The Most Embarrassing Spanking Ever!
(The following occurred in a North Carolina classroom in 1971, when I was 11 years old. It was the most humiliating experience of my life -- thanks, Mom! -- but it must have clicked something in me because I'm a "spanko" to this day. It's kind of lengthy, pretty much a short story, and I hope you enjoy this account more than I enjoyed the experience at the time. At least I can write about it now.)
Back in 1971, I attended an elementary school in North Carolina that was a bit overcrowded at the time, which necessitated putting some classrooms in trailers placed about 150 yards from the school building, right on edge of the playground.
When I was 10 and, by mid-year, 11 years old, my fifth grade class was in one of those trailers. Our teacher, Mrs. Hampton, had some interesting ways of dealing with repeated bad behavior.
One method was paddling. I was a rather troubled little girl, spanked often at home with hand, hairbrush and belt by both parents.
At school, I was no different, always talking back, sulking and getting into squabbles with classmates, just like I fought with my little sister at home. That earned me a half-dozen pops with the paddle from Mrs. Hampton on a couple of occasions. She would take me outside of the trailer, just around the corner, and another teacher would be asked to witness my little panty-covered butt getting wood-roasted as I bent over, my dress flipped up on my back, to my great embarrassment. (It hurt, too.)
But that embarrassment and pain were nothing compared to what transpired once, when Mrs. Hampton imposed her other form of discipline used for recidivist offenders like me.
She held what she called "trials" in the classroom, in which the mischievous child would have to sit facing the class and answer questions about his or her bad behavior. After a few minutes of this, classmates would raise their hands and suggest punishments. For some reason, no one ever suggested spanking, opting instead for embarrassing offenders some other way, such as making them wear a sign all day, or writing lines on the blackboard.
That changed one day when I was busted for calling another girl a bad name and pushing her during some hallway dispute on the way back from the school cafeteria. I was put on "trial" for that, and it proved to be fateful.
One of my classmates, Tommy Bullock (whom I hated, for good reason, as you shall see) knew that I got spanked at home. My bratty little sister took great pleasure in describing my bare-butt lickings to him once, in explicit detail. (Unfortunately, she got to watch whenever I got it in the kitchen or living room.)
So when sentencing time came, Tommy raised his hand and suggested: "Mrs. Hampton, I think you should march Amy to the principal's office, have her call her mom, and ask for a spanking when she gets home!"
(I think the little creep hoped he'd be able to come over to my house and watch.)
That went over big. So when Mrs. Hampton went down the list of possible punishments on the blackboard, guess which one got the biggest show of hands?
There was much giggling as Mrs. Hampton took my arm and marched me out of the trailer, up the hill toward the school building. I was mortified, but I had no idea how bad it would really get.
My mom was livid when Mrs. Hampton put me on the phone. I barely finished stammering out my assigned sentence ("...a s-s-spanking") when she demanded to speak to Mrs. Hampton again.
"Uh- huh," Mrs. Hampton said, a slightly anxious but stern look on her face. "OK, Mrs. Howe, if that's what you think should happen, then we'll wait here."
Uh-oh. I was beginning to get the gist of this. You see, we lived less than five minutes from the school, and my stay-at-home mom could zip right over at any time. Was she going to spank me in the office? Yikes!
No. Such. Luck.
I was sitting on a bench when Mom showed up, and I darn near threw up from fear when I saw her. She meant business.
To my horror, she just grabbed me by the arm and said, "Come with me, young lady." And the three of us started walking -- BACK TOWARD THE TRAILER. OH MY GOSH!
"Please Mommy," I begged, only to be answered with a stern, snappy "Quiet!" that shut me right up. We were walking so fast that, at one point, one of the clog sandals I was wearing came off, and my mom made me pick it up, take the other one off, and walk barefoot on the hot concrete walkway (it was late Spring) as I carried my shoes.
Soon enough, I would forget all about the burning soles of my little bare feet.
As we entered the classroom, there were gasps and wide-eyed stares all around. Everyone knew they were about to witness a soon-to-be legendary event at this school. Oh, the stories they'd be able to tell!
At a request from Mom, Mrs. Hampton placed her own desk chair a few feet away from where she sat, right in front of the whole class!
I just stood there. frozen with fear, in a daze. This could not be happening. But it was.
"Put those shoes down right there, and come here right now, young lady!" Mom barked.
I hesitated, my lip quivering, and my eyes watering.
"NOW!" she yelled. I sobbed and dropped the clogs, which made her lip quiver, too -- with anger. Not good. I inched slowly toward where she was seated, my knees wobbling and sweat forming on my brow and upper lip.
Before I knew it, she grabbed my arm again and, with the remarkable superstrength of an angry mother, she yanked me across her knee as if I were no heavier than a blanket.
"Young lady, I've had enough of these bad reports from Mrs. Hampton." she lectured. "And apparently, these children have had enough, too, because they've sentenced you to a good spanking. Well, I think they're entitled to see your sentence carried out. I am going to spank your bottom nice and red for them today!"
Wait a minute -- "RED FOR THEM"? Surely she didn't mean... bare? In front of everybody?
Oh yes she did. As quickly as she had yanked me over her lap, she flipped up my dress and went for the waistband of my little white panties.
"NO!!! MOM!!!" I screamed, but it was too late by the time I whipped my hand back to try to prevent this unbelievable development. My panties were already down around my knees, and I was humiliated for all time.
There were more gasps from the audience (and of course, many giggles), and over my shoulder I could see that even Mrs. Hampton was taken aback for a second. She brought her hand up to her mouth as she gasped, too, and jerked forward for a second as if to come to my rescue. Then she apparently thought better of it for another second, stepped back, and a weird little smile came to her face as she arched her eyebrows. She was going to enjoy this.
"Oh, yes, young lady," my mother answered me as I cried and pleaded, which she cut short with a quick slap to one of my thighs. "You're going to get the same spanking here that you would have gotten at home. I think the class deserves to see a nice red bottom today."
And with that, my mom delivered, well, the mother of all bare-bottom spankings with her well-practiced bare hand, to the delight of my audience. For several minutes, slap after painful, stinging slap rang through that trailer classroom as Mom covered every inch of my milky white, slightly freckled bottom and thighs with hot, searing pain, until my bare backside was cherry red, just as she'd promised.
Yes, Mom made sure the audience of jurors and judges got a good show that day. She worked methodically up and down my poor little naked buns, making sure that each hard slap elicited a little song and dance (of pain) from me.
If my right cheek was flattened and clenched extra-tight under a flurry of spanks, she'd switch to the left one, which induced some good wiggling, and provided irresistible entertainment for all.
If my legs were sticking straight out and still for several seconds, she'd make them dance with some painful attention to the sensitive upper thighs, which I hated the most. Of course, the more wildly I kicked, the more tender inner-thigh area I exposed to stinging smacks that felt like a swarm of hornets. This drove me into a frenzy, and caused me to unclench my trembling, red, swollen buns. Seeing this, Mom would ruthlessly zero in on them again. And the cycle continued, seemingly forever.
SLAP! SLAP! SMACK! SLAP-SLAP-SLAP! SLAP! CRACK! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SLAP! SMACK! SMACK! SLAP!
"Waaaaahhhh! Pleeeaaassee! Stoooooopppp! Noooooo!!!!! STOOOPPPP!!!!"
I blubbered like a baby and kicked my bare feet all around, nearly kicking off my panties in the process. I remember that, the entire time, my toes were spread out like the claws of a frightened cat. Somehow, I managed to keep my underwear from falling no lower than down around my frantic ankles, which were crossing, uncrossing and flying around uncontrollably.
When she was finished, she reached for the panties, pulled them back up and set me on my feet. (I must have stretched my panties pretty good with all that kicking, because they didnít fit quite right any more.) She had me face the class, and I was forced to apologize while sobbing, sniffling and hiccupping, snot dripping from my nose as most of the kids grinned evilly at me.
ďI-Iím suh-rry -sob -- I wuh-huz -- hiccup -- baaad Ö.Ē My face felt almost as hot as my bottom in that moment, and was probably just as red.
Then I was made to stand in the corner, as Mrs. Hampton knocked on the door of the other classroom that shared the trailer (they'd heard the whole thing, of course) and asked their teacher, Mrs. Blalock, if she could please supervise both classes this afternoon at recess, which was scheduled in about 10 minutes. She said yes.
Then, for the remainder of that 10 minutes, I was sat in front of the class again, on my blazing-hot behind, on a hard chair, for a humiliating post-trial-and-punishment discussion with the class.
Tommy, of course, was beside himself with glee, but so was nearly everybody else. A few girls seemed mortified and sympathetic --even Jennifer, the girl I had taunted and pushed,.
But all agreed I had brought this on myself by my constant bratty behavior, and I was made to promise over and over to behave myself in the future or "face the consequences again," as my mother warned.
At one point, my teacher admitted that she punished her own kids the same way -- over the knee, bare bottom - and expressed regret that she was unable to apply the same methods to some of her pupils.
"I can think of a few kids here I'd like to deal with that way," she said, looking straight at Billy Honeycutt, the brattiest boy in class. He blushed, and looked away.
"Well," my mom replied, "you certainly have my permission to spank this one" -- she pointed at me -- "over your knee and on her bare behind whenever you need to. And if that doesn't work, I'll be glad to come back and repeat this little performance."
Now that they had witnessed my total humiliation and comeuppance, the kids were dismissed to run off to the playground, where they had a great story to tell, to everyone wanted to hear it.
I, on the other hand, had to sit in the class with my mom and teacher for about 15 minutes of more stern lecturing. At that point, I just wanted to curl up and die. At least I got to ride home with Mom -- that bus ride home would have been brutal.
I became an instant legend that day, without a doubt the worst day of my life, and I was never allowed to forget it. Kids teased me about it until the day I graduated high school.
But I rarely misbehaved in class after that, I'll tell you that. I hate to admit it, but that spanking really did the trick. I was pretty much a model student from then on, even in college.
Not that I never got spanked by my parents again, mind you, but thatís a whole other set of stories.