It is a truth universally acknowledged, at least by those of us who have survived the rigours of English childhood, that one’s first proper encounter with discipline is a moment never to be forgotten. For me, that moment arrived courtesy of Miss Margaret Hardy, a lady of formidable presence and an unwavering sense of justice. I do not recall any previous punishments of note, and, unlike some of my more imaginative contemporaries, I never found the prospect of a spanking particularly intriguing.
In those days, a smack was simply a fact of life—an occupational hazard to be avoided with as much ingenuity as one could muster. Yet, I was soon to discover that there existed a world of difference between a few hurried slaps to the back of one’s legs and a proper, formal chastisement, administered with all the ceremony of a royal investiture.
In my class, there was a boy named Peter. We were not exactly friends, but rather friendly rivals in all things, from arithmetic to the art of paper aeroplane construction. Our school rules were as clear as the bell that summoned us to lessons: “No running in the corridor, under any circumstances.” The signs were posted everywhere, and there was no room for ambiguity.
One afternoon, as we returned from break, Peter gave me a surreptitious shove, and I, not to be outdone, returned the favour. This exchange continued until Peter, with the reckless abandon of a boy who believes himself invincible, broke into a sprint for our classroom door. Alas, he ran straight into the deputy headmistress, Miss Hardy. The consequences were inevitable.
I had just begun to give chase and came to a sliding halt, hoping, for a brief and foolish moment, that I might blend in with my classmates. But Miss Hardy’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, found me at once. The game was up.
“What does that sign say?” Miss Hardy demanded, her voice as crisp as autumn leaves, pointing to the nearest notice. (I can still hear her voice, even now!) Peter replied, subdued, “Walk, do not run, Miss.” “And what were you two doing?” “Running, Miss.”
With a firm grip on Peter’s shirt collar and my arm, Miss Hardy marched us into the large walk-in storage area between the classrooms. There were doors connecting to the classrooms on either side, and the air was thick with the scent of chalk and polish.
We were ushered to the far end of the room. Miss Hardy fetched a chair from our classroom and returned, closing the door behind her with a sense of finality. Peter and I exchanged nervous glances, both of us eyeing the chair as if it were the throne of judgement. One mercy: the door was closed.
She turned Peter to face her, sat down, and, without a word, pulled him firmly across her knees.
The spanking commenced at once—brisk and businesslike, over his short trousers. It was all over in a trice.
Miss Hardy was clearly most displeased and favoured the ‘short, sharp shock’ approach. Peter’s cries echoed as the smacks fell. I was next, and I was not looking forward to it. After a brisk and thorough chastisement, which I estimate lasted two or three minutes, Peter was set on his feet, tears streaming down his face.
Permit me to pause and paint the scene for you, for it is etched in my memory as if it happened only yesterday. The storage room was dim and quiet, the air heavy with anticipation. Peter, usually so bold, looked very small and uncertain as he stood before Miss Hardy. She sat upright on the chair, her face set in a look of firm resolve, yet not unkind. The chair itself seemed to loom large, a symbol of justice about to be dispensed.
As Peter was guided over her knee, I could see his hands trembling ever so slightly. Miss Hardy’s movements were brisk but not cruel—she was determined to teach a lesson, not to terrify. The first smack rang out, sharp and clear, and Peter’s eyes widened in surprise. He wriggled a little, but Miss Hardy held him steady, her other hand resting gently on his back to reassure him that, though this was a punishment, it was not given in anger.
Each smack was delivered with purpose, not too hard, but firm enough to make the point. Peter’s cries were not of pain alone, but of embarrassment and regret. The echo of each smack seemed to fill the room, and I felt my own heart thumping in my chest as I watched. I could see Peter’s face crumple, and soon tears began to fall, not just for the sting, but for the shame of being caught and punished.
When Miss Hardy finally set Peter on his feet, she looked at him with a mixture of sternness and sympathy. “What was that for?” she asked. Peter, through great sobs, replied, “Running, Miss.” He looked utterly miserable, hands clasped to his bottom, crying openly with no thought for who might see or hear.
I resolved to last longer than Peter before I cried—better still, not to cry at all. That would be one up on my rival. Such was the spirit between us, and it was precisely that sort of thinking that had landed us in trouble.
“Running where?” Miss Hardy pressed, her tone sharp. “In the corridor, Miss.” “If I catch you running again, I shall cane you—do you understand?” “Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.” The threat brought a fresh wave of tears from Peter and made my stomach twist with dread. The cane!
Miss Hardy stood and told Peter to pull up his shorts. Once he had done so, she opened the connecting door and sent him straight to his desk. The door closed, and she turned to me—I was trembling.
“Was he running from you?” “Yes, Miss.” “Why?” “We were larking about after break. He pushed me first, I pushed him back, and then he ran away… straight into you, Miss.”
“He started it?” “Yes, Miss.” “Then I shall finish it. Across my knee!” With a sharp tug, I found myself over her knee for the first time. There was no time to consider my predicament—the spanking began at once.
Now it was my turn, and I must confess, my courage nearly failed me. As I lay across Miss Hardy’s knee, I could see the floorboards up close and smell the faint scent of chalk and polish. My heart pounded so loudly I thought she must surely hear it. Miss Hardy’s hand was steady, and as the first smack landed, I felt a jolt of surprise—not so much from the sting, but from the realisation that I was truly being punished for my own mischief.
The smacks came in quick succession, each one a reminder of the rule I had broken. I tried my best to be brave, to hold back my tears, but the combination of the sting, the embarrassment, and the knowledge that I had disappointed Miss Hardy was too much. I blinked furiously, but soon enough, tears welled up and spilled over.
Miss Hardy did not scold or shout. She simply continued, her hand firm but fair, until she was satisfied that I had learned my lesson. There was a strange comfort in her manner—she was not angry, only determined that I should understand the seriousness of my actions. When at last she stopped, I felt a curious mixture of relief and gratitude, as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
I did manage to hold out from crying longer than Peter, but perhaps that was not wise. Had I cried sooner, Miss Hardy might have stopped earlier. As it was, she continued until she was satisfied that the sobbing schoolboy across her knee was thoroughly contrite. And I was. Goodness, that spanking would have made a grown man wince!
At last, I was released and told to dress myself. Putting on my shorts after such a spanking was agony! My bottom was aflame, and my mind screamed for relief. I could not stop crying, no matter how I tried.
Miss Hardy opened the classroom door, and every eye followed me to my desk. I sat down very gingerly. Miss Hardy spoke quietly to our teacher, then left without another word.
Now, here is the curious thing. As I sat, feeling sorry for myself and trying to stem my tears, I became aware that sitting on what felt like a patch of sunburn, mixed with pins and needles, began to feel rather pleasant.
A warm glow spread through me. I paid no attention to the lesson—all my focus was on my bottom. I liked the sensation! I did not care for the method, but the result was surprisingly agreeable. Still, the threat of the cane was enough to keep me in line!
It was some months before I was spanked again. This time, it was our class teacher, Miss Susan Taylor, who administered the punishment. I cannot recall my crime, though I was often scolded for talking in class, so perhaps that was it.
Miss Taylor took me to the same storage area where Miss Hardy had spanked Peter and me. I believe it was during break or lunchtime.
Before the spanking began, I wondered if it would hurt as much as the one Miss Hardy had given me—though the pleasant after-effect was also on my mind. I was very nervous, for my only previous spanking had been excruciating.
Miss Taylor sat down. I vaguely recall a scolding, but the details escape me.
Miss Taylor turned me sideways and, instead of being placed over her knee, I was told to bend over her lap of my own accord. Of course, I obeyed—it would have been foolish to antagonise a cross teacher!
Miss Taylor smacked just as hard as Miss Hardy, but more slowly. And she went on and on! I thought it would never end. She spanked me thoroughly, and I wept bitterly.
Almost without thinking, I kicked and squirmed and struggled as she smacked my bottom, but by the end, I was limp and still, crying my heart out. Looking back, I believe this spanking was even worse than my first.
Administered on the bottom, it not only felt worse but sounded more dramatic—the smacks echoed around the storage room, accompanied by my ever-increasing cries. By the time I was allowed to stand, I felt weak and drained, and my bottom stung beyond description.
Miss Taylor sat, arms folded, watching me squirm and hop about in front of her for quite some time. I think she rather enjoyed my little dance—but when she stood, she put the fear of goodness into me.
“Next time, I shall send you to Miss Hardy for the cane, after I have spanked you soundly! And if there is a next time, I shall spank you in front of the class, not in private!”
Even in my well-spanked state, those words struck home. I was determined that such a thing would never happen! From that day, I behaved like a model pupil.
However, after the worst of the pain had faded, that warm glow returned. I tried to sit as still as possible to enjoy the sensation before I had to shift my weight. I loved sitting on my smacked bottom—but those warnings frightened me thoroughly! You will not be surprised to hear that I was never spanked again at school.
At home, I recall a conversation with Mother. My memory is a little hazy, and though I place it after the second spanking, it may have been after the first. In any case, Mother’s attitude was simple: “Misbehave and suffer the consequences.” I remember her asking, “Did it hurt?” “Yes, Mother,” I replied. “Good—serves you right!” she said briskly.
Fortunately, Mother was not one of those parents who believed a child spanked at school should receive another at home. I was grateful for her forbearance—the thought of another spanking at home was terrifying!
My only other notable school memory was the caning of my rival, Peter. This time, I was entirely innocent. Peter had got into a fight with a boy from another class. They were brought before Miss Hardy, who, unfortunately for Peter,
