As a teenager, being a spanko is extremely difficult anyway. It isn’t something you are proud of or want your friends to know about. I know that for a fact. Continuing on through your days is extremely difficult, and paying attention to teachers can be almost futile when your thoughts start on a spanking tangent. A single class you can get through. One day’s lost notes can be retrieved. But the day of this story was destined to be one of those days where it would take extremely little trigger thoughts about spanking. You know how it is. You’re sitting in your desk, trying desperately to keep your mind on your work, when someone say or does something that just SCREAMS spanking!’ Yes, this was, unfortunately, to be one of those days.

I started my day in algebra 5. Everything was going fine... we were simply learning how to simplify expressions with negative exponents. Then the bomb dropped.

“And you take that expression and slap it on the bottom on the bottom of the equation”

What happened after that I don’t know. The words “slap it on the bottom” just kept repeating themselves in my head. I was so sure that everyone in the class could see me slide down in my seat, could see the embarrassed flush painted across my cheeks. (Not THOSE cheeks, silly! The “upper ones!” Spankos. Honestly!)

Finally I made it to my next class, anatomy. We were dissecting our cats, and I figured that surely there couldn’t be anything that could go wrong there! But oh was I wrong. After getting everything ready with our group’s cat, Reese, sprawled on her back, we waited for instructions. We had just finished the arm and shoulder’s region, previously having done the abdominal and neck muscles.

Our rather flaky teacher entered the room. “Alright, well, today we’re starting in on the leg muscles. Open up the dissection books to page 35, and use that diagram as well as this list of the muscles you need to isolate to get started. Go ahead and get going...” Now first it must be known that this was a typical amount of instructions from our “flower child” science teacher, who seemed to think that looking at a diagram and using a list of muscles we could isolate the real things on real cats.

After quite a bit of a struggle our trio got the lower leg muscles isolated and identified, while moving up higher and higher on the hindquarters. So far, so good. We finally got down to some of the last muscles. I looked on our list of parts, and my heart leaped into my throat. There, at the bottom of the list was gluteus maximus.

Like I previously had mentioned, my brain was just tuned into spanking that day. My thoughts immediately drifted to numerous pieces of advice given by a fellow spanking friend I knew online. “Always spank along the gluteal fold, where the buttock meets thigh...” she said. And I saw “gluteus” and couldn’t HELP but think “gluteal fold...” (Hey! At least they are the same region of the body... not TOO far-fetched)

Needless to say I dropped my scalpel, which nearly landed on my lab partner’s big toe. I fled from the room, muttering I “wasn’t feeling well.” I dispensed of my gloves, rinsed my hands, and splashed cool water on my face. That day was going to be one of the LONG variety.

Finally second hour was over, and it was on to US government. I wasn’t going to kid myself. I figured SOMETHING was BOUND to happen, so I went in there full of determination, and with grit teeth. Sure enough, it happened. Only this time it wasn’t some small thing. Oh no. This time it would take up the entire class period.

We were studying amendments and how to make them. There was a page on two students who had tried to amend a law, and failed. They had been trying to prove that what their school did was breaking one of the amendments, the one against cruel and unusual punishment. Guess what they were protesting? Yep... school paddling.

We were instructed to read that page, and then our lovely  teacher decided to have a class discussion about it. A discussion that lasted the entire period. It was really quite interesting, and normally I would have loved to get into it. However I was in the kind of mood where I didn’t WANT to think about it, but everything reminded me of it. So I stayed silent, faking a headache. Actually, that faked headache wasn’t too darned far from the truth!

However, all good AND bad things must come to an end, and finally I could hear the school bell tolling out the end of the hour bell. I picked up my books and raced out of the room, tearing down the hall at a much faster than normal pace. I was so determined to get as far away from that damned discussion as possible as FAST as possible that I didn’t see the school grouch, Mr. Frugert. I nearly ran right into our tall, stocky, muscular debate teacher, who’d had it out for me ever since freshman year.

I muttered an apology and tried to edge my way around his solid form, but he blocked my path. “No, no, no, Miss Davis,” he said in a sickening-sweet tone. “The only place YOU are going is to the dean.”

I stopped short, and my mouth dropped open. I had a perfect record; never had I been sent to my dean in high school, nor my principal in grade school. “Mr. Frugert, please,” I whined, doing my best to weasel out of the situation at hand. “I’m sorry, just let this go...”

But already he had gripped my elbow with one hand and was ushering me past the lunchroom and on to the dreaded dean’s office. I’d never even entered Mrs. Hire’s private office before, only been in the front portion to sign in from being absent. Mr. Frugert quietly shared a word first with the dean’s secretary, and then was motioned into Mrs. Hire’s office, leaving me alone with Mrs. Smythe, the secretary.

Too soon Mr. Frugert was leaving, snickering quietly, and I was ushered into Mrs. Hire’s office. I did a quick scan of the room, seeing what it looked like. Trophies and pictures adorned bookcases and the walls, with knick-knacks strewn about. She began speaking to me about the dangers of running in the hallways, or at least I assume that’s what she was saying. I really don’t remember. My entire attention was devoted to something that was hanging on the wall.

It was an eighteen-inch-long wooden paddle with twelve holes drilled into it. After a number of minutes she finally figured out what was going on and chuckled. “Ah, Miss Davis. I see you have found the paddle I used to use on pupils years ago.”

I’d nodded wordlessly, my mouth completely dry, my embarrassment clearly showing. The dean looked at my student file, then looked at me, sizing me up. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, a raucous could easily be heard right outside the room.

“Just wait’ll I get my hands on you... you’re ass is grass Craiger!”

“You try and I’ll slap you silly.”

“What’re you talking about? I’ll beat your...”

“ENOUGH!” Yelled the security guard over the scuffling sounds making their way to us.

Mrs. Hire looked from me, to the door, then back at me. She sighed, then said, “Look, Christy, you’re a good kid. Perfect record... I need to take care of this... Stay out of my office from now till the end of the year, nothing happens. Come back, you’ll get double what you’d normally get.”

I nodded mutely, even as she was racing out the door to try and bring an end to the fight going on in the office. I was still staring transfixed on that paddle. I was greatly relieved not to have to atone for running, but I kept looking at that wicked instrument, the quarreling students’ threats echoing in my ears. “Ass is grass... slap you silly... beat your...” the last one she could only surmise would be finished with the word ‘butt.’

Suddenly the bell rang, and I groaned, realizing that I’d lost my entire lunch period to this injustice. Still, I raced out of the office, glad for an excuse to make me leave the presence of the wooden tool.

Fourth hour brought me to my favorite class—choir. I couldn’t even fathom how something about spanking would work itself into the period, but I didn’t play around, pretending that nothing was going to happen. Four times I’d already been presented with something annoying as heck; it was only to be expected that there would be something to contend with here.

I made my way to my seat in the alto section just before the bell rang. For the first few minutes we took roll and warmed up as a group, and then our instructor, Mrs. Bartinelli, had us pull one of our newest pieces of music out: “A Jubilant Song.”

She had us begin at the part that always gave us fits; it suddenly turned into a minor key from a very light major key, and had difficult intervals. We struggled all the way through that section, and then she stopped us.

“Altos, come on, you can do better than this,” she reprimanded us. “You are constantly hitting the bottom of the pitch!”

Everything began to swim before my eyes after that. Of course she would find a way to make me think of it. ‘Hitting the BOTTOM of the pitch’ indeed. Somehow I managed to fake my way through the rest of the class, but once again I was extremely grateful when the bell rang for the end of the period.

Fifth hour found me making my way toward my journalism class. We were all at the point of actually writing our newest articles for the next issue of our class paper, and since the computers were always taken by the snobbier students, I usually wound up handwriting my articles. It was always difficult to concentrate since our rat-faced instructor, Dr. Herms, was always talking to several of the boys who hung out in the main portion of the classroom and put off doing their articles.

That day I just got busy, hoping to lose myself in my article, and soon I was busy writing about the upcoming choir trip. For the first time in quite a while I found myself beginning to relax, as usually happens when I write. Suddenly, my ears perked up, and parts of the conversation between the teacher and the other students were reaching me.

 I just about died. They were talking about the spankings they had gotten as children, comparing the different ways. “My dad would take his time sliding the belt out, to make us more nervous,” Jack said. “Then he would just sit down and pat his thigh, and you knew what was coming next.”

Our teacher shook his head. “Remember, we grew up on the farm. It would be out to the barn. There, Dad would whip that belt out of the loops as fast as he could. That sound would always scare us boys to no end. But the sting from that thing,” he said, trailing off.

I excused myself from class for the second time that day, spending nearly ten minutes in the restroom cooling off. Thank goodness there was only one more class and the teaser for the school musical left. I could make it. Surely there couldn’t be that much more in store for me.

My final class of the day was English. Normally it was my favorite class, but not this year. I really couldn’t stand my teacher. Yet it wasn’t until I was in the classroom and saw the desks in a circle that I remembered what we were doing in class. How I could have forgotten I still don’t know, but we were having in-class discussions about the play A Raisin in the Sun. We read a given number of pages the night before and then “discussed” what we read the next day. (I still say there was no discussion since it was all very one-sided, but that remains unimportant for now.)

Normally this would be fine; I typically was one of the best students and had always read what was assigned, and the previous evening had been no different. It was the content of the reading that had me panicking, however. In the entire book there was only one reference to spanking; the boy comes home late, and despite his mother’s being so happy about the family’s upcoming move she still feels the need to go in and take the belt to him. But WHY did it have to be TODAY?

I went in and shakily took my seat, wanting nothing more than for this class to just end. It didn’t take long before we were into it, and before long we were at that part. What happened next I doubt I’ll ever be able to forgive her for, even though she had no clue it would make me so uncomfortable.

We had just gotten to the part when she looked at me, and our eyes locked. “Well, Chris, what would YOU have done in that position? Your child comes home really late in a bad part of town, and you’ve promised to spank him if he does that, and yet you are so happy you could cry. What would YOU have done?”

I was so taken by surprise that my jaw just dropped wide open. I mean, for one, she had actually asked a decent question that pertained to the book. That alone was a shocker! But WHY did it have to be about THAT? And WHY did she have to ask ME of ALL PEOPLE?

“I, well, that is, well,” I stammered, but thankfully I was saved by the bell, quite literally. Sixth period was cut short that day to make room for the teaser for the school musical. I raced out of that classroom faster than lightning and made a beeline for the auditorium.

I didn’t know anything about this year’s show. Normally I would have been in it, but I had been really struggling with my health, and my grades came first. I was looking forward to this teaser, for once, because it would help me make the decision between going or not.

Finally the lights in the house went down, and the announcer came on. “Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you enjoy today’s teaser of Kiss Me Kate. And now, without further ado, here is our show...”

It began well enough. A little slow, perhaps, but it was tolerable. But then they got to the part of the show where a prince comes and decides to marry “Bonny Kate,” the impossible princess. I had no idea what to expect, but it sure wasn’t what happened next. Because the show is a “play within a play” the regular characters have lives outside of the characters their characters play. (I know, confusing, isn’t it?) But since the regular characters are mad at each other, when they get to the play within a play, Kate makes it nearly impossible for her counterpart to subdue her, so he does the only thing possible: Right there on stage he spanks her.

The room began to spin after that. Suddenly I found myself in the nurse’s office. When I opened my eyes I saw the nurse and my parents standing worriedly over me.

“Hey there, pumpkin,” said my father gently. “You gave us quite the scare, passing out like that.”

“Let’s get you out to the car,” Mama said next. We have a hot seat all ready for you to take off the chill...

I jumped up from my chair. “Noooooooooo!” I yelled, running out of the room at a fast pace.

“What’s wrong with her?” my mother asked. “All I said was that I had turned the heated seats on in the car! It’s 10 degrees below zero!”

– The End –

This story is largely based off of truth. Some things are obviously blown up out of proportion, and no, none of it happened in the same day... although I've certainly HAD days that seemed like this. I've taken the best and/or the parts I can remember and put them into this story. It was kinda a hurried job, but I hope you enjoy it!

~Christy

Copyright © 2004 Christy . All rights reserved. No repost permitted without the author ’ s consent.

This story was written by Christy, who kindly allowed me to host it on my web site. Please note that my usual disclaimers do not necessarily apply to this story, as it was not written by myself.