Friday 13th

REAL Spanking Short Stories from The Life and Times of...

Oct 23, 2023

Mr. James, Oslo, September 2019, © Jacqui James 2022

I’ll bet you can’t guess how this one ends, right?! Suffice to say, the unlucky date lived up to its reputation. I enhanced its potency too, by making the original schoolgirl error. When you’ve stopped laughing, I shall begin…

        It had been a chaotic week in both the personal and professional aspects of my life and frankly it got late in the week, and then very late in the day on which my French homework was due. I was genuinely exhausted but before you fetch your violin or viola to play an accompanying lament, this was all very much on me. Mea culpa. I should have organised my time better, I should have stuck to the timetable that I had written for myself, and I should have taken greater care to keep my womanly emotions in check. In reality, I had failed at all of these things and consequently I had a choice to make from two pretty unappealing options.
        It was already 8pm on a Thursday, and my homework is due in ‘the night before’ my lesson, which takes place on a Friday morning. There was a huge amount still to complete even though I’d already spent a good three hours on it. This particular week’s homework was both was a step up in difficulty and an increase in volume. To put it bluntly, I didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of finishing it in time, and even if by some miracle I did, I’d likely get a carpeting for the inevitable sub-standard submission anyway.
        Indeed, I had already been rebuked for a less than perfect effort a month or so back, words to the effect:
        “Seriously not happy with the sloppiness in here, so far you have mostly kept to high standards with homework. I have to reprimand you. Just a simple look in the dictionary would have helped. I’m not happy, you could have done better. This kind of sloppy attitude, I will not have from my students. If it happens again there will be consequences that you will feel. I don’t want to see that kind of attitude in your next homework. If I do, you will be punished.”
        So, what does one do? Fail to hand it in altogether and take the inevitable thrashing; not to mention having to ride the lengthy lecture out? Or, do you hand in what you’ve done with an apology, hence admitting that you haven’t given it its due? One could beg for an extension, but one hates begging and positively loathes making excuses. So, explaining ‘why’ one needs more time is a non-starter. What to do? What does the night before actually mean? One-minute before midnight? Would that be accepted as ‘on-time’? The early hours of Friday morning are not really any worse than midnight on a Thursday, are they? How likely is it that monsieur le professeur is going to look at it between the hours of midnight and say 6am anyway?
        Given he’s a stickler for rules and regulations; if it’s handed in even one second past midnight then I am sure it will be classed as late. Also, how likely is it that I could finish it before midnight, even if I wasn’t already wiped out for the day? No. This is not happening tonight, I shall have to live with it. A good night’s sleep, an early start, and I’ll get the homework finished in the morning. I shall hand it in as early as I can and in any case, I will submit whatever I’ve done an hour before the lesson. No doubt there will be some penalty for being late, but surely it will be a lesser sanction than not handing it in at all?
        I closed down my computer and did my final social media check of the day. Interestingly, my twitter poll advised that two thirds thought handing in ‘at standard’ work late, was better than handing in ‘sub-standard’ work on time. So, there I had it, the twittersphere had spoken and it was, for once, in alignment with my intended course of action. Perfect.
                                             ****
Sleep wasn’t as deep as I’d have liked, nor was it as long as I had anticipated. Could it be that I had had something on my mind during the night? Well, whatever it was, morning had arrived, and I really needed to get the hell on with my homework!
        I worked from 6am through to 9am and then decided to stop and hand in what I’d done. It was pretty much finished, even if some parts could certainly have been better. I tried to open my emails to send it and of course, this is the day that my email server is down. Of course, it is! I cannot recall another such problem in the last twenty years, but today, today when I really needed this rather simple technology to work, it didn’t. Great.
        Then I realised that I could print out my homework, photograph it and direct message the pictures to my teacher. Perfect. Well, it would have been, had my printer also decided not to work on this one particular day. Friday the thirteenth. As if. I don’t even believe in the silly superstition. Alright, I thought, you win. Looks like I shan’t be handing anything in after all… even though it’s done. That’s going to make this morning’s lesson all the more interesting! Might as well have stayed in bed the last three hours!
        I then figured that I could photograph my computer screen and submit the pictures via twitter direct messages as that was bound to be working! It certainly was too. Monsieur le professeur had already posted a snarky tweet about what happens to young ladies who fail to hand in their homework. Honestly. Where does he get his inspiration from? I even took a minute out to write words to that effect on his tweet. I then pulled out my phone and began taking photographs of my screen.
        Just as I’d finished, my emails sprung back into life. Thanks, Googlemail (a$$h%l£$)!!!!!!!!!!!!! I checked the time, it was nine-thirty, and I was still in my PJs. Oh no, please don’t let me be late for class today as well. I’d been so unimaginably careful about punctuality. Never before had I managed three months straight of being on time, every time for the same meeting. Not ever, for anything. But this tutor is so particular about good timekeeping he makes my Head of House look positively laid back. (To me, my HoH is more obsessive about time than the proverbial White Rabbit!) This is not going to be my day. Right. Damage limitation. Send the damn email with all of the homework attachments and get the hell in the shower… can I get away with not washing my hair?
        After a quick look in the mirror, it was evident that I would not, in fact, get away with not washing my medium-long locks, slightly greasy round the edges as they clearly were. So, I’d have to go with plan ‘B’. Wash hair, tie it back whilst wet, and blow-dry the front. Smashing! Well, there have to be some advantages to everything being online these days!
        I went into overdrive, washing hair, towel-drying hair and of course donning the lovely school uniform, complete with very lovely knee socks. My favourite part of the adult school experience. Lovely.
        “Jacqui, if you are late for your French lesson, I will give you double what he gives you,” came my HoH’s dulcet tones from the bowels of the sitting room.
        “No, sir. I won’t be.”
        “I’m warning you, Jacqui, if you’re late…”
        “Chill out, sir. I’m not going to be late,” I said, entering
        the sitting room for uniform inspection. Lovely.
        “Have you done your homework?”
        “Kind of.”
        “What does ‘kind of’ mean?”
        “What is this, Question Time? You’re making me later… sir.”
        “I’ll deal with that later.”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Now, I’ll ask you again. Did you hand in your homework?”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Well at least that’s something. Now hurry up and get
        yourself along to your lesson on time.”
        “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
        “And I promise you, if you are late; you will get double.”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Run along.”
I didn’t wait for Jem to delay me any further. I screeched into the office, looked at the clock on my computer and it read 09:55. YES! I’m not late. The Skype chat then piped up right on cue. A message from monsieur le professeur, which read:

5 minutes

Excellent, I have five minutes. I’m not late, my homework has been handed in and I still have five minutes to get my shit together. Right. Where are my pens and where is the paperwork I need for this lesson? I quickly located what I needed, gathered my things, as well as my thoughts, and replied to sir’s message.

Yes, sir. Thank you.

Suddenly, I realised I had no water. My lessons are 90 minutes long and there is lots of talking involved. Sometimes I even get to do some of it. No, but seriously, it’s a language learning session so I really do have to do a fair bit of talking. There is no way I’m making it without any water, especially as I’ll likely be getting a bit of a thrashing for turning in my homework late. I’ll need a quick sip of some water before we carry on. I looked at the clock, it read 09:58. You don’t have time, Jacqui, advocated one part of my tiny brain. Go on, Jacqui, you’ll make it, argued the other. I thought for a nano-second and then decided ‘fuck it’, I’m getting a spanking anyway, I might as well make sure I have at least the comfort of a glass of water for afterwards.
        With that I legged it out of the office, and battled my way through the raised eyebrows in the sitting room. So high were they I could see them above his broadsheet, I kid you not! I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and a water jug from the fridge. Spilt some of the water down the outside of the glass, but got most of it inside. I then ditched the empty jug in the sink, closed the fridge with a back kick that my taekwondo instructor would have been proud of, and razzed it back into the office to look at the clock. It read:

10:01

Oh fuck, I’m late! I looked at the instant chat hoping that there would be no message, and that in fact it would be my teacher and not I who was late today. But no, obviously that didn’t happen. Instead, there was the usual

Tu es prête, Jacqui?

Shit. It would be in fucking French as well! The rule is, if monsieur le professeur writes or speaks to me in French I must respond in French. Now, don’t get me wrong, this is a good rule. I’ve worked with language teachers in both French and German before and they operate in exactly the same way and I am not knocking it. But look at the difference in the length of responses required:

English: Yes, sir.
French: Oui, monsieur le professeur.

I mean, come on! Throw me a frickin’ bone here, will you? Will you please? No. Of course not. I made one bad decision and now everything must go as wrong as possible on this particular Friday the thirteenth, just for Jacqui. Okay. Options…

1. Write ‘Yes, sir’ and almost certainly get lines for failing to respond in frigging French. Which will be on top of whatever I am already due for the late homework and now for also being at least one minute late for class.
2. Write ‘Oui, monsieur le professeur,’ to avoid writing lines and be an additional minute late, thus incurring more physical discipline as I type it carefully.
        Hobson’s choice! In the end I went with option two. I typed the darn thing out in French, read it back, found two spelling errors. Yes, two! I rewrote the two misspelt words and hit ‘send’. I then checked the official time that the message was sent, and it read:

10:02

Could this day get any worse? Well, we are about to find out! The Skype call sprang into life and I momentarily thought about waiting for two or three ring cycles to steady myself before answering. However, I decided that I really didn’t want to end up being three minutes late, as opposed to just two, so I bit the bullet and answered almost immediately.
        I got a ‘Good Morning’ and we had a brief exchange of pleasantries before he got down to business. There was nothing half-arsed about the reprimand, let me tell you. Sir started up with the late homework and explained to me why that is problematic for a private tutor. In brief, he’d had to prepare a whole other lesson for this morning in case there was no homework at all for us to work through. I mean, it’s not like there is a class full of other students to lean on here for support. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, and he really laid it on.
        “It’s an attitude I haven’t seen from you before. A student really only has two basic duties. The first is to be attentive in lessons, work with me, and the second is         to do your homework.”
        I couldn’t argue with any of that, worse, I agreed with it. He then moved on to my lateness.
        “I am sure you know what happens to students who are late for my classes? So, it will come as no surprise to you. If you are not there in time for the start, then you         are late. So, I’m going to give you the cane. Six for the homework and, as the cane will already be out, and you were two minutes late: two for tardiness. Now, as it is         Friday the thirteenth, I did wonder how I could make it up to thirteen strokes… but I couldn’t quite do it, even with my vast experience. As it is a first offence, and your effort has so far been exemplary with homework, you will get six, but it can go up to twelve for a second offence.”
        I did plenty of head-hanging and threw in the odd ‘Yes, sir’, but basically, that is how it went, until I was sent off to fetch my HoH to carry out the thrashing.
        Jem did not look at all happy when I entered the sitting room. I mumbled something about needing a caning for being late and for late homework. He got up from his easy chair, shot me an irritated look, and walked past me in the direction of the office. I followed on but was stopped in my tracks right outside the door, as he closed it in my face whilst barking:
        “Wait outside.”
        “Yes, sir,” I said to an already closed door. I slumped against the adjacent wall, as I knew I wouldn’t be able to listen in properly to this conversation. As, unfortunately, I had forgotten to unplug the headset, meaning I’d only be able to hear my HoH’s half of the conversation.
        Though, I could only overhear snippets, it was enough to glean the general idea. Essentially, Jem was lobbying to upgrade the punishment from eight strokes to twelve. His argument was that he had already warned me to not be late for lessons earlier this morning, hence I surely deserved double for lateness.
        Double? If you double two, you get four, right? I’m no maths genius, but I’m pretty confident that two times two, is four. If you add four for lateness, to the six for late homework, then you get ten. Where the hell, is he getting twelve from? Hopefully, monsieur le professeur will correct my HoH’s appalling arithmetic.
        The last thing I heard Jem say was, “Can we agree on twelve?” Then the office door flung open and my HoH said, “In.” I did as I was told, trying to cut a sheepish figure. Experience tells me that the time for talking is very much over… but double two is FOUR!
        “You’re getting twelve, get your skirt up and bend over the chair.”
        “Yes, sir.” But double two is still four, and four plus six is ten! My thoughts and actions were not exactly working together on this, but I certainly knew better than to launch a protest at this late stage. Very shortly, I’d be wearing the mathematical error of these two disciplinarians across my backside. I reasoned however, that I could easily have been awarded twelve for the late homework alone, so this could have already been a lot worse. I made up my mind to get this over with as quickly as humanly possible and to do my damnedest to not make a fuss about it!
        “Remember to count and thank,” my HoH said as he pulled down my thick, heavily seamed, navy blue, schoolgirl knickers.
        “Yes, sir,” I shot back between snatched breaths. Breathe slow and low, Jacqui, I reminded myself as Jem determinedly lined up the junior cane across both cheeks. It’s hard not to hold your breath in this situation. I hate the cane as it never fails to do its job. I am well acquainted with the pain it causes and the damage that will last for several days at the very least. I know that it is not at all helpful to hold onto my breath, however, I have found that turning your attention onto something that you can control, in a situation where there is virtually nothing left that is within your control, is actually quite a good strategy. The way I see it is, there are only two things left in my control during a disciplinary: my attitude and my breath. My general policy is to focus intensely on both, and it’s served me pretty well thus far.
        The first one, still, momentarily, took my breath away. It landed lower than the centreline and pretty evenly across both cheeks. I don’t remember there being a couple of preliminary taps, though there probably were. Perhaps, this is an indication of how internalised I was, only paying attention to the two things that remained within my power. Then, as the searing pain from the first stroke increased, I was instantaneously grateful, both that I had survived, and for the first big shot of adrenalin hitting my system.
        “One, sir. Thank you.” I counted, relatively calmly. There was almost no time between the acknowledgement of the stroke and the second one landing. It hit just above the first and was slightly heavier on my left-hand side. The second is always the worst one for me. The first, you sort of get for free. Your body and mind are not yet in sync with the situation and it always takes some adjustment before you feel the full ‘benefit’. By the time of the second stroke, however, everything is fully up and running. Which means you realise exactly what is happening, how much it is already hurting, and you have the understanding that there is still a very, very long way to go. Even if you have ‘only’ been sentenced to six, try telling yourself that, ‘it’s only six,’ whilst on number two. Just try it. It is not a helpful thought. Not helpful at all in these kinds of situations.
        “Two, sir. Thank you.” I replied, forcing myself to keep a steady vocal pattern. This isn’t only a tactic to avoid showing that I am hurting, but it is more about personal psychology. I know from lots of previous experience that if I allow the pain to influence my voice at all at this early stage, then I am only making it worse for myself. My disciplinarian is going to give me the full allocation whatever happens. I can either cooperate fully and get it over with as quickly as humanly possible, or I can choose to not comply fully. The latter will result in the affair dragging on interminably and I will almost certainly be awarded extras, and/or be put through further humiliating sanctions. Been there. Done that. And it was never worth it.
        So, why does preventing the pain from leaking into my vocal cords matter? Well, at such an early stage of the punishment I think it’s a bad move, because it is allowing myself to duck out early. By that, I mean it is you indicating to yourself, as much as to your disciplinarian, that you are already struggling. Are you really struggling after just two? Really? I didn’t ask was it hurting; and I didn’t ask were you in pain. What I asked was, are you struggling?
Struggling is another level.
        The contextualised Oxford English Dictionary definition of struggling is, ‘to try hard under difficult circumstances to do something’. Now, I’m assuming that that something isn’t ‘trying to get away’ or ‘making great efforts to get free,’ as these would both be unacceptable in this situation, because you are there to be punished. Essentially, you did something wrong; you knew it was wrong at the time, and now it has been explained to you – once more - why it was wrong. You will have had what is ordinarily expected of you reiterated, and then you will have agreed to accept the punishment awarded. So, to struggle to break free, avoid, evade or escape discipline, is thoroughly out of order. You are there to be corrected, so it is best that you struggle with the right things. Right? So, what are they?
        The thesaurus offers words such as, effort, endeavour, strain, strive and toil. I’ve chosen these, albeit subjectively, as they fit with the given circumstances. Those being that I am determined to fully accept punishment for those things, that I’ve done wrong. I like endeavour very much, as it implies a kind of nobility about my effort. There will also be plenty of straining and toiling as one strives. Strive for what? To my mind, I am striving to tolerate as much punishment as I possibly can, so much so, that I reach the state of struggle. Struggle is where I am genuinely fighting to keep myself together. The experience of knowing I have nothing left, and yet I continue with my action of accepting discipline regardless.
        This is what it means to have a stab at dignity. Which sounds like a strange thing to be aiming at whilst you are dressed in school uniform, in your mid-30s with your navy-blue school knickers around your ankles - bear with me though - I’m going somewhere with this. Dignity is, ‘the state of being worthy of respect’. Now, ask yourself this: is thrashing around, crying, making a fuss, etc. after just two strokes worthy of anyone’s respect? Seriously? Not in my book, it isn’t, and it is unlikely that any disciplinarian worth his or her salt would genuinely look to reduce you to that state within two strokes. An important exchange takes place between the disciplinarian and his subordinate during punishment. They want you to suffer, you want you to suffer, and both of you want it to be just enough to initiate meaningful change. Minimum necessary force to achieve the desired outcome. It may sound strange to say that ‘you want you to suffer’, but if you really think about it, it makes perfect sense. You aren’t going to do things you can’t be bothered to do, unless you are given a better reason to get up off your backside and do it. Also, you want to know that your actions matter. Being punished is a clear indication that your actions matter very much, and deep down, we all know the difference between a bit of kinky fun and a proper punishment for wrongdoing. If you were meant to be punished and you feel later that you got of lightly, you will feel disappointment. Most likely, you’ll be disappointed in yourself for not doing it right.
        My focus is always on not letting myself off. It’s tough, and regrettably, I don’t always succeed. But I go hard at it. Allowing something as small as the pain to flood my vocal cords, so early on in a punishment, might sound like I am holding a very high line. I’m not. In reality, it is the thin end of the wedge, and it is a very, very slippery slope. Once you give into self-indulgence a little, it is very, very easy to give in some more, and then some more and before you know it, you are kicking, yelling and biting. That is not to say that you can always help but do these things and as punishment progresses it is extraordinarily difficult to refrain from these behaviours. Indeed, many disciplinarians are looking for some such reactions, to be reassured that they’ve done a good enough job. However, and here’s the rub, if you wish to retain even a shred of dignity in these most challenging of situations, then it is your duty to absorb as much of it as you can. I give myself a damn good talking to during punishment, for as long as I am able. I don’t allow myself to get away with anything that isn’t absolutely necessary. I owe it to myself and I owe it to my disciplinarian to be as honest as I can. Sometimes this is easier than others…
        Stroke three slashed down into the extremely sensitive area between buttocks and thigh, and I’m not going to lie, I badly wanted to cry out. It hurt. A lot. We’ve all been there, when sir cuts one of the early strokes deep into those lower areas. It was totally deliberate, and I knew that my HoH was communicating to me how displeased he was that I had created this unpleasant situation for all involved. He knows full well that lashes ‘down there’ count for at least double, and so I hung on, gulped a lung full of air, suppressed the strong urge to howl, and instead delivered what was required.
        “Three, sir. Thank you.” I disappointed myself slightly here. If you had listened carefully, you would have heard a waver in my voice. I badly didn’t want it to be there, but the pain was such that I could no longer fully control it. That is how it should be. I knew there wasn’t much I could have done, but I resolved to double down on the next stroke, and do everything I could to hold onto my own voice.
        “Four, sir. Thank you.” I knocked out, far more controlled than the previous intonation. This one had gone above the second, and - whilst painful - was far more bearable than the third. Now, I know from experience that had I allowed capitulation after the second stroke, then I would certainly have over-reacted to this lesser one. Because once you’ve allowed yourself one big reaction, you’ll do it again and again. This is human nature, and it is why I fight so hard to keep a hold of myself during the early phases of punishment. It isn’t bravery, it most certainly isn’t defiance, and it isn’t a false sense of superiority… that last one is laughable. How superior can anyone feel whilst one’s knickers are around one’s ankles, bottom bared and presented for a childlike punishment for one’s childish behaviour? This isn’t about pride; it certainly isn’t courageous - it is thoroughly embarrassing to even be in this position. The least I can do, the very least, is salvage a shred of dignity and do my best. That’s it. Do your best to take the discipline you are due, and have the good grace to recognise that you are the one in the wrong. Nothing you do during punishment is going to change what you did. However, you can change your attitude towards the future in these moments, and it is the struggle, that honest struggle with yourself, that is the beginnings of meaningful improvement.
        The fifth, sixth and seventh deliveries were in quick succession, and this made it super difficult for me to maintain position, and cling onto every last ounce of stoicism I had in me. Let’s face it, I’m both a woman and a professional dramatist, so not naturally predisposed to being stoic. However, being expected to endure pain and hardship without complaining is pretty much the order of the day in these sets of given circumstances. So, I swallowed down my strong desire to protest and churned out the obligatory count as well as my thanks.
        He paused briefly, to check for damage. I felt his warm fingertips softly grazing my ribbed posterior and felt gratitude for the momentary relief. I seized the opportunity to gather some more resolve by figuring out what I had left to come. Seven to twelve is five more. Just five, Jacqui. Come on. Thankfully, hostilities resumed before I had the chance to realise that if my HoH had been able to successfully double two, (you get four!), then I would have been only three more strokes away from the end.
        The eighth slammed into my sit-spots and all of my thoughts about being anywhere near done were suddenly a galaxy or more away.
        “Eight, sir. Thank you.” I managed, carefully controlling the breath, and all the while hoping for an extra moment or two before the ninth. No such luck. It arrived swiftly and in almost exactly the same place as the previous one. This always pushes my buttons. As if this punishment wasn’t already difficult enough, what with the increase from eight to twelve, the low blows, and now slamming the same narrow patch of skin for successive stokes… But that’s what happens when you lose the game. You don’t get to decide how punishment goes. That is in the hands, both figuratively and literally, of your disciplinarian, and Jem knew exactly what he was doing.
        “Nine, sir. Thank you!” I hurried out with, as sir gets especially irked if I count too slowly, because this is construed as an attempt to delay the punishment. Not in so obvious a manner as putting a protective hand back, or swaying neatly out of the way, but nevertheless a clear and unoriginal tactic to slow the discipline down to a more manageable tempo. If caught doing this, I usually get rebuked, then the next few are all delivered even more quickly, and if I do it a second time, I get extras added to the total. I badly needed to avoid all of this, especially as there were two disciplinarians the same (virtual) room. Can you imagine what would have gone down after class if I had tried any of this out in front this well-informed and highly qualified third party? No, it doesn’t bear thinking about.
        I wasn’t rewarded for my obedient expedience with counting and thanking, he just sent the next one right in and ‘left it on’ – so to speak.
        “Ten, sir. Thank you.” Came out a little croakily as I was in some real difficulty now. I suspect that had my HoH not taken a second moment here to check for damage, then I may well have crumbled. There may have been tears, some shifting of position or possibly some hissing. Thankfully, he took a few seconds, which enabled me to get enough of myself together to recognise that there were just two left. Which in my logic is only one, really. As the very last one is also (almost) ‘for free’. Anyone can do one more. Anyone. We’ve all got one more. Even when we think we are completely finished and will likely spontaneously combust with only the lightest of taps, we still, are good for one more. Ask any sportsperson in the world: There’s always something left. One more forehand down the line, one more dip for the finish line, one more rep during a cold, miserable workout down the gym. You’ve certainly got one more effort to give - that last one is always about attitude. So, I never sweat it as I have plenty of that! It’s the penultimate one I have to focus on. It’s the stereotypical banana skin. How foolish would it be to kick up a fuss with two strokes left? You now know that you are not actually going to die. You now know that you will get through this, so for goodness sake, let’s deal with the penultimate, and the job is all but finished.
        “Eleven, sir. Thank you.” I ground out, already feeling slightly relieved. The twelfth would be awful, the discerning disciplinarian always makes certain of that, and as today we had a special guest in the audience, I knew there would be some added emphasis to the finale. I didn’t care, as I wasn’t going to blow it now. All I had to do was stay down and not yell for just one more.
        Jem took his time, just get on with it, please, he gave a couple of taps and then he sent in a humdinger. I didn’t wait to feel the full extent of its devastation before hurling out:
        “Twelve, sir. Thank you.” I decided we had to get this all over with and quickly. I could lick my wounds later, and in private.
        “Good. Now, get up and dress yourself.” Jem said. I liked the ‘good’, it wasn’t necessary here, so it meant that he was pleased with how I’d managed the punishment. I was relieved and grateful to have this feedback and quickly rearranged my uniform. Navy blues eased up, taking care to avoid the worst areas of damage, I smoothed down my pleated grey skirt and refolded the bottom of my burgundy sweater. My HoH excused himself and retreated into the sitting room still holding the cane - leaving me to tackle my French lesson.
        I’d never been in this particular situation before. That is to say, I’d not been punished at my teacher’s behest and then required to get on and do a lesson. I momentarily speculated about the best course of action. Should I remain compressed, so as to convey that I am properly sorry, or is that a bit like virtue-signalling? How susceptible to learning is a slightly compressed student? Not very, I shouldn’t wonder. On the other hand, I don’t want to behave as though it was nothing, in case monsieur le professeur concludes that that wasn’t enough. If this happens again in the future, he’d then be certain to prescribe more for a second offence, and more also to ensure the job was properly done.
        I didn’t manage to finish my thought, as monsieur le professeur was already checking in with me. As he was talking, and I was re-tuning in, he looked to be checking for tears or other signs of distress. There weren’t any as I wasn’t. This was reassuring, as I like to know I’m in good hands, and it’s especially important post-discipline to know that your disciplinarian genuinely cares about you. This cuts both ways though, and one part of the post-punishment lecture really struck a chord.
        “You’re smart, Jacqui. So, don’t make it necessary. It’s unpleasant for both of us.” It wouldn’t be much of an exaggeration to say he might as well have knifed me. That is the ultimate compliment, from me. Those words cut deep, because - whilst part of it was a back-handed compliment - it also laid, quite rightly, the full burden of responsibility at my door. I’d hurt him as well as me, I’d hurt us both. That resonated profoundly; I’ve thought about it often.
        Now, I’m sure there is even an element of spanking society that would write this off as a more up to date version of the famous teacher’s line: ‘This is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you.’ (As it happens, I could write a full and excellent defence of this line, but I’ll stick here with the task at hand). I know better. ‘It’s unpleasant for both of us,’ was both sincere and incisive. It goes back to the hobby vs discipline paradigm that I talk of often. My HoH and I distinguish absolutely – absolutely! - between what is for fun (hobby) and what constitutes a serious matter (discipline/development). The two are never for one moment confused.
        The distilled version of my argument essentially goes:   If you’re getting off on it, it’s not punishment. If the thrashing is to be punitive, it must go beyond the point of enjoyment. Punishment by definition cannot be enjoyable. The name you wish to give to the session you arrange with your Dom(me)/Top/Disciplinarian is entirely a matter for you. However, unless the corporal punishment/discipline you receive as at least unpleasant, it is not in actual fact punishment. If you are seeking to make meaningful improvement in your life, and you choose to use physical discipline to facilitate that development, then punishment can never be an enjoyable experience.
        So, in the context of this particular student/teacher relationship, it was humbling in the extreme to have made discipline necessary in the first place, and a heavy burden indeed to accept being the one to have caused an unpleasant experience for the both of us. Expertly done, sir.

****

The lesson went very well thereafter, it was no different to any other, aside from the twelve scorching welts on my backside, (which ought to have been ten), of course. It was actually very easy to concentrate on the work and to be real with someone who was clearly so disappointed to have had to have had me disciplined. That’s not to say that there wasn’t anything extra in it for all parties concerned, we are all spankos let’s face it, and this was a peak experience. However, that takes nothing away from the learning that took place and the professional relationship that was further cemented. The parting comments demonstrated this beautifully:
        “Next time we see each other I hope we can do without the punitive aspects of the student/teacher relationship.”
        “Yes, sir.” I said with more than a hint of guilt.
        “I will email you the homework exercises tonight. I expect them to be delivered on time, or we can have another chat with your HoH and his cane.”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Do your work, be on time, and we’ll have no further trouble.”
        “Yes, sir. Thank you.” I replied resolving to never fail at these things again. Ever.
        At the end of the call, I tidied my things, relieved that the session was over. This lasted a whole two minutes, as I suddenly recalled Jem saying earlier that he ‘would deal with that later’ in response to some cheek I gave him about ‘Question Time’. Perhaps I could persuade him that six plus four is ten and therefore I’d already paid my dues for the morning. Perhaps.

*Jacqui is pleased to report that, at the time of publication, she hasn’t once been late for lessons, nor has she failed to hand in her homework on time.

**That was a chapter from SIX OF THE BEST 2020**

SIX OF THE BEST 2020 can be read in full here:

Six of the Best 2020