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.
March 23rd, 2017
Annette’s father was posted to a new, very senior Establishment role to one of the former Commonwealth countries in Asia, which meant that the whole family was going to be uprooted. Annette and her sister were both apprehensive and a bit excited about such a big move, especially as it meant leaving their current highly respected school in England and starting at a new school in The Far East. The new school was apparently run by Nuns and was where the vast majority of well-to-do ex-patriots went.
Annette’s parents decided the move would take place over the summer holidays which would allow time for the container with their belongings to be shipped. Leaving their old school for the last time was a sad day as Annette said goodbye to many of her friends. However, there was the summer holidays to look forward to and the big move to Asia. As ever, holidays go quickly and the whole family were soon on the plane heading for the Far East from Heathrow. The accommodation that had been arranged for the family by their father’s office was wonderful and soon after came the day when they would start at their new school.
Everyone seemed very nice and they were both made very welcome by their new school chums and the teachers. However, one thing was very clear; discipline was upheld in a much stronger way than back at their old school and it was not long before one of the boys in Annette’s class was summoned to the front, told to face away from the class, drop his trousers and bend over the form table with his bottom on show to everyone. The teacher then went to her cupboard and selected a long cane and methodically thrashed his bottom six times.
March 20th, 2017
The class was absolutely quiet as we waited in anticipation of what was going to happen. The silence was broken by the swish of the cane through the air, followed by a loud thwack as it landed across the short trousers of the boy bent over in front us.
Three more thwacks followed before he was told to stand up and go back to his desk. He got up, red and flushed in the face, tears falling down his cheeks. He walked slowly back to his desk where he sat and cried for several minutes.
This was not an uncommon event in my final year at primary school in south London in the early 1950s. The school was an independent fee-paying one and the class, which was being prepared for the eleven plus exams, was taken by the Headmaster. He was an excellent teacher but demanded complete attention and good behaviour, which he achieved largely by the use of the cane.
I can’t remember much about the implement itself except that it was straight rather than having a crooked end, quite thin, very swishy and it hurt a lot. I never understood why, as in theory we wore a lot of protection. Our short trousers were made of quite thick material and were often lined. They also had back pockets which provided an extra layer. Underneath, were a further three layers of shirt, vest and pants which, in those days, were white shorts.
March 20th, 2017
I was 16 at the time. It was in winter and there was plenty of snow on the ground. I had been out with the lads and, lads being lads, we all liked a bit of carry on so we starting chucking snowballs at people’s doors, especially this lady who used to chase us around the estate.
Anyway, this night I got caught by her, and she knew my aunt (I didn’t know that at the time) so she took me home and told my aunt what I had done. My aunt invited Ms H in.
The story unfolded on how long this had been going on, so my aunt told Ms H she could belt my backside if she wanted to. My aunt told her that I normally got 4 strokes of the belt. Ms H said I deserved more than four, so my aunt and Ms H both agreed I would get more and Ms H was going to do it.
I was told to go and get the chair and the belt. I came back and bent over the chair without lowering my trousers and underpants.
“Oh no,” Ms H said. “Remove your trousers and underwear. You are going to have the belting of your life!”
So, with trousers and pants removed I bent over the chair. Ms H started and oh boy the first one hit the spot. She put some force behind it and the next 3 too. Thinking it was over, I got up and rubbed my now smarting bum.
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 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.