---oOo---
I didn't realize Mr. Brandywine spanked on the bare bottom until I saw him jerk down Alexis' panties to her kneecaps. Okay, I've been spanked a few times on the bare behind, back when I was 4 or 5. But at age 15? Give me a break! Then he took this ping-pong paddle and gave Alexis the longest, hardest spanking I'd ever witnessed.
Finally, Alexis staggered to her feet, snot and tears making a mess of her make-up and her long blond hair while her hands tried to rub the fire out of her raging red buns.
"Next!" Mr. Brandywine said crossly.
"Look, Mr. Brandywine, I'm not sure..."
But he grabbed my wrist and jerked me over his lap. Over the next five minutes, my bottom went from a stinging, burning sensation to a deep aching throb to a feeling of numbness. I cried myself hoarse.
---oOo---
Alexis and I showered together, soaping each other's bottoms. Time was of the essence. John and Robbie would pick us up in just 12 more minutes. And the mother witch, Jill Brandywine, would be back in about 20 minutes.
Mr. Brandywine had decided a good, hard spanking was equivalent to grounding us for the weekend. But, after the spanking, Alexis confessed that her father would not stand up to her mother if Mrs. Brandywine objected. Thanks for sharing, Alexis. That would piss me off if I wasted a whole spanking, just to have Jill Brandywine ground us all over again.
With our hair still wet and wearing hardly any make-up, we ran out to John's car and climbed in the back seat. John pulled away from the curb - on our way at last to the rock concert - just as Jill Brandywine pulled into the driveway.
Alexis's mom didn't see us.
Alexis and I didn't sit upright until we turned the corner at the end of the street, wincing as the full weights of our bodies were placed upon our battered behinds.
Becoming an Astronaut
Like many misadventures of teenage girls, my troubles began when I fell in love with Johnny Castor and Mr. Mettler the fall term of my 13th year. Johnny Castor was good-looking and reasonably smart for a 13-year-old boy. Johnny wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up. That was the fall of 1969 and Neil Armstrong had made that 'giant step for mankind' the previous July.
Because Johnny Castor wanted to be an astronaut, I decided I wanted to be an astronaut, too. I asked Mr. Mettler, our science teacher, to give me extra homework and science stuff to read. Mr. Mettler was a handsome man. Even though he was single, he didn't seem to be dating anybody. All the girls in 8th grade had a 'crush' on him. So while I wanted to impress Johnny Castor with how smart I was in science, I suppose I wanted to impress Mr. Mettler, too.
After the first science test, Johnny Castor earned the second highest score in the class. I beat him by two right answers. At lunch in the cafeteria, I sat next to Johnny, expecting him to congratulate me.
"You'll never be an astronaut," he sneered instead. "Only guys get to be astronauts."
I excused myself, went to the girls' restroom, and cried. That afternoon, Mr. Mettler had to supervise study hall. He could see I was upset.
"Grace, can you stay a minute?" he asked when the last bell rang. "I need a little word with you."
Usually, I would have been thrilled to have private time with Mr. Mettler. But my heart was broken. I told Mr. Mettler what Johnny Castor had said about female astronauts. Mr. Mettler gave me a long lecture/pep talk about girls being just as smart as boys in science.
"In Asia and Europe, girls don't turn into dumbbells in science just because they turn 13," he admonished me. "You can do it, Grace. You're a lot smarter that Johnny Castor."
But I still loved Johnny Castor and I didn't want him to see me as competition for some future Apollo mission. Despite all the extra homework and reading material from Mr. Mettler, I made sure I didn't do any more damage to my romantic relationship.
I guess I overdid it. I got a D+ on the next science test. At lunch, when I sat down next to Johnny Castor, I expected something different than what I got.
"What a moron!" scoffed Johnny in front of all his 'guy' friends. "You don't know nothing about science, Grace. Give it up!"
Again, I excused myself, went to the girls' restroom, and wept in one of the toilet stalls.
"May I see you after the last bell, Miss Brackenridge?" Mr. Mettler asked me toward the end of study hall.
I was so miserable from my rejection at the hands of Johnny Castor that I didn't even want to talk to Mr. Mettler. Besides, I knew he was going to chew me out for flubbing the science test.
"Well?" he asked, after the last bell fell silent and the hurried clatter of shoes in the hallways had subsided.
"Well what?"
"You know exactly what I mean, young lady!" said Mr. Mettler, his white dress shirtsleeves rolled up and his hands on his hips. "I want the whole story and I want nothing but the truth."
So I told him.
"If you were my daughter and pulled a stunt like that, young lady..."
I could see Mr. Mettler was actually angry.
"You, Missy, would have a very sore bottom."
Sore bottom?
A spanking?
I felt like Mr. Mettler had found some invisible string that tugged at a shameful secret buried deep in my psyche.
---oOo---
At 13, I had no real notion of my feelings in that area. All I knew was that the word 'spanking' pushed some powerful emotional button that I didn't understand.
Because I was an honor student, I often did service activities in the front office: running the ditto machine; collating and stapling; all the menial clerical functions that machines do for us now.
Once when I was in Mr. Blitz's office, I saw the 'Board of Education' lying on his desk. Next to it was the corporal punishment log. The first page explained how corporal punishment should be administered, according to school board policy. I soaked up the words and planted them in my brain. I leafed through the pages, noting the names of students I knew who had been paddled and ones that had already graduated. I even saw the name of a girl. Her name was Gloria Morales, a Mexican girl in my grade who had been paddled for missing too many homework assignments a month previously. I felt sorry for Gloria. She never told anybody. I felt naughty for peeking.
---oOo---
I could hardly breathe as I returned Mr. Mettler's stern gaze.
"So you think I deserve a spanking?" I finally croaked like an old toad.
"No, what I said was, if you were my daughter, I might be tempted."
"Oh," I replied, relieved and disappointed. Of course, I didn't want a spanking. No girl does. But I didn't want the conversation to end.
"Well, what do you think should be done about this?" I asked coyly.
"I have half a mind to write a note to your parents," he said sternly.
"Oh please don't!" I begged, my crafty teenage brain improvising as I went along; some kind of scheme with no clear goal was hatching as I spoke. "My dad will spank me with his belt. Right on the bare bottom."
I think that shocked Mr. Mettler. Daddy is a pediatrician and a gentle person in public. In fact, Daddy never spanked me. At his insistence, Mom stopped spanking me around the age of 6 or 7. Whenever I misbehaved and Daddy punished me, he would say, "I want you to go to your room and think about how much you've disappointed me."
For some reason - even at 13 - I always cried when Daddy sent me to my room like that.
"He spanks you with a belt? On the bare bottom? At your age?"
I nodded, blushing at my lies and feeling guilty for the slander against Daddy's good reputation.
"Maybe you should send me to Mr. Blitz's office. Maybe he should punish me with the Board of Education."
"That seems a bit extreme," said Mr. Mettler, his irritation beginning to fade.
"Well, not every teacher sends kids to the Principal's office," I said as casually as I could muster. "I remember last year that Mrs. Thornburg kept Jeff Trestle after school for throwing spit wads."
I leaned forward and said softly, as if dis
closing a state secret. "Mr. Mettler, she paddled him! He told us the next day."
"Mrs. Thornburg has a reputation..." he began to reply but then thought better of it. "In any case, I think effective teachers eschew corporal punishment."
"What does that mean?"
"It means, Grace, that effective teachers avoid paddling students on ethical grounds."
"But you just said if I were your daughter, I'd have a sore behind."
"I'm not your father, Grace, and I don't intend to write a note that will have you punished severely when you get home."
"So you're not going to do anything to help me?"
He looked at me puzzled. "What do you want me to do?"
"I dunno," I shrugged.
And, truly, I didn't know. I just knew I felt some kind of loss. Disappointment. A broken connection. For reasons that still mystify me, my eyes began to brim and a path of tears flowed from the corners of both eyes.
"I guess I thought I was somebody special to you, Mr. Mettler," I sniveled, wiping my cheeks with the backs of my hands.
He reached in his breast pocket and handed me a handkerchief. I blew my nose.
"You are special, Grace. You did a very foolish thing. You've hurt your grade in science with this little stunt. It didn't even make Johnny like you more. Isn't that punishment enough?"
My eyes ran again as I shook my head.
"Grace!" Mr. Mettler replied in frustration. "I am not writing a note that gets you whipped with a belt. And I'm not sending you off to the Principal's office for a paddling. And you can't expect me to discipline you. I don't even have a paddle."
"Well, why can't you just spank me? You know, like your daughter?"
"I'm sure there's a rule against it."
"No, Mr. Mettler, I read it. The policy. You don't have to use a paddle. Not if you don't want to."
He shook his head. "That doesn't sound right."
"But it's true. Wanna bet on it?"
He smiled and shrugged.
"Okay, Gracie, you're on. What's the bet?"
"If I'm right," I giggled, "you have to punish me!"
Mr. Mettler rolled his eyes. "Let's go see."
---oOo---
"The rules are quite broad, really," said Mrs. Schneider, the school secretary.
I stood to one side in the Principal's office as Mrs. Schneider and Mr. Mettler read the rules in the front of the corporal punishment log.
Mr. Blitz had left for the day. In fact, Mrs. Schneider was about to leave when we entered through the office's main door.
"Here we go," she said, tapping the page with her fingernail. "It says right here: 'Any administrator or credentialed staff member shall administer corporal punishment at his discretion for any purpose that furthers the educational process. Corporal punishment may be administered with any implement and in any position that protects the safety of the child and does not cause undue embarrassment.' Sounds like the two of you need some time alone."
She smiled at me. I think Mrs. Schneider liked me.
"Gracie," she said, "that was a silly stunt. Hopefully, this will be the last time you'll need to be disciplined for bad academic performance. You are too smart a girl to carry on like this about a boy."
She turned to Mr. Mettler. "I'm going home. If you so choose, the 'Board of Education' is in the bottom drawer. There's also a nice thick ruler in the top drawer. An 18 incher, actually. Don't be too hard on Gracie, Mr. Mettler. She's a good, smart girl. She's just boy crazy."
Mrs. Schneider came over and gave me a big hug.
"Be brave," she whispered. "It's for your own good."
Mr. Mettler and I heard the outer door click shut and the tap-tap-tap of Mrs. Schneider's high heels on the sidewalk.
"Well, Mr. Mettler," I said, trying to sound cheerful, "how are you going to punish me? With the 'Board of Education?' Or with the ruler?"
Mr. Mettler seemed uncomfortable. In fact, so was I. The idea of Mr. Mettler punishing me had some strange appeal in the abstract. But Mom had spanked me a couple of dozen times as a toddler and a young child. I never remember liking any of them!
"Well, Gracie, since you're so determined to make amends," he said with a slight smile, "we might as well use the best technology available."
He went over to Mr. Mettler's desk and opened the bottom drawer, removing the 'Board of Education'.
"Bend over and grab your ankles, Grace," he said, stepping over to me and grasping me by the upper arm and leading me to the open space before Mr. Blitz's desk, in the middle of the Oriental rug. "Spread your legs apart."
"Gosh, Mr. Mettler, I thought you didn't believe in paddling," I said, my voice shaking and my eyes transfixed by the cruel length of lumber in his hand.
"I don't. But you seem to think this is what you need. Now bend over!"
He clasped me gently behind the neck and bent me over.
"Legs further apart, Grace. Bend way over."
I felt my whole body trembling. I wore a loose cotton skirt and blouse that day, but no slip. My panties were plain cotton. I realized my bottom had little protection from the 'Board of Education'.
He gave me a gentle pat and I jumped.
"Easy!" he laughed. "Try to stay in position or we have to start over. I'm thinking a dozen swats should do it, don't you?"
"Mr. Mettler, if you look in the log, you'll see that Mr. Blitz only gives six strokes at most."
Suddenly my favorite science teacher had turned into somebody cruel.
"Okay, Grace, I'll reduce it to nine strokes. Get ready!"
He patted me again with the paddle on the lower region of my buttocks.
'Don't pee!' I thought to myself. 'Whatever you do, don't pee.'
Pop. Pop. Pop.
By the third stroke, I realized Mr. Mettler had no intention of paddling me. The 'pops' on my fanny barely registered.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Okay, the last stroke kind of stung, because Mr. Mettler gave it an extra snap with his wrist. I bet even he didn't mean it to sting that much.
"You can stand up, Gracie," he directed. "Now, young lady, have you learned your lesson?"
He was smiling broadly at his little trick, scaring me half to death. I should have been grateful.
"That was a mean trick, Mr. Mettler!" I said, stomping my foot for dramatic effect.
The Oriental rug made a muff sound under my sole.
"And as far as learning my lesson, I didn't learn a darn thing!"
I was angry but I didn't know why.
"Mr. Mettler, I hope you never have kids," I lashed out, "because you don't know the first thing about discipline."
Something I said really affected Mr. Mettler, because his facial expression changed dramatically.
"Okay young lady!" he said, his voice edgy as he grabbed my upper arm and forcefully escorted me around to the other side of the Principal's desk.
He sat in Mr. Blitz's chair and opened the top drawer, removing the 18-inch ruler that Mrs. Schneider assured us we would find there.
Mr. Mettler moved aside some of the papers and files on the Principal's desk.
"Bend over and reach for the far edge of the desk," he snapped.
I could tell he was pretty irritated. I was scared. I reached across the desk, as instructed, while Mr. Mettler swiveled in the Principal's chair and rested his hand on the small of my back.
"This time I will give you 12 strokes," he announced.
Thwack!
"Yeow-www-ww!" I squealed as the ruler cut a stripe across the crease where my bottom and legs come together.
I leaped up and grabbed my lower butt.
Do not cry! I kept thinking.
"Are you okay?" he asked, looking up with a worried face as I rocked from one foot to the other.
"Sure," I said, trying to sound tough. "I just wasn't ready."
I bent over and grabbed the far side of the desktop, wondering how I would maintain my stance. I knew I was going to cry. But I guess Mr. Mettler's anger had pas
sed.
Whap. Whap. Whap.
The strokes were slow and measured. While the ruler strokes stung a little bit, Mr. Mettler still wasn't disciplining me. He was just going through the motions.
"That's 12, Gracie. You can stand up."
I stood up, my face beet red from embarrassment, feeling a profound sense of incompleteness...
---oOo---
My mind raced back to Mom's last spanking. I don't know what I had done, but I recall she spanked me in the kitchen, which was unusual. I remember my feelings as she pulled down my panties: all keyed up... angry... anxious... scared... But when Mom finally finished with me and pulled up my panties, all those feelings were gone. Of course, I had a good, long cry. Then I went outside to play. I came in for a drink of water about 15 minutes later. Mrs. Pepper from next door was in the kitchen, gossiping with Mom.
"You still mad at your mother?" asked Mrs. Pepper, as I walked over and gave Mom a hug.
"No, why?"
"I understand you just got a bare-bottom spanking."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that."
They both laughed. For years, Mom told that story as her reason - not Dad's insistence - for giving up on spankings altogether.
"If the girl can't remember a spanking for 15 minutes," Mom would ask rhetorically, "then why bother?"
---oOo---
"What's wrong?" asked Mr. Mettler, seeing the upset in my face.
"You've never spanked anybody before, have you?" I demanded.
"Well, no, I don't have any children of my own..."
"That's the problem, Mr. Mettler. You get me all keyed up and anxious for the spanking I'm about to get and then you don't follow through. So now I'm still all keyed up and anxious and feeling like I should be punished..."
I paused, realizing for the first time that I really did want to be punished for what I did.
"All I know," I said, changing direction, "is that if my mom were here, she would take me over her lap, pull down my panties, and give me a spanking till I couldn't cry another drop."
The Spanking of Teenage Daughters - Book One Page 3