. But they were young and full of spirit (and sometimes 'spirits') and the risk had seemed worth it.
Now they regretted that decision: they were for it, and the moment had arrived.

Their father had stopped spanking them when they became teenagers: their mother (and the pastor) considered it inappropriate for a male to see their developing bodies. So hidings were now the exclusive preserve of their mother - and what hidings they were!
The formula was always the same. Once the crime had been discovered they were sent to their rooms and told to undress: embarrassing nakedness was part of the punishment. Their mother would go upstairs and re-arrange some of the furniture, notably the stool over which they would be required to lie. Then she would fetch that dreaded leather strap, actually an old razor strop. It was long and heavy, marked with the patina of years, first from sharpening steel blades and now from its more painful function. 

Then they would be summoned. They would make their way reluctantly from their rooms to where their mother was waiting beside the stool, tapping the strap against her palm. The elder sister would go first, laying herself across the stool, hands and toes on the floor, bottom lifted up. The younger girl would stand in front of her. 

The lashes would begin: one for each year of their  age, nineteen for the elder girl, eighteen for the younger. After a few strokes, the sting would be unbearable.

It was all so unfair.

Of course, Bexhill School wasn't the only place where girls had their bottoms spanked during that glorious 1950's era. From time to time I'll publish accounts of other punishments, generally illustrated by black-and-white photographs (because they are so much nicer than most modern, in-your-face, colour pictures). These will be illustrations I have culled off the internet and which seem to be in the public domain. If I know the source, I'll credit it, but if I inadvertently infringe someone's copyright, please let me know and I'll immediately remove the offending picture and apologise profusely.

COMMON COURTESY

How many times was the Deputy Head going to tell the girls to keep the Senior Common Room tidy? He was fed up with checking it only to find spilled coffee, unwashed cups, crumbs, and crisp packets left strewn around.
He'd seen Anne walk out of the door and head off down the corridor, so he'd popped his head round the corner to make sure that all was ship-shape. Sure enough, there on the table was a pool of spilled coffee. He touched it, it was still warm. He walked purposefully back to the door and shouted at the retreating figure. Anne stopped and looked nervously around.
"Come here, at once!"
Anne timidly returned.
"Were you drinking coffee in here just now?"
"Yes, sir."
"So is this mess on the table yours?"
"Possibly, sir."
"Why didn't you clear it up?"
There was no good answer except "Sorry, sir."
"Sorry you will be." He pulled out one of the tubular steel chairs.
"Bend over, put your hands on the seat." She reluctantly complied.
He lifted her skirt, and then to her horror she felt her regulation school knickers being slowly pulled down. The air was cool against her bare bottom.
"Stay there, I'm going to fetch my hairbrush."
Anne felt the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. The Deputy Head's hairbrush was a heavy, much-feared implement. She tightened her grip on the seat. He seemed to be in an evil mood; she hoped it wouldn't mean that she'd get more than six.