Mrs. McConnal II

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 Two: My First Spanking

In my own case, my mother had taught me to read when I was three. And I did (read), vociferously, everything I could get my hands on. My mother thought it best that I go through the first grade, even though she continued to teach me at my level, but then I skipped over the second grade and on into third. Again I skipped the fourth grade and went into the fifth. So I was in the fifth grade at the age of 8, and entered high school (9th grade) at 12, though I was still ahead of the rest of the students in my grade since I continued to read far more and at a higher lever than they did. Classes were boring, but the situation of being two years younger than everyone else in my class, sometimes nearly three years younger, made for what my teachers and parents considered such a social hardship on me they decided not to move me any further ahead, but rather to put me in the advanced class and give me some extra attention.

Then my mother died when I was 10, killed by a drunk driver running a red light. I was devastated, as was my dad. She was my only source of female affection. My only source of much affection at all really. My father and I managed to get along as best we could, but he traveled extensively on business. He was to have a few girlfriends from time to time, but nothing ever stuck. My mother had been his only source of female affection as well.

He hired a housekeeper, Mrs. Travis, who would move in whenever he was away, and though I liked her, we were never close at all. I considered myself pretty much on my own when Dad was gone, and often pretty much on my own when Dad was there for that matter. I guess Dad made the same mistake that I often did, as did plenty of others, that I was really the same age as everyone else in my class. So when I was in the 7th grade, he was thinking I was 12 - I was 10 - and so forth.

Two years' age doesn't make any difference to an adult, but during those teenage years two years is a lot. I was always feeling like a baby compared to my classmates and trying to impress them with my maturity. But even though I was smarter than they were, they were always more sophisticated and more learned about the birds and the bees that I was. I'd have crushes on girls in my class and they would think I was cute and cuddly, but always a baby. And I was cute. I didn't participate in any organized sports I could never compete against the boys in my class - but I rode my bike as fast as I could every chance I got. So I was in good shape. But the girls I longed for thought of me as the class's baby, and went out with boys their own age. And I didn't know how to ask them out anyway. I couldn't drive, needless to say. So all I could do was ask them to a walking date, or ask my dad or the housekeeper to drive us somewhere. And it didn't take long for me to understand that any of them would be embarrassed to be seen on a date with a kid two or three years younger than them anyway, and that anything I would think was fun would be childish to them.

It never occurred to me to ask out or make friends with girls my own age. I rarely talked with them. We were never in any classes together and I never went to church or anything like that.

So although I was breezing through school academically, I never felt like I fit in with anyone. So I did everything I could that I thought was an adult activity. No girl would have sex with me, though of course I lusted after the older girls in my class constantly, so I had to find some singular activities. I discovered chess, alcohol, and drugs at a very young age. I couldn't compete in sports against the other boys in my class, but I could mop up the board with any of them in chess and drink all of them under the table. And I could mop up the board with them even while so drunk and/or stoned I could barely stand up, or even talk straight. This angered the boys to no end, and made the girls giggle. It was obvious that I wanted in the girls' panties something desperate. The girls thought this was cute. The boys were even more angered by that, but knew that beating me up was off limits (since I was just a little kid, and everyone would think they were a brute for hurting someone so much smaller than they were).

My dad never spanked me. My mother spanked my bare bottom, over her knee with her hand, on rare occasion. The last time had been when I was so young I couldn't remember my age. It was before I started school, so I must have been four or five.

As I progressed through school, however, I would fantasize about being spanked by the pretty teachers I had, particularly those who were about 20 years older than me, about my mother's age. The more fond I was of a teacher the more I dreamed of her taking my pants down and wearing my behind out, seriously. So I created a game; see how far I can push the teachers I loved the most without actually getting my butt blistered.

It was great fun. The other boys in my class often got spanked in school, and at home too for that matter (the evidence was visible in PE class). Their real spankings at home became less and less frequent as we went through high school, but in school paddlings didn't go away completely so long as we were under the authority of our teachers. During junior high it was typical for at least one boy to be taken out into the hall for a quick 3-5 licks every day. It did become less often as we grew older.

Few boys in my class was ever taken to spank land, though plenty got 3-5 licks several times a semester. But usually once a semester or so someone would receive that honor, and the whole school knew about it in advance. The next day reports circulated about the condition of his fanny by other boys in his PE class. It should go without saying that when a boy had been taken to spank land, his bottom showed that there had definitely been a demolition job done on it.

A boy in such a fix was in for a good deal of ragging from other students. One day of waiting, while everyone he talked with reminded him (as if he needed reminding) that he was going to get the paddling of a lifetime, and that he wouldn't be sitting down comfortably for quite some time to come. And for days afterwards by everyone who had either seen or heard about the condition of his butt. Rubber bands were always standard equipment in the showers for several days after someone had gotten one of those blisterings. Any time the boy let his guard down his sore bottom would feel the sharp sting of a rubber band being popped against his ass. He was expected to take it in good humor.

This was the drill whether the boy had gotten his bottom blistered at school or at home. So long as his ass showed signs of being taken to spank land, he was fair game.

A few boys seemed to be adept at getting minor paddlings from the attractive teachers, but avoiding the really serious blisterings in the teachers' lounge. It was years later that I understood that they were probably getting off on those few whacks from pretty teachers. Usually it was those boys who got themselves taken to spank land by one of their teachers, but they rarely came back for more of that any time soon. A few boys did seem to get their butts severely torn up once a year or so, though. I now think that they probably didn't enjoy those serious spankings themselves so much as they got excited by the anticipation and the aftermath for several days.

In my case, although I fantasized a great deal, I also did not want anything to happen to make me seem more like the baby. And I feared that getting spanked would do just that. So, again I was caught in a quandary. I really did want a good spanking. I realized, I am convinced now, that I needed one. And I wanted to get it from a teacher whom I loved and who loved me, and who was pretty. But the thought of having to face her later, knowing that she would only think of me as being more of a baby and less of the adult that I wanted to be thought of, kept me from ever intentionally pulling the trigger and pushing one of those lovely mother figures over her limit. Also I feared pain, and was deeply in love with opiates and other pain killers.

I guess what I really wanted was for one of them to pull my pants down, take me over her knee, and hand spank me like my mother had done when I was still so little. But that was too far beyond possibility to even dream about.

I first met Mrs. McConnal when I was 10, just before entering the 7th grade. I rode my bike past her house every day, to and from school as well as just riding. She grew flowers and would work in her garden as long as the weather permitted, which can be the better part of the year in west Georgia. We had noticed one another and waved for a year or so, but had not spoken until one day late that summer she waved me over. I pulled into her yard, excited. I knew she was pretty and, as I learned later, 37 at the time. She wasn't a petite woman, nor fat by any means either. She was 'well built', taller than me by 8-9" it seemed at the time. Yeah, even before meeting her I was having fantasies of her taking me over her knee with my pants down and she giving me a good spanking.

Of course, I never said anything about these fantasies to any one, for fear of being thought crazy (folks already thought I was crazy enough). But, looking back I now believe that there were several boys and girls alike I knew who were into spanking. More felt free in expressing it by wanting to see someone else getting it, and most students were into it at least that far. Most of those who did not express an interest in watching other kids get spanked had become that way only after getting taken to spank land (by a teacher or parent) at some time. But there were some boys who were into it even after getting such a serious spanking. And I believe now that those boys must have been getting excited by their own spankings as well as others'. These same boys also got a few minor spankings on a regular basis. One guy I knew got plenty of 3-5 lick paddlings, and actually got two trips to spank land by teachers while in school.

I keep referring to someone getting really spanked as a boy, because after the 6th grade girls almost never got spanked in our school. The only time anyone knew of a girl being taken to the teachers' lounge was when those two cheerleaders got it for trying to listen on a boy getting his butt tore up. They still remained interested.

At the time I thought those kids who got spanked weren't smart enough to avoid it. I think now that, since their appropriate age was never in question - that since they were the same age as their classmates - it was less of a brand of humiliation for them. I knew that if they ever knew of me getting spanked it would, I feared, be just another sign that I was a baby.

Nevertheless, on first meeting and talking with Mrs. McConnal I knew I could feel safe in her charge. As much as I wanted to be older, I still longed for an older woman who I could trust to take charge of me. Not to order me around like a dominatrix, but to be the adult in charge of this child, for I knew I was still the age I really was, not that of my classmates.

As I got to know her I wanted her to do all the things a mother would do for a child my age. I wanted her to hold me, to let me snuggle me in her arms while sitting on a couch or something, and let me go to sleep in her arms. And I wanted her to put me to bed as I slept.

Soon enough I also wanted all that to be preceded by a good spanking; pajamas down, over her knee, with a hairbrush. And then I would sob myself to sleep in her arms. "Yeah," I thought, "that would be fun." But I knew it would only be fun in my dreams, because I knew that such a spanking would HURT. And I still preferred opium over pain.

Of course, by then I knew that I would have her for a teacher in a couple of years. In fact I knew that I would be able to be in her classes for all four years of high school.

She had known who I was long before we met. That seemed strange to me then, but what teacher wouldn't be aware of a child in the school system two years ahead of the other children his age, and could have been ahead even more but his parent didn't want him to be thought any more of being some kind of freak than the kid already was. Of course she knew of me.

And I could turn on the charm. The girls in my class liked me fine. They thought I was cute and entertaining. They just thought I was a baby. And I had liked Mrs. McConnal plenty from the first time I saw her. She was beautiful, and moved with such sophistication that I could hardly stand it.

That first time we talked she told me that she took a group of high school students to Europe every summer. My eyes lit up and a broad smile took over my face. I had read a lot, but had never been overseas. And I would die for a chance to go to Europe with her. She asked my to stop in any time I saw her working in the yard, which I began to do immediately. At first I wouldn't stay more than a few minutes. I know now that she already knew she would become my mentor throughout school. I was brighter than any of the other kids in school. That combined with my charm won her over to me quickly. But she had to give me time. It was like gently, patiently, coaxing a skidish puppy to come to you. She let me get comfortable with her at my own speed. As much as I liked her, and dreamed of her when I was alone, I was still hesitant about developing a real relationship with anyone.

By the end of my 7th grade I was visiting her both at home and during school. She taught literature. Another teacher taught grammar but Mrs. McConnal taught lit to both 10th and 12th grades. She also taught a drama, speech and writing classes, and she directed the school play. So I had it worked out so that I could be in one of her classes every year, and in two classes one year, and maybe even be in her plays. This was great!

Even while in the 7th and 8th grade she taught me plenty, even though I was not in her class. She taught me how to read blank verse at first sight. (Blank verse is the poetic form used by English playwrights in the late 1500s and early 1600s. Shakespeare and his contemporaries used it a lot. It's poetry, and if you know how to read the timing of the poem, then you know how to say it. So an actor should be able to read a passage from a Shakespeare that he doesn't know, and still be able to say the passage to make it make sense within the context of the play. That, as Mrs. McConnal explained, was because they only had two weeks to prepare a play back then, so didn't have time to learn the whole play, only their own parts. So they could recognize their cues and give their parts so that it made sense, even though they didn't know what the previous actor was going to say.) She taught me to do that. And she showed me how good it felt to say those words. I had a quick memory and so was able to learn two speeches the first week she started teaching me that. She said she'd love to teach a whole class of students that and to play Romeo and Juliet with just teenagers, which is almost everyone's age in the play.

Now that was a fantasy I might strive for, to play Romeo when I was 14 to some gorgeous 16 year old girl (one of the ones I was already lusting for) and Mrs. McConnal directing us.

The ninth grade was the first time I had ever looked forward to school starting. I was in her speech class. She said a good part of the class was going to be devoted to teaching the class how to read the "road markers" in poetry, as well as writing and giving public speeches.

I didn't think that my reputation as being a 'problem' had reached her. She never said anything about it. But, of course, I was never a problem to her while it was just the two of us. Only when I had to compete for her attention did I become a problem. In the first week she took me aside at school to tell me that indeed my reputation had preceeded me. She assured me that she would not put up with me disrupting her class like I had other teachers I was fond of. I felt my face turn red when she said that. I guess I was fairly transparent at that age. So teachers actually talked to each other about their students! (Why had this not occurred to me before?) And those I gave the most trouble to knew that I did it in order to get their undivided attention. And I wanted that because I was so fond of them. (I was mortified. They had seen right through me.)

I had pushed all of my pretty teachers to the point that would have earned anyone else 3 licks, but because I was so cute and endearing, none of them ever warmed my ass with their paddles. Still I would go home those afternoons and let my imagination run wild. I would wind up imagining them spanking me in every way a boy could be spanked. I often assumed different positions in front of my full length mirror to see what I would look like grabbing my ankles, laid over a desk, bending over a chair, all pants down or naked.

I soon saw that it would be impossible for anyone getting spanked pants down to be able to hide their privates from the person spanking them. I tried holding my knees together but realized that I could not expect to hold them together once the spanking started. I also heard that some kids getting a stand up spanking were told to spread their legs apart. Even with pants to my ankles my legs were far enough apart for anyone behind me to see me dangling free. That knowledge added to my excitement, and increased my interest in those spankings given in the teachers' lounge, which were always given on the bare. So part of the humiliation would be that the teacher was getting a good look at your privates as well as your bare ass. I didn't realize then that one of those things always ended with the boy dancing from toe to toe afterwards, bawling, grabbing his ruined bottom, oblivious to the fact that he was totally visible to his teacher. Then he was made to stand in a corner or against the wall, pants still down, until he had stopped crying.

I learned of this in the 9th grade after a boy had been punished in that fashion. Spank land spankings, it seemed, varied little from teacher. The way the licks were administered varied, but not the preliminaries or the aftermath. Some teachers used a 24" paddle, 4" wide, a half inch thick, with holes in it. That was the most serious paddle in the collection. There was also a 20" paddle, 3" wide, and a quarter inch thick. And there was an 18" paddle, 3.5" wide, and a quarter inch thick, also with holes. They were all made of oak. In addition to those, there were two straps. One was 24" long and 3" wide, the razor strap of great fame. The other was 20", 3" wide, and braided. I was certain that braided strap could rip a butt apart. I never felt it, but still am convinced it could do some severe damage to a tender teenaged bottom.

I also learned from other students that Mrs. McConnal never spanked any of her students. That was a let down, but at the same time it meant that I felt even more safe with her knowing that I could do anything to cut up and get attention and not risk the older kids seeing me as a baby by getting spanked, and maybe even crying over 3 licks (very childish).

In spite of what she said, Mrs. McConnal did put up with a lot of trouble from me during that first year in her class. I felt free enough to slip off to smoke a cigarette and not worry too much when she caught me. I had her class right after lunch, and felt safe enough to have a few shots of bourbon before coming to class, or smoking a joint, or taking some powerful pain killers. Or any and all of the above. She might chew me out, which even though she scared me when she did it, I loved it. I knew I had her undivided attention and didn't have to share her for those moments with anyone else.

I was shocked when one day, the second time she caught me smoking when I was supposed to be in her class, after chewing me out (she must have seen a grin start to appear on my face), she put her left arm behind me, grabbed me around my waist, bent me over and gave me three stiff licks with her hand on the seat of my pants. I never dreamed of a spanking hurting that much. I had given myself a few licks at times, even with a hairbrush, but had never stung my behind that bad. I mean that really hurt! (So I thought at the time.) I wasn't grinning any more when I stood up. I was trying all I could do to keep the tears that were welling up in my eyes from falling, but was unsuccessful. I still had a look of shock on my face, standing there grabbing my sore bottom, tears in my eyes. "My God," I thought, "She just spanked me. For real!"

I didn't know if she could still love me after that (I was a child who had been without a mother for two years now). And I didn't know if I could face her again thinking that the only image she would ever have of me after this was bent over while she spanked me like a little kid.

Now I saw a smile starting to appear on her. "Oh no, she thinks it's funny. That's the worst way this could end. I'll never be able to look her in the face again without her laughing at me about this."

Of course I was wrong. Her smile was a gentle one and when she saw me crying she reached out and pulled me to her and wrapped her arms around me, buried my head in her breasts, and soothed me and calmed me down while I cried for a minute or so. I thought then that I could keep her for a friend, but that our relationship would be different from this point on. At the time I didn't know how it would be different.

She sent me to wash my face and waited for me and we returned to the classroom together. By this time I was fully composed, and she said nothing about what had happened, even though several of the older boys called out asking, not expecting to receive an answer. The class was open to all grades, so there were seniors and juniors there. In fact, only one other student was in the ninth grade. So I was in a class with 14-18 year olds, and I was 12. It took a lot of bravado on my part to hide the intimidation I felt from being in a class with kids that much older that I. Even the other ninth grader was intimidated. Mrs. McConnal was sensitive to that and helped protect the younger kids in the class from the jokes of the older ones.