A Very True Spaning Story

Please not the paddle. Anything but the paddle. Other girls get paddled, not me. I'm a good girl. A good student. Anything else, not the paddle. I turned eighteen today. They can't possibly paddle me, can they?

Beverly's mind raced and raced. She tried to keep her hands and feet still but they seemed to have a mind of their own. Her palms were sweaty and her tummy was in knots. She needed to go to the little girls' room, but she couldn't go anywhere.

Maybe they won't paddle me. I was just passing notes. Yeah I've gotten caught before, but it was just a note...nothing bad on it. They paddle girls for fighting and cussing and things like that. Ok. Maybe it won't be the paddle. I can write lines....that wouldn't be so bad. Or maybe even detention.....this is my first time, so maybe it will only be detention. The girl who had gone in to the principal's office before her came out and went back to class. There hadn't been any sharp "crack" of the paddle, and the girl was not crying like the girl before her had been.

See, not everyone gets paddled. Maybe it will be okay.

Mrs. Buchanan came to the door and looked down at her, the next girl on the bench. Beverly could not meet her eyes.

"Beverly, come on in."

Beverly rose. She trembled. And she started to walk. Mrs. Buchanan closed the door behind her, but Beverly did not hear it. She had seen the dreaded wooden paddle on Mrs. Buchanan's desk.

Please, no. Please, no. Not the paddle. Anything else.

"Please sit down, Beverly."

The chair in front of Mrs. Buchanan's desk was dangerously close to the implement of pain that lay upon it, but Beverly sat down, still trembling. She felt that her face must be as white as her notebook paper.

"Let's talk about your behavior." Mrs. Buchanan leaned against her desk, looking down at Beverly. Still, Beverly could not look at her. She stared ahead and down.

"Passing notes. Do you know how many times you've been caught passing notes this year, Beverly?"

Not a good way for things to start. "Um....no, ma'am."

"I doubt that you do. It's been several. Each time that you have been warned or given some small punishment, it has been recorded in your file here. Every time. So, I know about everything that you've done all year, Beverly."

No, please, no. Not the paddle. I can't be paddled. Something else......

"Now, passing notes is not such a bad thing. Neither is talking in class, failing to turn in an occasional assignment, forgetting to bring a pencil to class....."

I've done all of those things. She knows it. But they're little things. Not things girls get paddled for.

"Miss Grawe decided to send you to me because, in her opinion, your behavior isn't changing based on her own punishments for you. Not that you're a bad girl....you're not. All of these are minor things."

Yes, exactly. You can't paddle me for them.....make me write lines. Or do extra work. Don't paddle me.

"I do not see anything here" Mrs. Buchanan was holding Beverly's file "that stands out, except that certain behaviors continue to be a problem for you." Mrs. Buchanan paused. Beverly sighed, and blushed a little. "I'd like to see some improvements. I'd like for these little problems to stop happening. I've tried to think of different ways we can accomplish that........"

Different ways. We. See, she's thinking of other things....

".......and I've had to think long and hard about it. You've been a good student, and I want to make sure that continues...."

This doesn't sound so bad....

".....I've made my decision...."

Here it comes. It won't be the paddle. It may not even be detention.

"You're to report to my office every Friday afternoon for the remainder of the school year so that we can talk about your behavior. If there are no problems, then it will be a very short meeting........"

Relief bordering on euphoria.

".......All of your teachers will be aware of this arrangement, as will your parents, of course....."

Of course. Not so bad. Okay.

"........Now, ordinarily, for first visits to the office, I go pretty easy on girl....."

It's okay, this IS easy....

"....but in your case, I want to make a very strong impression in the beginning....."

Oh you have. I don't want to get paddled. I'll be good. I don't want to come back and be scared like this again.....

".....so, today, you're to take five strokes of the paddle......"

It was like a death sentence. A physical blow to her tummy. Her terror returned. Her breathing quickened.

No. No. No. No. No......"please...no...." No. No..

"Beverly? Yes, sweetie, I said you're to be paddled. Five strokes. Please, stand up and face my desk."

Mrs. Buchanan picked up the paddle. Beverly remained seated.

"Please....no.....anything else....."

"Stand up, Beverly, unless you would like to get more than five."

More? Beverly stood, feeling that she may faint. She faced the desk.

"Bend over. Put your forearms on the desk, Beverly."

Would she have to pull her skirt up? Her panties down? She bent over. "Keep your legs straight" she heard. Straight, so her bottom would be pushed out for the paddle.

The girl outside would hear. Her teachers would know. Her friends would know! Her parents would know! No...no....no...

"If you misbehave at all during the week, I will paddle you on Friday when you come to see me, Beverly. So, remember what this is like, and think about it the next time you decide to pass a note in class."

The paddling was, as school paddlings are, quick, wordless, and, to Beverly's mind, brutal.

Mrs. Buchanan did not say another word. Beverly's terror was intense, and she was starting to cry. Then, she felt the paddle strike her bottom—just above her thighs, on that soft spot. She yelped, and two seconds later the next one hit her, and the next, and then the next. The swats were fire, all of them in the same spot as the first. Expertly placed for maximum effect, and the effect was total. Beverly cried uncontrollably, and after the fifth, fell to her knees and sobbed, her face against the desk.

Mrs. Buchanan set the paddle down on the desk, and softly touched the top of Beverly's weeping head. "Stand up, dear," she said.

Beverly struggled to her feet. Mrs. Buchanan handed her a Kleenex. "Go back to class, and remember what will happen on Fridays if you misbehave, Beverly."

Mrs. Buchanan walked her to the door. The girl outside was staring down at the floor, but looked up long enough to see Beverly weeping like a little girl. Beverly's bottom burned, and her cheeks burned red with humiliation. She walked past the bench, and heard Mrs. Buchanan say, "Rhonda, please come in."