Wooden Paddles are for American Girls
A full-length story from SIX OF THE BEST 2022
I’d woken up in a bratty mood, it’s not my modus operandi by any stretch of the imagination, however for some unbeknown reason I was in the mood to be a super-brat.
History shows that bratting in this house is an extremely bad idea with swift, direct and painful consequences, however from time to time it would seem that I ‘just gotta brat’! No amount of distraction tactics, spanky blog-writing nor vigorous exercise can save me.
Sometimes, the tiny percentage of brat in me just has to brat and nothing can be done to prevent it. Not even the fact that October - nicknamed Spanktoberfest in our house since I broke my own world record for discipline this year - had left me black, blue and extremely sore.
It began fairly innocuously with yours truly sneaking into the kitchen, where my HoH was preparing the dog’s breakfast, taking aim and swatting him as hard as I could on his left butt cheek. Then, I ran away shrieking with laughter!
Though it might not sound like a big deal to you, I am expressly forbidden from striking my HoH under any circumstances. Striking is a one-way ticket only in this house. It’s a big no-no and no, I’m not even 1% a switch. I literally just did it to be a brat.
As my detention supervisor later put it:
“Oh, you SO wanted a spanking!”
Yep, that is about the size of it. I guess I was in the mood for a bit of spanking and set about achieving my objective in the most amusing way possible.
It frustrates my HoH enormously, he frequently berates me for not simply ‘asking’ for a spanking. What I have failed to make him understand is that there simply isn’t any fun in that. Asking to be spanked feels sycophantic and almost all brats need to be ‘made’ to tolerate a good thrashing. Politely requesting a whipping takes all of the fun of the fair out of it.
Hence, we sporadically do this little dance which always winds up the same way; with me receiving more of a whacking than I really wanted. On the one hand, I at least get some of what I want but on the other, I regularly end up with some serious punishment or additional imposition, supposedly designed to train me to not ‘top from the bottom’.
It neither works, nor is it entirely fair.
Bratting isn’t necessarily topping from the bottom; true bratting is much more playful than that. It is possible to brat and not to be accused of topping from the bottom; so long as no matter what happens, you accept the Top’s decision regarding post-bratting discipline. At least, that is my definition.
I argue that bratting is sometimes necessary to scratch a rebellious itch that I have. Being almost 100% submissive is tricky and possibly an oxymoron. I freely admit that I am far from the perfect sub (whoever she is!), I do occasionally disobey orders and once in a blue moon I go feral and brat for half an hour or so. These are outlets for my free spirit.
As my French teacher puts it; “You like to challenge authority, it isn’t disrespectful but you do like to do it.”
Spot on, sir.
That’s the key, right there, I do not have to be disrespectful whilst at the same time laying down a challenge to authority. Presenting perceived authority with a gauntlet isn’t necessarily disrespectful in and of itself.
My HoH, on the other hand, sees it somewhat differently. When I challenge the authority of others, he is in agreement with Mon Prof, however when I make any kind of fractional, minuscule challenge to his authority it is a Defcon 1 situation!
In fairness, Mon Prof has a couple of unfair advantages over my HoH. Firstly, he’s a professional teacher and teachers are constantly having their authority tested. Secondly, Mon Prof doesn’t have to live with me, whereas my HoH is charged with the slightly unenviable task of keeping me in line 24/7. A Herculean effort if ever there was one.
That said, I am somewhat frustrated that my HoH and I haven’t been able to square the circle on the issue of bratting and this really adds spice to an already piping hot situation.
On this particular occasion, my HoH almost ignored my swat to the left butt cheek. The only reason I knew it had registered on ‘ol’ Rhino Hide’ was because he deliberately stopped what he was doing and straightened up to his full height of 6ft. He paused just long enough to be sure that I had seen him, before continuing with his kitchen task without so much as a word. I, meanwhile, had (bravely) legged it into the sitting room - silly name for a room in our house - and hidden under the blankets on the sofa.
Slightly disappointed with the lack of proper reaction from my HoH, I untangled myself from the blankets and crept my way ever-so-carefully to the edge of the kitchen. The dog, who was lying on the kitchen floor, looked up at me and I put my index finger to my lips and warned him to remain quiet. I delicately closed the two metres or so from the edge of the kitchen to my HoH’s rear end, took up position, swung back and imparted an almighty crack with my right hand to the same butt cheek.
This time, my HoH spun around on a sixpence, index-finger of his right hand raised and bellowed.
“ENOUGH! This stops right now!”
At first, I was startled and hence forgot to run away. As the moment had passed, I elected to stand my ground and watched as my HoH placed his finger on the end of my nose -as though he was telling off our dog.
“Any more of that and you will live to regret it. GET OUT!”
I opened my mouth to retaliate but sir stared me down and I returned to the relative sanctity of the sofa in the ‘sitting’ room to regroup. At this point, I still had the option of politely requesting a spanking and all would be well, however, as I’ve previously stated, there is just no fun in that and so the alternative action would have to be the way forward.
Once more, I crept my way into the kitchen behind my HoH’s back, ignoring the dog (who was probably covering his eyes with his paw by this point as even he knows what happens next!), and smashed a strong forehand into his right butt cheek. (Not a great strategy as most men carry their wallet on that cheek). I wheeled away squealing with delight all the same and made it all the way back to the blankets on the sofa before checking to see sir’s reaction.
I needn’t have been concerned. Sir had tailed me all the way back to my blankets; slowly, deliberately and with a strong line of action.
“That’s one too many times, get up and bend.”
“Oh-”
“Bend.”
“Yes, sir.”
This was all happening rather more quickly than I had intended, I thought we’d get; ‘bedroom, now’ and then corner time and then lecture time and then…
… sir began laying his hand on - big style.
As I was stood, legs ramrod straight with both of my palms placed flat on the seat of the sofa, bottom pushed out at my HoH and soaking up the penalty for my brattish behaviour, I winged silently to myself about how it was all going versus how I had imagined it going. Often these things are not the same, I find!
Sir proceeded to give me six of the hardest hand swats I have ever received in my entire life - they hurt more than some of the paddlings I’ve had! Each swat was accompanied by just one word:
1 - I
2 - do
3 - not
4- spank
5 - you
6 - enough!
He’s both right and wrong with this statement. He is correct that he doesn’t give me enough funishment, however totally wrong regarding serious discipline. As my blog and my books faithfully attest, I receive more than my fair share of real punishment. It is rare indeed that I am given a reprieve over anything that really matters. I pay and I pay in full.
That said, my propensity to occasionally brat does clearly indicate that I am trawling for more funishment. It cannot be denied that I wish we had more time to play. Indeed, when sir is most upset with me, he tends to point out that if my general behaviour was better, then we’d have more time to play and my bottom would be in better condition.
Often as not, my backside is too damaged from serious discipline to be realistically ‘played’ with and this is disappointing on a number of levels and to both of us.
“Get up and BEHAVE yourself.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I was-”
“Save it!”
“But-”
“Jacqui, that is not the end of the matter. When I return from walking the dog, you will be paddled with the wooden one. Six swats and you will apologise for your outlandish behaviour.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I said, pure training and no real thought behind those words. A paddling, with the wooden one… for a bit of mischief? It sounded awfully severe to me.
“You know my feelings about your brattish tendencies, well I shall be addressing those issues shortly. Ensure you are ready and waiting for me in the bedroom when I return, this will be a formal disciplinary.”
“Yes, sir,” I practically whispered. All merriment, mirth and frolics completely vanished. The last thing I had wanted out of this morning was a disciplinary paddling - especially with the wooden paddle, which is obviously only meant for those super-naughty American girls!
My HoH left the house with our trusty Labrador, whom I swear looked at me on the way out as if to say ‘I told you so’ and I was able to stew all alone. I hate the wooden paddle, it is so uncouth, so unyielding and so devastatingly effective. I don’t think I’ve ever been given more than three full-disciplinary swats (That Masterson Dude - Style).
Compared with even the best (nastiest) leather paddles the wooden ones are infinitely more destructive. It’s like a fluffy bunny rabbit v’s Terminator; that’s your average leather paddle v’s your average wooden one. The first time I was punished with the wood instead of the leather, was a massive shock to the system. I’d simply not envisaged that it would be so very much worse.
The thickest, heaviest, most ‘effective’ leather paddle I’ve experienced is probably The London Tanner’s ‘Boudoir Paddle’. It has deliberately nasty seams, is made from a high quality and especially heavy leather and is significantly thicker than most other paddles.
Whilst I wouldn’t claim to be a leather paddle connoisseur, I have felt more than my fair share of different makes and models and my backside has directly broken two or three leather paddles without my even flinching. That said, my backside is no match for a proper dose with the wooden paddle and I know it.
As I sat, pensively, waiting for my HoH to return and the funishment to turn into punishment, I racked my brains for an angle that might prove beneficial in the summing up.
Yes, my general policy is to always accept discipline from my carefully chosen superiors without question. If I think a genuine injustice has been done, then I will politely and at a convenient and appropriate time raise the issue in an elaborately respectful manner.
I don’t want any of my disciplinarians to get so much as a whiff of my questioning their authority, shirking a punishment or seeking to direct discipline in any way. However, occasionally there is a miscarriage of justice and just sometimes it is prudent to raise it. Politely.
This had begun as a bit of sport, had resulted in funishment and had quickly turned sour and as such I thought it might be wise to attempt to head it off at the pass. There is also the added bonus that often my HoH leaves the house issuing some terrible decree or other, only to return after an invigorating dog walk (and crucial ‘thinking time’) to commute the decree to something a bit less than death.
It just might happen to be, that the dog walk would save my bacon once again. I prayed.
****
A short while later, my HoH returned with our dog and said nothing which is always a bad sign. If he’s had a change of heart, he always comes out with it right away.
There I was stood in the bedroom, butt naked, facing the wall with my hands on my head waiting for further instructions.
“Right, young lady. This will be the end of your high jinks and silly japes, you know full-well that I will not tolerate being spanked even for a joke. It is disrespectful and given your position in this house, highly inappropriate. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you want a spanking, Jacqui, for Heaven’s sake, just ask for one - it’s not like I am going to say ‘no’, now, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“Come and place your palms on the bed and I want you to push your backside right out. Legs apart. Move.”
“Sir, please. Does this really merit the wooden paddle? It really is very much worse than the leather one, sir.”
“Last time I checked you weren’t the one making disciplinary decisions, Jacqui. Bend.”
I did as he ordered, feet way beyond shoulder-width apart, both palms flat on the bed, back level and bottom fully displayed (not to mention everything else) for punishment.
“You will have six. Count and thank.”
“Sir-”
“Jacqui, this had better be good.”
“Yes, sir. It’s just that, I don’t think the wooden paddle is given in denominations of six. The Americans dish out like three or maybe five, sir…, but not six!”
“You’re not whining about my discipline are you, Jacqui? Because we both know where that leads…”
“No, sir. It’s just that-”
“Well, think of it as good training for your Detention Supervisor: Mr. Thomas is a good Mid-Western chap, I’m sure it won’t be long now before you’re up on a charge.”
It was only at this moment that I realised just how much my HoH was enjoying this.
Oh, God, there really is no way out!
“Sir, please. This is unrealistic! I absolutely insist that you look it up. The wooden paddle when given in US schools, I’m sure, only comes in something like threes or fives.”
“Oh, very well. If you’re going to be a big girl’s blouse about it. Get up and go and wait in the corner whilst I do some research.”
With that he swanned off into the sitting room to surf the net and find out for sure the kind of numbers that a serious US school paddling would constitute. This left me with rather more thinking time than I wanted. What if I was mistaken and the numbers were like 10 or 15 or something? I’d die! Meanwhile, my mind had my previous 3-swat paddling on continuous repeat and the unimaginable pain that was imparted to my posterior that day.
Just as I was thinking that I’d have been better off just taking the six and shutting up, my HoH returned, triumphantly, from the sitting room. How could I tell, if I was facing the wall? By the way in which he flung the door open and swaggered in on his heels.
“Well, young Jacqui, turns out that the most swats a US principal can sentence a school delinquent to is; 3 and in some cases 5. However, there was one school I found that administers 3 swats on three consecutive days for a total of 9.”
My heart sank.
“So, being the reasonable chap that I am, I shall give you the option. Would you like the original six that I awarded you earlier, now, or would you prefer three swats for each of the next three days?”
He always pulls something like this.
“I’ll take the original six then, sir.”
“What was that?”
“Please may I have the six swats today, sir?”
“Better and yes, you may. Get into position and let’s get on with it.”
I could tell that he’d had a whale of a time reading about all of the paddling options available in US schools and that he’d still gotten his way after all.
Slowly, I took up position, squeezed my eyes tight-shut and hoped that I’d be able to withstand it. I pressed my palms down hard onto the mattress and parted my legs beyond shoulder width - there would be no point in anything less, he’d simply make a big show of my being made to widen my stance. It would only make matters worse for me.
There I was, bent, obedient and absolutely terrified of the next 90-seconds or so. I knew enough to be properly fearful.
“No need to count and thank, actually, Jacqui. As you are such a stickler for authenticity, we’ll do this the American way!”
And with that he laid into my hindquarters with that beastly bat! There was barely any time between impacts - only that which it took him to pull back and go again. Typically, my HoH likes to deliver strokes, lashes or swats with a time delay to ensure that I ‘feel’ the ‘full benefit’ of the discipline. However, I guess he’d taken his internet research to its absolute and was delivering an authentic US-style paddling.
“Ow! Sir…, sir please.”
“Stay down and suck it up, Jacqs.”
“But, sir…, wooden paddles are for American girls!”
“Think of it as good training for your new det. super!”
“Owwww!”
On and on he went - it’s true that he ‘only’ delivered six brutish swats to my proffered, naked backside but my goodness me it felt like more. As far as I am concerned the wooden paddle is a thinly disguised cricket bat and cricket bats belong on a wicket in the middle of a square - not on an Englishwoman’s buttocks!!
As sir delivered the wicked, wicked, sixth swat, my legs shook furiously in an effort to dissipate some of the pain. It was an involuntary series of movements, also known as; ‘the involuntary shakes’. I loathe how my HoH can reduce me to this state at any time but it is especially humbling when he can achieve this in the space of only 6 swats.
Shaking, embarrassed and exceedingly sore - I swear my buttocks had formed just one enormous blister - I began to regain control of my breathing and with it my composure. All four of my cheeks were bright red; some from pain and some from shame but nevertheless it was all the same shade.
“Jacqui, that very nearly constituted ‘making a fuss’. Must I begin again from one?”
“No, sir! I’m sorry, it’s just a LOT more painful than the leather paddle, sir.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I do hope you won’t show me up in front of, Mr. Thomas?”
[Sighing] “No, sir. This is different.”
“You mean you’ll put more effort in when someone else is watching?”
“Nnn…, yes, sir. I suppose that’s true but isn’t that normal?”
“So, what you’re saying is, you’ll make more of an effort for another disciplinarian than you will for me?”
“No, sir. That’s not fair. It doesn’t exactly work that way.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s just…”
“Please. Continue.”
“Sir, I don’t want any more trouble. You’ve made your point, I’m not to swat you randomly around the house and I’m not to question what you give me, where you give it to me or how you give it to me. Please, can we stop this now, sir?”
“Alright, we’re through. However, I don’t expect you to capitulate so quickly in future. The wooden paddle is a fixture in this house now and I will not hesitate to use it.”
“Yes, sir. Understood. Thank you.”
“I’m sure our American friend will use it liberally, so you had better get used to it.”
“He’ll probably only give me three at a time.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Push it back out.”
“Oh, no! Sir, please!” I begged, immediately pushing out my heavily flushed and cheese-grater-sore globes.
“You’ll have another two for lip and you will ask me for these.”
“Sir, please may I have another swat?”
“I don’t believe you, do it again.”
Fuck me, it’s like being back at drama school, ‘I don’t believe you, darling!’
“Sir, please my I have the next swat?”
“Yes, you may!”
“Pfffffffff.”
“Something to say, Jacqui?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. One, thank you, sir.”
“Ask me for the next one.”
“Please, sir, may I have the next swat?”
“My pleasure!”
“Owwwwww! Two, sir. Thank you.”
“Good. Are we done here, or would you like to score some more?”
“No, sir. I’m done. I’m done.”
“Excellent. Then you may get up in your own time and thank me for correcting you.”
I hate this part. Whilst I am always (eventually) grateful for sir’s discipline I do frequently find it quite difficult to manufacture gratitude in the immediate heat after battle. I’m far better at thanking my disciplinarians at a later date, however they always seem to want it then and there and so I have to fake it until I eventually make it.
Standing up, gingerly, and painfully slowly, I turned, eyeballing my HoH and delivered ‘the line’.
“Sir, thank you for correcting me. I appreciate it.”
“That was borderline.”
“Yes, sir. I know. Sorry. It’s-”
“I know. Come here, snotbag! Give me a hug.”
My HoH and I embraced at length and any remaining tension (except that in my buttocks) dissipated instantly.
“That shorn-off cricket bat is evil.”
“I know.”
“Pig!”
“Steady.”
“And eight is way too many for one day!”
“You’re lucky, madam! If I had, had more time to research, I am sure I would have been able to find one educational establishment that would allow more swats to be administered on the same day.”
“Yeah, but not on the bare! Bit different over a pair of jeans, sir.”
“I’d only have whacked you harder, if you’d dared to wear jeans.”
“So, mean!”
“You love it!”
“Most of the time, sir. Most of the time.”
“Right, before you go shooting your mouth off and earning more swats, you may go and hang this delightful implement on the wall in the office and then you may get yourself more properly attired.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I could get used to the American way.”
“Buy you a one-way ticket?”
“If you’d like some more discipline, you only need ask politely.”
“No, thank you, sir. I’m English and wooden paddles are for American girls!”
“I do hope you have learned your lesson, Jacqui?”
“So do I, sir. So. Do. I!”
**That was a chapter from SIX OF THE BEST 2022 which is scheduled for release on New Year’s Eve.
Wishing you all a very merry Christmas!
Best (s)Wishes,
Jacqui James
Live-Lash-Love
[ALL materials Jacqui James © 2022]