I Was Paddled In High School
How The Gretch Got Paddled!
As many readers of my stories know, I received a serious paddling in my Senior year of high school. The principal applied the swats, and although he was a very nice man, with a paddle in his hand he was amazingly lethal! The six hard spanks left my rear end decorated with bulls-eye bruises that were very difficult to sit on.
My sister Gretchen, who is about eighteen months younger than I am, seemed fascinated by the damage left by the school paddle. She thought the victim's butt merely got red, as ours did when Mom took the hairbrush to us. Gretchen wanted to know all the details of my experience--was it very hard, did he make me bend over, did I cry? I answered in the affirmative to all her questions.
I guess she was storing up the information in her brain, because about a year later she would know first-hand what it was like to pay a visit to the man with the paddle.
Gretchen, our little sister Audrey, and I were pretty good students and were rarely sent down to the office for misdemeanors. When we were, It was for doing something incredibly stupid for which we should have known better. For example, I was paddled for smoking in the girls' room and cutting class--clearly against the rules. Gretch's problem was getting to class on time. She would chat with her friends long after the warning bell rang, and invariably she would be sent down to the office for a late slip. These slips were duly noted, and three late slips got the culprit an afternoon of detention. Keep in mind that our school was not "paddle-happy" as other neighboring schools were. Getting paddled was for serious infractions. The usual punishment was detention--how many days were determined by the gravity of the crime. Coming late to class three times won the culprit a ninety-minute stay in the detention room.
"The Gretch," as I liked to call her, and what she didn't like to be called, had built up late passes to the point where she was finally given a note to take home, informing Mom that her daughter was to serve one afternoon of detention on the following day. Mom was strict with us, but she did not believe in punishing us--usually via a bare-bottom hairbrushing--for being punished in school. She felt that one punishment was enough to take care of the problem. So Gretchen got the usual finger-wagging lecture and that was it. Tomorrow she would be wasting her time in the detention room.
But Gretch had no such intention.
She was a pretty smart kid, but one thing she forgot was the fact that the detention teacher took attendance from the list of prisoners that he or she had been given by the front office.
"Gretchen Dumont?"
No reply.
The little vixen had skipped. Oh, was she in trouble now!
The next morning found Gretchen in Mr. Donaldo's office, where she received a stern lecture and a little something extra--a note to Mom that Gretchen would be paddled. Mom had to sign the note, and Gretchen had to return it to the principal on the morning of her spanking. Mom's signature would assure the principal of her knowledge that her darling daughter was going to be paddled. School policy dictated that a parent must be informed of upcoming corporal punishment.
"Gretchen, I hope you're satisfied!" Mom scolded when she read the note. Then she signed her name in the space provided. "Maybe a few good paddywhacks will straighten you out! You couldn't just take the detention and end it? Oh no--now you have to get paddled!"
Then Mom drove off to work.
"Welcome to the club," I grinned.
"Pamela Ann--shut up," Gretch growled. I noticed that she was wearing the long flouncy skirt that was in fashion in 1977. It was white and went very nicely with her purple peasant blouse.
"Maybe you'd better put something under your skirt," I suggested. "It's full and Mr. Donaldo will never notice." Girls were known to stuff pot holders and even maxipads down the seat of their panties to buffer their butts against the paddle.
"I can take it," Gretchen assured me before walking out to the curb to catch the school bus. I had graduated the year before and was now in the local college.
We'll see about that, I thought to myself, remembering my own paddling a year before.
Gretchen still doesn't like to talk about what happened next, but I got enough out of her, in addition to what I had gone through, to piece together her adventure with Mr. Donaldo.
Gretchen reported to the front office before homeroom, as she had been instructed. Gretch gave the signed note to the secretary, who nodded seriously and brought the note into the inner office to show it to Mr. Donaldo. Then she came out.
"Gretchen, go ahead in," she said.
Along with Mr. Donaldo was a woman witness, one of the teachers but Gretchen said she didn't know her. When a girl was paddled there had to be a female in the room to witness the paddling. Boys also had a witness, but not specifically of the same gender.
Mr. Donaldo was friendly, but he got right down to business. "Why do I keep having to paddle you Dumont girls?" he sighed. "I hope your sister Audrey has more sense and this doesn't become a family tradition." In anticipation of the event, he had the school paddle out and lying on his desk. It was of solid varnished wood, about two feet long including the handle, and about six inches wide. Names of victims had been etched into the wood. Gretchen said later that she recognized some of the autographs.
"Please assume the position," said Mr. Donaldo as he pointed with the paddle to an empty space on his wide desk.
Gretchen knew what to do from having me tell her about my paddling. She bent over, stretched out along the top of the desk, and pressed her upper body down along the surface. She then reached forward and gripped the far edge of the desk with both hands. Her full-skirted bottom was stuck up as a target. Mr. Donaldo told her to put her feet shoulder width apart, and hold on tight.
"I'm going to give you two swats," he informed Gretchen. "Just keep looking forward and don't move."
He then positioned himself beside Gretchen's left hip, and lightly patted the seat of her full white skirt with the board. When he determined the target zone he drew back the paddle and let it fly.
POP! The paddle made a hollow woody sound as it whacked across both of Gretch's butt cheeks. She told me she didn't make any noise.
Again he patted her fluffy skirt.
POP! went the paddle. The spanking was over. The punishment had probably taken less than fifteen seconds. Mr. Donaldo told Gretchen to stand up. He offered her a tissue but Gretch's eyes were dry.
"Would you like to autograph the paddle?" he asked her.
"Sure," said Gretchen with a hint of an amused smile.
He provided her with a ball-point pen and she etched *-Gretchen Dumont-* into the varnished surface of the wood, starting and ending with a little flower to bracket her name.
"Get to homeroom now," said Mr. Donaldo, "and from now on please serve your detentions. I don't want to have to do this again."
Gretch got home that afternoon before Mom did, and went up to our room to examine her punished rear end in our door mirror. I went up with her.
"How did you do?" I asked her.
"No big deal," she replied.
"How many did he give you?"
"Two."
"Two?!" I gasped. "For skipping detention? I got six for what I did!"
"Maybe he likes me better," Gretchen quipped.
Gretch held up her big skirt and pulled down her hose and panties. Her two white cheeks had just a blush of red on them. There was only a hint of a bruise on her right dumpling.
"I get it worse from Mom's hairbrush," she laughed. "Really, Pamela Ann, you make such a fuss about everything." She laughed again. "Two little spanks, and I got out of detention too!"
To this day "The Gretch" rarely discusses her paddling. But something tells me that Mr. Donaldo's "Board of Education" had hurt my sister a tad more than she wanted to admit.
As many readers of my stories know, I received a serious paddling in my Senior year of high school. The principal applied the swats, and although he was a very nice man, with a paddle in his hand he was amazingly lethal! The six hard spanks left my rear end decorated with bulls-eye bruises that were very difficult to sit on.
My sister Gretchen, who is about eighteen months younger than I am, seemed fascinated by the damage left by the school paddle. She thought the victim's butt merely got red, as ours did when Mom took the hairbrush to us. Gretchen wanted to know all the details of my experience--was it very hard, did he make me bend over, did I cry? I answered in the affirmative to all her questions.
I guess she was storing up the information in her brain, because about a year later she would know first-hand what it was like to pay a visit to the man with the paddle.
Gretchen, our little sister Audrey, and I were pretty good students and were rarely sent down to the office for misdemeanors. When we were, It was for doing something incredibly stupid for which we should have known better. For example, I was paddled for smoking in the girls' room and cutting class--clearly against the rules. Gretch's problem was getting to class on time. She would chat with her friends long after the warning bell rang, and invariably she would be sent down to the office for a late slip. These slips were duly noted, and three late slips got the culprit an afternoon of detention. Keep in mind that our school was not "paddle-happy" as other neighboring schools were. Getting paddled was for serious infractions. The usual punishment was detention--how many days were determined by the gravity of the crime. Coming late to class three times won the culprit a ninety-minute stay in the detention room.
"The Gretch," as I liked to call her, and what she didn't like to be called, had built up late passes to the point where she was finally given a note to take home, informing Mom that her daughter was to serve one afternoon of detention on the following day. Mom was strict with us, but she did not believe in punishing us--usually via a bare-bottom hairbrushing--for being punished in school. She felt that one punishment was enough to take care of the problem. So Gretchen got the usual finger-wagging lecture and that was it. Tomorrow she would be wasting her time in the detention room.
But Gretch had no such intention.
She was a pretty smart kid, but one thing she forgot was the fact that the detention teacher took attendance from the list of prisoners that he or she had been given by the front office.
"Gretchen Dumont?"
No reply.
The little vixen had skipped. Oh, was she in trouble now!
The next morning found Gretchen in Mr. Donaldo's office, where she received a stern lecture and a little something extra--a note to Mom that Gretchen would be paddled. Mom had to sign the note, and Gretchen had to return it to the principal on the morning of her spanking. Mom's signature would assure the principal of her knowledge that her darling daughter was going to be paddled. School policy dictated that a parent must be informed of upcoming corporal punishment.
"Gretchen, I hope you're satisfied!" Mom scolded when she read the note. Then she signed her name in the space provided. "Maybe a few good paddywhacks will straighten you out! You couldn't just take the detention and end it? Oh no--now you have to get paddled!"
Then Mom drove off to work.
"Welcome to the club," I grinned.
"Pamela Ann--shut up," Gretch growled. I noticed that she was wearing the long flouncy skirt that was in fashion in 1977. It was white and went very nicely with her purple peasant blouse.
"Maybe you'd better put something under your skirt," I suggested. "It's full and Mr. Donaldo will never notice." Girls were known to stuff pot holders and even maxipads down the seat of their panties to buffer their butts against the paddle.
"I can take it," Gretchen assured me before walking out to the curb to catch the school bus. I had graduated the year before and was now in the local college.
We'll see about that, I thought to myself, remembering my own paddling a year before.
Gretchen still doesn't like to talk about what happened next, but I got enough out of her, in addition to what I had gone through, to piece together her adventure with Mr. Donaldo.
Gretchen reported to the front office before homeroom, as she had been instructed. Gretch gave the signed note to the secretary, who nodded seriously and brought the note into the inner office to show it to Mr. Donaldo. Then she came out.
"Gretchen, go ahead in," she said.
Along with Mr. Donaldo was a woman witness, one of the teachers but Gretchen said she didn't know her. When a girl was paddled there had to be a female in the room to witness the paddling. Boys also had a witness, but not specifically of the same gender.
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Mr. Donaldo was friendly, but he got right down to business. "Why do I keep having to paddle you Dumont girls?" he sighed. "I hope your sister Audrey has more sense and this doesn't become a family tradition." In anticipation of the event, he had the school paddle out and lying on his desk. It was of solid varnished wood, about two feet long including the handle, and about six inches wide. Names of victims had been etched into the wood. Gretchen said later that she recognized some of the autographs.
"Please assume the position," said Mr. Donaldo as he pointed with the paddle to an empty space on his wide desk.
Gretchen knew what to do from having me tell her about my paddling. She bent over, stretched out along the top of the desk, and pressed her upper body down along the surface. She then reached forward and gripped the far edge of the desk with both hands. Her full-skirted bottom was stuck up as a target. Mr. Donaldo told her to put her feet shoulder width apart, and hold on tight.
"I'm going to give you two swats," he informed Gretchen. "Just keep looking forward and don't move."
He then positioned himself beside Gretchen's left hip, and lightly patted the seat of her full white skirt with the board. When he determined the target zone he drew back the paddle and let it fly.
POP! The paddle made a hollow woody sound as it whacked across both of Gretch's butt cheeks. She told me she didn't make any noise.
Again he patted her fluffy skirt.
POP! went the paddle. The spanking was over. The punishment had probably taken less than fifteen seconds. Mr. Donaldo told Gretchen to stand up. He offered her a tissue but Gretch's eyes were dry.
"Would you like to autograph the paddle?" he asked her.
"Sure," said Gretchen with a hint of an amused smile.
He provided her with a ball-point pen and she etched *-Gretchen Dumont-* into the varnished surface of the wood, starting and ending with a little flower to bracket her name.
"Get to homeroom now," said Mr. Donaldo, "and from now on please serve your detentions. I don't want to have to do this again."
Gretch got home that afternoon before Mom did, and went up to our room to examine her punished rear end in our door mirror. I went up with her.
"How did you do?" I asked her.
"No big deal," she replied.
"How many did he give you?"
"Two."
"Two?!" I gasped. "For skipping detention? I got six for what I did!"
"Maybe he likes me better," Gretchen quipped.
Gretch held up her big skirt and pulled down her hose and panties. Her two white cheeks had just a blush of red on them. There was only a hint of a bruise on her right dumpling.
"I get it worse from Mom's hairbrush," she laughed. "Really, Pamela Ann, you make such a fuss about everything." She laughed again. "Two little spanks, and I got out of detention too!"
To this day "The Gretch" rarely discusses her paddling. But something tells me that Mr. Donaldo's "Board of Education" had hurt my sister a tad more than she wanted to admit.
