Chatterbox Chastised

I was a real chatterbox in school, particularly during my primary years, and my talking in class frequently got me into trouble with teachers.

One day, when I was in the second year of primary (so six years old), I got told off several times by Miss Moore, my teacher, but kept whispering to my friend Paul Thomas, who sat next to me. I can’t remember now what we were finding so interesting!

Eventually, I was even made to stand in the corner for a while during the lesson but even after I was allowed back to my desk, I got talking yet again. Eventually, Miss Moore put me back in the corner and said she’d ‘deal’ with me at break time.

I stood there, facing the wall, and feeling that it was extremely unfair because Paul had been talking too. Eventually the bell went for break and I was left alone in the classroom with my teacher. She was probably quite young, in her mid 20s (though she seemed ancient to a six-year-old, of course!) and had long, shoulder-length hair with a centre parting in a typical 1970s style.

I heard a chair being dragged around, then my name was called. “Andrew, come here to me.” When I turned around, my teacher was sitting in the chair, which she had set out at the front of the classroom.

I went to her side as directed. I remember I didn’t feel frightened, just frustrated. I was expecting a more formal (and much longer) telling off of the sort I’d already experienced earlier.

Well, I got the first bit right. Miss Moore droned on and on about how I was constantly disrupting her lessons and making it difficult for the other children to learn. Then, to my absolute astonishment, she added: “Well, I think we’d better see what a smacked bottom will do.”

Before I could say anything in pleading or protest, Miss Moore took me be the wrist and put me across her knee. I have to say it was a position I was quite used to, as my mum was certainly not above taking my pants down and thoroughly spanking me when she thought I needed it. But to have a lady who was not my mum do it was pretty shocking.

Thankfully, Miss Moore didn’t remove any clothing to smack me, and at first I thought I was going to get off pretty easily. But in this traditional punishment position, my school shorts and pants were tightened quite effectively against my bottom and when she first struck me, I was really surprised by the amount of sting generated. Miss Moore evidently had quite a hard hand.

But eventually, it was the sheer length and slow burn of the spanking which made me start to cry unashamedly. The heat on my seat just built up and up. I must have been over Miss Moore’s knee for around five to ten minutes, having every part of my bottom thoroughly smacked, and then re-smacked. After a while, the only thing I remember was the sound of slapping and me wailing.

Bottom blazing, I was finally let up. Miss Moore was flushed in the face from administering the smacking and smelled strongly of sweat, presumably from the sheer physical effort of chastising me. She took out a handkerchief and dried my eyes for me, then wiped a few beads of perspiration from her own forehead with it.

“Well, Andrew, I hope that’s taught you a salutary lesson, and we won’t have any more problems with you talking. Away outside with you!”

I rushed out of the classroom, with a fire in my pants, but I couldn’t face my friends, and hid in the boys’ toilets for the rest of break time.

I spent a miserable afternoon sitting uncomfortably on a very sore bottom, and the afternoon got even more miserable when Miss Moore went over to my mum at home time, and told her that I had been smacked, and why. As soon as we got out of the classroom, Mum promised me another smacked bottom when we got home.

And that’s exactly what I got, though this time, of course, my shorts and pants came down before I was put back in that familiar position. Mum was a champion bottom smacker, and my little rump had probably never been as sore as it was when I was put to bed early with no tea.