Mrs. McConnal IX

Note From The Editor: The writer of this very nice story sent it to me and asked to remain anonymous. However, I have his e-mail address, so if you want to tell him what you think about his story you can email me ([email protected]) and I will make sure he gets your comments.

Chapter Nine: Some TLC

I woke up laying on my stomach, covered up snugly. Within a few seconds I realized also that I was naked. She had taken my underwear! She had taken my underwear off and put me to bed like a little child. This was a new embarrassment that I hadn't counted on. All my clothes were gone. Then I realized; she was washing them . . . just like a mother would have done. I took a deep sigh, felt more comfortable and safe than I had in years, and hugged the pillow, knowing that she would bring me my clothes when they were ready. At the same time I felt totally vulnerable and humiliated. These things didn't happen to adults. They were never forced to submit to a bare naked butt whipping. How degrading! I didn't go back to sleep. I just lay there, hugging the pillow, longing for and dreading Mrs. McConnal's return. I didn't know how I was going to handle this, but it was critical, from my point of view, to handle it right. There was a great deal at stake in how I dealt with going about life and our relationship after receiving the punishment she had dished out to me that morning.

I had mixed feelings. Yes it was comforting to have been that intimate with Mrs. McConnal, but it was also shameful to have been this much trouble and to have been so out of line and childish that she had actually given me such a terrible spanking. It was degrading to be a child, I thought.

I could hate her for reminding me that I was a child. But I never wanted to hate her. I could be angry with her for reminding me that I was a child and for hurtimg me so bad. But I felt it necessary to examine what was going on inside me rather than just shutting off communication.

If I hated her or expressed anger toward her, I knew it would be out of pride rather than what was really going on inside me. What was really happening was that I felt cleaned, relieved, all the dirt and sins of the world had been lifted from my shoulders and I was fresh and new again (except for my butt).

I was determined not to show her any animosity. She was going out of her way to show me affection, even though my butt blistering was the centerpiece of the events. I knew that she did not do that to me out of anger or out of hatred, and I thought she might be anxious about how I would respond to her for quite some time. After all I had sulked for a couple of weeks simply over three swats from her hand. She may be afraid that I would turn her off completely because of this, yet she was willing to take that risk.

I was determined to do everything I could to assure her that, just as I didn't have to fear her throwing me away, she didn't need to fear my throwing her away either.

I knew that this experience was rapidly coming to an end and I wanted every second I could have with her before we had to separate.

Soon enough she quietly opened the door and peeked in, not sure if I were still asleep. When I lifted my head to look at her she came on in, compassionately smiling as if she were tending a sick child. She came over and sat on the edge of the bed and asked, "How do you feel?"

"Well my butt hurts, but other than that I feel fine." ever the smart ass. She smiled tenderly, knowing that my joking now meant that I wasn't going to be giving her the silent treatment like I did before. I was glad to make her smile. I wanted to take steps to repair the rift that this must cause in our relationship as quickly as possible. It would take a great deal of effort, but I was willing to expend it. I knew I had made her cry, now I wanted more than anything to make her smile. And she did. She laughed and gently patted my bottom through the covers.

"I'm told," she said, "that cold cream helps a spanked fanny quit hurting quicker. Would you like me to rub some on you?" Then she caught herself. Maybe she wasn't sure if I was that comfortable with her. "Or I can give you some and you can rub it on yourself, if you like."

Oh Lord, what a question. I knew what I wanted. But I didn't know if I had the courage to tell her to go ahead. I took a deep breath and tried to say something but only succeeded in blushing again.

So she didn't make me answer. She just headed for the bathroom to get the jar of cold cream. She returned to the bed and sat down and then pulled the covers back to reveal my well battered bottom. I was embarrassed to try to look at her while she was doing it. So I just lay my head on the pillow, but did turn to facing the side of the bed she was on.

When her finger first bristled the peach fuzz on my butt I flinched and gasped. She must have thought it was from the soreness (it wasn't) since she apologized for hurting me more. I said, "It's what you did before that hurts, Mrs. McConnal." grinning.

She placed her stretched out right hand on the sweet spot of my bottom and laughing but half seriously asked, "Would you like a few more, Mr. Smart Ass?"

"No ma'am." She got a quick answer that time. But I was joking, too. I knew if I had told her, yeah, let me feel that hand slap my butt a few times, I'd have felt just that. And one of her hand spankings really would hurt my ass now. But she wasn't going to do that unless I forced her, and I wasn't going to. But it did feel good to joke about it while she was rubbing cold cream into my sore rear end and thighs.

She rubbed gently all over my young fanny. And I again got a world class hard on, but this time I really wasn't ashamed of it knowing that I wouldn't have to display it to her. She rubbed around the sides, where she had worked on, and across the tops of my thighs. I gasped when she rubbed in into my crack and down some more into the sweet spot, even rubbing far down enough that she brushed against my balls once or twice. I liked that but only because I knew it was accidental.

After a long, soothing session of that she gently laid her hand across my tender spot again, gave it a gentle shake, and said, "Now, how about some lunch?"

Lunch? "What time is it?" I asked. It was 2:30 in the afternoon. I had slept a long time. But then I had a busy morning.

"Your clothes should be ready now." she said. "I'll go get them." And then she covered me again, just as she had earlier. These were a few minutes that I could simply relax and experience the moment before I would have to start re-entering the world. My bottom still hurt real bad, and now I knew what a bottom hurting 'real bad' really meant, and my bottom hurt REAL BAD. But still I would think myself in hog heaven if I could just stay exactly where I was until my ass healed up. But I knew I was going to have to deal with the world, and this was going to be the last few minutes that I could just lay here before having to get up and put my clothes on and go in to lunch. And then off into the world with a butt that I knew couldn't sit on a hard chair or stone bleachers right now, and I didn't know for sure if it could sat down anywhere, even on this cushy bed.

I knew from having bruised before, sprained my ankle and such, that it took 2-3 days before I could move well again, but still with care and still couldn't stand any direct pressure such as being pressed into a hard surface or receiving even the mildest accidental blow. for 8-9 days, or even two weeks or more.

She returned with my clothes and placed them on the chair that she sat in to give it to me. Then she moved the chair next to the bed. So my 12 year old mind is asking if this meant that she was taunting me by placing the chair in which I suffered right next to me. Or does she realize that it's going to be difficult for me right now, very difficult, to move, and knowing that she put my clothes as close to me as she could and the only suitable piece of furniture available was that chair.

It had to be the latter. She couldn't have put them anywhere else. If I placed special meaning on the chair, that cannot mean that the chair cannot immediately put back in use for all of its other intended purposes. After all, it's a chair. She's not so much concerned with my pride right then as she still is with my butt. Her objective is not to make me feel worse, but neither will she place my ego above what will least hurt the ass she had destroyed several hours earlier.

Rather than hot, my butt now felt cold and hard, like any other bruise. When I rolled over on my side I got a harbinger of what was to come. I didn't feel like laying on my side, it hurt worse.

Bearing the results of such a spanking is seen as a badge of honor among the other boys, and gains sympathetic attention form the girls in our school. I didn't know this yet. I had seen the boys making Joel provide the entertainment (so to speak), but did not realize that this was for Joel's benefit. Yes it's embarrassing to show your paddled behind while telling a small crowd precisely how it happened, but nobody actually gave him a hard time. In fact, now I knew that Joel was crying a lot worse than he let on when he told his story. But he didn't want to say it, I learned that no one wanted to tell that part to the guys, and I wouldn't have to either.

With her gone I pulled the covers back. Every move put some stress on my butt. I realized that this meant that every move would hurt for several days. And every move would hurt on my butt. I could just bear to sit on the soft bed. Even that hurt considerably but I could stand it. I knew I could never sit in one of those school desks right now. I doubt if any boy could this soon after getting taken to spank land, I knew that it would hurt to sit down for a week at least, and it would be uncomfortable for another week. It would be this long before by ass would be fully healed. Oh boy, she really tore my ass up. And because of that I knew I would certainly be reminded of that spanking every time I sit down for the next two weeks. There'll be no way that I can avoid thinking of the most awful moment of this day every time I sat down. And for the first week it will always be a decidedly unpleasant memory.

When I was left alone, before putting on any clothes I had to look in the mirror. I was reminded of us standing there last night. I turned around and bent over turning just enough to be able to see my butt. And it was a sight to behold. My whole ass was one mass of purple. There were real blisters on my sweet spot. Anyone seeing that ass will know that the boy wearing that butt got a genuine, all time classic, behind blistering, fanny frying, no holds barred, ass whipping.

I think that I understood also that the memory would become less and less unpleasant as the pain subsided, and that once the pain were entirely gone (which would be for the rest of my life) I would remember it as a positive experience. Under no circumstances, however, would I have desired to ever get spanked like that again. I liked the bennies that came with it, but the job itself was not something I'd ever want again. My dream had, indeed been fulfilled. All my questions had been answered. I didn't think I needed to ask any of those questions again.

Moving was as excruciating as walking on a sprained ankle several hours after the fall. Crutches might have helped after a severe spanking, too, since they would help take the weight off of the butt and legs. But no boy would lower himself to walk on crutches while recovering from a spanking. Whether it was 3 hand spanks to the pants or, dozens of hard swats over the knee on a bare 12 year old bottom, or 24 licks on a bared and stretched 17 year old fanny, whoever gets it must make all the effort required to go back into his society and take part as his spanking was a dim memory even while it still hurt.

I think this was healthy. Not only did it help the kid loosen his muscles, thus help him to heal quicker. But more importantly, by the boy forcing himself to get back in circulation with his classmates rather than allowing himself to be alone and brood he has much less time to sulk over this, and while he will remember it forever he doesn't feel a pall hanging over his head. By doing what is considered the manly thing by his classmates (and being ashamed not to) he did what was best for himself, even though he may have wanted just the opposite at the time. Like I said, I would just as soon lay right there in that bed for the next 3-4 weeks as do anything else.

And I would be going to rehearsal tonight where every student there was certain that I would get a good paddling when they all left last night. Since they're expecting something to have happened they will ask, and when they ask a boy is honor bound to tell. But I didn't know how much to tell. I'd have to remember to talk with Mrs. McConnal about that before I leave.

When I leave. Wow, it's going to be excruciating to get my bike home. Riding it is out of the question and I don't know if I can . . . No. I wasn't going to tell myself that. Riding it was out of the question. But as much as it may hurt, I would walk my bike home when she took me to the school to get my bike.

Where she had set my place she had brought a large fluffy pillow for me to sit on. Again I was reminded of the irony of the situation. She had done everything in her power to make me as comfortable and pampered a kid as one could ever imagine since I came into her house . . . except for beating me within an inch of my life (or so I felt). But I knew that everything she had done was done in love.

Over lunch she asked if I had anything planned that afternoon. How could she think I planned to do anything once I got home. Or course now I was thinking that I would have to go back to rehearsal soon after I got home. I'd just hang around the school. I told her I had no plans, refraining from telling her that hell no I couldn't possibly have any plans for this afternoon.

"Well since we only have a few hours before going to rehearsal, why don't you spend the afternoon here and we'll go in together?" Oh, I was so glad not to have to leave her yet. I felt terribly vulnerable at that moment, and felt greatly relieved that she would watch over me for a few more hours.

She said she had some work to do in the yard and why don't I help her? OK, yeah I'll do that. Anything she wanted. She gave me a pair of her shorts to wear, which she said were probably too big for me but I could use my belt and tighten the waist (taking some pressure off of my ass). She told me she could get me a T shirt of Mr. McConnal's if I wanted one.

I told her I didn't want one. I didn't tell her this but I enjoyed baring as much skin as possible. I didn't want to go out in public naked, but I did enjoy swimming and riding my bike with nothing on but a pair of shorts and a helmet. I loved the feel of air or water on bare skin. And I did have a good body. I knew that in a few years it would be considered obscene for me to ride my bike like that, with no shirt on, but now it was still allowable since I was only 12.

I wasn't much 'help'. She didn't ask me to be. She would have me hold things and hand them to her as she asked for them. If she needed something fetched, she would send me to get it but never expected me to do it on the double.

She told me about her flowers and we talked about the play. Spankings were not a topic of conversation between us that afternoon. We were both making an effort to get back to normal, to do things the same as we would have without the traumatic events of the previous 24 hours. We would always remember it, and mention it from time to time for the rest of our lives. But for right now we both needed to put some events between us and the trauma. That spanking would be a landmark event in our relationship. We both knew that it was a positive event and that our relationship had become more intimate than it was before and that was something pleasing for both of us. Nevertheless, right now it laid a pall on us that we both needed to fight off.

While talking in her garden it dawned on me how it was that she understood what a boy went through emotionally in the course of a spanking and what kind of attention he most needs after a severe whipping. She had paddled her brothers while they were growing up. She had probably, when she was 20 and 22, spanked her little brothers just like she had spanked me this morning. She had probably spanked them at every level of severity during the 10 years she spanked them.

So her having never paddled a student in school didn't mean that she didn't know how to spank. She was an expert at it. She not only knew how to do the damage itself, but she knew how to control a boy's emotions before and after the spanking itself. She knew how to have him terrified, but not to the point that the boy is close to snapping. She knew how, after scaring him, to calm him to the point that he doesn't fight being laid across her knee. The boy getting taken to spank land by her is not terrorized before hand, as those getting it from some other teachers are.

And now she was watching over me in my early stages of recovery without a bit of anger in her heart but only compassion and love. She must have done her brothers the same way.

When we were done in the garden she squared off with me again, asking gently but seriously, "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing fine, Pretty Lady." I said. Pretty Lady became my pet nickname for her after that. I rarely called her that in public, and then it was when we were kidding around. But it became a term of affection in private. We would both always remember that the first time I called her Pretty Lady was while I was just beginning to recover from that first terrible spanking. which was also the moment of our first closest intimacy.

"That's my boy." she said with a smile as she tousled my hair. "We can get through this can't we."

"Yeah, we can."

Then she made me happier again. "Would you like to stay over until Monday morning? We can go by your house after rehearsal and get your books and clothes and pajamas, and then come back here. You can lay in bed all day tomorrow if you want to."

Did I ever want to! "OK," I said after thinking a while. Then I added kind of sheepishly, "Thank you." She smiled. She knew I wanted that a lot more than I was acting.

She called my housekeeper to let her know what was going on while running a bath for herself. Once her bath was ready, I could take a shower. They had plenty of hot water.

I showered facing the water flow. To let the hot water even run down my butt was burned like the dickens. For the stream to hit it directly felt like hundreds of fire ants stinging my ass. I turned the stream down low so I could get water from it without having to stand in it.

This was my first opportunity to reflect on the excitement of the day. In imagining this I never knew if I would still have an interest in spankings or if I would never want to think of a spanking again. I should have known I'd still have an interest. So it wasn't long before I was playing in the shower and relishing in all the best parts of the experience and remembering the pain as being not so bad as it really was. I chose to think of it as having hurt no more that my butt hurt now, even though I knew it hurt far worse. I was more excited over this real one than I had ever been by anything I had imagined, even though this was close to what I had imagined. I was more hot for it now, even this soon after getting a severe one, than I had been before getting it. I hardly touched myself before I exploded.

I was so excited that I didn't go soft after coming, neither did I have the sudden aversion to this which I usually did immediately afterward. Instead I was still just as excited as before, so I began going over all the events of this day again. This time I remembered that Mrs. McConnal was, at that very moment, as naked as I was. And as she relaxed in her hot bath maybe she knew exactly what I was doing right now, having blistered her brothers' fannies so many times. Thinking that just made me more excited. I wondered if she got excited over it. I hoped she did. If the person getting seriously spanked can get some pleasure out of it, it seems only fair that the person giving it should also be able to get some excitement out of it, too.

Even if she got no turn on from the spanking itself, I hoped that she was as stimulated as I was by taking me over her bare knee naked. I hope it plucked her heart strings to have me cry myself to sleep in her lap, to slip off my underwear while putting me to bed, to rub cold cream into my bottom, and all the hugs we exchanged today.

I know she didn't spank me for pleasure any more that I had gotten myself spanked because I enjoyed it so much, but I had gotten some pleasure out of it anyway and I really wanted her to get some pleasure out of it as well.

Doing this in her house, knowing she was naked in her bathroom, and imagining that she was at least somewhat excited over all this, too, made me even more excited myself. Needless to say, when I came the second time it was the most intense climax I had ever brought myself to. It remains part of my memory of the spanking itself. At the time I didn't think of it as that.
 

The End