As I’ve mentioned in some of my other stories, as a little girl I had a deep need for parental (and particularly maternal) approval. I absolutely craved my mum’s praise and pride, or at the very least her lack of shame or disappointment.
As well as trying to be well-behaved at all times, I also tried my absolute best at every task I attempted – playing the piano, swimming, tennis, painting, baking or any other of the countless activities I was involved in as a youngster. I always had to do these things to the utmost of my abilities at every moment, and never let standards fall. This was particularly true of my school work, to which I devoted infinite time, attention and effort.
In my first six years of primary school my studious efforts and good behaviour paid off and I always did very well at school, and enjoyed good report cards. I had great friends and classmates, but equally important to me as this peer approval was the approval of the teacher and, by extension, my mum (who also happens to be a primary school teacher, but not at our school).
For six years I succeeded – but all of this changed in my seventh and final year of primary school, when Ms Campbell became our teacher.
Unlike all the other teachers at our school, Ms Campbell was new, and so came with no reputation as to her nature or strictness. We were to be her first class, and so as we walked into our first day of P7, I was nervous but also excited about the new school year commencing.
Ms Campbell had gingery red hair, tied back in a neat high ponytail, a warm smile and a kind face. Any nerves I had been feeling began to melt away as she smiled at us children and introduced herself. We took our assigned seats and keenly placed our pens and pencils on the desks, although I suspect we were likely more eager to show off our new stationery than to actually write!
Our first assignment was to be the standard ‘the best thing I did over the summer’ essay, and I enthusiastically wrote about visiting granny, enjoying starting to fill up the fresh pages of my new jotter.
As the bell rang for playtime I jumped up from my chair, excited to get out and catch up with my friends. Ms Campbell dismissed the rest of the class, but asked me to stay behind. At this, I was more curious than nervous, as I knew I hadn’t misbehaved in any way.
I looked up keenly at Ms Campbell, and her face instantly changed from sweet and kind to angry and full of contempt. I was so confused and could feel a knot of dread forming in the pit of my stomach, as it was an expression I had seen on Mum’s face many, many times and it never ended well for me. I bit my bottom lip, tasting the salty blood as I tried to quell the rising panic I was feeling.
“Laura Smith, is it?” asked Ms Campbell in an accusing tone, as if I was guilty of a crime by virtue of my very name. I swallowed hard before confirming my identity. “Well I’ve already heard all about what a clever little superstar you are this morning from Mrs Jones. Proud of yourself, are you?” she asked rhetorically, before continuing: “Rest assured, I will not be taken in by your little act. In my classroom, all pupils are equal and if you think you can show off in this class or suck up to me, then you are sorely mistaken, young lady. Do I make myself clear?”
There was a long pause, as I stood reeling from what I had just heard. While it was true that I enjoyed my schoolwork and was always polite and respectful to my teachers, I was never what you would call a proper ‘teacher’s pet’. I would never grass on another kid, I would never belittle someone less academic and, while undeniably keen for their approval, I would still never ‘suck up’ to a teacher.
“Do I make myself clear?” she repeated, in a menacing tone. Granny always told us that honesty was the best policy, so I hesitantly replied: “Uh, um, I’m not sure, Mrs Campbell.” My error with her title was like a red rag to a bull: “It’s Ms Campbell!” she screeched, “and what do you mean you’re not sure, girl?” I can’t remember my exact reply, but I think it was something like “I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong” or “I’m not sure what you’re accusing me of.”
Whatever my reply, Ms Campbell clearly didn’t like it and marched over from my desk to her own, determinedly rummaging through the drawers before victoriously extracting a book of blank punishment exercises.
I will never forget the feeling of shock and fear, as the blood drained from my face upon seeing this. In my six years of school, I had never received a punishment exercise. Charlotte had brought home two or three, and they always earned her a long and painful meeting with mum’s hairbrush, before an additional 10 or 15 hard swats with the dreaded bath brush. Tears welled up in my eyes at the very thought of my own bum getting this treatment.
Mum was strict at the best of times, but the idea of me bringing home a punishment exercise on the very first day of term would make her absolutely apoplectic – I had to do something. “Please, Ms Campbell,” I pathetically squeaked, my voice betraying my tears, which had hitherto remained in my eyes. I blinked, the tears now cascading down my hot cheeks. It felt like I was trying to extract my voice from deep inside the pit in my stomach as I whispered: “Please – my mum will be so angry.”
She glared at me unsympathetically – yet another expression I had seen many, many times on mum’s face, instantly telling me that my pleas had fallen on deaf ears. “Well, maybe you ought to have thought of that before you were so insolent then, girl.” She tilted her head to one side in patronising faux sympathy and said in a sing-song voice: “It’s what I always say to my own children: Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”
I wanted to scream in frustration. I wanted to hit her patronising face. I wanted to demand to know which “crime” I was guilty of, but I knew none of these things would help me. The deck was stacked against me. She was the adult and I was the child. She represented authority and I had to submit. Years of bitter experience with Mum had taught me that any attempt to assert myself or change this dynamic would simply be met with longer and more severe punishment.
Bringing home a punishment exercise would be bad enough but if this woman (‘this bitch‘ I thought silently to myself, blushing inwardly at the naughty word) phoned Mum or sent me to the headmistress, I could only imagine what would happen to my backside when I got home. So I stood dumbly, resolutely staring at the shiny silver buckles on my new school shoes, and waited for Ms Campbell to fill out what felt like my death warrant.
She tore the slip from the pad and handed it over, informing me that she expected a signed note from my mum and all the assigned writing exercises to be on her desk first thing the following morning. I nodded meekly. “Pardon?” demanded Ms Campbell, clearly dissatisfied with my non-verbal response. My mouth was so dry, and my voice felt so distant, but I managed to croak ‘yes, Ms Campbell’ before folding the incriminating piece of paper in half and slipping it into my new school bag.
I only had enough time to go to the toilets and wash my face, carefully keeping my head down and letting my long blonde hair hang down over my tearful face, as I cut through the playground before the bell rang to signal the end of break. Much like walking to the dining room at home to receive a smacking, my feet felt like they were reluctantly wading through treacle as I made my way back to the classroom.
The smiley Ms Campbell had returned, as she saw the other children filing back into the bright classroom, their faces flushed from playtime exertion. As she cheerfully gave another lesson, I could scarcely believe she was the same woman who mere minutes earlier had been so nasty to me.
I barely took in a word of what she said, subconsciously wriggling in my chair in anticipation of the sore bum I was bound to receive at home. “If you don’t stop fidgeting, then you will be getting another punishment exercise, Laura Smith,” Ms Campbell suddenly barked.
Every one of my classmates whipped their heads around to look at me. My face burned with embarrassment and I heard their collective intake of breath; shock and curiosity as to the nature of my initial misdeed clearly intriguing them all. “Sorry, Ms Campbell,” I said self-consciously, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Naturally, at lunchtime my friends demanded to know what was going on but I didn’t know what to tell them. I didn’t even know what I had done wrong myself. “She says I was insolent,” was all I managed to say, as my friends implored me to share more details.
I never, ever shared with any of my friends the details of my punishments at home, feeling deep shame about still getting my bottom smacked compared with the more ‘enlightened’ discipline most of them were subject to, such as being made to sit on the naughty step or having a toy confiscated.
That being the case, I felt utterly alone in the knowledge of the pain and embarrassment that awaited me at Mum’s hands. I suspect my friends thought I was being melodramatic as I threw away the lunch mum had packed for me, my mouth too dry to swallow the food. My stomach was in knots anyway, anticipating the smacking my bottom would soon be getting.
The rest of the school day and the after-school club both dragged, prolonging my dread, and simultaneously flew by, bringing me closer to my painful fate. By the time I got home, I was a ball of nerves. The punishment exercise felt like it was a ticking time bomb in my school bag.
I didn’t know when to tell mum about it and, as with lunch, I barely touched my dinner as I felt rising nausea at the anticipation of the inevitable pain my bum was about to be subjected to. Luckily, in spite of her strictness, Mum not the sort of parent who demanded a clear plate (not once we were over the age of about six or seven, anyway) and when she saw the barely-touched meal, she worriedly held her hand to my forehead, asking if I was ‘coming down with something’. I swallowed hard, realising the same hand that was currently tenderly pressed to my forehead would soon be walloping my backside.
Dread rising, I was tempted to just ask my stepdad to sign the punishment exercise or even attempt a forgery of mum’s scrawling signature – but I knew that if I was found out, it would make things much, much worse.
Eventually, after having completed my homework, showered and dressed for bed, I could put it off no longer and silently, I tentatively held out the incriminating piece of paper to Mum. I watched her face turn to rage as she realised what she was looking at. “What did you do?” she demanded. The punishment exercise itself only contained the enigmatic word ‘insolence’ in the ‘reason for punishment’ box.
I wanted to explain the injustice, defend myself, to beg for her understanding, for belief of my innocence – but I knew from past experience it was all futile. “I’m sorry!” was all I managed to wail, already in floods of tears over the impending smacking. “Oh, you will be!” Mum replied, her heavily pregnant body struggling to rise from the chair and get to my naughty little bum.
As she was too big to have me over her lap (she was eight months gone with my half brother), she instead dragged me over to the settee and pushed me down over its arm. Mum instructed my now ashen-faced little sister to fetch the hairbrush. “And the bath brush!” she added ominously as I tried to breathe, my lungs seemingly unable to absorb any oxygen.
Realising she had forgotten to bare my behind, mum pulled me up from over the arm of the settee and with one practiced movement she lowered my pyjama bottoms. My buttocks suitably presented for punishment, she again pushed my upper body downwards, forcing me to bend at the waist, my bare backside sticking up and out, presenting a perfect little target for mum’s arsenal of brushes.
My pyjama bottoms pooled at my ankles but my legs weren’t long enough to properly reach the ground, and so I perched on my tiptoes, already starting to feel the strain in my calves after less than a minute of holding the pose. Meanwhile, my torso and head were resting flat on the couch cushion.
I had my arms at my sides but Mum instructed me to stretch them over my head, flat on the couch – presumably to prevent me trying to reach back during the main event, although she never actually gave a reason. She didn’t need to: she was in charge and we both knew it. Frankly, if she had asked me to do a handstand against the wall for the smacking then I would have done it unquestioningly.
Charlotte returned with the brushes and my stomach plunged and my bottom involuntarily clenched in terrified anticipation as I heard them being carefully set down on the glass coffee table. Mum stood at the side of me, pinning my torso down firmly with her left hand. She leaned across, her large pregnant belly brushing against my bare legs, and smacked me with her right hand several times.
The worst part about this stage of the smacking was the knowledge that it was already so stingy and painful but was only going to get worse– a lot worse. The pain hadn’t yet reached the stage where I could think of nothing other than the fire in my bum, and I remember resentfully wondering what my bitch teacher was doing at that very moment. I imagined her watching TV with a glass of wine, not a care in the world, while I was getting my bum reddened for doing precisely nothing wrong.
The unfairness of the situation caused a wave of sorrow to consume me and I wailed loudly, just as mum painfully whacked the crease between my bum and thighs. “Oh, for goodness sake, Laura – I’ve not even properly started yet!” Mum snapped, clearly thinking my wailing was in response to the ongoing smacking.
Mum always liked to warm up our bums with her hand first, reasoning that it was less likely to bruise that way, although bruises often did still form nonetheless. I could feel the glow in my bum intensifying, as mum gave me a final few slaps with her hand before picking up the hairbrush.
Painful though her hand had been, it was mild compared to the whack of that wooden-backed brush. This time, my wailing was solely in response to the smacking, and I very quickly reached the point where I could think about nothing other than the fire in my rear.
I could feel my buttocks pulsating as the blood continued to rush to my sore bum, the redness deepening with each whack. Heaving sobs wracked my whole body as mum’s trusty hairbrush continued to set my backside alight. The backs of my thighs did not escape her expert attention, and my legs splayed open and kicked wildly in all directions in response to this pain.
“Legs, Laura!” said Mum – a clear warning to hold still. I managed this for one solitary whack before they again seemed to dance and flail around, independent of each other. Mum grabbed an errant leg, awkwardly tilting it slightly outwards, and landed three excruciating smacks on my inner thigh. I screamed in shock and pain, raising my torso from the chair, my back no longer pinned down by mum’s hand, which was now holding my leg.
“Laura! Laura!” I was vaguely aware of mum calling my name but was unable to focus on anything other than the furnace raging in my rear end and thighs. “Laura!” she shouted this time, pinching a handful of squishy flesh on the inside of my other thigh and twisting it hard.
This new, different pain somehow focused my mind on her voice and I was able to hear her warning. “I swear to God, Laura, if you don’t keep still and stop squirming around like that, I will get your Stepdad in here to hold you down whilst your bum continues its conversation with my brush.”
It took me a few seconds to comprehend this threat, as my mind was so utterly scrambled with the pain, but when I realised what she was saying, my wailing became punctuated by begging. “Nooo! Waah! Please!” In reality, my stepdad Stuart would probably have refused to come in. He always left the room when either myself or Charlotte were getting smacked, and whilst Mum managed to convince him it was an essential part of child-rearing to smack their own two children, he utterly refused to bare them for it, or to allow mum to bare them either. He cared a lot about modesty and dignity, while mum unfortunately had no such qualms! At the time I didn’t know any of this, though, and in spite of my agony, I was aware enough to be utterly appalled by Mum’s threat.
That being the case, I really did try my absolute best to stay still – but unsurprisingly I wasn’t successful. Unlike when we were over Mum’s knee, where she could use her own legs and her non-smacking hand to pin our legs down and hold our wrists in place, with this position Mum couldn’t do much to keep us in clamped in position other than put her hand on your back, firmly pressing your torso against the couch cushion.
This position, thankfully abandoned after the birth of my half brother, largely relied on sheer willpower to hold your place, and unfortunately it was willpower that I lacked when my bum was being set alight. I squirmed all around, my bare lower half rubbing roughly against the (very 90s style) light grey corduroy settee fabric.
Even though my back was pinned down, my neck could move freely and I continually lifted my head from the couch cushion, straining unsuccessfully against mum’s hand to raise my torso too. My arms were instinctively flying back periodically, seemingly trying to do their bit to prevent my bum’s torment (although in reality their movement angered mum and worsened things for my poor bottom). My legs were kicking and flailing in all directions, so much so that when the smacking finally concluded my pyjama bottoms had be retrieved from the opposite side of the room.
From witnessing a smacking for Charlotte in this position a few weeks earlier, I was acutely aware of just how much it exposed every single part of your body. Despite the agonising pain, I had just enough wherewithal left to feel mortified at the realisation that I must be giving my nine-year-old sister the same show as she had given me a few weeks previously.
In the weeks following it, I had felt guilty and ashamed about my enjoyment of being treated to not only the sights and sounds of a usual smacking (in itself, an utterly compelling show) but also the thrilling spectacle of witnessing Charlotte’s legs splay, kick and scissor wildly, in response to the rising pain.
Now, she was witnessing my own humiliating loss of privacy. If I had any grasp of the concept at the time, I probably would have viewed it as karma for the pleasure I had since derived from remembering her in that position. As it was, all my 11-year-old brain could feel was primarily the fire in my bum and legs, and a tiny awareness of my bared lower body, even more on display than during a usual smacking. I self-consciously crossed my legs over each other, in an attempt to keep them together and protect my modesty.
Amazingly, I managed to maintain this cross-legged position for the remainder of the hairbrush smacking. After the final few swats with her hairbrush, Mum sighed and placed it back on the table. “Oh – now you’re still,” she said with exasperation, as I firmly pressed myself into the couch and wept violently. Looking back, her comment didn’t really make much sense, as of course it would be easier to be still when someone wasn’t continually hitting you!
As my cries and sobs gradually subsided, I dared to slightly lift my head and look around the room. Charlotte sat cross-legged on the ground, wearing an expression of sympathetic horror, whilst Mum sat in the arm chair opposite, waiting for the sting of the hairbrush to fully penetrate my flesh before she treated me to a whacking with the bath brush.
I hadn’t dared to rub my throbbing and burning bum or to stand up – but I still had my legs crossed over each other, and they dangled down over the side of the settee. The delicious pulsation in my vagina that normally didn’t start until 15 or 20 minutes after my smacking, once I was in the privacy of my bedroom, had arrived early, seemingly hastened by the pressure of my crossed legs – the friction of my crotch against the couch, the hormones no doubt flooding my little body, just on the cusp of puberty. My thighs started to twitch and my stomach began to flutter, just as Mum hauled herself from the chair and waddled over to complete my punishment.
The hard thwack of the bath brush across my bare bottom caused me to buck against the arm of the chair, further delighting my incredibly aroused vagina. I felt the throbbing build to extreme heights as the blood continued to rush to my bum, thighs and groin. I was already wailing and sobbing, the pain of the smacking still hurting in spite of the simultaneously building pleasure. Mum again whacked my bum with the bath brush, again causing a rise in the confusing extreme pain and equally extreme pleasure.
I had long known that I enjoyed smacking, and in the preceding year I had often climaxed afterwards in my bedroom. However, I had never felt the orgasmic pleasure growing inside me at the same time as the pain was actually being inflicted. It was like an out-of-body experience – the hard wood slapping against my bare flesh sounded like it was happening to someone else, the sound of my screams feeling equally detached from me.
After the second whack I was vaguely aware of my nipples hardening, my slim tummy tightening, every part of my body clenching. Despite my young age, I had enough experience to know that I was on the precipice of an almighty orgasm. When mum brought the bath brush firmly down to meet my bare bum for a third time I was pushed over the edge. A thundering climax ripped through my body, my groans of pleasure disguised amongst my screams of pain, my heaving sobs concealing the orgasmic shuddering as my entire body was gripped by the pleasure of a leg-shaking climax.
I had often climaxed in the previous year or so, always in response to mine and Charlotte’s smackings, but it had never before felt anywhere near as amazing as this. Maybe, over time, I have built this experience up in my head to be more than it actually was, but I do think of this as the single most powerful and enjoyable orgasm I have ever experienced. Never before or since have I actually climaxed during a smacking, despite my best efforts!
Mum gave me another 12 or so hard whacks with the bath brush and, while they were undeniably painful, my still pleasurably twitching and thoroughly satisfied little body seemed to be protected by a post-orgasmic glow. The endorphins and pleasure flooding me seemed to be providing a sort of cocoon from the painful punishment.
Afterwards I hastily grabbed my pyjamas from the other side of the room and seemingly floated to my bedroom in a sobbing, pained and confused but ultimately thrilled haze. I propped the chair from my desk up against the door handle to guarantee privacy. I piled up both pillows, lay down on my tummy and humped them to another powerful climax. Whilst not as gripping as the first, it was still incredibly enjoyable.
It would be another two or three years before I discovered my clitoris and started to use my hands, fingers and the shower head to masturbate. Until I eventually reached this point, all of my orgasms continued to be induced by either humping my pillows or else they occurred spontaneously in response to seeing Charlotte getting her bum reddened by Mum or Dad. As I say, unfortunately this is the only occasion where I actually climaxed mid-smacking, and it is undoubtedly my absolute favourite spanking memory.
Ms Campbell earned my poor bottom another 10 or 12 whackings from Mum and one from Dad that year – all of them entirely without cause. I will write about some of these another time.
I still don’t know why Ms Campbell hated me, and she undoubtedly caused me a lot of misery during my final year at primary school. However, she was also indirectly responsible for the most amazing orgasm I’ve ever experienced, so I suppose it wasn’t all bad!
