Any teacher can be pushed too far.
By Joanna Jones
This is a story about an experience I received in the private grammar school I went to in the late sixties. Although I was a little mischievous at times in my school career I also had a strong sense of self-preservation, and had been sufficiently careful to that point to have kept my bottom (and hands) unscathed.
It was double History and I was bored. Although I was in the upper sixth year and this was one of my A-level subjects, thus important, my mind wandered as we seemed to revise things over and over again for the exams that were now only a few weeks away.
On the other side of the aisle sat Robert, a rather shy boy, who to be honest I found quite attractive. I had been wondering if I could persuade him to ask me out for quite some time. On impulse and for pure devilment I leant across and mischievously pinched the side of his bottom, causing him to jump, I gave him what I hoped was a cheeky smile and winked as he glanced at me.
Mrs Copley, however, was annoyed. “Jemima, stand up.” She called.
I stood, rather embarrassedly.
“I don’t know what’s got into you these past few weeks.” (This was true, perhaps due to pre-exam nerves or the fact that I was pretty well sure of the stuff we had been revising, I certainly had caused more than one minor disruption). She continued: “You are eighteen! Stop behaving like an eight year old and pay attention. Any more nonsense and I’ll have you taken over my knee and treat you like one. Now sit down and pay attention!”
This seemed a rather empty threat. Some teachers were known for their use of corporal punishment, usually the slipper on the seat of trousers or skirt, although in the junior years over-the-knee hand spankings, either trousers down or skirt up were favoured by a few teachers. However, all that was a long time ago, and it was rare for any sixth former to be subjected to corporal punishment, and if so it was usually for a relatively serious breach of school rules. Furthermore, Mrs Copley had never smacked or slippered anyone in school memory.
Thus, all-in-all, I was feeling pretty safe about Mrs Copley’s threat. I have to say I also had resented been publicly told off by her and recklessly after she’d turned back to her book I whispered to my neighbour, Jane: “Huh! She wouldn’t dare, Silly Cow.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Roger had overheard and had a smirk on his face, which made me feel rather good.
It was the last thing I felt good about for quite some time.
“Jemima Carter, stand up. Repeat out loud what you said to Jane.” Mrs Copley looked quite angry and her voice was much quieter than I ever recall hearing it before.
The class was utterly silent as I stood up for the second time in as many minutes. “Please, I was just asking Jane to borrow an eraser,” I said.
She looked at me straight and said ever so quietly: “I will give you one more chance to repeat what you really said. If not I will ask Jane what your words were and she can decide to tell the truth, in which case I will ensure that you regret lying, or she can risk supporting your story and finding out if I did or did not hear exactly what you said.”
I looked down at Jane who was glaring at me. She clearly resented the prospect of being brought into this. I guessed at that point that at least the gist of my whisper had carried to the front of the room and therefore that I had little option.
“I said you wouldn’t dare miss. I am sorry, it was a joke.”
There was a long pause before Mrs Copley asked dangerously quietly: “Meaning?”
“That, that you wouldn’t dare put me over your knee, but I was just fooling Miss, please…” I didn’t like the way this was looking. I knew even Mrs Copley was not going to be amused by such a direct challenge.
Mrs Copley stared at me unsympathetically for again what seemed like an age and asked, again ever so quietly: “And the two words at the end. What were they?”
I gulped, it was worse than I thought. She had indeed heard everything. “I said ‘Silly Cow’ Miss. I am really sorry.” I said this with feeling, as I was getting really worried at this point. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’m going to make SURE it won’t. I will NOT accept such a direct challenge to my authority in this class, and I am SICK of your attitude over the past few weeks.” Was her angry (and almost shouted) reply. She took a deep breath and then said: “Take your skirt off and leave it on your desk, then come here!” As she did so she was already moving her chair to a clear spot to the side of her desk.
There was a collective gasp from my classmates at this order, and I noticed one or two boys near me suddenly sitting up straighter. Robert, I noticed, was now looking at me with an altogether different smirk of anticipation. I was in shock. I’d never heard of such a request. “Please Miss,” I pleaded.
Looking at the resolve on Mrs Copley’s face it was pointless. The dangerously quiet voice had returned. “I suggest you do what I say NOW, unless you prefer to take a note to Mrs Jennings.”
I certainly did not want that. Mrs Jennings was an assistant head teacher, and was responsible for girls’ disciplinary matters. Her nickname was the caning mistress, and my desire for a private punishment did not extend to (what I guessed would be almost certainly) six of the best with my skirt up. I heard that she had a special cane for sixth formers, usually sent to her when found smoking, and was especially hard on them. Blushing beet red, I slowly put my hands to the side of my skirt, unzipped it and laid it on my desk. I was very glad that my black tights left little for the boys to see as I crept forward to my doom.
Mrs Copley was sitting in her straight backed chair now. Based on her signals I stood directly in front of her, with my hands clasped in front of me.
“You will do exactly what I say, or it’s straight to Mrs Jennings. Understood?”
I nodded nervously as I muttered: “Yes Miss.”
“Hands on your head. And don’t move.”
As I did what I was told she grabbed the top of my tights, just under my blouse. I felt sick. My blouse was fairly short and with my hands up, I knew its hem now was above the top of my bottom. Soon, I realised, my rather fetching pink panties would be on full display to all my classmates.
Mrs Copley leant to one side of me at this point and said to the rest of the class: “Anyone who in any way finds this punishment amusing will find him or herself in the same position as Jemima here. Is that understood?”
I assumed my classmates must have nodded as I did not recall hearing any reply. They were probably in nearly as much shock as I in the changed attitude of a normally friendly and easy-going teacher.
As she said “Good!” she yanked down on my tights bringing the top of them to below my knees. I gasped with just enough care so that my knickers stayed in place. I felt my face flush as the reality of standing with my, rather racy for the time, underwear on display hit home.
Within seconds I found myself twisted across her lap with my bottom to her left. I was over her knee like the naughty little boys and girls I remembered from the junior school. I began to cry with the humiliation.
Mrs Copley was not sympathetic. “I am going to give you the smacking you deserve,” she said. “Soon you really will have something to cry about.”
Despite having been wrong in every judgment of Mrs Copley’s reaction that day, at that point I still doubted the promised spanking could be any worse than the humiliation of having my eighteen year old partially clad bottom in the air in front of a dozen boys (including Robert), to say nothing of the girls. The OTK smackings I’d seen given were normally all about humiliation, with about twenty to thirty smacks at most and usually much less. I could not imagine a teacher who never normally used corporal punishment giving me more than about ten token spanks.
SMACK… Ooow! There was nothing token about that first smack!
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! The spanks came thick and fast and the gasps, grunts, and squeals from me became more desperate as she continued with hard smacks, alternating from one buttock to another, came and went. When she got beyond thirty I lost count. By that point my bottom was definitely objecting and my cries were becoming pretty shrill. The smacking seemed to go on and on, I vaguely heard the bell go for the middle of the double period, which I reckoned meant she’d been spanking me for over five minutes non-stop, and still it continued! I was pleading for mercy like a little schoolgirl by that point as the pain rained down on my poor bottom. Then, finally, it stopped. I lay there gasping and trying to catch my breath, with tears running down my cheeks. It was over I thought.
I was wrong.
“Right round the other way. I think I’ll switch to my right hand.”
I begged and pleaded as she manhandled me round her, giving my classmates an excellent view of my rear end, and got me in position. This time in addition to using her left hand to restrain my right arm she looped her right leg over to trap me in position.
Then it started again.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
She was now working on the lowest part of my bottom and thigh tops which, judging by the fresh sting, she had not touched before, and deliberately left for part two. She seemed to be spanking even harder. It just kept going on. Smack after smack rained down on my poor backside!
I begged and promised to be good, but nothing worked. Finally I gave up struggling and pleading and found myself simply crying. Not long after that it was over. I was told afterwards the spanking had lasted for the best part of twenty minutes and both Mrs Copley’s hands were red, and her face flushed with the effort. However, at that point all I could do was lie over her lap crying my eyes out. After a short time she pulled me up and turned me to face the wall. Wordlessly she put my hands on my head, gave both buttocks one final series of alternating hard smacks (bringing yet further tears to my eyes), before turning around to restart her revision of the political repercussions of the Union of the Parliaments of England and Scotland.
I spent the remainder of the lesson like that snuffling with that part of my bottom below the leg elastic of my underwear advertising to my classmates that while our History teacher was not a regular exponent of corporal punishment, she certainly made you pay when she did. As the pain dulled to a warm burning I began to wonder if Mrs Jennings’ cane might have been the better option. Certainly more painful, but nothing could be as humiliating as what had just happened. It was beginning to dawn on me that my experience was going to be one of “school legend” so to speak.
I was not allowed to move until after the rest of the class had left for afternoon interval. Only then was I able to pull up my tights. As I was doing so Mrs Copley brought me my skirt and my things which she’d tidied into my bag, and asked if I’d learned my lesson.
I most certainly had. I apologised to her again and promised (both her and myself) never to misbehave in her class again. I got my skirt on and finally I was able to escape to find solace in the girls’ toilets, well away from the boys who had found it so very amusing.