Subject: Rite of Passage(sp,F/m,nc)kfr
From: Kfry2k@aol.com
Date: 17 Oct 1997 17:12:19 -0700

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction dealing with adult subjects. If you are not of legal age stop reading now. Any resemblance between the characters in this story and persons living or dead (except for noted celebrities is purely coincidental.

Rite of Passage

"Mom! I'm home!" I shouted, tossing my books on the sofa. It had been a trying day, a fifth-grade boy's nightmare. Normally I would have flipped on the TV, found the Western Round-up channel and plopped down on the sofa, but it was later than usual. I'd been kept after school, so the only thing on at the moment was cartoons, and I wasn't in the mood.

The house was still, but our car was in the driveway, so I knew mom was home; besides, the aroma of baking meat loaf was unmistakable. Curious, I went in search of my mother, if only to regale her with a made-up story of why I was late. She was folding clothes in the laundry room, turning to greet me as I came in.

"Have a good day, dear? You're late." She asked, smiling faintly.

"Yeah, uh, I stopped to watch a ballgame at the park." I fibbed, not able to meet her eyes.

"Mmmm." She murmured, then added, "Anything you want to tell me?"

"Uhh, no.." I said, becoming nervous. "Why?"

"Oh, just wondering how your day went." She said, her face inscrutable.

"Meat loaf tonight, huh, mom?" I said, hoping to change the subject, and adding "My favorite!"

She smiled, but something in her eyes told me she knew my remark was ingratiating, intended to divert her attention.

"I know." She answered simply, in a kind of flat tone. Handing me a pile of freshly dried towels, she said "Put these in the linen closet, please, and then come out to the living room."

"Uh-oh." I thought silently. "Something's up. I wonder if she knows."

Silence surrounded me. The kind of silence that exists in libraries and schoolrooms, after the echoes of the dismissal bell are long gone. Every sixty seconds, the silence was shattered by a simple "CLACK" as the ancient clock advanced one minute. The odors of aging wood, chalk dust, and a peculiar stuffiness pervaded the room, populated by only two people: me and my teacher, Miss Buckheit. Slouched down in my seat, I reviewed the carved messages from the past that were etched in the desktop, for the thousandth time. I knew them all by heart, practically, and had even contemplated adding my own for posterity. Shifting in my seat, my mind was drawn to the testimonies of other young men who had found themselves in this unenviable position. Several of them had grinned knowingly at me as they left the room that afternoon, one stopping to whisper,

"You're gonna get it!" into my left ear as he departed with a grin.

Tommy Jensen. The kind who had coerced me into doing what had earned me this stay after school. I'd deal with him later, I thought, pouting to myself. He was supposed to keep watch for me, but let me down. My memory replayed the earlier scene again, for the umpteenth time.


The sound scared me out of my skin, for it was an adult sound, right behind me, and close. Whirling with the piece of chalk in my hand, my eyes wide and staring, I was confronted by Miss Buckheit; all five-feet ten inches of her, built like a brick outhouse, with the iciest blue eyes you've ever seen. The kids laughed uproariously as my mouth opened and closed, nothing coming out. Miss Buckheit glared down at me, her arms folded across her ample chest, one high-heel clad foot tapping the floor. Her gaze pinned me like a captured butterfly. I seemed to be totally paralyzed, only aware that she had caught me in the act of drawing a chalk caricature of her, with exaggerated breasts and fanny, on the blackboard. Tommy Jensen was supposed to let me know when she was coming, so I could make my escape, but he failed me, and giggled just as hard as the rest of the kids when the teacher caught me. Caught red- handed, I looked at the floor as she took the chalk from my hand, turning it palm up. A ruler I hadn't noticed in her possession came down with a sharp crack across my palm, stinging like blazes. Two more swats landed in quick succession, bringing tears to my eyes and making me dance.

"I'm ashamed of you, James." She scolded, turning my hand loose. "You can just stay after school, and we'll deal with the problem further." she added menacingly. "Now go back to your seat."

Red-faced and embarrassed, I made my way back to my desk, amid chants from the girls,

"Jimmy's gonna get it! Jimmy's gonna get it!"

Right up until three o'clock time flew by, but immediately after the bell rang, it stopped dead. The patter of sneakers and girls' flats died away, leaving me alone in the silence. Alone, that is, except for my executioner: the statuesque and stern Miss Buckheit. For the other boys had warned me with their tales: she wielded a mean ruler, and the swats on my palm were only a prelude to what would come. My skin crawled as I used the other boys' portayals to preview my own. Sometime before I left the school, I would find myself across her knees, my pants and underpants taken well down while she used that same hardwood ruler to spank my bare bottom to a brilliant red.

My breath came more quickly as I envisioned it, and to my consternation, I became excited. "What the devil!" I thought to myself, "Are you nuts?" Mom spanked me now and then, usually when I didn't listen, or I had fibbed, but this was different. I was, by all accounts, about to get a real butt-warming, and yet my body was reacting in a completely new way.

The scraping of Miss Buckheit's chair as she pushed it back from her desk shattered the quiet, sending a giant surge of ice water coursing through my veins. "Oh, God!" I thought, "Here she comes!" Like a sheep watching the approach of a wolf, my eyes never left her form as she drew nearer to my desk. She carried the terrible ruler in her right hand, the nails well-manicured and tipped with a tasteful red polish. Wearing a simple but well-fitted navy blue skirt, cut just above the knee, with a white half-sleeved blouse, she was the image of a fifties school teacher. Caramel colored hair, just shy of shoulder length framed a face that was more than pretty, but nearly always seemed somehow forbidding.

The arctic eyes regarded me with a predatory glare. Her right hand lightly tapped the ruler in to her left palm, a trace of a thin smile at the corners of her mouth. I couldn't move, couldn't even swallow. I seemed to shrink before her, getting smaller and smaller, fading with each passing second.

"Come with me." she finally ordered, waiting for me to get up.

Once again I pictured myself across her lap, and the strange physical reaction began all over again. Easing myself out of my desk, I followed her pointing finger, toward the front of the classroom. As I passed, I steeled myself for a swat that never came. Close behind me, her fragrant but understated perfume full in my nostrils, she followed. The click of her heels on the hardwood floor struck terror in my soul, and something else. A rush of excitement swept through me, unexpected but not unwelcome. Swallowing hard, I stepped up onto the slightly raised platform at the front of the room, the pinnacle her desk occupied. Looking over my shoulder, I watched her sweep by, taking her chair by the back and placing it next to me. My heart accelerated to battle speed as she sat, her prim but snug navy skirt riding up to mid-thigh. Adjusting her position, she motioned me to her, pulling me right up against her knees. I felt the bulge of her left knee press against my leg; it sent a wave of heat coursing through me. I was frightened, but also overcome by totally new feelings. Licking my dry lips, I looked into her concerned face as she spoke.

"Why did you draw that horrid picture?" she demanded, looking me straight in the eyes.

"I - uh, I don't know." I stammered, looking down at those lovely knees.

"You have to learn to keep your imagination to yourself, and to have respect for others' feelings." She explained, more gently than I had imagined she was capable of. I felt like crying, and hadn't even been spanked yet. Something in her manner just made me feel awfully small and naughty, and it hurt terribly.

"I'm sorry...." I said lamely, "I didn't mean..." my voice trailed off.

"Yes." She answered, "I know." A long pause, then,

"You're going to be spanked, James; good and hard, right on your bare bottom, and when I'm done, you'll write on the blackboard one hundred times, "I will never draw unseemly pictures of my teacher again."

Swallowing hard again, I tried to make my voice work, but there was a giant lump in the way. Tears starting, to my chagrin, I merely nodded and stood there as she tugged me over to her right side. Capable fingers undid my trousers and lowered them, causing my face to redden considerably. The slight but growing and embarrassing bulge in my briefs was ignored as she skinned them well down, sweeping me across her knees in almost the same motion. The feel of her nylons against my bare skin was beyond description, even though I had been in a similar position at home when mom spanked me; it just wasn't the same. I had a very brief moment to consider that strange fact before the ruler in Miss Buckheit's hand smacked my bare bottom smartly.

"Ahhhh!" a surprised gasp left my lips, followed quickly by another as the ruler hit again. For the next couple of minutes, every exclamation that left my mouth was abbreviated by the surprise and reaction to the next swat. At length, as the sturdy piece of wood snapped down on my fast-reddening behind, my penitent wails and pleas merged into one long sonnet of misery. She held me fast, despite my writhing struggles, her left hand more than capable of keeping my right hand away from my glowing backside. That thin piece of hardwood stung viciously, making every spank burn with surprising intensity. The swats that landed across both cheeks were full wrist-action smacks, provoking a higher pitch from my young mouth. Seemingly endless, it was a spanking to remember, one I've not had the like of since.

Nose running, eyes watering, I stood practically dancing from one foot to the other after she let me up. My bottom was totally aflame, burning Almost as much as when the spanking was still going on. I must have been a sight, because Miss Buckheit couldn't quite suppress a smile as she directed me to the blackboard.

"Pull up your pants and get to work, James." She ordered, handing me a fresh piece of chalk.

Standing on a chair to reach the highest parts of the blackboard, my corduroys chafed against the tender surface of my well-spanked bottom, making me wince. Getting up and down to move the chair wasn't any fun, either. Miss Buckheit ignored my sniffling discomfort, busying herself in correcting papers until I had completed my task.

"I could wish for better penmanship," she opined, making me squirm, "but I suppose it will do. Pushing her chair back, she motioned me to her. Her left hand caressed the back of my head, ruffling my hair as she said, "Now, I trust we won't have any more impromptu artwork, will we?"

"N-No, Miss Buckheit." I agreed vigorously, shaking my head.

"You still owe me an apology." She stated firmly, waiting.

"I - I'm REALLY sorry, honest. I won't ever do it again." I committed earnestly, eyes widening as she reached for her ruler, eyeing me with a narrow look that scared the daylights out of me.

Smoothing her skirt, she suggested, "You'd better run along, then, before I change my mind and put you back over my knee, just to make sure."

I don't think my feet touched the floor on the way out, but I did notice the broad grin on her face as I looked over my shoulder, scared she might be right behind me with that nasty piece of wood.

Mom sat in her favorite easy chair, legs crossed. She had that guarded look that I should have recognized. It was the look that said "I know what you did, but I want you to tell me."

"Isn't there anything you have to tell me?" she asked, giving me one last chance. I couldn't do it. So like a dummy I just stood there and shook my head, sealing my fate.

"Well, then," she said, leaning forward, "I guess I'll just have to spank you for not telling me the truth."

For the second time that day, my mouth opened and closed rapidly without performing a useful function. As mom took hold of me, pulling me towards her, I suddenly found my voice.

"No, please, Mom! Don't spank me! Please!" I blurted. The dam had burst, and the whole sordid story came flooding out, almost in a single sentence. It wasn't doing any good, though, as mom was occupied in lowering my pants and underpants. The cool air felt good on my throbbing behind, now smarting intolerably and beginning to itch.

"I know all about it." She confessed. "Verna Buckheit called me to let me know she'd spanked you. It seems her efforts to teach you some respect weren't quite effective."

I hung back, beginning to cry as she pulled me across her lap.

"Nooooo, please, mom! Nooooooo!" my voice begged of its own accord, sounding much like a far-off steam whistle, mournful and solitary.

"Maybe a little more fire added to this naughty bottom will do the trick." Mom said firmly, as she got me situated across her lap.

I had no idea just how much a firm palm, even a woman's, can sting when smartly applied to a freshly spanked bare bottom. Oh, Lord, it burned beyond belief! Slap after hard, stinging slap assaulted my tenderized backside while I thrashed and wailed like a banshee. The neighbors must have thought I was a pig being slaughtered. From the very start I was begging and pleading for her to stop, but mom was intent on making this an object lesson, and so she spanked and spanked and spanked until my poor fanny was cherry red. Twice in one day I found myself across a woman's lap, learning a painful lesson. A record I've never equaled, though undoubtedly deserved.

"Now, young man," she said, standing me on my feet, "straight to bed, and no supper. You just spend some time thinking about your actions. We'll talk about it in the morning."

As if my blazing bottom wasn't enough punishment, that proclamation of no supper was the clincher, making me positively bawl as I headed off to my room. Lying in the deepening darkness, the image of being spanked by my teacher came back in all its intensity, producing the same arousal as before. At first, it concerned me, but the feeling was so pleasant that I let it continue, and never looked at Miss Buckheit the same way after that episode. I fantasized often about being spanked by her, but never worked up the courage to draw her fire. Of all my teachers, she is the one I look on to this day with the most affection and respect.

There have been times in my life when I've been hungry, and times when I've been distinctly uncomfortable, but I know one thing for a fact: there is very little more effective by way of discipline for youngsters of all ages than a sound spanking and bed with no supper.