From: sfpo8@aol.com (SFPo8) Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking Subject: Boarding School Days - true experience Date: 27 Jan 1995 22:15:21 -0500 This is an absolutely true story with only the one name changed. It probably will not turn anybody on, but it has resonance for me and needs to be told, even if you don't need to read it! I attended a boarding school in the 1950's where student monitors were allowed to give "swats" to other students when they broke rules. The school included grades 8 - 12, all boys, and each dormitory had a student monitor. In effect, though, monitors (who were juniors and seniors) were not likely to give swats to boys in their own classes - I don't think this ever happened. It was in the freshman dorm where we learned about and got swats - even sophmores pretty much avoided getting them, as I remember. Each monitor had a paddle, sometimes made by himself in the school shop, sometimes made for him by another boy currying favor. There was a standard style favored by most: plywood, about an inch or three-quarters of an inch thick, with a six inch grip and a two foot by about six inch working surface. Some monitors had special paddles with holes in them. The rules were not written down - I never heard any faculty member acknowledge the existence of swats, or try to see that they were administered fairly. It was all oral tradition - a student who was out late, or making too much noise, or guilty of some similar infraction could choose between an hour of detention in study hall or a swat. Sometimes two hours or two swats - never more. If the boy chose a swat, he bent over with his hands on his knees, often in the hallway with others watching, got swatted, and that was that. Now, as a freshman, I found this to be something entirely new, and I had very conflicting feelings about the whole thing. I had a normal fear that the swat would really hurt. I also had the secret knowledge that spanking was the fantasy to which I masturbated regularly. This wasn't exactly spanking, but it was close enough to make me wonder if I would enjoy it. It lacked the components of my favorite imaginings, which were bare-bottom, over-the-knee scenes. Still ..... Also I was, at that time, a rather perfect little boy. I was the top student in the class. I never did anything wrong. I didn't even use bad language; I remember being shocked when another boy showed me a crumpled, passed-from-hand-to-hand dirty poem which began, "While hugging and kissing in the blackberry patch/ Max offered me a quarter to feel my snatch." I didn't know that word, or "pussy" or several others in the poem with the same meaning, and I was very confused about the difference between "cock," "dick," and "prick." I was truly innocent in many ways. Let's face it, I was pretty much of a wimp, at least in my own eyes. It was not until nearly the end of the school year when I decided that I should not let the opportunity pass of finding out what it was like to be swatted. As it turned out, I was also able to get rid of my wimpiness at the same time. The dorm monitor, whom I will call Rick, was a really nice guy, and he had a reputation for wielding a very heavy paddle. I had often taunted him, telling him he really couldn't swat hard and wouldn't ever be able to swat me anyway, since I never got in trouble. I did this fairly regularly, knowing that even if I ever did do something wrong, he did not have the right to swat me against my will. And then, one night, during room study, he caught me and another boy horsing around together when we were supposed to be in our own rooms. We were also pretty noisy. Rick gloated. "Two detentions, or two swats." My friend, whom I had always considered a very macho guy, paled. He chose detention. He played football; he lifted weights; he was a pretty cool character, and he chose detention! Some kind of instinct in me took over that I could not control. I knew this was a moment for me to assert my manhood, and unbeknownst to others, enjoy it! I went for it. "Oh, hell, Brick, you can't hit hard anyway. No big deal. I'm not going to feel a thing. You can't hurt me, and you know it. Weak, weak, weak .... I'll take the swats, but try to make me notice them, will you?" And much more of such adolescent crap. I wasn't quiet about it. I was putting on an act for all to observe. Every door along the corridor was now ajar, with boys looking through to see what horrendous punishment would be inflicted. They were not to be disappointed. I assumed the postion, laughing, and Brick laid on the first swat as hard as he could with a tremendous CRACK!!!! The paddle impacted cleanly right across the entire width of my jean-clad buttocks. It was as hard a swat as anybody had eveer received in that dormitory hall. But I was so high on my own bravado, so wound up in amazement at my unprecedented behavior, that I was anesthetized to the pain. It hurt like hell, but I was having a great time proving what a man I was, and I just felt elated. I laughed even louder, now being as audacious as I could. "Aww, come on, Brick, I didn't feel that at all. You really are out of shape aren't you? That was nothing!" And I bent over again. WHACKKK!!!!!!!! The second swat, right on top of the first, was devestating. It was searing, penetrating, solid flame deep in the flesh. But I knew this was my moment --- because now it was over! The worst had happened, and all I had to do was hold myself together another minute. Somehow I just stood up, as casually as possible, and said, "Gee, Brick, I thought you could do better than that." Strode into my room and closed the door. And grabbed my behind firmly in both hands and, under my breath, exhaled a long "Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!" Not long after, the first visitor from down the corridor came to pay homage and see for himself what Brick had accomplished. He was not disappointed: both cheeks of my butt were deeply bruised, showing a pattern of broken blood vessels which, by the next day, had turned dark purple. I had to adopt a new posture for sitting for the next week. I watched with fascination as the bruises turned from purple to almost black and then yellow. I was an object of interest in the shower as well as in the privacy of my room where my closest friends, whose numbers seemed to have grown, could inspect the damage when I Iowered my pants for them. I was, in my eyes, a hero, and even though others may not have shared quite that inflated a view, my reputation for bravery and guts was established for the balance of my stay at the school, where I graduated three years later. Old classmates of mine, when I see them, remember this inicident with clarity. So does Brick, whom I have spoken with one or two times since. It is a tale of small but mythic importance to all who were there. Of course, none who were there knew that there was another side to what happened that night. Nor did they know that when I became a monitor for the last two years of my stay, I treasured my collection of paddles of varying weights and shapes, that I looked more carefully than many monitors for infractions which would allow me to be the paddle wielder, or that I, more than most monitors, offered "two on the pants or one on the bare butt" gritting my teeth to avoid seeming as thrilled as I was at the prospect of a boy baring his bottom for me to paddle. Once I offered to spank a boy if he preferred it to being paddled, but he didn't take me up on it, and I realized I was venturing dangerously close to coming out by doing that. In fact, I am coming dangerously close to coming out by writing this, for if any reader of a.s.s attended that school during those years, he might well remember this story and who I was and who I am. But then, of course, he would have admit his own state of mind when he watched it happen or heard about it later. I realize today that I could not have been the only boy to attend that school whose fondest memories are of being or observing others being swatted. We could have a very interesting school reunion program!