Pamelas Weekend

Pamela Sprague quivered fearfully as Miss Skillings, Principal of Fundamental School for Girls, picked up the Senior Paddle and glanced meaningfully at Miss Tracy, the English teacher.

Pamela was held firmly by Miss Tracy, face down, on the six-foot long sturdy wooden bench. Her shoes had been removed. Her Scottish kilt-style knee-length skirt was raised in back and fastened to her pink blouse with safety pins. It was hoisted so far that a thin line of bare flesh appeared at her waist above her full cotton underpants. On her legs, she wore cotton knee socks.

Miss Skillings admired the smooth wooden surface of the formidable instrument of punishment, and thought to herself how good it was that troublesome girls were dealt with in this way.

She administered three or four gentle but foreboding pats to Pamela Sprague’s posterior and the girl reacted with a gasp of anticipation. Miss Tracy pressed on Pamela’s small of back so hard that the girl felt as if her navel was glued to the surface of the bench. Below and to the rear, Pamela’s buttocks thrust provocatively out and back and (in this position) upwards, filling her panties so tightly that they seemed ready to burst. Her bottom trembled nervously, making ripples in the fabric that betrayed her growing apprehension.

Eighteen year old Pamela was beginning her final year at Fundamental High School. She had never experienced the Senior Paddle – it was not used on lower class girls – but she had heard scary reports about it. The paddle was a traditional fraternity paddle, that – in past years – had been used in hazing ceremonies and brought many a rugged male student to tears, even when administered through thick woolen trousers. It was large and solid, made of hard mahogany, varnished to such a shine that you could see your reflection in its surface.

“Twenty strokes,” said Miss Skillings. “Pamela, I warn you to keep your hands out of the way. Not only will I award extra strokes for any interference on your part, but this paddle could injure your hands if I should make a mistake and hit them.”

Pamela’s arms were at her side, her fingers clawing nervously.

The paddle lifted. Miss Tracy bore down harder. Pamela’s bottom clenched rigid in dismay.

The paddle attacked ferociously, flattening the soft flesh, covering almost the entire surface of both buttocks in a single burning, scalding stroke that drew a squeal from the girl and set her bottom into frantic agitations to try to cope with the pain.

“One,” counted Miss Tracy, calmly, with no emotion in her voice.

As Pamela struggled to cope with the pain, her mind flashed back, just as her disciplinarian intended, to the incident that had led to this.

Pamela was in the locker room, holding a bath towel that was wet from drying herself from her shower. She was naked, but so was snotty Eleanor Higgins, who had made the mistake of challenging Pamela to a towel fight. Now Eleanor’s body was decorated with red blotches, while Pamela had barely a mark on her. Eleanor cowered in the corner, her own towel dropped on the floor, her hands darting from breasts to loins in an attempt to protect herself, while Pamela hefted her towel and scrutinized the quivering girl, preparing to strike quickly at a tender unprotected place.

“THWACK” High on Eleanor’s right thigh front an ugly weal formed.

“Two.” The teacher’s voice was barely more than a whisper. CRACK!! The paddle loudly and painfully brought Pamela back to the present. Her barely protected rear squirmed in anguish. “OW!”

In the locker room, Pamela’s friend Joan, herself clad only in underwear, darted in quickly beside and then behind Eleanor, grabbing the cowering girl’s hands and pinning them against her hips. Eleanor struggled in the big girl’s grasp, her breasts bobbing, and Pamela, grinning, hefted the towel and tried to decide which nipple looked most inviting.

“THWACK” Eleanor screamed as her breast bounced and reverberated with the pain.

“Turn her around,” said Pamela to Joan and in a second she was presented with Eleanor’s rounded rear.

“THWACK” the towel struck the frantically clenched crevice.

“Three,” CRACK!! “YEEOOOHH!” Pamela’s attention was yet again called back from her moment of bullying triumph to the retribution of the present, as the paddle demanded her undivided attention.

“THWACK: the towel struck across the shimmying expanse of fatty cheek. Eleanor’s cry of pain was interrupted by an obscene “SPANK,” as Pamela felt a burning flame across her own bare bottom and spun around in fear to look into the frowning eyes of the gym teacher who stood there glaring, her sturdy palm visibly pink from the blow it had inflicted.

“Four.” CRACK!! “YOOOW! PLEASE!” Pamela forgot her short lived victory.

The strokes that followed were carefully timed and measured. They fell slowly, about six per minute. They fell inexorably, each more severe than the one before. Miss Tracy counted each one. Pamela’s underpants, like female jogger’s shorts, stretched and pulled this way and that. Pamela sobbed uncontrollably, unable to see through her tears.

Between whacks, Miss Skillings studied the frantically turbulent female bottom. At the base of the panties, where they just failed to cover the junction of buttock and thigh, she could detect a growing angry redness. These panties provided very little protection, but they did give some. Without them, the strokes would be smarter, sharper, striking directly at the tender full-curved skin. Miss Skillings wished she could see, instead of thin cotton twisting and heaving, bare youthful flesh cringing and reddening.

Pamela’s hands clutched anxiously at her hips, fingernails scratching and denting her flesh.

For Pamela, this was a new and different punishment – and she did not appreciate the difference: The paddle was as hard as mom’s hairbrush, but it covered so much more of her! With the hairbrush (or mom’s sturdy palm – or any of mom’s other spanking implements), she was always wondering where the next blow would land. With the paddle, Miss Skillings might attack one part of her seat more furiously than another (she did this by varying the angle at which she wielded the paddle-blade), but no part of her could escape being punished by each and every blow.

The strokes felt as if they were coming all the way from the ceiling, attacking full at the outermost jut of her rear, making the flesh smart and burn. Angry pinkness could be detected, like a soft glow, through the thin white cotton. Each time the paddle was raised again, her throbbing, momentarily flattened cheeks sprang back into shape, as if eager for more.

As she gasped and struggled with the pain, Pamela remembered the words of her mother, and thought of what she would say, and do:

“Any time you’re punished at school,” Mom decreed,

“you’ll get another licking at home – and TWICE as hard!”

The tenth stroke was different. It swooped in sideways. The swing must have started around her feet and it travelled briskly, parallel to her threshing legs, gaining velocity until it attacked low on both buttocks, biting her fiercely where she sat down.

“Ten,” whispered Miss Tracy.

Pamela could not control her hands. Both of them flew back to her pantied seat, ignoring Miss Skillings’ admonitions, desperately trying to rub the pain away.

“Hold her arms,” ordered Miss Skillings. Miss Tracy grabbed both of Pamela’s struggling wrists and held them firmly crossed over the small of the girl’s back, pushing the busy fingers into spine and ribs.

“Resume the count at five,” said Miss Skillings, and Pamela moaned.

Throughout the interminable paddling, Pamela’s fingers were almost as agitated as her bottom – so much so that Miss Skillings at one point threatened to restart the punishment from the beginning if her hands should break free.

When it was finally over, they gave her a few moments to compose herself. Pamela stood, unable to sit, with her hands gingerly attempting to soothe her scalded seat, her fingers searching in vain for a spot that was not hot and stinging. Her long hair, that reached to the middle of her back, hung dishevelled over a face wet with tears. Her long dangly earrings tinkled as she sobbed.

She barely paid attention as Eleanor was led in to take her place on the bench, while Joan waited her turn outside.

Pamela hobbled home. Her rump, as it always did, swung provocatively as she walked. Today, with each swing of her hips, she could feel the smart in her rear – an aching smart that would not go away, that reminded her of what she had been through and promised worse to come at home.

She wondered how she could bring herself to tell Mom, and then she thought of how dangerous it would be not to tell her. She wondered how Mom could possibly succeed in spanking “twice as hard” as what she had just received – but then she thought that Mom was very good at that.

Mrs. Sprague had been widowed at an early age. She had been left with two daughters: Pamela, now eighteen, and Susan, twenty-two. She worried about her girls. She herself had been brought up strictly. Her own father had been a stern disciplinarian who did not allow her to get away with anything. She fretted that, with no firm male hand available, they would not receive proper discipline. But she resolved to make up for it, to take on this job that she had always thought should properly be handled by a man. She sent Susan and Pamela to the strictest schools. She tolerated no nonsense at home. And, most importantly, she systematically set about learning how to spank.

She acquired a small collection of books on the subject, and a larger collection of punishment instruments.

The girls could testify, from painful past and present experience, that she had learned very well!

They also learned that Mom became more, not less demanding as they grew up. Susan, in fact, returned home after four years in college to take a highly skilled office job, only to find that she was still subject to corporal chastisement, just as if she had never been away!

But for all her instruments, Mrs. Sprague never gave up handspanking. There was a mother-daughter intimacy about it that she liked. And she knew how to do it with scorching thoroughness – the phrase “just a little hand-spanking” never entered the girls’ vocabulary.

Pamela wondered what she would get tonight – at least Mom didn’t have a paddle! Mom liked to administer these “home supplements”, as she called them, as soon as possible after the school punishment. However, she would allow a daughter to postpone the inevitable for as long as forty-eight hours, but at a price: six smacks of the maternal palm across the front, six more across the back, and six more across the inside – of each bare thigh. It stung like blazes – Mom called it a “thigh-fry.” The one time Pamela had agreed to it, she wished she hadn’t.

At dinner, Pamela still wore her kilt and blouse. She wasn’t the sort who had to change her clothes many times a day. Susan did not change either. She wore her office clothes to dinner: business suit, pantie-hose, and a starched white blouse.

Pamela sat down gingerly, opposite her Mom and next to her sister, and tried to summon the courage to confess.

She looked at Mom. Her mother was still quite youthful in appearance. She looked great, even in the simple house dress she was wearing. She loved her daughters with a caring tenderness that more than made up for her disciplinary harshness.

Pamela greeted her mother warmly and looked into her eyes. Her mother looked back at her with love. Pamela was just about to make her confession, when Susan abruptly started up a conversation about the people at work.

Susan had a lot to say, but Pamela hardly heard it. Throughout the meal, she squirmed uneasily, often mentally measuring the warmth still in her bottom. Her sister’s talkativeness was an excuse to procrastinate, she knew, but breaking in to admit her sin would be so humiliating. And she had already been punished so thoroughly.

Would her mother really punish her again?

Yes, she would.

But Pamela’s bottom was still so hot and smarting that the gentlest swat would be agony.

She was so preoccupied with the fate of her bottom that she hardly listened to anything Susan said – nor did she notice the anxious edge to her sister’s babbling.

“May I speak to you alone, Mom?” Susan asked as the meal concluded.

The two went off upstairs to Mrs. Sprague’s bedroom, leaving Pamela feeling uncomfortably curious about what might have been on Susan’s mind – that made her now want to speak to her mother in private after talking constantly throughout the meal. Pamela sat alone at the empty table, wondering if she might have some small chance of escaping maternal wrath altogether. Should she try it? Did she dare not tell her mother?

Then she started to worry about her homework – even though it was Friday night.

She glanced at her watch.

At 7:45, when Mom and Susan had been gone about ten minutes, Pamela heard the distinct sound of a SLAP! coming from the upstairs bedroom.

There was no mistaking that sound. Susan was getting a spanking!

SLAP! SLAP! The spanking continued. The slaps fell briskly, yet with no fixed tempo so that neither Pamela nor her no-doubt-smarting sister could have any idea when the next was coming. Her curiosity aroused, mixed with anguished memories of the many times when she had been in her sister’s place, Pamela went upstairs to her own room, next to her mother’s, where she could hear better.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! The smacks were louder here. Susan was getting it bare!

At 7:50, the spanking sounds began to be accompanied by mild blubbering. This first whimper was immediately followed by a prolonged volley of hard crackling slaps that lasted – according to the sweep second hand of Pamela’s watch – a full 80 seconds. From that point on, Susan sobbed uncontrollably, and the spanks became louder than ever.

Pamela wondered what it was Susan might have done. Then she recalled Susan saying that she had gotten a little tipsy at an office party a week ago.

But how could her mother have found out about that?

At 7:56, the spanking stopped, with a final explosive burst of smacks. Pamela heard movement in the room: a chair scraped gently across the wooden floor. Neither Susan nor Mom went to the door.

At 8:00, there emerged from the room a sound like a gentle “thwick” followed by a loud “OUCH!” from Susan.

“Thwick.” A desperate “OW!”

“Thwick.” A pleading “Mother, it hurts!”

“Thwick.” “Please, No!”

In all, there were some twenty-five “Thwick”s, followed by increasingly agitated shrieks, moans, and pleadings for mercy. At the end, Susan broke into long, convulsive sobs.

A few minutes later, Susan, obviously expecting sympathy, hobbled into Pamela’s bedroom, barefoot, wearing only her blouse, slip, and – Pamela presumed – underwear. With one hand, Susan carried her business suit, pantie hose, and shoes. The other hand was clutched frantically at her bottom. Tears streamed down her face. Her office makeup was smudged beyond recognition. She dropped what she was carrying, sprawled face down on the bed, and rubbed her rear with both hands.

“God, that hurt!” exclaimed Susan. “Where did she get that whalebone whip?”

“That sounded awful,” said Pamela. Between her sister’s frantically rubbing fingers, she could make out a pair of curvy fidgeting bottom- cheeks colored “smarting pink” and striped with painful-looking red weals.

“It was awful! I fessed up to Mom about the cocktail party. She really means it when she says we’re not to drink!”

“I could have told you that,” said Pamela, remembering with a shudder the time Mom had caught her sneaking a sip of wine.

“Oh,” said Susan, almost as an afterthought. “Mom wants to see you now.” She had a look of pity as she looked Pamela in the eye. “I’m Sorry,” she said with a quiver.

Pamela’s mouth dropped. Susan couldn’t have! But Susan had!

And now Pamela had no choice. It was her turn now to have an audience in her mother’s bedroom.

As she entered, Mom was putting away an extremely nasty-looking instrument. This must be what had just been used on Susan, Pamela thought. It was two feet long and made of black leather. The very sight of it was disturbing, and Pamela was thankful that it was being returned to a bureau drawer, instead of being brought out.

Her mother pointed to her very rumpled bed. The quilt of down and satin looked as if it had been grasped and twisted and probably cried into. Pamela thought she could see tear stains. Susan must have been made to kneel on it.

“Straighten out the bed, please, Pamela,” Mom said, in a gentle and loving tone.

Pamela proceeded to do as she was told, smoothing out the comforter and putting the pillows back in their proper place.

“Susan just told me – under considerable duress I admit,” said her mother, “that you knew about her escapade at the office cocktail party.”

Pamela turned and faced her. Her eyes gaped like saucers. She didn’t need to be told what was coming.

“You know that I expect you girls to report promptly to me any misbehavior on the part of either one of you.” Her mother’s face hardened, and she walked up to Pamela and glared at her. It was time to be very, very strict. It was time to put out of her mind, just a little, how very much she loved her daughter. No, she corrected herself. It was time to love her daughter so very much that she would not allow silly feelings of mercy and tenderness to interfere with the discipline that Pamela needed so badly.

“You have known for a week that Susan became intoxicated, yet I don’t recall your mentioning it to me at all!” she accused her daughter. Her voice was raised, almost to a shout.

Pamela gulped. Her mother walked to the bed that Pamela had just arranged so neatly, and sat down on its edge.

“All right!” she spoke quietly as she saw an appropriate expression of meekness on her daughter’s apprehensive countenance. “Bring your little bottom over here!” She expected complete cooperation from her daughters, and she almost always got it – because each girl had painful memories of what happened when they did not cooperate.

Pamela hesitated. Her hands discreetly sought out the back of her skirt and pressed against the requested portion of her anatomy. It did not feel so little, and it still felt very thoroughly paddled.

She did not think it could endure a spanking now! She did not dare obey and did not dare disobey.

“If I have to tell you again, I will instruct you to get out the implement that I just put away,” said her mother firmly.

That was all Pamela needed to hear. Just looking at that whip had been punishment enough – even if she hadn’t seen and heard the havoc it had just wrought on her sister!

Pamela took off her shoes and slid her body, quickly but reluctantly, bottom-up over her mother’s lap. Now her fear of the upcoming spanking, which would be difficult enough to endure on a bottom raw from paddling, was mixed with an even greater apprehension that her mother would detect some telltale sign of the paddling, and she knew what that would mean for her!

Yet she tried to be brave. She cradled her face in her hands, and tried to believe that what was to follow would be somehow less painful and unpleasant than it had always been before.

Why hadn’t she told Mom as soon as she got home? she reproached herself. Maybe she did deserve to be found out. Maybe it would teach her a lesson.

For the second time that day, Pamela felt the back of her checkered green skirt being lifted, pulled up, folded over her back.

Mrs. Sprague paused and considered her daughter’s nervously twitching, thinly covered rear. Her right hand stroked the smooth fabric as she reflected on the fault the girl had committed and considered how severe a chastisement she should administer.
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The panties were thin and made of cotton. She regarded them approvingly – they would offer little protection. They had a proper full cut. They were not the revealing bikinis that she so hated to see her girls wear.. She could make out the label: Love Pats – NOT a very good description of what Pamela was about to receive.

Then Mrs. Sprague’s hands went gently to the tops of the girl’s hips. These underpants were nice, but now they had to come down! With her fingertips she deftly grasped the pantie’s waist, and proceeded slowly to lower them. She smiled with satisfaction as first the girl’s delicate coccyx, her top of crevice, and then the full-fleshed and almost-too-fatty cheeks came into view.

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