Spanked by the Female Gym Teacher

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© Guyspencer 2012

Spanked by the Female Gym Teacher

It was my last year at Emerson Elementary School, but this particular afternoon was starting out very badly.  As the school secretary escorted me down the temporarily deserted hallway, I was praying that nobody would see us.  From the way she kept her hand firmly around my forearm, it would be obvious to anyone that I was in big trouble. 

We made it past the Home Economics classroom and then to the end of the front hallway.  Turning into the north hall, I was delighted to see that it was empty.  But at any moment, any of several classroom doors might open and…

I was both relieved and distressed when we arrived at the gym.  This was where my fate awaited, but at least we would be out of the hall.  As usual, our dual-use gym had a mixture of smells.  Yes, there were the usual gym odors, floor varnish mixed with sweat, all spiced by the bouquet of moldering gym clothing.  But our gym was different!  The east end of the gym held the changing rooms, equipment room and teacher’s office, but the other end was dominated by the school’s kitchen.  The kitchen’s smells varied from day-to-day, but they always dueled with the native gym odors.  The gym had big picnic-style tables that folded into the walls.  For two hours daily, our gym became our school cafeteria.

It was early afternoon, so we happened to arrive just as Mr. Frisch, our friendly janitor with the German accent, was folding the tables back into the walls.  Seeing my predicament, he looked at me with a mixture of surprise and pity. 

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At Emerson Elementary school, I was known as a “good kid”.  But today I had stupidly and deservedly gotten myself into deep trouble.  It was long division that pushed me over the edge!  Frankly, learning it seemed impossible to me.  We had a quiz that day.  The first seven problems I managed to do because they were straightforward.  Unfortunately, the last three questions involved a complex remainder that totally stumped me.  So I did the stupid thing, I copied from my friend Jim’s paper.  First, I wasn’t sneaky, so the teacher saw me do it, and second, Jim was worse at math than I was!  So I ended up with three wrong answers, Jim’s wrong answers.

Naturally, my teacher wrote a note and told me to take it to the office.  It was one of the longest walks of my young life!  With great trepidation, I opened the door and walked in.  The entrance to the school office was guarded by a long counter.  Behind the counter the school Secretary, Mrs. Bray held court.   Mrs. Bray was a skinny, homely, unexciting lady.  Though not unkind, but she was firm and businesslike with us students.  In her role as gatekeeper, Mrs. Bray exerted huge influence over our fate when we were “sent to the office”.  She always read the note first, and passed a sort of judgment, deciding if we should see the Principal herself or just her Assistant.  She also exerted influence in another way.  The Principal and Assistant Principal shared a single paddle, which resided in Mrs. Bray’s desk drawer.  When she delivered us to be “dealt with”, she might, or might not, automatically bring along the paddle.  That decision may or may not be a kindness, because the school’s most feared punishment didn’t involve the paddle, but rather a hand spanking applied to a bare bottom.  The paddle was only used for “swats”, an intermediate punishment.

Mrs. Bray accepted my note, and then read it with a “tut-tut”.  “What do you have to say for yourself young man?” She asked.

There was nothing I could say.  I just looked at the floor.

“So it’s true then,” she decided.  She pulled a pencil from her tight hair bun, made a notation in the margin, and then demanded, “Look at me!” 

Unwillingly, I did.

“This is terrible Guy!  This will really upset your parents.  You know that cheating is one thing that Mrs. Kielander (our Principal) absolutely won’t tolerate.”

It wasn’t lost on me that Mrs. Bray mentioned my parents.  She attended our church, so she knew my parents and saw them regularly.  She was telling me that my parents would definitely hear of my crime.

She opened a file drawer, searched, and then pulled out a file.  It had my name on it.  My eyes filled with tears as she opened it to a certain page and made the damming notation.  I assumed that my permanent file now had me forever branded as a cheater.  After neatly punching two holes in the note, she fastened it inside my file before carefully replacing it.

Then she pronounced sentence, sort of.  Mrs. Bray announced that Mrs. Kielander and her Assistant were downtown for a conference.  She would deliver me to Mr. Dickens, the male gym teacher, to be “dealt with”.

So now you know why the school secretary was escorting me to the gym.

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The gym office had big windows so the gym teachers could always observe what was happening in their gym.  As we approached the office I was initially hopeful to see that Mr. Dickens wasn’t there.  However, the female gym teacher, Miss Epps sat behind her desk. 

Over half a century later, I can still picture Miss Epps like it was yesterday.  She was a dour lady with a sinewy and athletic body.  She kept her hair short and had a mannish walk, but I was far too young to understand the possible implications of her mannerisms.  In the late 1950’s I’m not even sure if the word “lesbian” was in the popular lexicon, it certainly wasn’t in mine.    Since it was quite unthinkable back then for any professional woman to report to work in shorts, her favorite garment was kulats.  The ones that she wore looked so much like a normal skirt that I only noticed because she had once spread her legs wide in response to a query from a girl.  Only then did I see daylight between the two halves of her skirt.  It seemed a bit risqué at the time, so I didn’t mention it to my parents. 

I don’t think Miss Epps hated us boys, it’s just that she lacked interest in us.  Still, we sometimes had combined boy/girl gym classes when one gym teacher was out, so we had regular contact with her.

All too soon, we were standing in front of Miss Epps’s desk and Mrs. Bray & Miss Epps were discussing me as if I wasn’t in the room.  First, Miss Epps reminded the secretary of something she should have remembered; Mr. Dickens was out for the rest of the day with family issues.  When told what I had done, Miss Epps gasped appropriately and regarded me with a raised eyebrow.  Then the two conferred, deciding my fate:

Secretary, “You know the punishment that Mrs. Kielander always gives cheaters…”

Miss Epps, “Oh yes!  She’s very adamant about that.”

Secretary, “What do we do now?  Are you allowed to do it?”

Miss Epps, “Well you know I prefer to deal only with the girls and leave the boys to Mr. Dickens, but there’s no rule that says I can’t, and it wouldn’t be fair to make the boy wait until tomorrow.”

Secretary, “So you’ll do it then?”

Miss Epps (with apparent reluctance), “We can’t justify anything else.  I have time before my next class, so I’ll deal with him and then send him back to you.”

Secretary (with relief), “Thanks; I’m really quite sure that’s what Mrs. Kielander would want us to do.”

The emotions I felt during that conversation were literally indescribable.  I felt physically sick.  My knees were shaky and my mouth was dry.  Neither of the ladies had used the word “spanking” but I was pretty sure that’s what they meant.  A paddling is done over the clothing, so there would be little concern over my gender.  However, at least in my school, a spanking was a very different thing.  A few teachers were empowered to paddle, but spankings were the school’s ultimate punishment.  Spankings were a very private event that happened only in the school office or in the gym storage room, because spankings were always given bare bottom. 

Thinking back from the safety of decades of time, it seems odd to me that my feelings were entirely of fear and mortification without the slightest sexual interest.  Back then, all sexual knowledge was carefully and successfully hidden from us kids, but ignorance didn’t stop changes from happening to my body, or inside my head.  At that age, I probably had a sparse mustache of pubic hair over my penis, but had no idea of puberty’s huge portent for my future life.  Yes, I had discovered that it felt good to massage myself under the sheets, and I usually fanaticized about spankings whilst doing that.  But now, faced with the prospect of a very real spanking, I felt no sexual interest.

With a final “thank you” Mrs. Bray left me alone with Miss Epps.  I was so scared that my teeth actually chattered.  The tears that dripped off my chin had no effect on the lady.  She was silent for a long time, watching me like a snake in a cage watches a sacrificial mouse.

Finally she spoke, “You’ve been at this school since kindergarten Guy, and you’ve always been a good boy.  What happened?”  I couldn’t offer the slightest defense.  All I could do was shrug and sob.  I was surprised that she even knew my name.  Also surprising was her almost kind tone of voice.

“Well I think it’s best that we get your punishment out of the way.  Perhaps after that we could have a nice talk OK?”  I don’t remember how I responded to that question, but it surely wasn’t rational.

Then she instructed me to remove my shoes.  Sitting in a handy chair, I obeyed.  This actually wasn’t an unusual request from the gym teachers.  Shoes weren’t kind to the shellacked wooden gym floor.  On reflection however, I think she may have been afraid of me bolting.  Being shoeless would greatly limit my range.

Having decided that this wasn’t the time for talking, she picked up a folding wooden chair, and then made me precede her out her office door.  Since she picked up the chair and not her paddle, it was now clear that I was to be spanked, rather than just suffer a few paddle swats.  Just as I feared, we turned left and walked the ten feet to the storage room door.  Using the keys that always dangled from her waist, she opened the door and snapped on the light.  Dumbly, I peered into my punishment cell.

I knew the gym storage room pretty well.  It was like a long windowless walk-in closet.  At the far end were shelves full of basketballs and other things that can’t conveniently hang on hooks.  Both walls were lined with hooks holding things like baseball gloves.  The odor of the place was heavy with leather, Neatsfoot oil, rubber balls, and sweat.

Besides storage of sporting gear, the gym storage room was the private place where the gym teachers took students for punishment.  I had never heard an actual spanking happen there, but I had overheard several students, both male and female get paddled there.  Sometimes the sounds were quite dreadful.  Now I was going in there to be spanked.  I truly hoped that no students would walk into the gym while it was happening!  It was bad enough that the janitor was still there.

I don’t remember following her into the storeroom, but the next thing I remember the door was firmly closed behind us and she was sitting on that folding chair.  She knew just what to do, so she had obviously done this before.  I wondered if I was the first boy she had ever spanked.

She had to repeat herself to penetrate my addled brain, but was remarkably patient.  It would have been easier if she had been nasty to me, because then I could hate her.  First she made me stand in front of her, and then she pinioned me there with her eyes.

She asked me why I was about to be punished, “B…b…because I cheated on my test?”

“Close,” she replied, “This is a school, and we’re here to teach you things.  We’ve discovered that you need to learn not to cheat.  Unfortunately it will be a painful lesson, but you’re a smart boy so I think you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.” 

“So tell me again; why are you being punished?”

I blubbered the correct answer, “To teach me not to cheat.”

“Good boy,” she said, “good boy.”

Then she gently pulled me around to her right hip before telling me to undo my pants and then lower them below my knees.   In a fog, my eyes swimming with tears, I obeyed.  I unzipped, unbuckled, unbuttoned, and then finally dropped my pants to my ankles.

Her hands circled my waist.  “Look me in the eye,” she commanded. 

Thinking about it later, I think she wanted me to see that she wasn’t looking down at my nakedness.  As we stared into each other’s eyes, I felt my underpants descend to meet my pants.  Almost immediately, a hand on my back urged me across her bony lap.  I was bare bottom across her lap, but she clearly had avoided the sight of my boyish groin.  At least, for now!

While the preliminaries had been far gentler and more considerate than I expected, I can’t say the same about the spanking.  Miss Epps had said that she meant to deliver an unforgettable lesson, and that’s just what she did.  I wish I could claim to have taken my well-earned punishment “like a man,” but it didn’t happen.  As she toasted my buns, I screamed, begged and yelled like some first-grader.  I must also have struggled, but I was no match for Miss Epps.

Due to an acoustic anomaly in our school, sound carried from the Principal’s office to our Social Studies classroom, so I have heard Mrs. Kielander spank a few kids over the years.  Her spankings are short, almost violent affairs.  Usually we hear nothing until the spanking starts, then we hear several sharp, fast, slaps before the spanked student suddenly starts crying, or screaming.  After that, the student’s voice almost drowns out the spanks.  Her spankings are hard, and famously leave her victims sore and squirming in their hard seats for the rest of the day, but they didn’t last much more than a minute.  The spanking I got from Miss Epps was nothing like that.

She spanked me hard but not terribly fast, and continued until my crying and “carrying-on” reached some threshold.  Then she stopped!  She would patiently wait for me to calm down, occasionally reminding me that we “weren’t through.”  When I had quieted sufficiently, she would remind me the reason for the spanking, and then start again!  I don’t know how many times we went through that cycle, but my punishment seemed to go on forever.  Finally she finished off the job with a series of extra-hard spanks that had me frantically screeching.

By now, my pants were half kicked off, but my underpants still bound my ankles together.  She reached down, pulled up my underpants as far as they would go, and then urged me to raise my bottom, “so I can make you decent so I can let you up.” 

Finally, still bawling, I was allowed back on my feet.  To my surprise, she actually pulled me into a long hug.  Then she did me a small kindness:  Seeing that I needed time to recover, she left me in the storeroom.  She told me to take as long as I needed, but then to see her in the office. 

Twenty minutes later, I finally slinked out of that storeroom.  Miss Epps produced a damp washcloth and gently washed the tears from my face.  Then she sat me down (actually I stood) for a sincere discussion of the importance of honesty and the pitfalls of cheating.  Yes, it was truly a “discussion”, and not a lecture.  A classic “teaching moment,” that little talk did me a world of good. 

My problems weren’t over.  I still had to face Mrs. Bray, my teacher, my class, those hard classroom chairs, and the wrath of my parents. 

It’s odd how our brain indexes life’s events.  Even today, a sniff of a well-used, well-oiled baseball glove triggers an image of that gym storeroom.  Thoughts of the storeroom always trigger memories of that spanking and the shameful indiscretion that caused it.

There was one near-daily thought that I had more trouble processing.  It had to do with Miss Epps’s kulats.  Whenever I saw her in that garment (which was almost always) it triggered a thought so personal that I couldn’t share it, nor could I shake it.  I could only deal with this particular thought under the sheets in the privacy of my bedroom. 

You see; it’s an indisputable fact that my bare penis spent some fifteen minutes touching Miss Epps kulats!  How is a boy supposed to deal with that memory?

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© Guyspencer 2012