Story: Spanked by Mr. Schneider

Yay! I just found out that this little story I wrote for the soc.sexuality.spanking Short Story Contest this summer won 2nd place. (Bouncing in my seat with glee, especially after reading the comments on my story [you have to scroll down past the story to read them].)

However, a warning. It's not a fun spanking story and certainly not intended to be erotic. Like most spankos, my spanking fantasies started at an early age and I daydreamed about teachers spanking me. What inspired me to write this story was wondering what I would have actually felt if I had actually been spanked by one of my teachers.

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Spanked by Mr. Schneider [M/f, child 500 words]

I always used to think about it. Getting spanked by Mr. Schneider.

It started when we were reading To Kill A Mockingbird in my language
arts class and Hillary Hanson asked what it meant when Scout said
Atticus threatened to "wear us out." Mr. Schneider got a funny grin on
his face.

"That means he's going to whip their hide."

It made me giggle. Especially when he looked at me after he said it.

Made me dream at night that he was my dad, whipping my hide with his belt.

This one day in class my friends, Tim and Cameron, and I were playing
Paper, Rock, Scissor when we were supposed to be working on our
vocabulary worksheets.

"Paper."

I looked up as I slapped my right hand down on my left palm.
Tim and Cameron were turned around in their desks. Mr. Schneider was
scowling at me.

"Melissa, I want to see you after class." I gulped and went back to
figuring out Latin prefixes with a hot/cold tingly feeling.

He closed the door when everyone left. It was lunchtime so there wasn't
another class coming.

"Explain to me why you weren't doing your work." He unbuttoned the
cuffs of his shirt sleeves. Rolled them up to his elbows.

"I dunno." I looked down at the cream linoleum swirling around my desk.

"Not the answer I was looking for, young lady." He unbuckled his belt
and slid it through the loops of his gray slacks. My eyes felt big
inside my head. "Stand up. Pull your jeans and underwear down and bend
over the desk."

I stood up. Looked at him. My bottom lip started wiggling and my eyes
got all teary. But I just stood there. Hoping he'd change his mind and
wouldn't make me do something so embarrassing.

"Do as I asked, please." Forceful, but in the same tone of voice. I
whimpered. Sniffled. Unbuttoned my jeans. "We both know you deserve
this." He had that funny grin again. Made him seem like one of those
guys my mother said lurked in the woods behind our apartments. I bent
over the desk with my naked behind in full view. Hoping to God nobody
walked in at that moment. Praying to God somebody would.

The splat of the belt echoed in the room. And it stung like hell. But
it was when he rubbed my bottom after the first couple of whacks that I
started crying. He hit me a few more times. Then stopped and rubbed
again. More whacks. More rubbing. I think he gave me about twenty
whacks in all. I was really crying by the end.

"Shhh..." He gave me his handkerchief. Pulled me against him. Rubbed my
back and bottom. When I stopped crying, he told me I could go to lunch.

"The State allows me to use corporal punishment. So be a good girl."

With that same grin.

I still think about it. Mr. Schneider spanking me.

But now I just feel icky.



Copyright 2004 Natty

Just Right

Eeks! Two and a half weeks since I posted! That'll be one for the punishment book.

Yeah, I really do have one, or so I've been told. I've not *actually* seen it and frankly, I think my boyfriend has forgotten all about it. (Of course, if he reads this in the next three weeks before he comes, I very well may yet learn of its actual existence.)

Though, he can surprise me sometimes. This last spring when I went to visit him, I was over his lap within an hour of arriving home from the airport. He wanted a good view of the big red knickers I wore as a surprise for him.

They didn't stay up for long, as you can imagine. Soon he was smacking me with his hand, then a brush. Happy, fun smacks. Stingy, but fun. Suddenly (at least it seemed that way to me) the conversation got rather serious. "Now about your writing..." he began (I'm currently writing a decidedly non-kink novel).

I hadn't done any the week before I left. There were a few seconds here and there in all the rush to get papers graded during Finals Week and packing and appointments and such when I did think about how I hadn't sent him my required 250 words/4 days a week. In those 2-3 seconds of thought I would think, "hmm, odd. He hasn't said anything." But that's about as far as that line of thought went.

Until I was over his lap.

"Now, why didn't you send me anything last week?" Calm and curious.

I mumbled something about being really busy with all of the things I just mentioned above.

"Fair enough. But, why didn't you talk to me about it? I mean, at least an email would have been nice."

I gulped. That was true. I could have been polite enough to have sent an email at the very least.

"I guess I just figured you assumed I wasn't able to with all the other stuff."

"Right," he said. "Well, I was waiting to see if you were going to say anything. I mean if we're going to take this discipline seriously -- "

"-- Oh, I do."

That's when I felt really bad. That I had ever let him think I didn't.

"So, how long have you known that you were in trouble?" he said after a minute or so of silence.

"About...two minutes."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I said. "I mean, I guess I figured since you hadn't said anything, it was okay."

"Ah, so you were waiting for *me* to say something. And would be disappointed if I hadn't."

I laughed.

"Well, I don't know that I'd be THAT disappointed."

Though, he was right. I probably would have been. At least a little bit.

"Do you remember what happened the last time you didn't do your writing?" He smacked my bottom lightly.

That whole summer before I left to visit in the Fall I had completely blown it off. A couple of weeks after I got there, I got a severe spanking over his lap with the hairbrush and then got spanked on the back and front of my thighs with a wooden spoon. It hurt like freaking hell.

"Do you agree that you deserve that again?"

I wasn't sure. On the one hand, I'd only blown it off for a week, not two months and I had a pretty good excuse for not getting it done. On the other hand, I really felt guilty about being rude and not saying anything and making him think I wasn't taking our disciplinary arrangement seriously.

However, I was exhausted from the 10 hour flight plus the multiple hour drives to and from the airports.

"Maybe, but I'm really too tired to handle that today."

"Fair enough." He smacked me lightly with the hairbrush. "But I am going to spank you with the hairbrush."

"Okay." I nodded. Buried my face into the arm of the sofa. He gave me several sharp spanks with the brush.

"An apology would be nice."

D'oh! Why didn't I think to do that?

I turned to face him (well, as best as I could considering my position).

"I'm sorry." Though the words felt completely inadequate.

"Thank you."

He didn't spank me as hard or as long as I thought he was going to. It was sorta just right. Sorta only because a small part of me wished it would have gone on a little longer so that I might have cried. But only a small part of me. The rest was relieved as hell. :)

And definitely just right in that it made me feel safe on so many levels.

The Spanking Appointment

One of the things that has irritated me about being sick and in so much pain the last few months has been that I haven't really been able to enjoy the memory of past spankings, which is often one of the funnest parts of being spanked.

Good news today is that I can remember this event that I wrote about in my journal at the time without immediately tensing up and getting that slightly sick feeling. :)

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March 30, 2004

I got so thrashed last night.

We’ve been doing these “spanking appointments” and yesterday it was announced that I was to report to the bedroom for a spanking at 6 pm. It always gives me butterflies in my tummy – the good kind.

About 4ish, we decided on a whim to play a game of poker, which of course, we turned into spanking poker, especially as he’s still teaching me how to play and it seems to be a good pedagogical tool. I won the first game, lost the second, won the third, lost the fourth, and then held him off for an hour before finally losing the last. Indeed, it went on for so long he had to change the appointment to 7.

As I stood to drop my trousers for my third spanking, this time 12 strokes with the wooden spoon as, appropriately enough, chosen by the cards, he smiled. “Mmmm…Michelle’s bottom…I get to see it again after sooo long.” I love how he makes me feel sexy. “You know,” I said. “I think I should get less strokes since I played so well.” He put his arms around me and kissed my head. “True. If the world were fair.” I still got 12 strokes.

When the appointed time arrived, he came to the bedroom to find me in the requested panties and bra, bent over the chair as instructed. “This is going to be a severe spanking as you’ve already had a warm-up,” he explained. He had the riding crop in his hand, his favorite new toy he picked up in a charity shop the week before I arrived. (Most of his implements are from charity shops. The British donate the perviest stuff.) I cringed. “This will help prepare you for the Flogging Room day.” A Victorian period scene we’re planning to do not long before I leave at the end of April. “It will only end when you say the words ‘mercy, please.’” I nodded. “What do you need to say for the spanking to end?” “Mercy, please,” I mumbled.

The riding crop came down with full force on my backside. I yelped. By the fourth stroke, I felt nauseous and almost said the words. But I couldn’t wuss out after only four strokes. And my pride was still smarting from losing that last poker game. I dug my fingers into the floor. Buried my face into the pillow underneath me on the seat of the chair. Soon the strokes were landing on my thighs. He patted the crop on one thigh, then seared my flesh. Stepped to the other side and did the same thing.

Just say the damn words, I told myself. But my pride and curiosity about just how far could I go left me mute.

And so the strokes kept coming. Some in the middle of my ass. Some on the side, which would make me almost jump up from the chair. Some in rapid succession. Some with a second or two in between to catch my breath. When he tapped my thighs, the words would form in my mouth but simply linger along my tongue, despite the tears forming in my eyes as the crop bit into my legs. I’ve never had to use a safe word before because a spanking was too hard. I wanted to keep it that way.

“We’re almost done.” He rubbed his hand along my back. “Almost.” I pursed my lips together. I just had to hold out a bit longer. Several more center strokes. Side strokes. Thigh strokes. Then he put the crop in the corner. “Okay. We’re done.”

It took me a moment to gather my strength to stand up. I was shaking and breathing heavy, convulsive breaths. As I came upright, he drew me against his chest. “My brave, brave girl.” I sniffled and clutched him. “You are one tough cookie.” He kissed my head. “And stubborn. Very stubborn.” I chuckled a little and sniffled some more. Still shaking, still breathing hard.

“You better lay down on the bed.” He rubbed arnica gel on my ass as I laid there wiping my eyes, telling myself that it was over now. The shaking slowly subsided as he skated ice cubes along my throbbing cheeks and thighs. “Now these are the kinds of marks you don’t see in those pictures online.” That made me smile a little. Then he laid down next to me. “Alright. Big cuddle.” And as he held me, I really cried. From relief that it was over. With left over tears from the sadness I wrote about earlier that day. Grateful that he was there to hold me. “You won that one,” he said. I grinned.

Like sugar

It's been a rough summer.

Within a month of returning from visiting my boyfriend in the Land of Spanking (aka England) and attending a conference in Jerusalem, I came down with a respiratory virus. No big deal except that when I get a fever, it's like having needles jabbing me all over -- constantly. It's one of the ways my brain doesn't quite process sensory input correctly, the result of a disorder called Fibromyalgia.

Two weeks after the virus ended, I was in the emergency room with severe back pain and a fever of 104. I had apparently developed a urinary tract infection that had backed up into my kidneys. A few weeks later, the pain in my right foot had reached a level that I sought out a podiatrist, who said I had developed soft tissue damage as a result of spraining my ankle while I was in England three months earlier. After suffering another two weeks while my insurance sorted out whether or not it would pay for it, I was put into a cast boot, which then aggravated my low back, which in turn, kinked out my cervical vertebrae.

Just as that was finally calming down, I started having severe pain in the small of my back. Thinking it was related to the earlier low back pain resulting from my weak foot, I kept trying to do my yoga and pilates to strengthen and relax the muscles. My rhuematologist sent me to have an MRI, which came back normal aside from minor arthritis. For three weeks, whenever I turned over in bed, walked more than a few steps, sat at my desk or tried to get out of the bathtub, I would have intense, throbbing pain. Eventually I again showed up at the ER, with only a low-grade fever this time thanks to all the Vicodin I had been taking, and again was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection that had backed up into my kidneys (before June, I'd never even had one). Why I can't just get normal UTI symptoms is beyond me. But, yeah, note to self: if I have back pain that lasts more than a week, get checked for a UTI. Oh and just to make life extra fun, I had also developed a bit of bursitis in my right hip because of the cast boot and weak foot.

For the first time since I was a kid, I'm afraid of being spanked.

On an abstract level, it still has some appeal. When my boyfriend made a comment the other night about being strict, it gave me that familiar tingle. But when I start to think of actually getting one or remember past spankings, my whole body tenses up and there's a sharp feeling in that spot where the sternum and the stomach meet.

Now, I know that will change as all the Substance P that's been flooding my brain and spinal fluid returns to more managable levels (though for people with Fibromyalgia, this neurotransmitter for pain is often three times the normal level found in the spinal fluid of healthy controls). Yet, I've found myself feeling quite sad about it. Like seeing an empty chair at the family dinner table.

It dawned on me today that what has been really bothering me is that I'm afraid of losing spanking.

After surgery six years ago, I developed Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (CFIDS -- also known as Myalgic Encephalomeylitis or ME outside of the US) in addition to Fibromyalgia, and since then I've lost my teaching job, my academic career (though in the long run, that may not be a bad thing), a lot of my hobbies like hiking or gardening or cantoring at church, hanging out with my friends or playing with my nieces and nephew. In addition to being lactose intolerant, I'm now soy intolerant, as well as sensitive to insoluble fiber, acidic foods, yeast, sugar substitutes/alcohols like aspartame, Splenda or sorbitol,and most preservatives and additives. Spanking is one of the few things that allows me to feel strong again.

However, the more I read about how the brain processes pain, particularly in the case of Fibromyalgia, the more it appears that the brain becomes increasingly dysfunctional the more it is forced to process pain. Robert Bennett, a professor of medicine just up the road from me at Oregon Health Science University, explains that Fibromyalgia is "a disorder in which the central nervous system amplifies pain sensations ('central sensitization') due to a complex interplay between genetic predisposition, the cumulative burden of painful insults ('perpheral pain generators) and a dysregulation of the normal response to stressors."

I often use the analogy of having a radio on that plays 80s acid rock. The radio is always on for me, but at a level where I can try and ignore it. I can't (for the most part) turn it off so I go on as best I can, though it does make sleeping or concentrating a challenge.

This summer it's been turned up almost full blast for all but about three weeks or so. It's gone back to just below half way down the dial since starting the antibiotics last week. But it's like my ears are still hearing it. And I feel exhausted. Like I've been run over by a truck or beaten up with a baseball bat.

It's made me wonder if purposefully having someone turn the dial up is a wise thing to do. Wonder about the irony of having a disorder which amplifies pain AND having a spanking kink. Particularly considering that I'm often told I seem to have a high pain threshold (at least when it comes to spanking) when actually it's the exact opposite.

Does that mean I'm an even bigger pain slut than I thought? ;)

Not that it's really an issue at the moment. My boyfriend lives in the UK and I in Portland, Oregon, and I suspect by the time we get together again, I'll be practically begging to go over his knee.

But maybe the really hard ones will be like sugar or alcohol -- something I can have once in a while but in limited amounts. Making them all the sweeter.

And maybe, since I feel pain more intensely, spanking is something I feel more intsensely as well.

And just maybe, for once, I can feel lucky to have Fibromyalgia.