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The situation between Stan and Mrs. Wilkerson became more tense with each passing day. Clark had tried to talk some sense into Stan, and I think Mrs. McConnal tried to mitigate Stan's behavior with Mrs. Wilkerson. But it seemed nothing would get him to ease up and cut her some slack so that she could cut him some slack.
He was acting like a jealous, jilted, high school boyfriend. And of course not only was he never Mrs. Wilkerson's boyfriend, she had never jilted him. He was still her favorite student and that had to be why his behavior was so frustrating for her.
I think she was actually taking more from him than she would have ever taken from any other student. Anybody else would have gotten their butt roasted with her paddle long before now. One of the side effects of Stan's actions were that everyone else was now on their best behavior with Mrs. Wilkerson. Everyone was aware that she had some serious work in store for whatever behind she next got a hold of, and no one wanted her to get that work done on their bottoms. The fear was that anything could set her off now.
I considered going to the meetings of her honor society. But I didn't know which would anger her the most; my not going at all, or my showing up after having basically ignored them from the start. I decided that it would be safer for her to be angry at my absence, and wish I was there so she could spank me, than for her to be angry at my presence, and have my young rear end there to take it out on.
So except for going to her class, and being REAL nice to her while I was there, I avoided her every chance I got. Like I said, everyone (and I mean EVERYONE, all the teachers and students alike) knew that the next teenaged fanny she lit into wasn't going to be suitable for sitting down on for a long time.
Maybe that was what Stan wanted. He seemed to enjoy as much as anyone else reviewing another boy's ass after it had been paddled. And he came to me once to ask about getting spanked (it was general knowledge by now that Mrs. McConnal would lay one on me when she was convinced that I had it coming.)
We had PE class together, as well as Mrs. McConnal's drama class, along with Mrs. Wilkerson's calculus class.
He came up to me one day after PE and asked, "What's it like getting spanked by Mrs. McConnal?"
We had never talked much so I was surprised that he would broach the subject with me. "She can spank pretty hard, if that's what you mean." I said. I wasn't sure what he was getting at;
"Yeah, I guess every teacher can." he said, "But I mean, you and Mrs. McConnal are pretty close, aren't you?"
"Yes," I answered, "she's my favorite teacher. I like her a lot." (A 13 year old boy doesn't want to tell his guy friends that he LOVES his teacher. That could lead to a world of kidding.)
"So," she continued sheepishly, "when she spanked you, did you get off on it?"
So that was it. Just as Mrs. McConnal suspected. I didn't know if I wanted to be perfectly honest with him, but for his sake I thought I should at least be truthful. "When she hand spanked me, well, I guess I did a little." I said, "But when she blistered me with her hairbrush, that hurt. That really hurt. I wanted her to stop long before she did." Then I added, "I can't emphasize that last part enough, Stan. I mean it."
I had to ask, "Stan have you ever been paddled?"
"My mother last spanked me when I was 8." he said.
"How about your dad?" I asked.
"Have you ever been paddled by a teacher?" I continued.
"No." he responded.
"Stan," I felt compelled to point out, "I hear Mrs. Wilkerson can really swing a mean paddle, and that she won't do it unless she is mad, real mad. That would only make it harder."
"Yeah," he said, "I heard her paddle one boy last year in the hall. She really tore into him. Seven licks, hard ones. He was crying."
I went on, "If she takes you to the teachers' lounge, Stan, you can't imagine how bad she will paddle your ass. I can't imagine it. No one can. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that. Do you?"
"But Mrs. McConnal really tore you up last year." he said. "And you two are still close, aren't you?"
"Yeah, but Stan, it hurt. It hurt real bad. It hurt just to put my pants on after that."
"What about now?" he went on, "Now are you glad she did? Did it bring you two closer together?"
Poor Stan, I knew then that he was going to get himself paddled far worse than anything he really wanted. "I guess so, Stan. It did because . . . Stan, I don't have a mother." I was going to be forthright with him now, "Mrs. McConnal spanked me like a mother. Imagine a spanking from your parents. It's not fun like you may be thinking."
"But Mrs. Wilkerson's not like my mother." Stan said breathing a little heavier.
"That could make her spank you all the much worse, though, Stan."
No, Mrs. Wilkerson was not like a parent to him. She was his 'outside woman'. She was the hot older woman to whom he could be sexually attracted, but with whom he could never have sex. But they could share an experience as intimate as that of mother and son.
Maybe Stan knew better than everyone gave him credit for. Maybe he understood that, though he may not find the initial experience of having Mrs. Wilkerson wear his butt out a pleasurable one, he might treasure it for the rest of his life.
And maybe he also understood Mrs. Wilkerson better than anyone thought he did. Maybe he also realized that by now the only way to repair their relationship was for her to get it all out of her system by taking it out on his bare ass.
Whatever the case, I knew after our conversation that he was headed for one classic behind burner from that hot-tempered red head. And she was a fox. Maybe that would make it worthwhile. Then again, maybe not.
From the talk among the boys at school I gathered that plenty of us had let our imaginations run wild about a trip to the teachers' lounge with Mrs. Wilkerson. No one was foolhardy enough to want to press it to reality, no one but Stan. It also seemed that, were a poll taken, that Mrs. Wilkerson would win the 'Teacher Most Boys Want to go to Bed With" award.
Mrs. Johnson got my vote on that one. She was also one of our math teachers. She was in her mid 30s but looked more like her mid 20s; a pert little blond with short hair and a cute little pug nose and a cute pert bottom. She took Joel to spank land last year for putting a pair of tacks in all the girls' chairs (not just one girl mind you, but all the girls') including Mrs. Johnson's. And this was after she had given him three licks and then five licks in the hall for doing it with one girl twice before. You'd think he would have gotten the message.
I would occasionally hear a vote for Mrs. McConnal, but people would usually knock off that talk whenever they knew I was around. Being a gentleman, I acted like I never heard any of it, though in fact it made me kind of proud of Mrs. McConnal that she rated in that class of teachers getting votes in such an unwritten poll.
Mrs. McConnal was a fox, and sure I knew it. And, I guess her not being my actual mother lifted from me an immediate aversion to hearing other teenaged boys talk about how they would like to go to bed with her; just don't make a show of it to irritate me.
No boy wants to hear his favorite teacher talked about in a vile and vulgar way. That's why, when I dreamed out loud about other teachers I kept it clean (as far as I was concerned). I'd talk about how beautiful they were and how smooth their skin in, and silently let my mind wander rubbing on every inch of that smooth skin and taking my own sweet time doing it. I did once say. "Wow! Mr. Wilkerson sure married himself a wildcat." If anyone took offense I told them I was talking about her fiery temperament, which I was. But I was certain that fiery temperament carried over into her bed with her husband. And, yes, it would have been fantastic to have been Mr. Wilkerson for even one night. But I never considered that to be in bad taste. I never meant it with anything but the utmost respect and admiration for Mrs. Wilkerson. My imagining never lessened my respect or my affections for her. In fact I thought them inevitable. Any male placed in close proximity to beautiful women will imagine, especially if he likes her. And I always thought my imaginings to be wholesome and never obscene, never demeaning.
Richard was the only one who would consistently say things I didn't appreciate about her. He would often imply that either I was going to bed with her or that I wanted to. Everyone knew that wasn't our relationship. He knew I wouldn't like hearing that about me and Mrs. McConnal any more than he would like hearing that about him and his mother. And sometimes he let me 'accidently' overhear him making some lewd remark about her.
Maybe he thought Mrs. McConnal's being a teacher along with her being a knock out exempted him from abiding by any decency.
Mrs. Wilkerson was on most boys' minds around this time, drawn to everyone's attention, and most people by now figuring that this would come to a head with her taking Stan's pants down for a trip to spank land (many teachers being surprised that it hadn't come yet). Most boys wanted in her pants. Some probably wanted her to take their pants as well.
It came two days before the dance. And when it came, it came worse than anyone had expected.
Just exactly how it started that day in class I never knew for sure. I really wasn't paying attention to what was going on at first. It was in the few minutes before class started when suddenly I heard Mrs. Wilkerson, in an angry voice, telling Stan to watch his manners, that she would not put up with him disrupting her class one minute longer.
She had my attention then. Everyone got quiet. Everyone except Stan. Frankly I was scared. I had never seen a teacher as mad as she already was at that moment. Had it been me there is no way I would have pushed that lady even a fraction of an inch further. I would have done exactly what I (and everyone else) was doing: sit down, shut up, don't move, don't say a word. Just try to disappear and pray that you come out of this class with your ass intact because this lady is pissed.
But, of course, not Stan, "Why?! Because you tell me to?"
Well, Stan, I thought, that does sound like a very good reason to do that right now.
But he wouldn't stop. "You don't care about any of us! You can't be trusted! You act one way one day and then belittle a kid the next! God damn it, why don't you just admit that you always hated me! I'm so fucking tired of you picking on me that I could kill you!"
He was still standing. The reverberation of his shouting seemed to hang in the room for seconds before falling away and leaving the room in complete silence. There is no way, I knew, that she is going to let this one pass without doing something about it. No teacher can just ignore an outburst like this in her class. (Just please don't let me even cross your mind right now, Mrs. Wilkerson.)
She sat quietly for a few seconds, seething. Her eyes were on fire. Steam was pouring out her ears. Oh God, I thought, she is mad, she is mad, she is mad. Don't even breathe, Jeremy. Don't do anything at all. If her attention shifts to you it could be lethal right now, and she probably already thinks she has a good reason to feel slighted by you. Oh, please God, don't let her look in my direction.
I wanted to be anywhere but there. No doubt most of us in the class did. Some of the girls, feeling more secure in not being threatened with a spanking themselves, may have been glad to be there. Stan was a good looking dark haired boy of 16, a track and tennis player. Every pair of female eyes in that room were now on his butt, with one exception.
Mrs. Wilkerson's eyes were leveled straight at his eyes.
Stan, in the silence, began to tremble, realizing that he had finally pushed this fox to the point of being rabid. And there was now nothing that he could do to back up the clock and take back what he had done.
She remained silent for what seemed like an hour. Still steaming. Red in the face, as opposed to Stan' new-found pale white countenance.
Stan finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wilkerson." he managed to get out in little more than a whisper. His lips were trembling along with the rest of him. To speak any louder now would have been to start crying, and he was now trying with all his might to keep from crying, at least until she hit him; while trying, with total futility, to ease Mrs. Wilkerson' anger.
She stared at him for moments longer before baring her teeth and showing the fangs that she had grown. I swear, she looked for all the world like a demon ready to devour her prey.
She opened her desk drawer slowly, and deliberately pulled out her paddle and laid it on the desk. It was a standard, 20" paddle, not excessively wide nor excessively thick, oak maybe, with rows of holes drilled into it. In other hands it would have looked formidable enough, but now deadly. Laying there on her desk at that moment it looked like an instrument of execution.
She got a good grip on it and commanded, slowly, speaking with her teeth gritted together but in a perfectly calm voice, "Come up here, Stan."
She didn't order him out in the hall. She was going to do this in front of the class. Well, that did make it worth sticking around for, not that I would have dared skip out otherwise. I heard some rustling coming from the seats. Obviously, like mine, everyone's bottom felt a tingling in empathy with Stan's. My butt felt like it was getting an electric shock. I wondered how Stan's butt felt at that moment.
No doubt most of us were glad to have the opportunity to see close up and first hand a fanny fanning like the one Mrs. Wilkerson planned for Stan. As much as I did feel sorry for him, still I was glad to get to watch. This was rare, a spanking in front of the class. Boys occasionally got to see a fellow student spanked by the PE coach, but girls virtually never got to see a boy spanked, and NEVER got to see one like the one Stan was about to feel. No doubt plenty of them would have liked to watch him get it on the bare, some of the boys would like that, too, but Mrs. Wilkerson would never demand that he drop his pants in mixed company (at least I felt certain that she would not).
As Stan approached her desk I thought how vulnerable his butt was. I could feel how little protection my own school pants afforded my behind, and he had on pants as thin as mine. It wasn't going to be much better than a bare assed paddling. His dignity would be spared a little bit, but not his bottom.
"Please, Mrs. Wilkerson," he pleaded again, "I'm sorry." He was crying by now, and he hadn't even felt the first lick yet.
Mrs. Wilkerson made no reply to his plea. She only ordered him to bend over her desk and turn his head to face the class while she stood behind her desk. So Stan was placed in the unenviable position of watching the class watch him get his 16 year old bottom spanked probably worse than he had ever felt it before.
It seemed humiliating to him. Here was the president of the honor society getting paddled like the worst miscreant in the school. I don't think he had counted on her spanking him in front of the class. Some of the girls were grinning at him in anticipation. None of the boys were, knowing the consequences.
"Anybody who thinks this is funny will get double what Stan gets." Mrs. Wilkerson made clear to the class. All the girls' smiles vanished.
I was sitting close to the front, off to one side, and had a better view of Stan's ass than his face. I saw that Mrs. Wilkerson lined up her paddle on that tenderest part of a fanny. Through those thin pants, this was going to really hurt.
Then with her teeth still grinding in anger, she took a backswing worthy of a golfer and with what appeared to be every bit of strength she had she planted her paddle right on the bottom part of Stan's butt cheeks, right where his ass met his thighs.
The report sent a shock wave through the classroom. It had to send an even worse shock wave through Stan for he let out a cry on the first lick. Most boys could at least refrain from crying out for two or three licks. But most boys didn't get it this hard, either.
Stan stifled his cry almost immediately after the first lick. Then his red haired friend took another backswing just as far as the first and put her paddle right on the same spot as the first lick.
Stan was unable to stifle his cry very well the second time. I had the feeling she was just getting started. I was right.
She rared back again, fire still in her eyes, and laid into that same tender spot for a third time. I don't think she could have hit him any harder.
Stan's cry was almost a scream this time. Tears were flowing freely now. Only the third lick. And Mrs. Wilkerson was taking her sweet time laying them on. She must have been giving him at least 15-20 seconds between licks. I knew, as did most of us, that each lick hurt worse 20 seconds after it was given than it did only 2-3 seconds afterward. She gave each one of them time to settle in. Time for Stan to savor each and every moment of this to its fullest. And time for him to consider that, since she had not ordered him to stand up, there were more to come. How many he had no idea, but no doubt he was, after only three licks, already learning that each lick of a spanking hurts worse than the one before. So that as much as his butt hurt right now, from that last lick, the next lick this foxy lady would award him with would hurt far worse, and the one after that even worse.
Stan wasn't begging for mercy yet. He still tried to hold on to some dignity. And he still had enough presence of mind to know that begging for mercy wouldn't likely do him any good now. Had he gone to her last week and been open with her, she'd have shown him all the mercy she had in her. Too late now, though.
As Stan gasped for breath, trying to retain some control over himself, since he could control nothing else now, Mrs. Wilkerson drew back a fourth time and with all her strength gave him another lick on that same tender sit down spot that finally took all Stan's interest in dignity away.
He finally howled without reservation. He was bawling like a child now.
I thought then that, if he had dropped his pants anyway, she might actually be showing him some mercy now. After all, when paddling a boy on the seat of his pants, his butt looks the same after each lick. Mrs. Wilkerson couldn't see what kind of damage she was doing to his young behind. I wondered, as I expect did everyone else, just how Stan's butt looked by now. My guess was it was starting to turn purple. I had no doubt that, had Mrs. Wilkerson stopped right then, that Stan's butt would be purple soon, if it wasn't already. Maybe she would have eased up on him had she seen what she was doing. Then again, maybe not.
But she wasn't about to stop. As it turned out, she wasn't even half way finished with his ass.
What she did do was start to branch out. I guess she figured that she had warmed up his sit down spot adequately for now, for the next lick she sent his way landed just below the others, catching the top few inches of his thighs along with the bottom inch or so of his already well-paddled fanny.
This elevated the level of Stan's crying when it landed.
We were all wide-eyed, staring intently at the severity of the blistering she was giving him. None of us expected her to be this angry with him, but she had stood it for a long time by now and was giving him months' worth of spankings in one sitting (so to speak . . . we knew there wouldn't be much 'sitting' for Stan for quite some time after this).
After five licks plenty of us were wondering just how many she planned to give him. Stan sounded like he had reached the point where he didn't think she would ever stop beating on his ass.
She took her same wind up as before and planted another generous lick on Stan's bottom, this time just above where she had been working so hard earlier. Both these last licks caught some part of where she had hit him before, but extended his spanked area couple of inches in either direction.
Nothing was holding back Stan's bawling now. He couldn't care less if the whole class were watching. He couldn't care less had the whole school been watching him get paddled naked by now. The only two things on his mind were his ass and Mrs. Wilkerson's paddle. I recognized the timber of his cries. He was in spank land, after only six licks.
But that wasn't the end, not by a long shot. She evidently intended to keep Stan in spank land for some time longer. She rared back and, with teeth still bared in anger (she was really pissed), rained another fire storm on his tender sit spot, the same as the first four licks.
Stan's cries became screams now, a high pitched howl that sounded something like I imagined a banshee wailing. It did not die down between licks any more. He did manage to get a few words out now, "Noooooo! Mrs. Wilkerson, Please Stop!"
She would stop when she was good and ready. And she wasn't ready.
She took another one of her formidable backswings and caught him again on the area covering his thighs and the bottom of his ass.
By now the sound of each report of her paddle was in competition with Stan's howls, screams, cries, and pleas for mercy.
Eight licks and she still hasn't stopped. Many of us were in shock by now at the severity of this whipping. Certainly Stan never dreamed of anything like this coming from the teacher he had such a crush on. Right now I don't know if Stan even knew who was doing this to him any more. One thing I felt for certain, he did not find this a turn on.
Another lick fell, right on that same sit spot already paddled beyond recognition.
Now the volume of Stan's cries weren't changing as each lick fell, he was crying at the top of his lungs constantly. What changed was the pitch. I had never seen anyone get it like this, not this bad. When Mrs. McConnal wore me out, by this time into my spanking I wasn't paying any attention to the pitch of my cries. I doubt Stan was either. But the rest of us could hear that the pitch went up an octave or so when each lick landed.
I thought of Mrs. Wilkerson' admonition that whoever thinks it funny would get double. Oh Lord, DOUBLE that? The very thought of it almost caused me to pass out.
With an extra effort that led me to think that this tenth lick would be the last one, Mrs. Wilkerson not only took her same long backswing this time, but actually took a slight step further behind Stan and stepped into the tenth lick so that it was, by a long shot, the hardest of all. And, of course, she put it right on the spot she had been paying so much attention to all along.
It sent Stan through the roof. His back bowed, his head shot upright, and he let out a squall that he must have been saving up just for that lick - just as Mrs. Wilkerson was saving that lick for last.
Stan didn't even know she had finally stopped paddling him until several seconds after her paddle was safely reinterred into her desk drawer.
She didn't tell him it was over, just let him figure it out for himself whenever he finally realized that her blows were no longer landing on his bottom. It took the better part of a minute for him to realize that paddles were no longer crashing into his fanny. But it didn't serve to end his crying.
When he realized that the spanking itself was over he reached to cover his butt cheeks, no doubt hoping to rub a little of the pain away, to no avail of course. Still his hands remained on his butt as he slowly stood up, still crying, snot running down his face.
Stan held his ass gingerly trying to refrain from dancing, looking about in vain for a place to find some privacy from the eyes he now remembered were fixed on him and his bottom. There was nowhere to hide.
Mrs. Wilkerson did take a box of tissues out of her desk and offer them to him. He used them to wipe off his face and to blow his nose. They didn't speak for some time.
Stan looked questioning as to what he was supposed to do now. Should he return to his seat? He didn't want to sit down, we all knew that. Could he leave the room to finish crying in the boys' room? No doubt he was not ready to ask even that of the woman he now didn't know if he hated or loved.
She's hot, Stan, I was thinking. You wanted to feel her paddle on you ass and now you have. I hope you got what you wanted. I know you didn't enjoy that, but I do hope you find it more pleasant as time goes by.
And then, as Stan was composing himself, trying to re-establish some sort of respect about himself, Mrs Wilkerson delivered the most crushing blow that any of us could imagine.
"Stanley, do you hear me?" she asked, again in the same calm but steady voice with which she had invited Stan up to her desk.
"Yes ma'am." he said between sobs.
"Meet me here after school today," she said to everyone's shock, "and we'll finish this in the teachers' lounge."
Stan's cries stopped. He still held his ass cheeks in both hands, but his eyes were now wide and his voice silent. Could she really mean this? Oh God, a trip to the teachers' lounge could only mean that this had just been a warm up.
We were all silent in amazement. Surely she wasn't going to start all over on Stan's ass again this afternoon!
"No, Mrs. Wilkerson, please don't' do that to me." Stan managed to beg.
"Don't argue with me, Stanley, it'll only make it worse." Mrs. Wilkerson said, as kindly as she could.
"Please, Mrs. Wilkerson, no." Stan sounded on the verge of cracking up. "Please don't. Please. I'll do anything, Mrs. Wilkerson. Please, no. Please." he was in a panic.
"I said don't argue with me, Stanley. Now sit down." was her reply to his please for mercy.
Stan only stared at her with tears and shock in his eyes.
"Sit down, Stanley," she repeated, "NOW. Unless you'd rather I start over again."
"NO!" Stan fired back immediately. Not the horror of the beautiful mistress of his fantasies starting this all over again right now! That terrified him more than the having to come back later.
He looked at his desk as if it were an electric chair. Sitting in that would be excruciatingly painful now, but the option was for his red headed beauty to go to work on his behind all over again . . . right now . . . and then still require him to sit down on it.
Stan tenderly sat down on his destroyed ass. He did his best to stifle cries as he put his weight on it, but he couldn't keep them within very well. He spent the remainder of the class sobbing as quietly as he could manage.
Mrs. Wilkerson did not demand that he be quiet. She was well
aware of what she was doing. More aware than I realized at the
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