The following story was typed from memory over a period of several
nights, following a request from a casual acquaintance encountered on
a BD/SM oriented newsgroup. The entire file, nearly 40k in length, was
subsequently re-worked by this author and again cleaned up by a friend
All events as represented in this tale, are to the
best recollection of the author, factual accounts, and not to be
construed as titillative fiction. Readers who do nonetheless get a
charge from reading the story are paying a compliment to the
writer. Names of various parties have been altered. Some individuals
in the story have lives to live, and few of them would stray into an
M/M Spanking story archive, and still then get to this of all stories
contained therein. Be that as it may, if you were present at that
school, received that punishment, saw others run screaming from the
headmaster's office grasping the seat of their flannels, then welcome
to a trip down memory lane. My e mail address is listed somewhere at
the top of this file, or someplace close by, and I'd appreciate any
comments. I'm sorry if I have ruined your enthusiasm for the game of
Scrabble. JG (db361) EPISODE THREE: Naked in the shower room
After that humiliating experience following my mid-morning
spanking from the headmaster in grade 3, I settled in to a stasis of
schoolwork and play. I was in this same private day school for several
years, and the lineup of kids in my class stayed the much the same
from one year to the next. Toward the end of that grade 3 year I
had a non-violent but very embarrassing disciplinary session at the
YMCA. Our class went there on Mondays because our school had no PT
facilities of its own. So we had gym, followed by swimming lessons,
every week. One of these sessions our grade 3 teacher was in the
boys locker room as we came out of the pool. I don't recall that it
seemed unusual or weird for her to be present, back then. Anyway, we
were an excitable bunch of little boys, and as we came up the
tile-lined stairway from the poolside to the shower area adjacent to
the locker room, one of the boys ahead of me started screaming, not
because he was in any distress, but just for the heck of it. I think
the acoustic phenomenon of that large high-pitched sound in that
reverberant stairwell added to the fun and deviltry. Groups of
boys in twos and threes kept up the screaming as we filed up that hard
stairway. As usual, I was the last, and I too, let out a scream as the
reverberations of the boys in front of me died away. Suddenly there
was our teacher standing at the other end of the shower room as I came
up the top of the stairs. `So YOU'RE the one doing all the
screaming, are you?!' ...Where were all the rest of the guys?
They were all toweling off and getting dressed as if nothing had
happened. The teacher told me to take off my trunks and shower, as
normal, only to hand the trunks to her in the process. Then I had to
stand there naked and dripping wet, until all the other boys had
packed up and left the locker room. It seemed to take forever, and I
was shivering. Eventually, I was allowed to towel off and get
dressed, while she lectured me about frightening her out of her
wits. I guess she was alarmed that some foul play was afoot when she
heard the commotion. That interminable Grade 3 finally ended in
the summer of eternal rain and fog, 1962. When I came back to school
that fall, my parents had settled into a rather grand house, my school
had moved into a new building with a big playing field, and I got to
finally be in grade 4 and tackle the 12 times table. EPISODE
FOUR: Pain and Play That private day school held me in its grip
for several years. I remember there was one incident at the end of Gym
class at the YMCA, that a bunch of boys ganged up on another boy who
was actually from one of the higher grades. They all called out, `Pink
Belly him!' over and over again. I was so clueless, I didn't know what
this meant. I was glad it wasn't me who was the victim, this time. I
couldn't help from watching in fascination. A boy was at each
limb, holding this guy spread-eagled on the Karate Mat. His T-shirt
was hiked up around his nipples, and about 5 or 6 other boys were
slapping his tummy around the navel and hipbone area, not too
hard. His muscles were alternately tightening and relaxing, and there
was some involuntary muscle movement which was peculiar, but
compelling to observe. He certainly was pink. His face more than his
belly, actually. Suddenly, in the Summer between grades 6 and 7,
the hormonal changes hit me unawares. Unlike the other boys I remained
virtually hairless under my almost US Marine-issue haircut. It was
1966. REVOLVER came to a record player near me. My record-player
owning friend and ardent Beatles fan in the neighbourhood introduced
me to a most interesting game of torture. We would initially wrestle,
and whoever won got to squeeze the penis of the loser for a minute or
two. The victim was honour-bound to stretch out on the bed with hands
over the head. While I was still an 80-pound weakling, all skin
and bone, my neighbour was very well developed for a 13-year-old, and
very muscular. This meant that, 19 times out of 20, he won the
wrestling match, and I had to get my dick squeezed by this fellow. The
second time we payed this game, I got this apparently involuntary
erection. Nobody had warned me about this. But that summer I
developed this inexplicable compulsion to visit him again and again to
hear his REVOLVER and RUBBER SOUL disks, and yes, play that wrestling
game again and again. I remember screaming in pain, asking him to be a
bit more gentle, but always maintaining my little hard-on regardless.
That fall, in grade 7, we had a new headmaster, a chap who had
come from the dreaded boarding school in the country. He was mean. I
was sent to his office for some infraction or other; I forget what,
exactly. He suddenly pulled out this webbed strap from his desk
drawer and started hitting my hands with it. That was without question
one of the most horrendous moments of violation that I have ever
experienced. The searing pain was unbelievable and totally
unexpected. He was a strong man, and I was unable to pull away from
him. I started to cry, embarrassing enough for any 13-year-old on
school grounds, but made worse knowing that his secretary was just
behind that thin office partition. Also in that time, I remember
the English teacher had one of those BOARD OF EDUCATION novelty
paddles, and showed it to us as a sort of threat when we got out of
hand. One day the boy named P. got that English teacher annoyed on a
bad day, and he then was instructed to accompany this teacher down the
hall, as the paddle was brought out of the desk drawer. When they
came back a few minutes later, you could tell that P. had been
crying. I was fairly good friends with that boy, and we had previously
showed our erections to each other for comparison purposes on an
overnighter. But I never had the nerve to ask him if he got that
punishment bare butt or over the flannels. That Year my parents
divorced, and I failed many of my courses. The answer to many problems
was to have me sent to that dreaded boarding school in the country.
To be continued...
More stories byStudent John