{ASSTR 11} Spanked for 50 Years {Big Billie} (spank F/fff nc, spank, sex M/F c)

 

Spanked for 50 Years

or A Painful Prank

 

By Big Billie

 

© Big Billie 2003. Not to be distributed or sold for monetary gain.

Author's Statement: Big Billie is opposed to spanking except for consenting adults. However, spanking sexually excites him, so he writes about it.

My name is Mary Wainwright and I went to infants' and junior schools, as they were then called, between 1948 (when I was 5 years old) and 1954 (when I was 11 years old). I then moved to an all girls’ grammar school, where I studied from 1954 until 1962, when I left to go to university at the age of 19. In those days the routine method of keeping order and discipline among school children was corporal punishment. For pre-secondary school children the commonest method of corporal punishment was to smack their legs. Secondary school pupils sometimes got the cane across their hands, and sometimes the cane, a gym slipper or a belt across their bottoms.

 

At infants’ and junior schools this was the usual procedure. You would be called out to the front of the class. Then the teacher would pull up your dress and knickers (or, if you were a boy, your trouser leg). She would then slap you across the back of your bare thigh, just below your bottom, with the flat of her hand. Then, unless you were very lucky, she would come round to your other side, raise the other side of your dress and knickers, and smack your other leg for you.

 

Well, like everybody else in those days, I endured sporadic slappings from the age of 5 until I was 11. Then I went off to secondary school. This was an all-girls selective grammar school with a very good reputation. My parents were delighted when I passed the entrance exams. As for me, well, as the narrative below makes clear, I had mixed feelings.

 

When I arrived at grammar school I was put into the first form. Our mathematics teacher was also our form mistress. She was called Miss Goodhall, and she was a young spinster aged about 21, just out of teacher training college. Her Christian name, I was later to discover, was Elizabeth. Although she was only young, she was very prim, proper and starchy, even by the standards of those more formal days. She had a shrewish and scolding tongue, with which she frequently harangued us. Even worse, whenever we incurred her displeasure, she dealt out swift and strict retribution. She was, indeed, a firm disciplinarian, and every single day there were at least two or three, and usually half a dozen or more, members of her class whom she punished physically.

 

There was something that made me really furious about the physical chastisement dished out by Miss Goodhall. Unlike every other teacher in the school, Miss Goodhall did not cane, slipper or strap you. She punished you as if you were a naughty little girl at junior school. She slapped you across your legs with her hands, and she used to smack you a lot harder, and for a lot longer, than you had been slapped at junior school. It was only later that I worked out the reason for this. With the benefit of hindsight I can see quite clearly that Miss Goodhall was a lesbian who lusted after naked, nubile female flesh. She was fond of young women and girls, and she fancied herself in the role of a strict and kinky female dominatrix.

 

Let me describe how Miss Goodhall punished us. First we were called to the front and made to stand on the side of her desk that was nearest to the blackboard and furthest from the class. We were then told to face the class and bend over the desk. This meant that our bottoms were towards the blackboard and out of sight of our fellow pupils, since their view was obscured by the victim's frontage and by the large wooden desk. The effect of this was to give Miss Goodhall a lot of freedom, and the discretion to vary her punishment style. This was because your fellow pupils did not know, unless you chose to tell them later, exactly what she was doing to you (see below).

 

How naughty you were was not the only factor in determining the frequency or the severity of your punishment. If you were a big meaty girl (if, in other words, Miss Goodhall fancied you) you were disciplined more frequently and more sexily, irrespective of your conduct. This, indeed, was my misfortune. By the time I arrived at grammar school I was big for my age, and well developed. I still had a lot of growing to do, but there was already more than enough there to keep Miss Goodhall overexcited. And wow! Did she make me pay for my premature nubility on each and every occasion that she caught me bending!

 

The nature of the chastisement that Miss Goodhall dished out varied. The standard punishment was like this. Miss Goodhall would stand on your right hand side. She would then lift your dress and drape it over your back. Then she would pull up your left knicker leg with her right hand. Next she would slap the top of your left thigh, just below your bottom, with her flattened left hand. These slaps were applied very briskly and vigorously, in multiples of a dozen. You always took 48 of these. Each of the 4 batches of 12 slaps was applied very quickly. It was all over in about 4 seconds. Then Miss Goodhall would pause for another four seconds or so to let you fully feel the incremental effect of her handiwork. Then, just as the ringing and tingling from the first 12 slaps reached a crescendo, she would give you another 12, and so on until you had taken the full 48. Then Miss Goodhall came around to your left hand side and applied the same chastisement to the top of your right thigh with her flattened right hand. Miss Goodhall always slapped you on both legs. She was right-handed when she wrote on the blackboard, but when she whacked you she seemed to be ambidextrous because the smacks from each of her flattened hands came equally, and fiendishly, sharp. Then, to finish you off, Miss Goodhall would give you four slaps with her right hand across both bare legs. These slaps were harder than the previous 96, and she paused between each of them to let you fully feel it before she gave you the next one. You then walked back to your desk. You had taken a total of 100 sharp slaps, 48 across each leg and four harder ones across both legs, and, believe me, the backs of your thighs were ringing like two handbells!

 

It is difficult to be definite about it, but my view is that the standard punishment described above was, in fact, rarely if ever used. Instead, one of two other procedures, both even saucier and sexier than the original, was employed.

 

In the first of these, Miss Goodhall would tug up your knicker legs to your waist and slap you first on your bared left buttock and then on your bared right buttock rather than on your thighs. Then, to finish you off she would bare both buttocks (see below) and give you the four harder smacks slap across your naked arse. She could do all this because, although in the 1950s girls’ knickers were fairly capacious, they were also quite loose fitting, with thin and very stretchy elastic in the legs. Miss Goodhall tended to concentrate on the soft undercarriage of the bottom where the bum curved round to the fanny crack and the meat was at its plumpest and tenderest. She clearly got a sharp sexual frisson out of it all and, in her state of heightened sexual erythrism, she always applied the 96 slaps even harder and faster than usual, followed by the four slaps across both buttocks that were even sharper than she was wont to lay on. It did not actually hurt much more than being slapped across the legs, but, even so, you felt very well smacked as you went back to your seat after your 100 slaps, and, in addition, intensely humiliated.

 

The variant on this was even more sexy and humiliating. Sometimes Miss Goodhall would pull both of your knicker legs up to your waist at the same time while slotting the gusset of your knickers into the crack between the cheeks of your bum. This left your bum, and, in particular, Miss Goodhall's favourite bit of it, the fanny meat at the bottom of both buttocks, completely bare and vulnerable to assault. She would then spank you, very hard and fast, across the naked cheeks of both buttocks. When she did this, she would stop after 48 slaps to hide what she was up to from the spectators. Then she would come round to your other side and slap you across both bare buttocks with her other hand, again very hard and fast, another 48 times. Then came the four harder slaps across both buttocks (see above). By the end you had taken a total of 100 spanks slap across both bare buttocks. Meanwhile, you could tell from Miss Goodhall's vigorous and excited application of the flat of her hand that she was really enjoying her work! At the end of it all you felt very well smacked, very well chastened, and very well humiliated and shamed. You thought that Miss Goodhall had made a monkey out of you, and you felt a proper Charlie. Ouch! It still makes my blood boil with fury, all these years afterwards, to recall how Miss Goodhall made fools of us and took advantage of our situation. There was nothing we could do about it. We had to obediently bend over that desk and take whatever she dished out to us. Wow! The dirty old pervert had the time of her life at our expense. I bet she really enjoyed herself!

 

Then there were a couple of other tricks that Miss Goodhall sometimes used to pull on us. Firstly, after the last smack of each 12 slap series she would leave her hand in the position where it had landed during the ensuing pause of four seconds or so, so that she could feel the hot tingly meat under her palm and fingers. During this pause she made particularly good use of her fingers, which she would gently press into both of your buttocks right across the plump sexy fanny meat that lay just above your inner thighs and at the back of your twat. Then again, before she finally removed her hand, she would first feel you up by gently pressing her palm and fingers into the chastised meat. Then she would allow her fingers to roam between your legs and up against the knicker gusset that covered your cunt lips. She would fondle each buttock separately, or else rub and grope across and between both buttocks, in accordance with whichever variant of her buttock spanking technique she had adopted. Then she did exactly the same after the next batch of 12 spanks, and again after the application of each of the four harder spanks at the end of your ordeal. The result was that by the time your punishment was over you had been touched up, in a highly indecent fashion, on no fewer than 12 separate occasions.

 

As a first-form grammar school girl aged 11 and 12 all this used to enrage me. But what happened last of all infuriated me even more and left me hopping mad. When she had done all this to me, Miss Goodhall would finish me off with a final little pat from her right hand across the back of the cunt. This time, however, the slap was the opposite of disciplinary. It was friendly and affectionate, as if to thank me for being a sport and for giving her such intense sexual pleasure. It was just as if she were my husband, and she were administering a saucy and patronising little smack on the bum to thank me for being so sexy and so enjoyable in bed. And, just like a husband's love smack, that final slap lingered. Yet again, after she had delivered it, Miss Goodhall left her hand in position for as long as she dared. She would then give my bottom a final, lingering grope, and this time, every time, she would rub her fingers firmly against the knicker gusset covering my twat. Then she would remove her hand and, unusually for her, Miss Goodhall would give me a big, friendly smile. "Thank you, Mary," she would say in a tone that demonstrated without any doubt that she was really happy and pleased with herself. Then, "Off you go!" she would gleefully and patronisingly add.

 

Aaagh! After all these years, it still makes my blood boil! Wow! That kinky old lesbian really rattled my bare arse for me! She took me to the cleaners beautifully, like a randy, saucy old man seducing a naive and innocent sixteen-year-old virgin!

 

Well, I had to put up with Miss Goodhall’s sexual molestation throughout my first and second years at grammar school. All of the teachers had their own disciplinary practices, and, if you were very naughty, you could be sent to the headmistress for the cane. Luckily, throughout my grammar school career, I managed to avoid the cane; but I took the slipper from class teachers from time to time, and once a teacher gave me the strap across my knickers. Ouch! That strap stung like hell, and the various slippers that assailed my bum used to really tingle. But, even so, none of this was as humiliating as Miss Goodhall’s hand spankings.

 

In Year 3, for the first time since I had arrived at the school, Miss Goodhall was not my Mathematics teacher, and I heaved a big sigh of relief. She had, I learned, arrived at the school in the same year that I had, and she was the most junior of the 3 mathematics teachers on the staff. Thus, her teaching was confined to the younger girls. But have you ever noticed, dear reader, that sometimes, when you think that you are safe, a cruel and malign fate dictates otherwise? I still vividly remember my first day in form 5A, in September 1958. When we turned up at our form room, there, standing at the front of it, was …Miss Goodhall. Yes, after the resignation of one of her 2 colleagues, and the move of the other to another school, she had been appointed the Head of Mathematics, with responsibility for teaching the O level forms! Even worse, she had been assigned as the form mistress of …5A. Wow! Miss Goodhall in charge of 36 buxom and nubile ladies aged 15 and 16! It was like putting the fox in charge of the hencoop!

 

What made it even worse was that she was now more confident. She had practised her sexy fun and games on the younger girls for 4 years, and had got away with it. This was the first time that she had taught the upper forms, and she was resolved to make the most of it.

 

There were thus a number of developments in Miss Goodhall’s disciplinary practices. She still gave you the standard 100 slaps at each disciplinary session, and she still administered them in the same fashion. But now, as well as her hand, she sometimes used, as and when she thought fit, a broad, flat rubber spatula. This, for example, was a favourite for her 4 final hard spanks. I think that Miss Goodhall was torn. She really loved to slap you with her hand, to feel nubile, naked flesh shudder and quiver under her fingers and palms, especially if you were an older, bigger and meatier girl with a hairy twat for her to touch up and grope. But, on the other hand, she also felt the need to make you really sting and tingle, and she had concluded that, as you got older, her hand was an increasingly inadequate implement for this purpose. But my word! That rubber spatula did the job in spades! If you took the full hundred whacks with that your bottom felt as if it had been doused in petrol and torched; and it stayed red, sore and tender for several hours afterwards.

 

But even that was not the worst. I cannot speak for everyone, but I know that when she disciplined some of my friends and myself Miss Goodhall did something else, and this was well out of order. Instead of baring your bottoms by pulling your knickers up over your bum flesh, she tugged your knickers down to the tops of your thighs, so that you did not even have the protection of your knicker gusset against her indecent probing. Oh, yes! Our nubile, hairy fannies were well groped! Frequently, Miss Goodhall’s fingers would massage and rub the hirsute lips of our tight, youthful vaginas, and probe tantalisingly between our labias and into our cunt slots! Worse than that, some of us, myself included, were not infrequently excited to orgasm by Miss Goodhall’s skilful, lewd and indecent assaults. Meanwhile, since our bums, crotches and vulvas were hidden from general view by the desk that we were bending over, many of the audience were given the impression that we were just getting the regulation chastisement, and not a full knickers down fanny feel as well.

 

Miss Goodhall now fancied me even more than she had done when I was younger. She spanked me, and indecently touched me up, on the slightest excuse. The only good news was that she went easy with the spatula. Fortunately, Miss Goodhall seemed to have concluded that the pleasure of groping my hairy fanny meat, inner thighs, crotch and pudenda was greater than that to be derived from making me tingle and smart from the stinging blows of the spatula.

 

By now my attitude to Miss Goodhall’s disciplinary exploits had become more ambivalent. I was still as outraged and annoyed as ever at her saucy chastisements. But I also found her punishments exciting and sexually stimulating. My God, but she was so skilful! She knew just where to smack me for maximum effect. She would strike right across the back of my hairy twat, where the meat was at its plumpest and tenderest, just above my thighs. Wow! She rattled and stirred up my vulva to wet, throbbing excitement! And, when she groped me, her fingers were so clever and cunning! At the very least she would bring me close to orgasm, and often she tipped me over the edge into the most ecstatic sensations of pleasure and pain. On more than one occasion, Miss Goodhall’s fingers felt out contractions in my loins, and the hot, sticky wetness in my crotch. I could feel her as she groped at me, dipping her fingers in my wetness, luxuriating in my pleasure and glorying in her skilful performance, and in the power that she had over me. But she was so cunning and discreet that none of this was obvious to my fellow students. Oh, happy, golden days of youth, when I was in my prime! To this day, the mere memory of it still stiffens my clitoris and makes my cunt meat moisten and throb!

 

Now during our year of O level studies we were taught Chemistry by, of all things, a young man. He was the only male on the staff, and he seemed very embarrassed about it. Well, it was like throwing a Christian to the lions. He was quiet and shy, but very handsome and we all fancied him. 5A were just the girls for him, nubile, randy, champing against the bit at an all-female academy, and gagging for it. Wow! Did we make the poor man’s life hell! One of his problems was that he was too gentlemanly and too polite to clamp down on us with the necessary forcefulness. And, of course, as a gentleman, he would never have thought or dared to strike a lady, and certainly not with a slipper, across her beknickered arse. But, to be honest, that is what we all deserved.

 

Anyway, for several weeks our handsome young Chemistry teacher (who was called Dr. John Hodgetts) took all that we had to give him, getting more and more rattled at our suggestive double entendres and our saucy come-ons. Then, one day, my friend Mandy goaded him just a little bit too far, and he snapped. “Mandy,” he barked. “See me, at the end of the lesson.”

 

Well, the rest of us did not get to hear what happened until later, but what it was, was this. Dr. Hodgetts had taken the culprit to her form mistress, Miss Goodhall, and had requested action. Then, without so much as a word (unusual for her), Miss Goodhall had turned Mandy across the desk, raised her gymslip, pulled her knickers down to the tops of her thighs, and slapped her bare arse for her with the spatula. This time, while Dr. Hodgetts was present, there was no use of the hand, and no sexy touch-ups. Poor old Mandy caught it, and she caught it hard. She told me later that Miss Goodhall really rattled her naked arse for her. Meanwhile, Dr. Hodgetts stood in front of her. The punishment desk was raised onto quite a high platform, whereas he was standing off it, so his face was only a little lower than Mandy’s, and quite close to it. Throughout her ordeal, she said, John Hodgetts had gazed into her eyes. He was clearly absorbed and excited by her punishment, and, when she gazed down at his crotch, Mandy noticed that it was bulging noticeably. He could not see exactly what Miss Goodhall was up to, but, from the solid, high pitched crack of flat rubber onto bare skin, he must have worked out that she was tanning Mandy’s bare arse.

 

After that, Dr. Hodgetts took to hauling other malefactors off to Miss Goodhall for summary chastisement. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy doing it! It became a big talking point among the girls of 5A, and it did his street cred no harm at all. Wow! We had taken him for a sucker and a wimp, but we had seriously underestimated him! He was no easy push over! Now it was him who was suckering us! Oh, yes! Doctor John Hodgetts knew just how to sweat his temper, and he knew just how to sweat his ladies, as the bare, tingling red arses of a number of our classmates clearly demonstrated!

 

Meanwhile, I was in a state of palpitation. I myself fancied John Hodgetts something rotten. He had only just finished his doctorate, and was about 24, 8 years older than me, and, if he had made a play for me, my maidenhead would have been dead meat. At night, I would lie on my bed and fantasise about him. I imagined him taking me to Miss Goodhall for chastisement, and gazing into my eyes as I took the spatula across my bare arse. Wow! I thought! If I really wanted him, that should get him interested, especially if I played my cards right!

 

Thus it was that a bold, daring and saucy plan was formed in my mind. By the time I got out of bed the next morning I was resolved on my course of action, and determined to see it through to the end.

 

At our next Chemistry lesson I was outrageously rude and cheeky to John Hodgetts. Then, when he threatened to take me to Miss Goodhall, I told him that he would not dare. That did it. At the end of the lesson he marched me off straight to her. As when she had punished my friend Mandy Miss Goodhall said not a word. Without further ado she bent me over the desk, lifted my gymslip and discreetly pulled down my knickers to the tops of my thighs. Meanwhile, John Hodgetts stood a few feet in front of me, looking up into my face. Right, I thought, it is now or never. And I reached into the top pocket of my blazer and pulled out a set of cards, about 3 inches by 5 inches. I held the cards out to John Hodgetts. The top one was blank. Meanwhile, as I had hoped, Miss Goodhall was far too engrossed with my nether regions to notice or bother with what was going on at the other end, and, in any case, her view was obscured by the desk, and by my bum, back and head.

 

As Miss Goodhall pulled my knickers down to my thighs, I peeled off the top card from my collection and moved it to the back. This revealed the next card, and on this, in capitals, and in thick, distinct, black ink, was written: “CARD 01: MY NAUGHTINESS I SOON WILL RUE. IT WILL HURT ME MORE THAN IT HURTS YOU.” The effect on John Hodgetts was dramatic. His crotch, I had noticed, was already bulging. Now, almost instantaneously, I could have sworn that beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. He seemed helpless to control himself, and I saw him slip his hand into his trouser pocket and begin to rub his cock. Good, I thought to myself. That seems to have got his attention. But just you wait, young man. Next I will give you something to really blow your mind!

 

But then the unpleasant part started, and I realised that there was a drawback with my plan. Miss Goodhall started her merciless trip hammering of my naked arse with that pesky spatula, and I began to have second thoughts. Wow! That spatula came sharp, very sharp, and I was not expecting it. I winced and grunted. The slaps rang out like cracks from a rifle, and after the first salvo of 12 hard spanks my bare bum was ringing like a bell. But I kept my resolve. During the brief pause, I peeled back Card 01 and put it at the back of the pile, thus revealing the next one: “CARD 02: THUS I LEARN HOW NAUGHTY PRANKING IS REWARDED WITH A SPANKING.” By now John was helpless, and tugging hard at his stiff and engorged cock though his trouser pocket. Meanwhile, he stared hard into my face with a look somewhere between agony and ecstasy.

 

Then Miss Goodhall started off again. Whack, whack, whack… My beleaguered twat meat took another 12 of the best. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” By now I was helplessly crying out against the escalating tingling. But then followed my second brief respite, and again I did my thing: “CARD 03: OK, YOU WIN, I PLAYED THE CLOWN; BUT GOOD AND HARD YOU’VE SLAPPED ME DOWN.” By now I was beginning to regret my rash and ill-considered plan. Never again, I vowed, would I voluntarily present my naked rump to the rude ministrations of this kinky old lesbian!

 

But that was for the future. At the present moment there was no escape from my folly. My bum shuddered in keen anticipation of what was about to hit it. Then Miss Goodhall gave me another batch of free gifts to remember her by. Whack, whack, whack went the rubber spatula, slap across my naked rump, and the smacks rang out around the room like shots from a rapid fire machine gun. By now I was emitting loud, high-pitched squeals as though I were in the throes of an orgasm. Then ouch, I thought, as Miss Goodhall paused again. That’s only 36! There are still 64 to go! And I started to feel very, very sorry for myself. By now all of the cockiness had been slapped out of me. I gazed forlornly into Mr. Hodgetts eyes and, from my expression, he must have seen that I was a very chastened young lady. Even so, I managed to move Card 03 to the back of the pack to reveal: “CARD 04: I WAS NAUGHTY I ADMIT. I DESERVE TO GET MY BOTTOM HIT.” When he read this confession, John Hodgetts smiled smugly, and gazed at me with intense eye contact as he continued to massage his excited cock through his trouser pocket. Then came the next blistering 12-spank salvo from Miss Goodhall.

 

 And so it went on. After the first 48 spanks, Miss Goodhall came around to my other side and continued her merciless trip hammering. There were a total of 9 cards, and it was all that I could do to keep my composure and display them:

 

“CARD 05: THIS STINGS MY DIGNITY AND PRIDE. WHAT STINGS MORE IS MY BARE BACKSIDE.”

 

“CARD 06 I’M SWEET 16 NUBILE AND STRAPPING. I’M TOO OLD FOR A BARE BUMMED SLAPPING.”

 

“CARD 07 I COULD LEGALLY BE A MARRIED MUM. IT ISN’T RIGHT TO SLAP MY BUM.”

 

“CARD 08 I’M CHASTENED WELL I’VE LEARNT MY LESSON TO AVOID ANOTHER SPANKING SESSION.”

 

“CARD 09 THANK YOU, SIR, FOR PUTTING ME TO IT. IT’S WELL DESERVED, ALTHOUGH I RUE IT.”

 

You will note, dear reader, that I had thought through my card display with some care. I made sure that my rhyming couplets were saucy but not indecent, and that my attitude towards John Hodgetts was respectful and submissive. The cards certainly had the required effect. John seemed particularly stimulated by Card 06; indeed, although he did his very best to hide it from me, I could see from his eyes, as he gazed, transfixed into my face, and from the involuntary jerking of his loins, that with Card 06 I had succeeded in bringing him off. The look of relief and sublime pleasure on his face as his cock started to pump his white, sticky seed into his crotch, was a big boost for me. After all, I had an enormous crush on John Hodgetts; yes, I was a naive, impressionable 16-year-old virgin and I was violently in love with him. I had deliberately exposed my bare bum to Miss Goodhall’s pesky spatula, and I was putting on this kinky display of submission, entirely for his benefit, in the hope that it would force him to take notice of me. Thus, despite my tingling, ringing arse I was genuinely pleased that I had given such intense sexual pleasure to the man that, even at that tender age, I was hoping to marry.

 

Even so, as I rubbed my smarting rump after my chastisement, I resolved that once was enough. In future I would be a virtuous, well-governed, respectful and impeccably behaved young lady during John Hodgetts’ Chemistry lessons, and the object of my amorous desires would be getting no more card displays from me as my arse was wobbled, stung and reddened by Miss Goodhall’s spatula. The problem was that I had now opened Pandora’s box. The good news for my classmates was that from then on John Hodgetts was a lot less keen to haul them off to Miss Goodhall for a spanking. He still did it from time to time, but now it seemed to be purely for disciplinary reasons, rather than for his own sexual gratification. The bad news for me, however, was that he could not wait to get me over that desk again, with Miss Goodhall’s spatula rattling my bare arse while he gazed intently into my eyes. As for me, I was torn. I was pleased and flattered at the sexual interest that John was taking in me, and I badly wanted to pleasure him; but, on the other hand, that pesky spatula came so fiendishly sharp across the back of a girl’s hairy cunt slot that I dearly wished to avoid Miss Goodhall’s enthusiastic and energetic administrations of discipline.

 

The result was a compromise. John was too nice, and too fair-minded to haul me off for chastisement unless I had done something to deserve it. For this, I greatly respected him. I could tell, from the look in his eyes during my spanking, that my saucy trip hammering from Miss Goodhall had held him spellbound. I knew that he would just love to get me across her desk again. But I did not have the bottle for too much of that, and I was usually on my best behaviour during his lessons. The result was that I was only ever taken to Miss Goodhall for discipline if I myself decided to go. This was on 3 memorable occasions. Firstly, during the last Chemistry lesson of the Christmas term I was again ludicrously insolent to John, and I was quite rightly spanked for it, and spanked hard. Miss Goodhall seemed angry that my previous dose of the spatula had not sufficiently reformed me, and she really laid into me. But at least my chastening had the desired outcome. After all, I wanted to give John Hodgetts something to remember me by over the Christmas vacation. The same happened at the end of the Spring Term, and this time Miss Goodhall laid into me even harder. It took me all my time to take this Easter spanking without breaking into tears.

 

In the Summer Term I had my last Chemistry lesson ever. I knew that, after O Levels, I would be taking Arts subjects for A Level, and that John Hodgetts would never again be my teacher. I agonised over my dilemma, but then, eventually, I went for it. During that last Chemistry lesson, I rattled John’s cage yet again, and, for the fourth time, he dragged me off to Miss Goodhall for discipline. Now Elizabeth Goodhall knew that this would almost certainly be the last chance that she would ever get to slap my bare arse for me. After O Levels I would enter the Sixth Form, and Sixth Form girls were hardly ever disciplined physically. There had been one or two cases that I had heard about, but they were for really serious infractions. The parents had been involved, and the headmistress had caned the girls; they had not been spanked by an underling. So there I was, with my arse bared, bent over Miss Goodhall’s famous desk, waiting for it. Well, what did she do? Now I think that you can work out the answer to that one, dear reader. Yes, that is right. She gave me the spanking of my life. She hit me with all her strength, and, as she was a still a young, fit lady in her mid-twenties, that strength was very considerable. I was stunned at the force of her blows, and, try as I might, I just could not endure them with dignity and equanimity. Soon after that spatula started landing on my bare bum I began hollering and yelling like a banshee. Then I started pleading helplessly with John. I gazed into his eyes, and wailed pitifully that I was sorry, that I would never do it again, that this horrendous punishment was more than I could stand, and so on. Then I helplessly started begging him for mercy. Finally, after 36 spanks (the 3rd of Miss Goodhall’s intended 8 x 12-spank salvos) I broke. It was no longer funny and sexy; it was no longer a romantic game of seduction and arousal. It was all about my physical limits of endurance, and about the searing, unbearable pain that was being so cruelly inflicted upon my bottom. Big, strapping, sexy 16-year-old lady that I was, I could take no more. I burst into uncontrollable sobs. Tears streamed down my face and I started to bawl like a baby.

 

Meanwhile, after another 12 spanks, Miss Goodhall had finished the first half of my punishment. She passed the spatula from her left hand to her right hand, and came around to my right hand side to administer the rest of the dose. Then something happened that amazed me.

 

“Stop,” said John sharply, and Miss Goodhall looked up, shocked and puzzled.

 

“Thank you, Miss Goodhall, I am very grateful to you. But kindly stop there. I know the exact nature of Miss Wainwright’s offence, and I think that she has now been punished enough for it.”

 

Well, Miss Goodhall looked daggers at John, but he stood his ground. Then, “Come on, Mary,” he said quickly, before Miss Goodhall could protest. “Get up and compose yourself.” Still sobbing gently, I discreetly tugged up my knickers, pulled down and smoothed my dress, rose to my feet, and started to rub my searing rump, which at that moment felt as though a solid phalanx of bees had hit it, and were all stinging it simultaneously.

 

Well apparently, when she got him into the staff room Miss Goodhall complained bitterly to John, alleging that he had fatally undermined her authority, compromised her position in front of a pupil, etc., etc. But he gave her as good as he got and that was the end of the incident.

 

You have probably realised, dear reader, by the nature of some of my comments about John, that my relationship with him did not end after I had passed my O Level Chemistry. He never taught me again, but he continued at the school during the next 3 years, while I was in the Sixth Form. It was a difficult and delicate situation for both of us. I was even more infatuated, indeed hopelessly in love, with him after her had gone out on a limb for me, and had so gallantly and chivalrously defended and delivered me from the fearsome Miss Goodhall. O.K., I suppose that it was not quite in the same league as the beauteous and nubile maiden delivered from the dragon by St. George, but in my book it was well romantic, and I loved John even more for the way that he had protected me.

 

Opportunities were limited, but there is nobody so devious and resourceful as a lady in love. I engineered my chances, and I firmly set my cap at Dr. John Hodgetts for the next 3 years. For his part, John was very friendly and courteous, and I could see that I interested and stimulated him. He was open and generous towards me, and, now that I was a Sixth Former, he treated me as an adult and (what was remarkable for those more authoritarian days) as an equal. But, unfortunately, John was an honest and honourable man, and his interest in me was proper, appropriate and restrained. I wanted him to grab me, to drag me into the broom cupboard, and to comprehensively deflower and ravish me; I know now that that is exactly what he was aching to do. But, of course, he did nothing of the sort; indeed, he never did anything at all that was even slightly risqué. Oh, yes! Dr. John Hodgetts was a model of decorum, restraint, diplomacy and impeccable etiquette. Damn!

 

Apart from this romantic disappointment, my time in the Sixth form was a success; I did well enough in my O levels to be talent spotted as potential Oxbridge material. Then, just before Christmas 1961, I went up to Oxford for entrance examinations and interviews. I had worked hard in the Sixth Form and had already been awarded a State Scholarship on the basis of the A and S Level Examinations that I had taken the previous summer. But even so, I did not think that I would be going to Oxford. In those days the vast majority of the colleges were all male, and there was a frantic fight among the girls to get into the small number of women’s colleges. No one was more surprised than me, therefore, when I was offered an Open Scholarship to study English at St. Agatha’s. It was with a heavy heart, however, that I left Grammar School in the July of 1962 with, seemingly, no hope at all of a romantic relationship with Dr. John Hodgetts.

 

Then, in early September, about 6 weeks before I went up to Oxford, there was a telephone call to my parents’ house. My mother answered it, and she told me that it was a man. Well, what young lady of 19 would not be interested in an announcement like that? I leapt from my chair and dashed to the telephone.

 

The voice on the other end seemed very nervous. “Is that you, Mary?” it asked hesitantly. “Hello, yes. This is Mary,” I answered, doing my best to sound friendly and to put the caller at ease.

 

“Yes, good. This is John. Do you remember? John Hodgetts?”

 

Wow! I have had a fair number of scary and exciting occurrences in my life, but, looking back, I think that this was just about the scariest and most exciting of them all. I felt the hackles rise on the back of my neck. Then I was conscious of my heart pounding fiercely against my ribcage, my face burning, my palms going all sticky, and my head spinning. I sat down quickly on the chair next to the telephone table before I could stumble or fall. I was so shocked and excited that I could not immediately respond to my caller.

 

“Hello? Mary? Are you there?”

 

“Yes, sir, I’m here.” There was more that I would have liked to say, but the words just would not come out.

 

“Mary, this is just a thought, but I have been throwing out some old books and other rubbish.  Er.... Yes....” Oh, dear! John Hodgetts was sounding very nervous, and very unsure of himself!

 

“Yes... Quite... Anyway, I have found some old books and maps of Oxford, from the time that I was a student there, and I wondered if they would be of any use to you? Er... If you would like them I could post them to you,” he finished off lamely.

 

So this was the get out! Ever the perfect gentleman, John Hodgetts was not going to force his attentions on a young lady against her will. Now that I had left the Grammar School and was, so to speak, “fair game,” he was making his play, but in a typically considerate and chivalrous way. He was giving me a chance to initiate a relationship with him if I was so minded, or else to back off if I so wished, without any embarrassment or unpleasantness.

 

But of course, dear reader, did I want a relationship with John Hodgetts? Well I think you know the answer to that one! Does Casanova want another virgin?

 

By now I had reclaimed the use of my tongue.

 

“No, sir,” I answered quickly, with a distinct note of alarm and panic in my voice. “Please don’t do that. Do you think that you could give them to me in person? It would be useful to meet up. Perhaps you could brief me about the university, and also about the city of Oxford. It seems a rather scary place, and I am a bit apprehensive about going up there.” O.K. So it was a pretty corny come-on, but it was the best that I could think of on the spur of the moment.

 

Anyway, when 2 people want the same thing it is only a question of diplomacy as to how quickly and easily they get it. John said that he would bring the books and maps around to my parents’ house straight away, but that it would take quite a long time to tell me about Oxford, so that was something that might be better done over a meal. Perhaps I could think about that, he added, and we could discuss the possibilities when he called. Oh, dear! More tact and diplomacy! Far too much of it in fact! At this rate I would never get grabbed and bundled into that broom cupboard!

 

Anyway, dear reader, I think that you get the point. It is funny, is it not, how our fate can hinge on the smallest things? I remember a Thomas Hardy novel in which lives were wrecked because a flighty female falsely told an admirer that she loved him. Well, what changed the lives of John and myself were Miss Goodhall’s spankings, and, in particular, the saucy and submissive rhyming couplets that I displayed to John on the first occasion that she chastised me in his presence. I cannot explain or rationalise it, and neither can John, but that single incident stunned him. After that he was no longer interested in getting other girls’ bottoms smacked. It was me, and me alone, that he wanted to see disciplined, and for whom he rapidly built up a fierce desire, a desire that he nursed and sweated for the 3 years that I was in the Sixth Form, and that he acted upon as soon as it was entirely proper for him to do so.

 

Well, as the incident with the display cards demonstrates, I can be a scheming and calculating minx, and certainly a bit of scheming and calculating seemed to me to be in order now.

 

“Sir,” I said archly, “When you arrive, could you come down the side of the house? I will be in the back garden.”

 

“O.K.” said John. And oh my! He still did not sound very sure of himself! “I’ll be there in about 15 minutes.”

 

Well, that did not leave me much time! I rushed out into the garden, and was relieved to confirm to myself that it was a glorious, sunny day. I went to the shed and took out 2 deckchairs, which I opened up and placed on the lawn near to the goldfish pond. Then I took out a collapsible table and put it between the 2 deckchairs. Next I went to the kitchen and got two tall glasses and, from the fridge, a large jug of iced tea. I put these on the table and then rushed to my bedroom to change. When John arrived I was sunbathing in one of the deckchairs, sipping iced tea as if I had been there all morning. And I was wearing a bikini. Yes, I know. A little forward, perhaps, but I was getting a bit tired of John’s diplomacy and subtlety. I decided that it was time to make him another offer that, as with the display cards, he could not refuse.

 

The rest, as they say, is history. That bikini left John in absolutely no doubt that I was giving him the come-on. The same evening our meal went very well. After that it was “John” and not “sir” when I addressed him, except, that is, for when I received disciplinary spankings (see below). During that Michaelmas Term John visited me in Oxford, and he gave me a guided tour of the university, the city, the University Parks, and Christchurch meadow. Then, at Christmas, he invited me to an all night ball at the Oxford Union.

 

John and I got married in 1966 when he was 31 and I was 23. By then I was an administrative grade civil servant, working in London. Meanwhile, John had got promotion to Head of Chemistry at one of the big London grammar schools. After our marriage, John and I led uneventful and unremarkable lives in a large semi-detached house in south London. We had 5 children, 3 girls and 2 boys, and we spent most of our holidays car camping in Brittany.

 

So, dear reader, did John’s interest in spanking and spatulas end when once he had got me into bed with him? Well, does the leopard change his spots? No. John’s sexual arousal all those years ago was so powerful that it holds him still. All through our marriage there have been saucy spanking exploits. Shortly after our wedding, when we had settled into our south London home, John hung a very thin, whippy, curly-handled rattan cane onto the wall on his side of the double bed. Well, over the years its ominous presence in our boudoir has certainly concentrated my mind; but, in fact, I have never taken it. John has always said that he will only ever use it in anger if I am too intimate or over-familiar with other men. Hanging next to the cane, however, is a rubber spatula identical to the one that Miss Goodhall used all those years ago, and this I do take, frequently! John also regularly smacks my bottom with the flat of his hand. There are two spanking modes, the disciplinary and the erotic. Let me describe them to you.

 

The disciplinary mode is for when I have done something to annoy my husband. The first time I took discipline was 2 years into our marriage, when I was 25. It was Christmas, and we went around to our neighbours’ house for a Yuletide drink. Now our neighbours were more than 20 years older than us, and Fred, the man of the house, had hung up some mistletoe. (In England, this was a lot more common in those days than it is now.) Well, what is a middle-aged man supposed to do when he catches a young, nubile 25-year-old lady under the mistletoe? Fred took full advantage and gave me a long and far from chaste kiss. So what was I supposed to do? It was the swinging sixties, and the times were supposedly more liberal. I did not want to appear a prude or a party pooper, so I went along with it, and I kissed him back. Well, when he got me back home and in the bedroom, John was furious. What did I think I was playing at, acting up to that randy old bastard? Well, I didn’t exactly fight him off, did I? It looked like I was enjoying it as much as he was. And so on.

 

Then John passed the sentence: a disciplinary spanking, tomorrow night, 6 p.m., in the study, for hanky-panky with another man. The next evening, at six o’clock sharp, I knocked on the door of the study. On John’s instructions, I had dressed up in my school uniform of white blouse, school tie, gymslip, felt hat, blazer with school badge on the pocket and prefect’s badge on the lapel, white ankle socks, patent leather shoes, etc., even right down to my regulation navy blue knickers. (In the 1960s grammar school girls were required to dress in school uniform until they left school. When I left I was 19. I kept my uniform and to this day, I still wear it whenever I receive one of John’s disciplinary spankings.)

 

“Come in!” called my husband. As I entered the study I saw that John was seated at the desk doing paperwork, as if he were a headmaster. “Ah, Miss Wainwright,” he said grandly as I opened the door. “Please wait outside until you are summoned.” “Yes, sir,” I replied submissively. I then waited outside that door for more than half an hour until John condescended to call me in. When he did he started off by giving me GBH of the earhole. Well, he was a teacher by profession, and I must say that he did a really professional job. By the time he had finished I was cringing. Had I or had I not pledged myself before God to him alone? Had I or had I not solemnly promised to forsake all other men? How did giving passionate Christmas kisses to dirty old men under the mistletoe square with those vows? Did I realise how embarrassing my hot-arsed antics had been, not only for my husband, but also for Fred’s wife. How did I think she must have felt when some young floozy grabbed hold of her husband and kissed and embraced him in a lascivious, passionate and completely inappropriate fashion? I had to learn to keep my hands off other men, or suffer the consequences. And so on.

 

Then John pronounced judgement. The marriage vows that I had contemptuously flouted had been made on the Bible, and before God. So a Biblical retribution was appropriate. As stipulated in the Pentateuch, I would take 39 strokes. Since this was a first offence, these would be inflicted with the spatula. But any further sexual offences might well incur the cane.

 

“Very well, Miss Wainwright,” concluded my husband, “Please fetch the spatula from the bedroom wall. And be quick about it. If you take longer than 1 minute you will incur additional punishment.” I ran off as quickly as I could, to reappear shortly afterwards, out of breath and panting, with that pesky duplicate spatula in my hand. John pulled his chair away from the bureau. “Now,” he said. “Give me the spatula, please.” At which, I dutifully handed it over. Now, come and stand here, please. Now, please pull down your knickers and raise your gymslip at the back.”

 

Well, needless to say, I felt a complete fool. It was 6 years since I had worn my school uniform, and now that I had put it on again I felt, as John had intended I should feel, quite ridiculous, like a naughty schoolgirl all over again. What made it worse was that John insisted that I keep on every item of my school uniform, even my blazer, during my spanking. Soon I was over John’s knee in the classic spanking position, with my naked rump perfectly presented to receive the stinging blows of the spatula. Then John pressed down his left arm across the small of my back to hold me in position. Next, the inevitable happened. John brought down the spatula, very smartly, across the meaty undercarriage of my two quivering buttocks, just above the tops of my thighs. Ouch! In the 6 years since I had left school I had forgotten how much it stung! “Aaaggghhh!” I yelled loudly. Then John did something that Miss Goodhall did not do. Instead of giving me the next slap right away, he paused for a few seconds to let me fully feel the escalating tingling. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” I yelled helplessly as the initial sharp sting was supplemented by an infuriating tingle. Then, just as the tingling reached a crescendo, John gave me another one.

 

And so it went on, until I had taken the classic Hebrew punishment as stipulated in the Book of Leviticus. In fact, it did not hurt as much as when Miss Goodhall spanked you with the spatula. Stripped of all the rigmarole, this was not, as John had called it, a disciplinary spanking at all. It was erotic, and it was a game. John had been irritated by the enthusiastic kiss that I had planted on old Fred’s lips, but he realised that at worst this was a minor peccadillo and nothing serious. So this was really a play spanking, and both John and I knew that when it was over we would both end up in bed together, and that our lovemaking would be all the more passionate and intense because we had acted out this kinky little fantasy.

 

Even so, although John was amused, I was not. At the time this was no mere play spanking for me. It really stung, and after 39 swots I was kicking my legs and bawling and hollering with gusto.

 

“Very well, Miss Wainwright,” declared John after he had administered the 39th spank to my naked, quivering, tingling red buttocks, “Please pull up your knickers, smooth down your slip, and leave. I expect you to be in bed in the dormitory, naked, within 2 minutes. If you are so much as a second late you will receive additional chastisement. Please hang the spatula back on the bedroom wall as you go.”

 

Well, 5 minutes later we were in bed together, making mad, passionate love. In fact, I am pretty sure that that was the night that we conceived our eldest child, our daughter Margaret. (See below.)

 

These saucy and kinky little scenarios have played an important part in our marriage. We still act them out now, even though John is in his late 60s and I myself have passed my 60th birthday. During these acted out scenes, John always refers to me formally, and by my maiden name, as “Miss Wainwright,” even though I am the mother of his children, and a grandmother to boot; and, just as I did all those years ago, whenever I am formally chastised I refer to my husband, very deferentially, as “Sir.” Wow! For all those years when I was a top civil servant in the Home Office my colleagues at the Ministry could have had no idea that, evenings and weekends, I was often in full schoolgirl regalia, knickers down, skirt up, across my husband’s knee, taking 39 swots from a spatula across my naked, red, quivering bum cheeks. And it started from those display cards all those years ago. Wow! That was a painful jape! On thousands of occasions my bare bum has felt the rap for that pecadillo, and I have paid a stinging price for my saucy schoolgirl prank.

 

The second type of spanking that John inflicts upon my naked bum cheeks is the overtly erotic. This sometimes, but not always, is a follow-up to a so-called disciplinary spanking. Let me describe to you what happened in bed after I had taken the rap for that Christmas kiss I gave to Fred.

 

After John dismissed me from the study, I rushed down to the bedroom, pulled off my schoolgirl togs as quickly as I could and tossed them all over the floor. Then I scampered around to hang the spatula on its hook on the wall on John’s side of the bed. I then came back round to my own side, with the intention of getting into bed. Just as I was pulling back the sheets and blankets, however, John entered the room. “Miss Wainwright,” he said sternly. “It is now 2 minutes and 15 seconds since you were dismissed. Why were you not in bed within 2 minutes, as instructed?” “I am very sorry, sir,” I replied, even though I knew that it was impossible for me to do what John had asked in the stipulated time. “Right,” replied my spouse. “Kindly fetch me the spatula again from off the wall.” I felt my tummy quake and my vagina tingle as I obeyed these salacious instructions. “Now, Miss Wainwright, kindly put the sheets and blankets back in place, and lie on top of them.” John then undressed, and, when he was naked, he lay on his back in the middle of the bed, with the spatula in his right hand. “Right, Miss Wainwright,” he continued. Now please lie face down, on top of me. By now John’s cock was as stiff as a poker and, as it came into close proximity to my wet, pouting pussy lips it was very soon inside them! Then the sexy but painful bit started. As I rode up and down on his cock John delivered a sharp, playful slap with the spatula to the plump buttock meat that lay just above my thighs and at the back of my cunt. “Come along, Miss Wainwright. We need more vigour and effort. This is just not good enough. You must try harder.” And so on. As we worked each other to a mutual orgasm in the missionary position woman on top variation John took advantage of the fact that my bum was bare and vulnerable and landed some very sharp and painful swots on it with the spatula. The effect on both of us was electric. It seemed that every time a swot landed on my cunt meat John’s cock went harder and more engorged. As for me, I was hovering deliciously on the brink between agony and ecstasy, between the most intense pleasure and the most maddening pain. Then as our orgasms approached John started flicking my cunt flesh really hard with that pesky spatula, as though it were a riding crop, this the last 300 yards of the Grand National, I a horse, and he a jockey racing for the finish. By now John was very excited. He was reaching orgasm slightly before me and, sensing this, he concluded that he had better do something to gee me up. So he started slapping my lower buttock meat across the back of my vulva very hard and fast. Wow! It stung like hell, but within seconds it brought me off. I let out a long series of loud and ecstatic screams as we both exploded into a shattering mutual orgasm. I do not know if old Fred next door heard it through the common wall of our semi-detached residences, but, if he did, he would have been left in no doubt whatsoever that John had received considerably greater sexual satisfaction from me in our bed that he had done under his mistletoe! As I say, I like to think that it was on that night that we conceived our first child, Margaret. The dates fit, it was my most fertile time of the month, we were both very excited, and John pumped so much sperm into me that in my view pregnancy was inevitable.

 

Now I have read my Bible, and I know that it is woman’s eternal punishment, as decreed against Eve in the book of Genesis, to give birth in pain. But I had paid a supererogatory penalty. Thanks to that pesky spatula, and the saucy and kinky spanking proclivities of my spouse, I had conceived in a fair amount of pain as well!

 

NC11 Spanked for 50 Years