February 21st, 2013
Regular visitors will know this is a sister website to www.overthedesk.com
As the name suggests, this website aims to offer recollections and memories of spanking and discipline related incidents, whereas the overthedesk site deals mainly with fiction stories that are realistice and may be based on true-life experiences.
We’re always keen to hear from our readers with comments, views and especially any recollections you have of spanking and corporal punishment incidents you’ve witnessed or experienced.
February 21st, 2017
I only got into serious trouble once at school. A few minor things that resulted in lines or detentions but just once I got the slipper.
It all happened because I and a few others got drunk on a school trip. We had gone, during the final year, on a Geography field trip to North Yorkshire over the autumn term holiday at the end of October. On the Sunday night, after we had been wandering around the moors looking at various glacial deposits, some of us decided to have a party. There were six girls and six boys that met up in one of the bedrooms. The boys had brought bottles of spirits, which I think was mainly whisky, and the girls got some coke and lemonade.
After a while we were all a little tipsy, well I certainly was, and things began to break up. One couple who had been snogging for most of the night disappeared quietly, whilst others went off to bed. I was never sure of the time, but I think it was around 8pm. We were busted by one of the teachers doing her rounds. There were just three girls and two boys left in the room. We were immediately sent to our bedrooms, which in my case caused another problem. When I entered the room I was greeted the sight of two naked bodies in the bed. I slurred what had happened and the boy scrambled off the bed and proceeded to leave the room without putting on his clothes. He ran straight into a female teacher who had been summoned to check all the rooms for alcohol.
February 3rd, 2017
In the late 1980s, when I was 18, I lodged with a retired couple in the sleepy town of Budleigh Salterton. Their accommodation was in the upstairs flat of a grand old Victorian house in extensive grounds near where I worked. Mr W was a retired police chief and his wife had been, for much of her working life, a matron at a girls public school They had two children, a girl and a boy, slightly older than me who lived in London. They were both tall, elegantly dressed people and well spoken. Mrs W had shoulder length black hair and mainly wore 1950s style clothing and heels.
When I read the advert for a lodger in the ‘Exeter Express & Echo’ I rang the number and arranged a meeting. I was thrilled as it was five minutes walk from my work. Upon arrival I rang the bell and was invited in. The house was converted into two flats and, as we ascended the stairs, I noticed an ornate oriental style vase half way up on a landing area with various umbrellas, a sturdy walking stick and a crook handled rattan school cane.
I remember the electric shock feeling as I looked at it. Mrs W might have noticed my staring at the vase as she was following me up the stairs. I had been caned twice at school and knew that I had certainly developed a fascination with corporal punishment and especially the cane. When we arrived in the kitchen, I was offered a cup of tea and sat drinking it. I’m sure I was blushing and hardly able to speak, much different from the confident young man who rang the door bell earlier.
January 23rd, 2017
I like many other pupils, I was not enthused by one of my art teachers. She wasn’t particularly pretty, she was overweight and wore horrible long floral dresses with ankle socks and flat leather sandals which she could slip off to wallop the bottom of anyone she deemed to be needing it. Its use was frequent, packed a potent sting and was not solely for boys, as numerous girls, including myself, found out.
In an all-girls art class, I was messing about with two girls opposite. We were throwing a cleaning cloth back and to until I got spotted, just me, not the three of us as it should have been. It didn’t take a genius to work out what was coming; a sore bottom was on the cards for me.
When told to, I placed my blazer on her desk and stood in front of the blackboard while she fastened my skirt to the back of my jumper with a large spring clip. The ‘getting prepared’ ceremony now over, I had to bend over and wait as she lectured the others on how girls should behave before removing the right sandal from her foot.
I’d seen other girls slippered in this manner but this was new to me and boy! When that first smack landed on my left cheek I could feel the tears welling as the sharpness of the sting took effect. The smack of leather across my knickers must have brought joy to the others as they watched me wriggle and squirm and they probably couldn’t wait to see the effect of the next five that were still to come.
January 22nd, 2017
This is a true story based on my own personal experiences. It took place in a country forming part of southern Africa and for whatever reason it was the attractive white girls who were mostly selected for caning, be the misdemeanours real or imaginary. I was lucky as I was caned out there only the once, but my sister, I later discovered, was forced to bend over at least twice. She was a bit cagey about details!
Now, I am a 42 year old married mother of two teenage daughters living in the leafy suburbs of Surrey, England. My sister, who is two years older, and I were lucky enough to have been born into an ‘establishment’ family enjoying many privileges the majority of other girls our age could only envy. We were well brought up, well spoken, well dressed, tall, slim and elegant as well as both of us being told many times we were very pretty.
My father was a high profile public figure here in the UK and in the city where we both attended an up-market private school. I was 15 and my sister 17 when we left England, both at that impressionable age.
One big disadvantage we experienced was, because of our father’s high profile, we were well known as a family and always under scrutiny. Our mother was, in her own way, a little bit snobbish, conscious of our standing in town and at the same time equally prudish. She always insisted when we went out in public we were aware of our postures when, for example, getting into or out of the car, laying on the beach or in a park. ‘You must never let men and especially the locals get a view of your panties, or worse still your honey pot,’ was one of her favourite sayings.
January 21st, 2017
I’ve been researching spanking as I recently had my own first encounter. On reading the posts present on ‘OTD’, I thought I’d be brave and offer you my story. This is a true story and I suppose if ever one would enjoy reading the awakening of someone’s interest in corporal punishment then this is as good a story as any.
I’m a 25 year old teacher. I married my wonderful husband in August of 2016 and quit work at the same time to become a housewife. He is 16 years my senior and quite an eminent classical guitarist. This means a strict regimen of 4 hours a day of practising must occur for him to maintain his wonderful skill. Prior to my moving in, I had not had a true appreciation for his dedication to his art for we’d only been able to see one another on weekends or the odd day I had off.
Moving in has come as quite a shock. He practises for four hours and lectures for 8 hours at a prominent music college, leaving me idle and frankly feeling neglected. I felt duped at first, as though he had concealed what would be a lonely lifestyle for me so as to entice me in and trap me. He’s an authoritarian and very old fashioned. He likes dinner on the table when he gets home and then it’s off to practise. That having been said, he’s very loving and when we’re together nothing could make me happier.
January 7th, 2017
Twice a year we heard the dreaded words: “It’s cross country today, girls.” my heart would sink for I hated it. It was a run round the school and its perimeter, more than a cross country, and something I could easily achieve but didn’t want to. As a sixteen year old running around the school in your knickers didn’t seem cool, so I ducked into a gap where dustbins were stored, knowing the line would pass the other side on its way back.
Not only was the idea not original, I found myself with a bunch of other girls pulling the same stunt. As the gaggle passed the other side, we blended in one at a time, then ran back to the gym for a shower. As we arrived back in the changing rooms, the showers were to the right but Miss W, with a piece of paper in her hand, sent me left before ticking my name off and I found myself in a line consisting of those who had cheated. How she knew, I’ve never worked out but after the last arrived back reprisals began.
One at a time we were called into the gym to bend over the leather buck. Miss W’s thick ruler was raised and cracked hard into an offending backside. We expected her to stop at six, but no, she was making an example of us and didn’t stop till twelve. As the first distraught girl shuffled out of the gym, the rest of us stared in disbelief of what was to come. The second girl took her place and we all moved one step closer to our destiny, of which we could do nothing but wait our turn.
November 28th, 2016
Well, let me tell you about my introduction to The Slipper at school.
I was about thirteen, a wicked age indeed, and with many years of naughtiness behind me, my parents were in despair as to what to do with me. They decided I would fare better in a small private school with tiny class numbers where I could be observed more closely. While corporal punishment was being phased out in some state schools, the private school I was to go to still disciplined their girls this way. I’m sure that influenced my parents’ decision to send me there, as they were firm believers in the rod connecting firmly and regularly with their wilful and disobedient daughter’s backside.
So, on the first day of September, I dressed in the hateful uniform for the first time. Horrible navy knickers that reached my belly button and hugged my cheeks roundly. A stiff white blouse and a black A-line pleated skirt that had to touch my knees AND NO SHORTER! A black cardigan with a yellow piping at the collar and cuffs was par for the hateful course, but the old school tie in the same black and yellow stripe design just paved the way for the matching blazer and the grim school overcoat and heralded the dawn of a dreadful new era for girls school uniforms in general. The hated straw boater with black and yellow ribbons that hung down my back and didn’t quite hide my furious face. There was no getting away from it either. The teachers used to parade the streets of the local area to ensure that their precious girls were dressed correctly on their way to school. Any breaches of this rule were swiftly dealt with by the strict headmistress in morning assembly. So for a little while, I decided to comply.
November 25th, 2016
In the 1970s, when I was around eight years old, it was morning and I was supposed to be getting ready for school, but I was having a sulky week. On Monday, I had been cheeky to both my mum and dad, and surprisingly I had gotten away with it, so I had continued into greater heights of badness. On Tuesday, I stuck my tongue out at our elderly neighbour and nobody said anything.
‘Great, thought I. I can do as I please!’
On Wednesday, my elder sister gave me a pile of my ironed uniforms to put away so I stuffed the whole pile under the bed and went to throw homemade water balloons at the commuters coming home from work instead.
On Thursday morning I was still in my pyjamas long after I had been told to get dressed and ready for school. I heard my mother calling me from the downstairs bathroom. Slamming every door, I went to find out what she wanted.
I slammed open the bathroom door and shouted rudely: “What is it Mother? I’m busy getting ready for school!”
My mother was sitting, as calm as you like, on the side of the bath. Her hair was a nut brown cloud of frizz around her head, one of those bad seventies perms and she had a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a long cigarette in the other.
November 23rd, 2016
I remember it as if it happened yesterday. Scott was my nemesis all through my middle school years. His taunts and name-calling climaxed one day when we were in 9th grade. Scott’s insults in front of my girlfriend called me to action. I challenged him to a fight, and he accepted. We agreed to meet after school on the football field behind the bleachers.
The word got around among the students that there would be a fight after school. By the time I got to the football field a good crowd had assembled. Word must have reached Mr J, the school principal, because he showed up just as Scott and I were pushing one another but before any punches were landed. He marched us up to the office.
It was obvious that Mr J was angry and in a bad mood. He mumbled something about having to miss an important meeting just to ‘deal’ with us.
I knew exactly how we were to be dealt with. It was made clear to us on the very first day of school that anyone caught fighting on campus would be paddled and possibly suspended. I knew this when I challenged Scott to the fight, and I was prepared for the consequences. I freely admitted to Mr J that I challenged Scott to fight and mentioned how Scott had been harassing me. Scott denied the charges and accused me of being verbally abusive to him. Mr J made it clear that even if Scott had been verbally hounding me, it did not give me the right to fight with him. He then said we would each be paddled. I was to get 5 swats for instigating the fight, while Scott was to receive 3 swats as a participant.
November 22nd, 2016
It was history. I was sat at the back as usual for a lesson I hated. This was the last term for we sixteen year olds, before our exams, and Mr Ellis was at his board trying to cram our minds with knowledge. I must have been drifting in my thoughts when there was a crash against the back wall, which brought me back to reality rather quickly. It was the wooden board duster on the floor next to me.
Mr Ellis turned back to his board and, without thinking, I picked up the duster and prepared myself to throw it back. At the point of launch he turned round and saw it travelling back to the front. I was done for and I knew exactly where I was heading next. My unbelieving classmates’ next sight of me would be squirming back in my seat with red tear-stained eyes and a bottom to match, but that would be later.
Mr Ellis was very calm as he told me to stand up and come out to the front. I knew we were heading for a walk along the corridor, and this we did. I was left standing outside the school office for ages. When he reappeared, he walked past me and back towards the classroom. The school secretary came out and she left me standing, hands on head, outside the headmistress’s office.