Thursday, May 15, 2025

 



A lady reached out aftet finding my blog online and was keen to tell me her own story. She is happy for me to use her real name but not the schools. If anyone else wants to add their own thoughts or exoerience please get in touch privacy and discretion is assured at all times 


Elizabeths Story

Can you tell us your first name and which school this occurred at? 

I’m Elizabeth, but everyone called me Liz. It was at an  all-girls school in southern England.


Me. How old were you when this happened?  

I was 16, in 1983. Fifth year.


Me.. Can you describe what led up to it?

It was  after lunch. I’d started smoking to seem grown-up, stealing cigarettes from my dad’s pack. That day, I snuck behind the groundskeeper’s shed by the school field to smoke. The shed was hidden by bushes, so I thought I was safe. I was halfway through a cigarette, coughing proberly, when Mrs. Hargreaves, the deputy headmistress, caught me. She’d been patrolling because of smoking rumors. She saw the cigarette, confiscated it, and told me to grab my bag from the cloakroom and follow her to her office. Walking across the field, I felt everyone staring from the classrooms. In her office, she asked where I got the cigarette. I admitted it was mine, and she lectured me about breaking school rules.


Me.. Who was the teacher that caught you, tell us more about her ? 

Mrs. Hargreaves, deputy headmistress. She was in her 40s, tall, short grey hair, very strict. She handled all discipline.


Me.. Describe how you felt being caught? 

I was scared and ashamed. My heart was pounding, hands shaking. I’d never been in serious trouble, and I knew I was in deep. I dreaded my parents finding out.


Me.. What happened next?  

Mrs. Hargreaves sent me back to class but told me to return to her office at the end of the day.


Me.. When did you know you would be caned? 

At 4 p.m., I went back to her office. She said she’d consulted the headmistress, and I’d receive four strokes of the cane the next morning for smoking. She told me to wear my PE shorts and report at 8 a.m.


Me.. How did you feel? 

I was terrified. I didn’t sleep, dreading the pain and embarrassment. I felt stupid for smoking and scared of how it would hurt.





Me.. Describe the caning and what were you wearing?  

I wore my PE shorts, grey, thin, and tight, ending at mid-thigh, with a white blouse. At 8 a.m., I reported to Mrs. Hargreaves’ office. A thin cane, about three feet long, was on her desk. She told me to bend over a chair, grip the seat, and count each stroke aloud. I bent over, the shorts stretched tight across my bottom, feeling exposed.  


The first stroke hit across the middle of my bottom. It stung sharply. I said, “One.” The second landed just below, burning more. I said, “Two.” The third struck the lower part, near my thighs, very painful. I said, “Three.” The fourth, diagonal across the others, was the hardest. I said, “Four,” tears in my eyes. Each stroke left a welt, felt through the shorts. She told me to stand and said the punishment was over. I left, my bottom sore, walking carefully.


Me.. How did you feel after?  

I was sore and embarrassed. Sitting hurt all day, and I kept my head down, sure everyone knew. I felt guilty but relieved it was done. The welts faded in a week.


Me.. How did you feel about the person that caned you?  

I didn’t hate Mrs. Hargreaves. She was strict but fair, just doing her job. I respected her consistency, even if I feared her.


Me.. How do you feel about it when you look back on it all these years later, and why and how did you come across my story blog?  

At 58, in 2025, I see the caning as harsh but effective. It stopped me from smoking for good. In the 1980s, it was normal at schools like mine, but now I think it was too severe—detention could’ve worked without the pain and shame. It was humiliating, feeling so exposed, and I wouldn’t want my kids punished like that. Still, it taught me to avoid dumb choices, and I’m not bitter; it was a different time. I found your blog last month while searching online about my old school, curious about others’ experiences. Your posts on school discipline brought back that day, so I shared my story. It’s strange to look back, but it shaped who I am. 

  






A story based on three people I know and maybe you do to? 

They reside on X and are the most lovely of  people. I know they would love to hear your comments on what is a fairly regular occurance in their household. I hope you enjoy.


Tale of Cheek and Consequences


Mike, Bea, and Sophie shared a creaky Victorian house on the edge of a quiet English town. Mike, a stern 45-year-old accountant, ruled the household with a firm hand. His wife, Bea, 42, was a sophisticated woman with a mischievous streak, her elegant demeanor hiding a playful side. Sophie, their 23-year-old surrogate niece, lived with them while studying at university. Her wavy brown hair and cheeky grin brought youthful mischief to the house, often testing Mike’s rules and Bea’s patience.


It was a sunny Saturday morning, the kitchen smelling of coffee and toast. Sophie, in a loose skirt and t-shirt, was teasing Bea, who was trying to read the newspaper, glasses perched on her nose. Sophie flicked toast crusts at Bea, giggling as one landed in her perfectly styled hair. “Sophie, darling, you’re pushing it,” Bea warned, her tone light but sharp, a smile twitching. Sophie, undeterred, mimicked Bea’s posh accent, “Oh, darling, do behave,” and flicked another crumb onto Bea’s nose. Mike, polishing his glasses at the table, raised an eyebrow but stayed silent, his stern look a warning Sophie ignored.


The teasing peaked when Sophie “accidentally” spilled orange juice on Bea’s newspaper, grinning cheekily. Bea’s patience snapped. She stood, chair scraping, and fixed Sophie with a half-amused, half-exasperated stare. “Right, young lady. My bedroom. Now.” Sophie’s grin wavered, but she sauntered out, winking, thinking Bea was bluffing.


In Bea’s plush bedroom, with floral curtains and a mahogany dresser, Sophie’s bravado faded. Bea shut the door with a click, picked up a flat, leather-soled slipper, and pointed to the bed. “Over my knee,” she said, sitting, her silk blouse rustling. Sophie hesitated, brown eyes wide, but Bea’s raised eyebrow silenced her. With a dramatic sigh, Sophie draped herself over Bea’s lap, her skirt riding up. Bea folded the skirt up, revealing Sophie’s white knickers, snug over her pert bottom. “You’ve earned this,” Bea said, her tone mock-serious, a smile lurking.


The first *whack* of the slipper cracked across Sophie’s right cheek. She yelped, more from shock than pain, legs kicking. “Ow, Bea!” she protested. The second *smack* hit her left cheek, leaving a pink flush around her knickers. Sophie squirmed, her wavy hair bouncing, but Bea’s hand kept her in place. The slipper fell steadily, each *crack* echoing, alternating cheeks. Sophie’s bottom reddened, the pink deepening to rose. By the tenth *whack*, she was gasping, her cheeky grin gone, hands clutching the bedspread. The slipper’s leather stung fiercely, her knickers offering little protection. Her bottom quivered with each hit, the flesh wobbling slightly. 


Bea delivered twenty firm smacks, pausing to let the sting sink in. Sophie’s grunts turned to whines, then “Ouch, Bea, please!” Her bottom bounced, the redness spreading to her thighs. By thirty smacks, it was glowing red, hot, with faint slipper marks. Sophie’s legs kicked frantically, the sting building to a fiery peak. Bea teased, “No more toast-flicking,” landing a crisp *whack* that made Sophie squeal. 


The door creaked, and Mike poked his head in, smirking at Sophie’s predicament. “Bea, give her a few from me,” he said. “She didn’t clean the dishes last night—kitchen’s a mess.” Sophie, still over Bea’s knee, protested, “Not just me!” but Bea chuckled and delivered six sharp *whacks*, three per cheek, each making Sophie yelp louder, her bottom jiggling, now a deep red. Tears pricked her eyes, her cheekiness chastened. Bea set the slipper down, helped Sophie up, and said, “Behave.” Sophie flopped face-down on the bed, clutching her burning bottom, muttering, “Not fair,” too sore to argue.


Bea left, slipper in hand, and found Mike in the hallway. Sheepishly, she admitted, “Actually, Mike, I left those dishes too. Got distracted.” Mike’s eyes narrowed, a glint of amusement in his stern gaze. “Is that so?” he said, taking the slipper. “Dining room, now.” Bea’s poise faltered, her cheeks flushing. “Mike, it was just a few plates!” she laughed, but he marched her to the dining room, pulled out a chair, and sat, patting his knee.


Bea, in tight beige slacks that fit like a second skin, sighed theatrically but bent over Mike’s lap, hands on the floor. Mike lifted her blouse slightly, the slacks stretched taut over her shapely bottom. The first *crack* of the slipper landed across both cheeks. Bea gasped, her bottom wobbling under the tight fabric. The sting was sharp, the slacks offering no protection. Mike delivered a second *smack*, then a third, each making Bea’s bottom bounce and quiver, the fabric accentuating every jiggle. By the tenth, she was squirming, her poise crumbling into yelps. “Mike, enough!” she protested, but he grunted, “Not yet.”


He continued, twenty, then thirty smacks, alternating cheeks. Bea’s bottom jiggled wildly, the redness glowing through the slacks. Her legs kicked, heels tapping, her “Ows” and “Ouchs” filling the room. By forty smacks, her bottom was a furnace, bouncing with each *pop*, the tight slacks showing every welt. Mike added ten more, each making her bottom wobble dramatically, her protests turning to gasps. He set the slipper down, helped her up, and said, “Do the dishes next time.” Bea, rubbing her blazing bottom, gave a mock glare but smiled sheepishly, her face matching her backside’s glow.


Meanwhile, Sophie, her bottom still throbbing, crept to her bedroom door, cracking it open. Hearing Bea’s yelps and the *smack* of the slipper, she stifled a giggle, her cheeky grin returning. The irony of Bea’s punishment for the dishes was delicious. She winced at each *pop* but smiled, picturing Bea’s bouncing bottom. 


A few minutes later, Mike’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Bea! Sophie! Get in here!” Both women, bottoms hot and sore, shuffled in, wincing with each step. Mike stood by the sink, slipper in hand, his stern face softened by a hint of amusement. “You two,” he said, pointing the slipper, “leaving dishes like that is unacceptable. Next time, you’ll both feel the cane—six strokes each, no discussion.” He waved the slipper for emphasis. Sophie’s eyes widened, her grin vanishing at the thought of the cane’s sting on her already tender bottom; she shifted uncomfortably, hands hovering over her skirt, imagining worse pain. Bea, still rubbing her sore backside through her slacks, swallowed hard, her mischievous spark dimmed by the threat. “Understood, Mike,” she muttered, exchanging a glance with Sophie, who nodded meekly. They both knew Mike wasn’t bluffing, and the prospect of the cane left them unusually subdued, though Sophie couldn’t resist a tiny smirk at Bea’s chastened expression.

Sunday, May 11, 2025

Bouncing Bottoms!


 At the esteemed Primrose Hall Boarding School for Girls, nestled in the rolling hills of Dorset, two mischievous students, Lavinia "Vinny" Darkbloom and Gertie "Ginger" Specklebottom, were notorious for their rebellious antics. Vinny was a striking girl with dark hair piled high on her head in a messy bun that looked like a bird’s nest after a storm, while Ginger sported ginger plaits that swung like fiery pendulums and a pair of round glasses that magnified her cheeky grin. Both girls wore the school’s tight grey trousers, a uniform piece so thin it squeaked with every step, accentuating their plump bottoms in a way that made them giggle with delight. The trousers clung to their wobbly curves like clingfilm on a pair of puddings, earning them the nickname "The Squeaky Sinners" among their peers.


One dreary Monday evening, as the girls lounged in their dorm room pretending to study poetry (but actually playing a game of who could recite the most lines of "Jabberwocky" in a silly voice), Vinny had a naughty idea. “Ginger, I’m bored to bits! Let’s start a secret club—a smoking club! We’ll call it the Smoky Sinners Society!” she declared, her dark bun wobbling as she bounced with excitement.


Ginger adjusted her glasses, her ginger plaits swinging as she clapped her hands in glee. “Oh, Vinny, you’re a proper genius! We’ll puff away like bandits! But where’ll we get the fags?”


Vinny grinned and produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes she’d swiped from the caretaker’s toolbox during a sneaky raid. “Mr. Fumblethumbs won’t notice—he’s too busy arguing with the lawnmower.”


The girls chose the old art supply closet on the second floor as their hideout, a cramped space that smelled of paint and turpentine. They turned it into their den, dragging in a tattered canvas, a wobbly stool they dubbed “The Smoky Throne,” and a cracked paint can for an ashtray. Every night after curfew, they’d sneak through the halls, Vinny’s dark bun bobbing like a buoy in a storm, Ginger’s plaits swinging like fiery metronomes, their tight trousers squeaking and their plump bottoms bouncing like two overfilled balloons as they tiptoed past the sleeping prefects.


In the art closet, the Smoky Sinners Society came to life. Vinny, always the dramatic one, would light her cigarette with a theatrical flourish, pretending she was a mysterious artist in a smoky Parisian café. She’d take a long, exaggerated drag, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk with a stash of nuts, then blow out a wobbly smoke ring that looked more like a squashed jellybean. “Look at me, Ginger! I’m a bohemian painter!” she’d croon, striking a pose that made her trousers squeak like a creaky door and her dark bun wobble precariously.


Ginger, meanwhile, was a giggling wreck. She’d inhale too deeply, her eyes watering behind her glasses as she coughed up a storm, the smoke swirling around her like a foggy halo, her ginger plaits bouncing with each hack. “Blimey, Vinny, this stings worse than Miss Grumbleguts’ boiled sprouts!” she’d splutter, flapping her hands as if shooing away a swarm of bees. The tiny closet filled with a thick haze, the girls laughing through the fog, their plump bottoms jiggling on the stool as they passed the cigarette back and forth. They’d take turns blowing smoke out a tiny vent, pretending they were witches brewing a smoky potion, their giggles bouncing off the walls.


As the haze thickened, Vinny leaned back, her dark bun tilting like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and whispered, “Don’t you feel so naughty, Ginger? We’re proper rebels now!” Ginger nodded, pushing up her glasses, her plaits swinging as she grinned. “Oh aye, Vinny! But what if we get caught? Headmaster Whackbottom’ll tan our hides!” Vinny smirked, taking another drag, the smoke curling around her like a mischievous halo. “He’ll probably slipper us till our bottoms glow like the sun! But it’s worth it for the thrill, isn’t it?” Ginger giggled, her glasses fogging up from the smoke. “Too right! Let’s just hope he doesn’t catch us red-handed!”


For a week, the Smoky Sinners Society thrived in secret, their smoking sessions growing sillier by the night. They even made up a club chant: “Smoky Sinners, puff puff puff—light ‘em up, we’re tough enough!” But their luck ran out one stormy Tuesday night. Headmaster Whackbottom, a stern man with a face like a grumpy badger and a slipper that was the stuff of nightmares, had been suspicious for days. He’d caught a whiff of smoke while inspecting the second floor for a squeaky floorboard and followed the scent straight to the art closet.


As Vinny blew a particularly wonky smoke ring—more of a smoke scribble—and Ginger coughed so hard her glasses slipped down her nose and her plaits flew wildly, the closet door burst open with a crash. There stood Headmaster Whackbottom, his slipper in hand, his eyes blazing with fury. “What in Primrose Hall’s name is going on here?!” he roared, his voice shaking the paint cans on the shelves.


The girls froze, the cigarette dangling from Ginger’s fingers like a tiny white flag of surrender. Vinny tried to hide behind the canvas, but her dark bun and plump bottom stuck out like a beacon, the tight trousers giving her away. “We’re… um… painting with… smoke effects?” Ginger stammered, her voice as convincing as a paper boat in a tsunami.


“Painting, my foot!” Whackbottom bellowed, snatching the cigarette and grinding it under his boot. “You two are in for a slippering that’ll make your bottoms glow like beacons! To my office, NOW!”


As the girls trudged to the Headmaster’s office, their tight trousers squeaking a sorrowful tune with every step, Whackbottom followed behind, his slipper gripped tightly in his hand. He watched their plump bottoms wobble ahead of him, Vinny’s dark bun bobbing like a storm-tossed ship, Ginger’s plaits swinging like fiery pendulums, the tight grey fabric accentuating every bounce. *These two are the naughtiest girls I’ve ever seen,* he thought, his eyes narrowing. *Always up to no good, flaunting their rebellion in those ridiculous trousers. Smoking, of all things—it’s a disgrace to Primrose Hall’s values!* He shook his head, a grim satisfaction settling in. *A good slippering will teach them a lesson they won’t forget. Those bottoms are practically begging for discipline.*


When they reached the office—a stern room with dark wood paneling, a portrait of a frowning founder, and a wide desk that had seen countless punishments—Whackbottom pointed to the desk. “Bend over, side by side! You’ll each get thirty whacks, and I’ll make sure you regret every puff!” The girls bent over the desk, their tight trousers stretched to their limit, their plump bottoms presented like two grey moons side by side, Vinny’s dark bun tilting comically to one side, Ginger’s plaits dangling over the desk, her glasses slipping down her nose. Whackbottom’s eyes gleamed with stern intent as he surveyed the scene. *Perfect targets for a proper lesson,* he thought, gripping the slipper—a fearsome black beast, worn from years of discipline. *I’ll slipper them to great effect—discipline must be upheld, and these two will be a shining example.*


He started with Vinny, raising the slipper and bringing it down with a thunderous THWACK! Vinny yelped, her bottom wobbling like a jelly in a hurricane, her dark bun bouncing as the sound of the slipper echoed like a drumbeat. “Ouch! My poor cheeks—they’re too artistic for this!” she wailed, earning a glare from Whackbottom. THWACK! He moved to Ginger, the slipper landing with a resounding SMACK! Ginger squealed, her plaits swinging wildly, her glasses fogging up as her bottom jiggled like a blancmange in a storm. “Ow! My poor specs—they’re steaming up!” she cried, the crowd of imaginary spectators in her mind giggling at her plight.


THWACK! SMACK! THWACK! SMACK! Whackbottom alternated between the girls, the slipper raining down in a rhythmic assault, each strike sending their bottoms bouncing, the tight trousers squeaking like a chorus of mice. By the fifteenth whack, Vinny was reciting a made-up poem to cope: “Oh, my bottom’s red and sore, I’ll never smoke no more, I swear! I’ll paint with brushes, not with smoke, I’ll even hug a bloke!” Ginger, meanwhile, was babbling nonsense: “I’ll join the chess club! I’ll scrub the halls! I’ll even eat Miss Grumbleguts’ sprouts!”


THWACK! SMACK! THWACK! SMACK! Whackbottom continued, his arm swinging like a metronome, the slipper smacking their bottoms with a rhythm that could’ve set a dance tune. *This is for the good of the school,* he thought, a stern satisfaction in his chest. *Smoking is a filthy habit—unladylike and dangerous. A slippering like this will burn the lesson into their minds.* By the twenty-fifth whack, their bottoms were glowing like twin suns, the thin grey fabric practically steaming from the heat. THWACK! SMACK! THWACK! SMACK! The final five were the hardest, each one leaving their bottoms a fiery red, their trousers squeaking a defeated tune as they stood up, tears in their eyes, rubbing their sore backsides.


When it was over, the girls stood side by side, their plump bottoms blazing, their tight trousers now even tighter from the swelling. Whackbottom glared at them, slipper still in hand, his thoughts resolute. *Let’s hope that did the trick,* he mused. *If not, my slipper will be ready for an encore.* “Let this be a lesson—no more smoking, or I’ll tan your hides so hard you’ll be standing through lessons till summer!”


Before heading back to their dorm, Vinny and Ginger made a detour to the nearest bathroom, their bottoms too sore to ignore. They locked the door and stood side by side in front of the mirror, gingerly pulling down their tight trousers to inspect the damage. Vinny winced as she twisted to look, her dark bun wobbling as she gasped. “Blimey, Ginger, look at this! My bottom’s redder than a ripe tomato! It’s like a flaming sunset back there!” Ginger, adjusting her glasses and craning her neck, let out a squeak as she saw her own backside. “Cor, Vinny, mine’s the same! It’s all blotchy like a strawberry patch, and—oh, look at those slipper marks! They’re like little red stripes—Headmaster Whackbottom’s left his signature!” The girls giggled through their winces, poking at their sore bottoms and comparing the shades of red, their trousers squeaking as they pulled them back up. “We look like we’ve sat on a hot stove!” Vinny said, and Ginger nodded, her plaits bouncing. “Aye, but we’re still the naughtiest girls in Primrose Hall, aren’t we?”


The next morning, the Squeaky Sinners faced a new challenge: sitting through Miss Grumbleguts’ history lesson on the Norman Conquest. The classroom was filled with rows of hard wooden desks, and the other girls were already whispering about the duo’s punishment, some with sympathy, others with barely concealed giggles. Vinny and Ginger hobbled in, their plump bottoms still glowing from the night before, their tight trousers squeaking a mournful tune with every step. They eyed their seats with dread, knowing their fiery backsides were in for a rough time.


Vinny went first, lowering herself gingerly, her dark bun tilting as her face contorted into a comical grimace, as if she were sitting on a bed of nettles. The moment her bottom touched the seat, she let out a high-pitched squeal, her trousers squeaking so loudly it sounded like a rubber duck being stepped on. “YOWCH! It’s like sitting on a griddle!” she yelped, shooting back up and rubbing her bottom, her plump cheeks wobbling as she hopped from foot to foot. The other girls burst into laughter, some snorting into their textbooks, others whispering, “Look at Vinny—she’s doing the hot-bottom hop!” Miss Grumbleguts, a dour woman with a face like a pickled lemon, glared over her spectacles. “Miss Darkbloom, sit down this instant, or I’ll send you back to the Headmaster!” Vinny groaned, attempting to sit again, but she hovered an inch above the seat, her bottom too sore to make full contact, her trousers squeaking a pitiful tune.


Ginger, determined not to be outdone, tried a different approach. She grabbed her scarf, folded it into a tiny cushion, and placed it on the seat with a flourish. “Behold, my throne of mercy!” she declared, but as she lowered herself, the scarf slipped out from under her, and her bottom hit the desk with a loud THUD. “OWIE!” she howled, her glasses fogging up, her plaits swinging as her trousers squeaked like a kazoo orchestra, her plump bottom bouncing as she leapt up, clutching her backside. “It’s like sitting on a blacksmith’s forge!” she wailed, doing a little dance of pain, her face as red as her bottom. The other girls roared with laughter, some clapping, others mimicking her dance, one cheeky third-year shouting, “Ginger’s doing the Squeaky Shuffle!” Miss Grumbleguts slammed her ruler on the desk. “Miss Specklebottom, enough of this nonsense! Sit down, or I’ll have you writing lines till supper!” Ginger whimpered, hovering over her seat like Vinny, her bottom refusing to make full contact with the hard wood.


The rest of the class was a mix of giggles and stern reprimands, the other girls whispering and snickering every time Vinny or Ginger shifted, their trousers squeaking a symphony of pain. Miss Grumbleguts, though visibly annoyed, couldn’t help but smirk at their predicament, muttering under her breath, “Serves them right for smoking—let’s see if they try that again!” By the end of the lesson, Vinny and Ginger were still hovering, their bottoms too sore to sit properly, vowing to steer clear of cigarettes. That night, as they lay on their stomachs in the dorm, Ginger whispered, “Vinny, next time, let’s start a secret doodling club. Less smoke, more sketches!” And with that, the girls burst into quiet giggles, their squeaky trousers serenading the night with a defeated tune.

  http://sohpiespankstories.blogspot.com/ Highly recommend this young lady and her writing.  She’s naughty and a lovely girl who knows a gre...