My Big Mouth (M/m)

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© Guyspencer 2010

WARNING: All the usual warnings and reservations of rights apply. Although there is no sex in this story, it is not for minors. This story depicts bare-bottom spankings of a minor. If that bothers you, this is not the story for you.


My Big Mouth

Mrs. Carlson and her desk swam in front of my tear-filled vision. “Do you have something to say to me?” she asked. “M…M…Mr. Crowley said to ask you to get me ready for the p…p…p…paddle” I was finally able to stammer as I stood in front of the school secretary’s desk outside of the principal’s office I had just left.

Only fifteen minutes earlier, I knew I had made a terrible mistake as soon as the sassy words had passed my lips. For the second time in only two weeks, I had sassed the teacher in front of the whole class. Immediately thereafter, she quick-marched me down the hall and deposited me in the principal’s office of my large, private religious grade school. The first time something this serious had happened to me, the Principal sent me home after a lecture with a letter to be signed by my parents. As a result, my father spanked me that evening. I returned the signed letter to school the next day to be checked for a proper parental signature and to be included in my “permanent file”.

The discipline rules and procedures at my school were considerably stricter than those at the local public schools. The school’s disciplinary rules and procedures were never completely explained to us, but nevertheless, we knew them intimately. As part of our registration process, all parents signed forms giving the school specific permission for our “appropriate physical discipline”. Looking back, the process was really quite fair. First offenders were seldom spanked at school. The principal knew that school spankings were almost always repeated at home, so a letter sent home with an errant student would almost surely result in the offender getting spanked by his or her parents.

When it WAS done, a spanking at school was always done on the bare bottom, and for repeat offenders, the usual hand spanking could be followed up by a brief to moderate application of a paddle or belt. It seemed very unfair to us (and especially to ME right now) that we could be subject to BOTH a hand spanking AND an application of a belt or paddle. However, it never really occurred to us that if the Principal had used the belt or the paddle for the WHOLE punishment, the damage to our bottoms would have been far worse.

The procedure, as we came to learn it, was for Mr. Crowley, the Principal, to send the condemned miscreant out to Mrs. Carlson, the school secretary, with a request to get him or her “ready” for punishment. Mrs. Carlson would then immediately confiscate the student’s shoes, (probably to make escape unlikely). She usually then sent the student to the bathroom with instructions to “try and go”. (This was apparently because some long forgotten past student had dribbled into the principal’s lap.) Female students were also instructed to remove “everything underneath their skirts”. This may seem embarrassing, but it gave the girls a big advantage over the boys. Unlike us, they could then get their bare-bottom spanking without frontal exposure by simply having the bottoms of their loose uniform skirts flipped up.

Wisely, the principal would never allow himself to be alone with a disrobed student. Therefore, Mrs. Carlson always accompanied the miscreant back into the principal’s office for the punishment. If an “implement” was to be used, such as the paddle in my case, Mrs. Carlson would produce the paddle or strap from her supply closet and hand it to the student to carry into the principal’s office.

To my mortification, after my trip to the boy’s room, there was a salesman and a mother waiting to see the Principal. In their full view, Mrs. Carlson handed me the paddle and instructed to sit down and wait. I padded up to a chair and sat quietly trying to avoid their curious glances, tucking the paddle next to me so it would be less obvious. I don’t know about the salesman, but the mother certainly knew what I was waiting for. The principal dealt with the mother and then the salesman. I was alone in the waiting area. It was my turn.

Mrs. Carlson got up from behind her desk and escorted me and the paddle into the principal’s office and shut the door behind us with a very final sounding “thump”. He did not even look up from his paperwork. At the secretary’s orders, I prepared for my punishment. She made me pull a straight-baked chair into the middle of the room and lay the paddle down on it. Then she directed me to remove my pants, and lower my underpants to just above my knees. Even though my face was bright red with embarrassment, I now realize that I must not have been as exposed as you may be visualizing. The large tails on my school-uniform shirt covered much of my nakedness front and back. To my mortification, my adolescent male physiology immediately conspired to defeat that slight advantage. A cold draft started the process, and the unaccustomed friction of the starched shirt-tail against my penis finished it. Concentrating on trying to stop it only made things worse! There was nothing I could do; I stood there with tears in my eyes and with an unwanted erection peeking out from between my front shirt-tails. I must have turned beet red! Mr. Crowley finally looked up at me. He did not even seem to notice the object of my embarrassment; he had probably seen the effect many too many times before. “Mr. Spencer, are you ready for your punishment?” he asked. “Y…y…yes sir” I answered. He got up and walked around his desk to me, picked up the paddle and sat down in the chair. After a few words about “taking my punishment like a man”, he laid the paddle down on the floor to his left and ordered me over his lap.

“Scoot up higher” he said. I found myself with my bottom up high, my feet off the floor, and balancing myself with my hands on the floor. I was looking straight down at the paddle not six inches from my nose. I felt him fold my shirt-tail up in back. His left arm circled tightly around my waist. I was desperately uncomfortable, already crying, and with my head nearly upside down the effluent from my nose was threatening to mix with my tears.

Looking back, I realize that Mr. Crowley was a demanding and talented spanker. He used words and drama to enhance the beneficial effects of the punishment (and probably, to allow him to reduce the physical part.) “Explain to me why you are here” he said. He would not accept a short answer. In complete sentences, and excruciating detail, he made me sob through a complete description of my two class disruptions. He then made me tell him why that is bad and what would happen were students allowed to say anything they wished to the teachers.

My spanking finally started, although the question-response session continued. He started spanking exclusively on my right buttock. SPANK, SPANK, SPANK, SPANK, “Will this help you going to learn how to control your mouth? “Yes sir”. SPANK, SPANK, SPANK, SPANK, “What will happen if you do this again?” “I don’t know sir.” SPANK, SPANK, SPANK, SPANK, “Well, what would you suggest I do?” “(sob) A spanking sir?” .” SPANK, SPANK, SPANK, SPANK “What kind of spanking?” “Owwwwww” After sever dreadful rains of spanks, he finally got the response he was looking for, “With the s-s-strap sir?”

The spanking and the questioning went on like that. My responses were getting less and less coherent. The sting on my right cheek seemed all the worse because the Principal had not yet touched the left. He was saving that one!

Like many boys, I had made a silent (and stupid) pledge to myself to take my spanking in silence; but Mr. Crowley was far too experienced a disciplinarian for that to work. Even if I had a chance of holding out mutely against the quickly rising sting in my bottom, his constant questions quickly broke my concentration and frustrated my efforts. I was starting to break down fast, grunts giving way to silent sobs which quickly degenerated into uncontrolled blubbering. My tears were landing on the waiting paddle, which the Principal had placed under my face where I could not avoid seeing it. Of course, I was squirming, writhing and kicking, but he was holding me too firmly for that to have any effect. Finally, my feet came up unbidden, trying to protect my burning, squirming bottom. Mrs. Carlson was ready for this. She stepped forward and easily caught both of my ankles and held them down. To this day, I don’t even want to think of the view she must have had.

That was probably the sign that triggered the next phase of my spanking. Spanks suddenly rained down on my left cheek; the one that had remained virgin until then. The talking part was temporarily over, now he was just spanking me in earnest. My blubbering quickly turned into loud cries. I raised my hands to try and reach my bottom, but gravity conspired to slide me forward until my head almost struck the floor. I was restrained only by Mrs. Carlson’s hold on my ankles.

Mr. Crowley stopped for a moment to readjust my bottom and to warn me “to behave”, reminding me of my promise to take my punishment “like a man”. “We have to do a good job to get you ready for the paddle” he said. That was an unwelcome reminder, in my pain I had forgotten about the paddle!

He waited an entire minute watching my shoulders shake with sobs.

The spanking started again. He expertly spanked both of my cheeks, and in the tender spot where bottom meets leg, and then his spanks wandered down onto my legs. I was a complete wreck, having long ago completely surrendered to the spanking. I did not realize it, bit Mrs. Crowley no longer even had to hold my legs.

It stopped.

I was too far gone to notice for a while. I lay on his lap and blubbered for several minutes before I quieted down.

“Are you ready for the rest?” he asked?

Feeling like a boy who had already been thoroughly spanked, it took me a few seconds to remember, to my horror, what the “rest” was.

“Well?” he said. To my shame, I blubbered and begged. Naturally it do no good. “Hand me the paddle” he ordered sternly. It took some further threats of dire action from the Principal, but finally I balanced myself with my left hand, picked up the slightly wet paddle with my right, and shakily handed it up to him. He pronounced sentence. “You will only be getting four swats”, he said,” You must count them out loud if you don’t want extras.” Having been sentenced to only four strokes was small comfort, the maximum number that anyone was known to receive was six.

What happened next made me an instant celebrity among my classmates. Allow me to digress for a moment to explain that there is only one classroom that is within earshot of the principal’s office. The Social Studies room shared an interior wall with the principal’s office. Our school building was old and solidly built, but loud noises, such as a hard spanking, traveled quite clearly from the principle’s office to that one particular classroom. As luck would have it, my class had made their regularly scheduled move from the homeroom to the Social Studies room while I was so unhappily occupied in the Principal’s office. Although the wall somewhat muffled the first part of my hand spanking, they could clearly hear the harder “tail” end of my preliminary hand spanking. Then they heard the pause in the action as the principle allowed me time to regain my composure, and then demanded that I hand him the paddle.

As the Principal brandished the paddle, Mrs. Carlson automatically stepped forward to again restrain my ankles. “SPLAT!” my classmates finally heard the first paddle stroke, quickly followed by my adolescent howl of pain. Then they finally heard my voice give the required count: “ONE”. Then…”SPLAT!!”; all normal educational activity had long stopped when the paddle again connected with my tortured bare rear. I don’t remember, but they said I screamed and then it seemed like I would never give the count. “TWO” I finally said at the principal’s prompting. “SPLAT!!”. They heard the paddle connect with my asscheeks for the third time. Then it happened. “GODDAMN!!!” I yelled.

You could hear a pin drop in the classroom as a long silence ensued. The Social Studies teacher was speechless. One does not “take the name of our Lord in vain” in a religious elementary school, particularly THIS religious elementary school. Not one of my classmates would have changed places with me at that moment, not for a million dollars.

I never got the fourth swat with the paddle. Mr. Crowley jerked me up off of his lap as if I had suddenly burst into flames. I stood before him as he quietly lectured me. My underpants had fallen to my ankles, I desperately wanted to reach for them, but I did not dare. My blubbered apology fell on deaf ears.

The lecture finally stopped. “Remove your shirt” he told me. “Mrs. Carlson, we will need the strap” he said over his shoulder. After losing my shirt, I stood clad only in my T-shirt. Now there was nothing to hide my adolescent nakedness. My young ears easily heard Mrs. Carlson’s supply closet door open and then close. She reentered with the strap, dreaded by every student in the school, and a large pillow. The pillow went down on the chair to substitute for Mr. Crowley’s lap. With a surprisingly gentle push behind my neck, Mr. Crowley guided me back into my former position; draped over the chair, face near the floor and red bottom facing up for business.

He did not announce the number of swats in advance as was his normal practice, nor did he make me count them (as was also normal). My classmates clearly heard me receive an unprecedented eight swats. (This after already receiving three with the paddle.) He stopped only to reposition me after I nearly rolled off the chair after number four. Mrs. Carlson had to hold my shoulders for the final four.

I barely noticed when the strapping was over. Finally, Mr. Crowley took my hand and guided me up off of the chair. Unashamed, I bawled and rubbed by bottom with both hands. He told me to put my underpants back on. Through my tears, I had trouble finding them on the floor. Finally I found them, across the room where I had somehow kicked them. Getting them untangled seemed to be far too complicated a task in my condition. Finally, Mr. Crowley took pity on me and helped me into them as if I were a three-year-old.

Since I was making far too much noise for him to accomplish anything in his office, Mr. Crowley left to make his rounds. Mrs. Carlson went back to her desk, leaving me alone for a few minutes to regain my composure and finish getting dressed. Some 20 minutes had passed before I finally crept out of the office to Mrs. Carlson’s desk. “Are you ready to go back to class now?” she asked. I probably would have been too ashamed to be seen in my class, but it did not occur to me that my classmates would have heard my distress. She handed be the dreaded parental note with instructions get it signed and returned the next morning before class. I had every reason to believe that I was in for another strapping that evening when my parents saw that note.

PART II

I was slightly late getting home. After school, everyone wanted to hear about my ordeal, making me a minor celebrity. Besides, I was naturally in no particular hurry to get home to “face the music”, and frankly, it hurt to walk. I handed the note over to my mother as soon as I got home. My father was not yet home and I would rather face her than him. She already knew. Mr. Crowley had called her to explain about my bruised bottom. When she told me turn around and lower my pants, I thought she was going to strap me right then and there in the kitchen. As it turned out, she just wanted to inspect my bottom. Having done that, she sent me to my room to “wait for daddy”.

It was the longest wait of my life. None too soon, I heard his car in the driveway. Then I heard the front door open and close. The house was bathed in a silence that seemed to last for hours as he absorbed the news. I heard his steps on the stairs leading up to my room. Unbidden, a tear slid down my cheek. The door opened. It was him. “Get downstairs right now young man” he said. Eager to please, I quickly obeyed. After a long lecture, and another inspection of my bottom, he told me that my bottom was too bruised to accept further spanking today. My momentary relief turned to despair when I realized that I had to wait for my certain punishment. I was on restriction until my parents deemed me ready for another hard spanking; or perhaps another strapping, they never did specify.

Every day for the next week and a half, I had to return straight home from school, put on my pajamas, and remain in my room; not knowing if that day was the day I would be called downstairs for my spanking. Every day or two, my mother would check my tush by the simple expedient of pulling the back of my pajamas down. She would not give me any hint of how close it was to being sufficiently healed. Naturally, I attempted to keep track myself by checking it in a mirror.

My time finally came on a Saturday morning. Dad called me down to the living room and gave me a lecture much like the first one. Finally, I was told to “get in the bedroom” (meaning my parents bedroom) “get the hairbrush”, “get ready for it” and “think about what I had done to deserve what they now had to do to me”. Alone in their bedroom, I found the hairbrush and laid it on the bed, thankful that I was apparently to be spared from the belt. Then I removed my pants, shirt, shoes and socks and plopped my underwear-clad bottom down on the bed next to the hairbrush to await my fate. I was usually spanked on the bare bottom, and had no reason to think that I would not be this time…but a 10-year-old is not always rational. At this tender age, I had no problem appearing naked in front of my parents, I simply had an irrational hope that I could get away with that tiny bit of padding on my bottom.

A few minutes later, my mother looked in on me and noted my still-covered bottom. Another quiet lecture followed. Did I think that what I had done was serious? “Yes mom” Did I deserve to be spanked hard? (Gulp) “Yes mommy” Did I think I should be spanked over my underpants? (GULP) “No, I guess not”. Without another word she left. I finished the job, first sliding off my underpants, then after a moments thought, my T-shirt. They joined the small pile of clothes on the bedroom floor. I sat naked…waiting; dreading what must now happen, shivering in spite of the warm air.

In my youth, parental spankings were not the private, almost furtive affairs that they are today. First; parents had nothing to fear. Spankings were an accepted and respected part of child “rearing”. Second; in these days home air conditioning was virtually unheard of. Our screened windows were wide open throughout the house for much of the year. Today was no exception. Because of the heat, and because few people had television, people spent far more time outdoors than they do today. Several of my friends and neighbors would clearly hear my distress. I knew that Jack and Alice, the childless couple next door, would pointedly ask me later if I had “learned my lesson”. All of my neighborhood playmates would know intimate details of my punishment simply by listening. The smarter ones would learn from what they had heard and avoid a similar fate. I found this public aspect to my childhood discipline slightly embarrassing, but it was an accepted part of life in those times. It applied to my playmates as much as it did to me.

They let me stew for a full hour. All too soon I heard the crunching sound of aluminum ice cube trays being emptied in the kitchen. That sound had a special meaning for me; I can close my eyes and hear it today. I immediately started crying openly. This had happened twice before. When I was in for the very hardest spankings, my mother prepared a bowl of ice to apply to my tortured bottom afterwards to reduce bruising and swelling. There was now no doubt, I was really in for it, and soon! They walked in together. I was sobbing into my hands. My father stood me up, turned me to face him and gently pulled my hands down from my damp face. He explained that I would not get the strap because I had already been punished by being on restriction for more than a week, besides; he thought that he could do a fine job with the hairbrush. (The truth, as he confessed years later, was that the hairbrush was just for the added drama. He could spank me as hard as necessary with just his hand.) As was their routine, he told me to go to my mother, apologize for my misdeeds and request a spanking. As usual, I received a stiff hand spanking across my mother knee, and was set back on my feet for the main event. My bottom was already bright red and my punishment had barely begun. Without further prompting I went to my father, handed him the hairbrush, stammered through an apology, and requested that he finish my punishment.

It would be redundant to fully describe the spanking that followed. As previously explained, there was no doubt the neighbors clearly heard the noise that a parental-propelled hairbrush makes colliding with my bare bottom, and my anguished, adolescent, response to the terrible burning in my rear. As usual, my father sat well back on the edge of the bed. I crawled up on the bed and placed myself prone facedown with my bottom centered across his lap. My mother handed me a pillow. I wrapped my arms around it and buried my face. My father did not spank quite as hard as the principal, but much longer and with almost scientific thoroughness. After what seemed like a thorough job that savaged my bottom and the back of my legs almost down to my knees; he paused. From prior experience, I knew he was not done. After a few moments pause, he made me open my legs so he could spank the tender flesh of my inner thighs. I made no pretense of bravery. As always, this part made me shriek. He then finished the job with a final flurry of spanks all over my bottom.

Although I never had any doubt that the spanking was given in love, I was inconsolable for several minutes after I was finally allowed up off my daddy’s lap. When I was finally calmed down a little, my mother took my dad’s place on the bed and I was again face down across a parental lap; this time for a long application of cooling ice on my still-bare bottom.

After nearly an hour of post-spanking ministrations, I was told that I could get dressed and go out and play for the first time in two weeks. Somehow, I was just not ready. My mother helped me into my underwear and then I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room. To celebrate the “new me”, and the end of my long punishment, the three of us went out for a rare restaurant meal that evening. Perhaps due to the ice treatment, or perhaps because my dad did not spank as hard as the Principal, my bottom did not hurt bad when I sat down. In fact, my bottom healed quickly over the next two or three days.

NOTES: All events in this story are fiction.  The settings however, are actually from the author's youth.  Particularly the description of the school, the school office the school secretary, and that Social Studies classroom where you could hear the occasional spanking are accurate.  At my elementry school, the Principle and Assistant Principle occasionally gave OTK spankings; and at least sometimes did so with the student's pants lowered.  The male and female gym teachers and the boys shop teacher had paddles and seemed to be empowered to use them regularly.  The author was never actually spanked or paddled there, but did once recieve a few swats to the palm with a ruler(though he deserved worse).   For a true-to- life description of a spanking that the author accidently witnessed through the Principal's window check here: School Remembrances

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