Home School Spanking Partnership

Note to Readers

This fantasy story happens in Blue Popcorn Springs, a town in the USA's Rocky Mountains. It is the home of the all-women Margaret Thatcher College (MTC). This story is the second of two parts; the first is Spanking Our Daughters Sisterhood (SODS). You might benefit from reading it first.

There is no direct connection between this story of Discipline Days as experienced at Blue Popcorn Springs High School and previous stories about Miss Merriweather Cradle's disciplinarian's job at the College. (The College Behavior Advisor stories.)

If a story without actual sex isn't worth reading, skip this one. Everyone written about is 18+.

----

Spanked at Home, Spanked at School: A Partnership.

Blue Popcorn Springs High School

Thursday, January 12, 20XX. 7:49 a.m.

"Mrs. Rinden, here is my note from home." My mind and gut race with questions and anticipation, as I wonder what specific choices Mom made for me in the sealed note, damp and wadded in my sweaty palm.

After an entire year of this drill, it is still embarrassing to admit to anyone that I've been punished with a spanking or that I deserve further consequences. A morning school bus ride after a previous night's strapping is an uber-effective way to remind one of the need for self-disciplined behavior in the future. And of the impending reality of further consequences today.

.

I had fried eggs sunny side up for breakfast. My poetry mind sparkles. Imagine last night's hard hand spanking broke the eggs - my bottom cheeks - and dropped them into a sizzling pan of seven strap-thwacks to those bare cheeks. Today, a spatula of public display will flip those eggs over and cook them with embarrassment until done. How well done, how well displayed and cooked again, I will only discover when Mom's secret Discipline Day note is opened.

Waiting is a "bitch." Mom would spank me if I used that word at home. I'm adding air quotes to it in my mind. Acid roils me.

"Why are you here, Miss Harmony Williams?"

"I was disrespectful. I didn't finish my chores. And I used words I shouldn't use, Mrs. Rinden."

"And?"

"I may have been late for curfew?" As I speak I know I do not want to lose her trust. "I was late. Sorry."

"Late?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Quite late. Uh, more than an hour late."

Harmony respects Mrs. Rinden. She usually gives off grandmotherly vibes of freshly baked cookies and tea parties with dolls. Occasionally, as now, she has the arms-across-an-infinite-bosom stance of a woman who catches her favorite granddaughter lying about having washed up.

"Ah. Well, let's see. I think you've been to see me with a note on two prior occasions this year. That's less than all but two of your classmates, Harmony. Let us see what your note says. Sooner begun, sooner done, I do say."

Mom sealed the note to school this morning so I wouldn't know what choices she made for the school part of my 'at home, at school' Discipline Day. This is standard practice at Blue Popcorn Springs High School. Our moms, my classmates' moms, have gotten excruciating adept at finding our guilt and shame buttons, building anticipation and dread, and then ladling on mortifying embarrassment. With pain. Our mothers are members in good standing of the local Spanking Our Daughters Sisterhood club.

I'm 18, a senior, and an adult, de jure but definitely not de facto in the eyes of the school or my mom. At home, embarrassment is a minor, albeit consistently present, note when facing corporal punishment music. Here at school, it is the symphony.

Actually, corner time at home in a public room is still embarrassing after too many such corrections, and much more so if the spanking occurs in front of my sisters. Any correction at home is dismaying, as I usually discover that my "naughty" behavior is indeed not behavior that I want to be a habit, to be part of who I aspire to be.

Mom and the rest of the Spanking Our Daughters Sisterhood club, an amalgam of a PTA and an ordinary Moms Who Spank club, sweet-talked our school board into this innovation two years ago. They call it a "Discipline Day."

Mrs. Rinden reads the discipline choices my mother made for me today. Now I will know my fate.

"Bare or panties?

Your mother chose both for you, dear. Bare for one hour and wearing panties exposed for one hour." This means that for the rest of the school day, I must be commando. I cannot wear my panties, but I get to keep my uniform skirt on.

"Pinned or unpinned?

Your mother selected pinned up for both."

"Yes, Mrs. Rinden."

"To and from class, or in class only?

I think your mom made a good choice, young lady. She chose to and from class. Just between us girls, going exposed bare bottom is just the right amount of humiliation to straighten up even the normally best behaved of girls. My mom, bless her soul, didn't hesitate to thrash me when I needed it, no matter who saw me, bare from the waist down.

"Here is your bag. You may change now."

"Thank you, Ma'am. Um, Mrs. Rinden?"

"Yes, child?"

"Four pins or two?"

"Two."

Our school sports the usual glass-walled administration area, which is invariably busy first thing in the morning. In front of it pass all the students hurrying, or lollygagging, on their way to first-period classes. When a girl holds a mother's 'at home, at school' Discipline Day note, and after she has it read to her by Mrs. Rinden, she gets a clear plastic clutch bag with four large day-glo green safety pins in it.

She must step aside, although she remains in full view of everyone in the office and anyone passing by, and rearrange herself. That girl pins up the hem of her McNaughton plaid uniform skirt high enough on the back of her sweater or white blouse to fully expose at least her bottom cheeks, whether to be clad in panties or bare.

Mom chose 'two pins' for me, meaning I only have to pin up my skirt in back. Thank you, Mom! I do this. Dayglo green contrasts nicely, and quite visibly, with my blouse, which I guess is the point. The naughty girl should know she is the focus of attention.

If Mom had chosen "four pins," my skirt's front hem would be fastened up breast-high. If Mom had chosen "bare" plus "four pins" for the first hour, my kitty and the bit of red, curly pubes above it, would wink below the day-glo green pins attaching my skirt hem to my uniform blouse. Wink, heck. It would scream my shame at all who looked -- stared -- my way.

Mom's choice for me is to display only my spanked and strapped bottom red and bare cheeks, now and for the first class, and later, covered by my panties only, for the last class.

There in the lobby I remove my celeste blue panties. It is embarrassment, not my lingering pain, that cuts deepest. The whole office, the whole school, witnesses my punishment, my bare rear end on display.

I planned for this and chose a cotton, easy-to-remove pair of Target's Auden brand undies this morning. The only pair of extra-modest panties I own. I place them in the bag, visible to all through the clear plastic.

Joining a line of other girls having a Discipline Day, we wait for Mrs. Rinden to give us our timers. Which of the boys will see me? My current crush is Lars, a John Deere-tall boy in my mining engineering study group. Would it be so bad if he sees my naked bottom? I'd be mega embarrassed, but guys like chicas' butts. Fact!

He normally says hi every morning. He'll see me and my tush.

My other worry is Dickwad Wayne. He makes 'comments' about girls, both those fully clothed and those in some form of Discipline Day deshabille. His usual voyeur post is right by the lockers, which are coed. "Nice buns" is the most pleasant thing he's said to me since I refused to dance with him in eighth grade.

Our school is and isn't coed. Inside the walls of each classroom, the proven fact that both boys and girls learn better in the absence of the other is in play. All classes are segregated by gender. In the halls, the lunchroom and on the grounds, we're supposed to develop our socialization skills with young men. We're told that the boys are supposed to learn how to behave around young ladies, too, but there is little evidence of that. A weekly shower suffices for most boys. Phew.

When I get to the front of the line, Mrs. Rinden double-checks the discipline slip from Mom to make sure I'm in compliance. She sets the timer, like those used in restaurants to alert customers their table is ready, for one hour. The timer goes in the clear plastic 'clutch' bag with Mom's note as annotated, my panties and the two extra safety pins. She seals the bag with a hand-press, similar to those used to close anti-shoplifting tags on valuable items in a store.

I cannot open the bag with the tag affixed. Apparently, before tags were added last year, two girls changed their disciplinary slips during the day to minimize their consequences. And got caught. They received a week's worth of Discipline Days, pinned fore and back. No panties until lunchtime each day for a week. Their irate mothers wanted whole days in the raw, but our Principal put her foot down. After giving both a sound paddling at assembly.

Thursday, January 12, 7:55 a.m.

I'm off to the gauntlet, plaid skirt pinned high in back, bare bottom on display, my blue panties visible in my bag. Rather, I'm off to put my book bag in my locker, get ogled by boys and girls, and hustle the full length of the hall to class.

At least the boys cannot fondle our bottoms anymore. SODS paid for a ton of CCTV cameras to cover all angles in the hallways. A boy's hand that pats a girl's bottom will be caught on film. Last year a few boys had the clever idea of spritzing girls' pantied bottoms with water. A pat on a bare or pantied bottom, or a spritz of water, now gets the offender a public caning in front of the entire school, boys and girls together. Followed by an extended period of walking pants off, shirttail pinned day-glo front and back. The guy's junk drooping in full view.

You know, girls can be just as crude as the boys when we want. Just to be "fair," the Principal publicly caned a cheerleader for patting a basketball player's crotch in the hall. "There will be no hanky-panky at my school."

No rule prohibits a punished girl (or boy) from covering her bare or panty-clad bottom or groin in the hallway. Some of the younger students do this, but no senior does. It is a mark of pride to eat the humiliation. There is no pride rule requiring lowered eyes when other's yummy sights are free to be seen.

The clutch bag goes everywhere with the girl during the day, panties visible in it. It is meant as an overt sign that she is subject to discipline, even if commando at the moment. It sits on her desk in class. She carries it in the halls and must have it on her tray in the cafeteria.

I smile at Lars and stick my tongue out at Wayne. "No panty lines today, huh, Bambi?" Rude, both the remark and Wayne's nickname for me.

Books held in one hand, the clear bag of panties and discipline slip in my other hand, I fast march to my homeroom for the start of what will be a humbling day of grimaces and chagrin. Accompanied by what feels like a silo-sized blush on my face. Probably matching the harlot's blush color mom painted on my rear cheeks last night. My bare bottom shows, I know from checking five minutes before I left our farm for school, seven visible welts. The welts are a public announcement of the strap last night.. Lingering, "reminder" pain from the strapping is not visible.

It could be worse. Buck up. You could be pinned up on both sides, your quim as visible as your buttski.

Thursday, January 12, 7:58 a.m.

Miss Constable, my homeroom teacher, is my favorite teacher. Tall and athletic, olive skinned with a plain face awash in smile lines. She does not smile, however, when I approach her desk before class begins and hand her my clear bag.

"Miss Harmony, I'm surprised to see you like this today." She takes the transparent bag, unlocks the security clamshell, and reads the disciplinary slip. Swirls her finger to turn me around to check I'm fully visible.

"One hour bare, I see. Ok, please get your textbook and computer and await the start of class at the lectern. I think it would be easier on your bottom."

"Thank you, Miss Constable."

Teachers are given choices about how a girl serves her 'at school' Discipline Day in each classroom. For example, Miss Constable could have made me touch a wall with my nose or bend over her desk, or sit on my desk's worn-to-pale beige hardwood chair. There are a couple of purpose-built wood lecterns in each classroom, positioned so that a girl's bottom faces the class while she can see the teacher and take notes.

Even Miss Constable uses one of the SODS paid for lecterns that raise a girl under correction a foot off the ground for "better visibility" of her [bottom], not for her visibility.

Thursday, January 12, 9:03 a.m.

The buzzer in my see-through clutch bag goes off at the end of Miss Constable's class. She signs my punishment slip and makes relevant notes while I unpin my skirt. I will go unpinned, but pantyless under my uniform, until the last hour of the day.

When donned, my blue underwear is loose enough to avoid showing a camel toe or the definition of the cleft between my rear cheeks. A couple of my classmates like to wear their tightest, skimpiest panties for 'show and tell' on Discipline Days. Thongs, if you can believe it. That's so not me.

At the beginning of each subsequent class, I hand my transparent clutch bag to the new teacher, who reads the note with accumulated accretions from prior teachers' notes. He or she may choose to add their own 'twist' on my Discipline Day shame, aka discipline. I will schlep the clear bag, panties, note, and day-glo pins to my teachers all day.

Thursday, January 12, 11:15 a.m.

One of the other girls in Mrs. Rinden's morning DD line-up, Nagi Tilden, is in my calculus class. Mr. Morris catches her daydreaming. He determines she will spend the rest of the morning wearing four day-glo green pins high on her chest and back, making her naked and visible from waist down. Front and back.

Like me, she had been commando, but fully covered by her uniform skirt after her first class.

Eight (twice the normal four) slashes of his 18-inch classroom ruler, all on her right bottom cheek, leave Anna with copious tears. Harsh. As is required, Mr. Morris, our math teacher, makes a note of this ramp-up of discipline on Nagi's note.

Mr. Morris is known for spanking only one cheek or sit spot over and over. He says that "asymmetric" spanking results in 'acute' "perpetuus unum locum dolorem amplius, puellae!" (longer lasting, acute to one spot, pain, you girls!) and thus provides "better" corporal punishment. He throws Latin terms around like bread crumbs to ducks. Seldom correctly translated. His definition of "better" must be one designed to win favor with our parents.

If Nagi's mom is like mine, and she probably is as both are in SODS, acting badly during discipline is likely to earn her another 'acute' spanking at home. Thank you, times two 'acutes', Mr. Morris. Not.

Thursday, 12:15 p.m. Lunch Period.

This year the school's administration added something of its own to Discipline Days consequences. They claim it is a mere 'clarification'. The school has cafeteria lunch detention tables, as I guess most schools do, for any student who gets in trouble at school from after lunch the previous day to lunch today. You must sit there. No talking. No dessert. You may not leave the table until the end of the lunch period even when done.

Now, all Discipline Day students must join the happy crowd at the detention table. Nagi and I do.

Thursday, January 12, 2:04 p.m.

My last class teacher, Miss Jones, is a stickler for making the girls under correction conform to the special Discipline Day re-clothing instructions for last class. This means putting on panties that have been off all day and re-pinning skirts to show them off.

She makes us dress in class, not in the girls' room. First, Miss Jones pins our skirts to our blouses. She habitually pins the hems high enough so a lot of bra is visible. Then, with our exposed bare bottoms facing the class (in a line at the front of the classroom), we must bend from the waist to pull on our panties. A physical contortion to perform without spreading one's legs.

My Momma says a young lady being spanked has lost her right to modesty. Miss Jones practices this philosophy.

Thursday, January 12, 3:05 p.m.

I'm in my blue cotton panties after my last class, skirt pinned up, the locker ordeal passed with only a few boys smirking and whispering. And Dickwad's comment: "Cute panties. I see red lines under it. A matching bra. How nice, Bambi." I am back in the school office, with Mrs. Rinden. Two more steps and this miserable Discipline Day will end.

When I reach the head of the line, Mrs. Rinden unlocks my bag, removes the buzzer, and examines my discipline slip and the notes added by teachers. She signs and dates it and makes a copy for school records. First step done.

Mom spanked me at home with a strap and her hand. Even if I've been an obedient angel all day, an 'at-home spanking' gets an 'at-school spanking' at the end of a school Discipline Day. That's the concept, puellas! Spanked at home, spanked at school. Yadda, yadda.

Each administrator has a wooden paddle, often pine. Most are wide. Mrs. Rinden's is hardwood and narrow. She prepares to use on me in that glass-walled, open office space. Now filled with adults and students of both genders. My only question, which I dare not voice, is how many? Mom may have suggested a number on my punishment slip. Well-substantiated rumor has it that Mrs. Rinden adds or subtracts to mothers' suggestions as she deems necessary for one of 'her girls'.

A girl being paddled by Mrs. Rinden grabs the front of her counter and walks her legs backward until she is bent more or less at 90 degrees, depending on her height. I'm short, so my torso angles up to the counter. If the Discipline Day girl spent her last school hour in panties, as I did, she normally gets to keep them on. If not, she goes to her spanking bare cheeks proud.

My celeste blue cotton undies would not provide much actual pain mitigation. But psychologically, wow.

Thursday, January 12, 3:06 p.m.

The girl two before me in line receives eight slaps of Mrs. Rinden's paddle across both cheeks. We are not expected, by school or by girl code, to remain stoic. Nagi, just ahead of me, gets eight, bare-bottom. The last two land on her white thighs. Not by accident. Accompanied with "ow's" and two "pleases". Loud ones. Too loud. Loud enough to remind passersby that there is titillating action going on through the glass.

And I'm it.

While Nagi is easing her panties up over her butt, Mrs. Rinden makes the official school pronouncement of the next school punishment portion of my 'at home, at school' punishment. The last step.

"Nia," she orders, using my nickname, "please pull down your panties, darling, as your mother specially requested, and grab the counter."

The first time I complained to my mom that 'the other girls don't have to pull their panties down on Discipline Days,' my mom responded that "it is the way the women in this family are spanked, and as long as I'm your mother it always will be."

The second time I complained, after my second Discipline Day, my mother said, "Ok." She proceeded to spank me by hand for two minutes on my panties. Then, lowering my panties, she added another two minutes of pure spanking pain. A minute each on my under-cheeks and thighs. Accompanied by a litany of "you will always be punished on your bare bottom." For the last nine spanks, she made me repeat her words, one by one, punctuated by her hardest spanks: