Caught Cheating (F/m, M/m) NEW!

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© Guyspencer 2010

NOTE: This story starts from a kernel of truth. Something like this incident actually happened to the writer. Also, the places and the characters are quite real (albeit nameless). That said, the writer has not allowed reality to get in the way of a good spanking story. For that reason, this should be considered fiction. This story contains no sex, but does involve the spanking of a minor in a manner that might actually have happened in the 50’s and 60’s in the United States. As always, this is fiction, not parenting advice.


“Caught Cheating”

I am an honest boy and I really didn’t mean for it to happen.

My seat was at the very front and center of my class. On my right sat Ritchie, who was my best friend, my neighbor, and my study partner. We were both sitting directly in front of our teacher, so when he looked up at the class, he tended to see us first. Momentarily baffled by a math problem and just like we both did dozens of times each day, I looked over at Ritchie’s paper to compare notes. Bad idea! I had forgotten that we were in the middle if a math test.

Since I really hadn’t meant to cheat and this was actually a momentary lapse, I hadn’t bothered to notice that Mr. Haling, our teacher, was staring right at me the whole time. Naturally, from Mr. Haling’s point of view, he had just witnessed a case of flagrant cheating. He quietly hissed for me to bring him my paper. As soon as I was in range, he snatched my test paper from my hand and wrote a big “zero” at the top. I was screwed!

Mr. Haling is usually a reasonable guy, and I was quite taken aback by his anger. Since, he had just seen me cheat on a test with his own eyes; he gave me no chance to explain myself. Red-faced, but still in that whispery, hissing voice, he said a few words about what he “would never tolerate in his class” and dashed off a quick note. He folded the note, sealed it in an envelope, and told me to deliver it immediately “to the office.”

Our school’s administrative office featured a long counter that was presided over by the school secretary. Behind the counter was her desk, which guarded the doors that led to the private offices of the Principal and her Assistant. Two minutes after being exiled from my class, a tearful me was standing across the counter from the school secretary, a plain lady who always had her hair in a bun, and often stored pencils in her hair. She read the note, making little “tut-tut” sounds and shaking her head disapprovingly. The next thing I knew, she was directing me to come around to her side of the counter. All business, she sat me down in a chair just outside the Principal’s door and demanded my shoes. (I suppose that was standard procedure to be sure that I didn’t bolt) She disappeared into the Principal’s office with my shoes and the note, returning moments later empty handed. Ignoring me for the moment, she went to a file cabinet, searched through two different drawers and finally extracted a manila file folder. The folder featured my name on the side, printed in neat block letters. My stomach did a sad flip. Whatever happened next was going to soil my “permanent record” forever and would probably hurt like hell.

The secretary delivered my file to the Principal and then sat at her desk, seeming to forget about me. I sat there numb. Minutes earlier, I had been a normal student sitting happily in class next to my best friend. Now suddenly I was an outcast, a criminal in the eyes of the school.

It seemed like hours, but probably it was minutes, when I heard the Principal call my name. Timidly, I stood and padded into her office.

The conversation that followed is something I still replay in my mind. I could have stood up for myself so much better! Sadly, life had not yet prepared me to be a lawyer on my own behalf. Perhaps if I had been sophisticated enough to know the phrase “mental lapse” and had used it to describe what really happened. Perhaps if I had thought to point out that what my teacher described as “flagrant” was actually a complete lack of stealth since I had no conscious intent to cheat. Heck, I didn’t even point out what should have already been obvious to her; I had a totally clean record.

What I actually said (well, actually blubbered) to the Principal was something like, “I am so sorry, Mrs. K, I didn’t mean to cheat.” Naturally, the lady took my poorly chosen words as a complete confession! Her subsequent lecture easily succeeded in convincing me that I was totally guilty. Even today, as an adult, I remain conflicted; am I guilty or innocent? I honestly don’t remember ever intending to cheat, but clearly I was guilty of taking more than a casual glance at Ritchie’s paper in the middle of that math test.

Judging from the Principal’s lecture, cheating “erodes the very educational foundations of our school” and it was something that she must “nip in the bud”. I had heard my parents use that “nip in the bud” phrase before, and I knew exactly what it meant; it meant that I was going to get a spanking! With my knees shaking, I waited for the lecture to end. Finally it did, with an admonition about how I “should be ashamed of myself”, and how my parents and classmates and teachers “would be ashamed of me”.

As I stood there totally immersed in shame, the Principal stood, ordered me to “not move a muscle” until she returned, and then glided imperiously out of her office.

After the first two minutes of waiting, the room seemed to sway and spin as I stood in the middle of the small office and concentrated on literally “not moving a muscle”. Finally I heard the sounds of feet walking back into the office. I quickly realized that it was both the Principal and the secretary. They talked between themselves in low voices as they prepared the room for my correction. The secretary placed a wooden paddle on the desk in front of me, blinds were lowered, the desk was cleared, and chairs were noisily moved. Finally the Principal seemed to notice me again.

Speaking in firm tones, she informed me that I would be getting the school’s maximum allowed punishment “and then some”. Although this was the first time I had been paddled at this school, I knew that six strokes with that nasty weapon was the most that school regulations allowed. What could she mean by “and then some”? This had turned into my worst nightmare!

Gently, almost kindly, the Principal led me to her desk and showed me the position I would be expected to assume and hold for my punishment. She solemnly warned me not to reach back; emphasizing the damage the paddle could do to an errant hand. To help control my hands, I was to firmly grip the far edge of the desk

Then, just as I thought that my ordeal was about to start, things suddenly got worse! You are wearing underwear right?” the lady asked. Puzzled, I managed to stutter an answer; “Un…un…underpants Maam, but no undershirt”. “Good” she said, “I want to be sure that you remain decent, after all, there are ladies in the room.” Just as I was trying to make sense of that statement, she dropped a bombshell: “You may lower your britches to your knees.” I gaped at the lady as if a bird had just flown out of her mouth! I had never heard of anyone being required to remove clothing for a paddling and I suspected that it was not normally allowed.

“Do it now” she insisted firmly. Having no negotiating position, and being in complete shock, I meekly complied, and then I complied with her next order by putting myself into position across her desk.

Next I felt her restraining hand press firmly on my back, and I felt the pressure of the paddle rubbing directly on the back of my underpants. Then suddenly the paddle was gone! I took a quick nervous breath, which was knocked out of me by the force of the first blow. I howled and bucked, but her hand kept me firmly in place. “It’s OK to cry” she said, “but try to stay in position for your punishment”. I did my best, really I did! By the third swat, I was crying loudly and unashamedly. I was vaguely aware that my pants had fallen all the way to my ankles. After the fourth swat, my knees gave way and I started to slip to the floor. I desperately tried to get back into position but my pants hobbled my feet and I could not seem to get them back under me.

The Principal quickly laid down the paddle and assisted me back into position. I don’t remember what she said, but her words were firm yet not terribly reassuring. With me back in position, she quickly applied the last two swats, and they were easily the hardest of all! I am afraid that I screamed, and I know that I was a complete mess for several minutes.

When I came back to my senses, the secretary had already signed the “witness” line on the “Discipline Record” form in my permanent file and left the room. I don’t remember if I pulled my own pants up or if the Principal did it for me, but somehow I was fully dressed again.

As my sobs finally decayed to mere sniffles, the Principal gave me a little pep talk about “all is now forgiven” and how I now had a chance to “make a new beginning”. Of course, all was definitely NOT forgiven. Not only was my record permanently smudged, I still had my parents to deal with.

The rest of the school day went as well as could be expected. Since there was only one hour of school left, the Principal allowed me to stay with the school nurse, and even sent a messenger for my books so I wouldn’t have to face my class. Soon the last bell rang and I was free to walk home.

Ashamed, I hung behind the main crowd all the way home, purposely avoiding anyone I knew, especially Ritchie. All too soon, I was home. As usual, I walked through the side door, directly into the kitchen, but today I also walked directly into the hard gaze of my mother. Looking at her face, I knew immediately that she already knew everything. “How could you?” she asked, “I can’t believe that a child of mine could stoop to cheating in class.” Immediately, I had new tears dripping from my cheeks.

By now, I was quite convinced that I was guilty as sin and besides, just getting paddled at school served as prima facie proof to my parents that I was guilty of some serious crime. My parent’s rule was clear; any punishment earned at school will be repeated much worse at home!

Mother explained that the Principal had called before my punishment to tell her what had I had done, and to request permission to lower my pants for my paddling. That permission had been quickly granted! This explained my five-minute wait alone in the Principal’s office. Further, Mom had already called Dad at work, and she expected him home early to “deal with me”. She pointed me to the nearest empty corner to await justice.

Justice was not long in coming. I was only in the corner for a few minutes when I heard the sound of the family car pulling into the drive. I heard my father walk into the room, noisily kiss my mother, and then I felt a presence next to me and felt a comforting arm around my shoulder. “I love you son but cheating in school is bad business, we are going to have to nip this in the bud right now”. It was the second time that day that I had heard “nip in the bud”. Clearly, the outlook for my bottom was grim.

Father and Mother left the room for a private chat, and then returned together. Moments later, we were all seated around the dinette table and we were having “the talk”. Naturally, both of my parents took turns soundly scolding and shaming me for cheating. Finally “the talk” seemed to wind down and my parents were just looking at me appraisingly. Finally Daddy spoke. “You remember the rule about getting punished at school right?” My still-sore buttocks cringed as I gave the required answer; “I…I get it worse at home?”

“Yes son,” he confirmed, “you get it much worse at home.”

His hands moved under the table for a moment, and then I heard a strangely familiar “snicking” sound. Looking me straight in the eye, Daddy placed his belt on the table. Tears squirted and my head spun as the implication immediately struck home; I was not about to be merely spanked. Instead of a spanking, I was about to get my second whipping ever. I put my head down on the table and sobbed. My father patiently waited a couple of minutes for me to regain control and then explained; “The Principal thought that this was serious enough to give you the most severe punishment in her “toolbox”, so as your parent I feel that I must support her by doing the same thing, and a whipping is this family’s most severe punishment…understand?” Miserably, I nodded my understanding (if not agreement).

Just then, Mother touched my father’s arm and gently reminded him, “what about his bottom? Is it in any shape to take a whipping today after already getting paddled over his underpants?” Daddy looked startled and suddenly snapped his fingers, “Thanks for thinking about that. I guess we will just have to check.”

I immediately knew what would be required. Moments later, I was blushingly lowering my trousers and underpants so my parents could inspect the damage to my bottom. My father whistled; “Wow, that really looks like a professional job! It is still quite red but she hardly caused any bruising at all. Does it still hurt son?”

“A little” I admitted. At this point I had very mixed emotions. I was really afraid of that belt waiting for me on the table, and any delay would undeniably be a temporary relief…but then waiting for my whipping would be hell!

My father pronounced judgment: “Well, you surely won’t need a warm-up spanking, but with that unbruised bottom I don’t see why a good whipping would cause you any problems.” Except for a quiet sniffle, I accepted my sentence stoically and pulled my pants back into place. He took me by the shoulders and looked straight into my eyes, “You are getting bigger now. Can we go somewhere private and do this ‘man-to-man’? …Or would you feel better having your mother in the room when it happens?” I knew that I would have to strip naked for my whipping, so the choice was easy: “Man-to-man please sir” I managed to say. Still looking in my eyes for any sign of weakness, he made himself very clear; “It is going to hurt like hell. If we are going to do it man-to-man I am going to insist on your best cooperation”. I looked at him unblinkingly, “I will do my best Daddy, honest!” My father held me for a long moment. Finally he asked, “Should we get it over with right now? Before supper?” I gulped and nodded. Suddenly unable to keep my stare, I looked down, but unfortunately found myself staring right at the belt that was shortly to be the instrument of my correction. Daddy followed my gaze, picked up the belt, and offered it to me. I flinched back, but then recovered and gingerly accepted the feared weapon.

“Your room or mine?” Daddy asked without irony. I thought quickly, I didn’t want Ritchey to hear the evidence of my disgrace, and my parent’s room was on the opposite side of the house from Ritchey’s house. “Y…y…your room sir,” I stammered. “OK” he said, “Hug your mom, use the bathroom, and then take the belt to our bedroom and get yourself ready for your punishment. You have been whipped one time before, so surely you remember that I will expect to find you naked.” I shivered unhappily at the thought and finally managed to say, “Yes sir”.

With the belt still in my hand, I hugged my mother and mumbled yet another apology. With tears in her eyes she told me, “You need this punishment, so please learn from it so we won’t have to repeat it. I know Daddy hates to spank you, but I also know that he will do a very good job on you. Go and get it over with so we can forgive you and get your life back to normal”.

Five minutes later, I had folded my clothes in a neat pile and placed them on the vanity table next to my parent’s bed. Those white underpants that I had so reluctantly displayed to the Principal now topped the pile. I was sitting naked on my parent’s bed, listening hard for the footsteps I knew would be coming soon. Daddy’s belt was waiting in my lap and I was painfully aware that there was nothing between my skin and that nasty strip of leather. My father had been wearing that same belt to work for as long as I could remember. It was about 1.5 inches wide, made of supple leather, and kept well oiled. I remembered well from the only other time that my daddy had whipped me with it; it hurt like fire. I knew that in moments I would be crying and screaming my way through a whipping that promised to dwarf that previous one.

Sooner than I really wanted, the door opened and Daddy was there. I was trying to be brave, but as usual, my tears betrayed me. I stood and offered him his belt. Daddy gave me a quick hug, and then firmly turned me around to face the bed. He positioned me carefully on the edge of the bed with a rolled-up pillow under my hips to raise my bottom to receive the belt, and thoughtfully allowed me to bury my face in another to muffle the shameful noises I would soon be uttering. Daddy instructed me to wrap my arms around the pillow and clasp my hands together to keep from reaching back.

There isn’t much to say about the actual whipping, except that it was pure hell and it seemed to last forever. I felt leather tap my bottom a couple of times as Daddy got the range. After those taps, he must have started off with a roundhouse swing because the pain of that first swat was astounding. The ones after that were worse. I know that I totally "lost it" after the first swat.

Daddy says that I took it bravely, but that is not the way I remember it. I screamed, I howled, I begged, and I made all kinds of shameful noises. Several times Daddy had to stop when I got out of position. Each time he patiently repositioned me, and each time I resolved anew to hold my bare bottom in place for that terrible belt’s repeated visits. The very worst was when Daddy aimed low and hit places that hadn’t been previously prepared by the Principal’s paddle.

As always, Daddy was methodical, conscientious, and thorough in discharging his fatherly duties. When it was finally over, my poor bottom was crisscrossed with angry stripes and speckled by numerous little bruises that exactly matched the tip of Daddy’s belt. The damage began just below my waist and extended halfway down the backs of my upper legs. His duty done, Daddy dropped the belt and Mommy appeared as if by magic. I needed her! Suddenly it didn’t matter that she was seeing me naked as a jaybird. I don’t know how long it took, but finally they managed to slow down my bawling, and I became aware that both of my parents were holding me. Finally, Mommy laid me facedown on the bed and began to apply a soothing salve to my bottom. Daddy hovered until Mommy sent him to find me a pair of pajamas to cover my nakedness.

At last I was allowed to retreat to my own room while my parents prepared supper. When they called me down to eat, no reference was made to my crime and punishment, except I found a pillow sitting on my dinette chair to pad my sore bottom. Dinner was a quiet affair, but my parents took pains to put me at ease and to welcome me back into their good graces.

Back at school, I was the talk of my class for a few days. It didn’t help that there was no way I could hide my marked bottom in the boy’s locker room at gym class. I thought that my disgrace would last forever, but it was mostly forgotten in a week’s time, replaced by other events at the busy school. I am sure that I learned some kind of a lesson from getting into the worst trouble of my school years, but looking back, I am still not sure what it was supposed to be.

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