Daughter Bare Bottom Spanking Art

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Six strokes of the paddle for this naughty girl, who really should have gone to the office when she was summoned, rather than having to be dragged through the corridor.
It was stupid. I know it was. I didn’t think, and now … now I am here, standing in the Headmaster’s office waiting to find out what will happen. It’s obvious, of course, but I might just be lucky. Silverton School prides itself on “the quality and rigour of our education”, and notes, prominently, that “Discipline is strictly maintained at all times”. It’s why I was sent here, of course. Work hard, obey the rules, stay out of trouble.
I had been ill for a few days, stuck in bed, missing lessons. And though I had been back a couple of days, I was still catching up. In fairness, I was catching up, but a test on the previous week’s lessons caught me slightly unaware, and I hadn’t finished all the work from those classes. Even so, 63% was a reasonable mark for work I hadn’t been taught at all, and Mrs Hughes said it was a good effort, though I would need to finish catching up. It was a bit below the ‘middle of the pack’, so to speak, but I hadn’t failed the test (unlike one or two, who were in the lessons). However, I was also not at the top. Or second. My usual spots. And that still rankled with me slightly, when Emma Taylor, who usually took the other slot I didn’t, had seen fit to keep going on and on about my “failure”.
“As good as a failure, Karen. That’s what you are. As good as a failure”
“Not at the top. You should have worked harder, Karen. Like me.”
“Who’s the Miss Cleverclogs now, then?”
So my patience snapped. I slapped her. Hard.
“Oooh. Can’t cope with not winning. Looooseeer!”
I slapped her again. “How dare you. How dare you! You know I’ve been ill”
“Little Miss Stupid, only as good as rest of the class.”
“You … you … you” I slapped her again.
At this point another girl tapped me on the shoulder. I spun round and almost slapped her as well.
I took a moment to catch my breath.
“She hit me! She hit. Several times. Look!” Emma showed where a red mark was still visible on her left cheek.
Explanations were offered, and corroborated by the others. No-one really disagreed as to what had happened. Emma was set 150 lines on “I must not tease and provoke the other girls”, which she looked rather shocked at. Even so, Mr Evans had said, slapping her was not a suitable or appropriate reaction.
And so I was brought to the Headmaster’s Office. He was in a meeting, but I would be seen as soon as possible after this. Mr Evans filled in a report form, which Mrs Hardacre, the School Secretary, would take in for Dr Walton as soon as he was free. And I would have to wait. Not on the chairs where we usually waited if Dr Watson needed to see us. But by the door, visible to those who passed by, facing the wall, hands on my head. The ‘Naughty spot’, we usually called it. Girls who stood on it were ‘naughty’, and were soon to be soundly punished. Well, here I now was. Of course I should have kept my temper. Of course I shouldn’t have slapped out, as annoying as Emma Taylor could be. There was, really, no excuse, as I would doubtless be told, several times more when we eventually got started. It didn’t help the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Eventually, the meeting ended, and the others came out. I could feel one or two of them looking at me. They would know why a girl may end up here, even if they didn’t know my actual ‘crime’. Mrs Hardacre slipped in to the office, carrying the form and file.
“Mr Evans has sent Karen Davies to see you Headmaster. The form is … “ at this point the door shut, and I didn’t hear any more. She came out a minute or two later. How long, now? I tried counting my breathing, thinking about the weekend, even examining the specks on the paintwork. Anything to distract from what was going on through that door, right now. It didn’t work. Work hard, obey the rules, stay out of trouble was now over for me. And what would the consequences be. A slapped wrist was for minor things, impertinent answers, and the like. So, unless I could avoid it altogether, my bottom would be the target. So, please God, let me keep my skirt down for whatever was about fall upon me.
The door opened, and Dr Watson came out. “Can I have the Punishment Book, please Mrs Hardacre.”
I heard a drawer open, and a book produced and handed to the Headmaster.
“This way, please, Miss Davies”, and I was ushered into the Office.
All the way to the spot in front of his desk. The chairs had been pushed back, so there was a nice clear spot for a naughty girl, such as I was now seen as, to stand. He took his seat behind the desk, and re-read the form. Did I have any explanation I would care to offer.
I explained. It might help. I said I was sorry, and I know I was wrong. That ought to help. It was appreciated, if only in the sense that I would understand why I was going to be punished. And then the blow fell. It was to be the cane. Not what I hoped for, but had thought likely. On the bare bottom. What? The BARE bottom. Not just turning up my skirt, but. But. Actually having to show my bare bottom. Be struck on the bare bottom. I … I couldn’t. Could I.
It was only right, came the reply. Girl’s who break the rules are punished. My good record so far was saving me from extra strokes, but it wouldn’t save me from the basic punishment. Dr Watson rose from the desk, walked to cupboard, and produced a thick looking cane. The instrument of my punishment.
He walked back round the desk, to my side. Have you ever tried to concentrate on instructions when your mind is firmly focused on something else? Well, you need to, if you want to avoid making the something else worse, so I managed to hang my blazer over the back of a chair, tuck the back of my skirt up into the waistband all the way across from hip to hip, slide my knickers down so that they dropped to my ankles (he didn’t, I don’t think, say how far they needed to go, so lets be careful) and then, after a moment to steel myself, bend forward and touch my toes.
I shifted a bit, to make sure I was, if not comfortable, as stable as possible, and then spoke. “Please Sir, I am ready for my punishment” was the line I had been given, though a memory fail altered it Caning. Which was a lie. How can anyone ever be ready for this – staring at the carpet, finger tips to toe-caps, the peculiar feeling of fresh air over your bottom when you really, really are used to the protection of at least your knickers, and usually your skirt?
I was aware of Dr Watson stepping to one side, and nearly jumped when, for the first time, I felt the touch of that cane across the centre of my bottom. A couple of swishing noises followed, as though he were practicing the swing. There was another swish and … is it possible to feel something hit before you hear it? The line of pain etching into my bottom seemed to precede a resounding crack which must have accompanied it. I certainly yelped. And somehow, the pain was deepening as the seconds passed, not easing, as I tried to flex my muscles to massage the feeling away. Relax, I was told, as apparently it would hurt less if the cane didn’t strike tensed muscle.
Swish, crack, pain. A new area of pain. Above the previous one. New nerve endings jangling, a new growing sensation of fire working through me. Keep looking at the floor, keep concentrating on keeping fingers in contact with toes. Again, time passed as the pain grew, and maybe even seemed to ease a lit …
Swish, crack. Pain. Low this time, right at the bottom of my bottom. Another yelp. I start to leap up, my hands passing my knees before I get back control, and push my way back down. How much more of this can I actually take? Still only three strokes in. I concentrate on my breathing. Not that that will help. Much. Three throbbing lines of agony lie across my bottom. There are still three more to come.
The fourth, like the rest, came swift and hard, after another gap in which the pain grew and throbbed, and I tried to catch my breath. Nearly at the top, this time, above all the others. There was still a gap lower down, I could feel. The sting of a broad band of three parallel lines, a gap, and the agony of that lowest one. Was there space in there for 2 more? Or would he need to find somewhere else to land? And try to slow my breathing. Let the pain through, as it grew again.
Swish. Crack. Pain. This time I jumped up, grabbing my bottom with both hands, and turning to Dr Watson. He’d found the centre of that lower gap. Nice and clean, and a new agony and sting was developing there. But my bottom, it felt rough under my hands, ridged, uneven. It hurt to press on it, and it hurt not to. But it wasn’t over, not yet. So slowly, reluctantly, back down, fingers to toes, insides churning, upside down and light headed and heavy all at the same time. I need the loo, and don’t need the loo, all at the same time.
SWISH. CRACK. An explosion of pain. Was this even harder than the others? I didn’t know, but everything was jangling away. There was no new line, this time. There was, but it was mixing up with the others. There and not there. And the old lines aching anew. I fought to stay down, fingers to toes, but felt the effort shake through me. And still the pain rose. I wanted my legs to buckle, and wanted them to stay. I trembled as I waited.
It was time to arise. Hands back on head. When I all I want to do is clutch at the throbbing, burning agony lying across my bottom. Dr Watson writing in the Punishment Book, the cane resting on the desk by him. He doesn’t want to see me in here like this again. Well neither do I, but in this state, that’s probably not a wise remark to share. And now I need to sign the book. It’s all there, my name, my class, my punishment “Cane. Six. Bare” His signature. I add mine, in slightly shaky writing.
And now I may dress myself. How does the waist elastic catch on the marks on the bottom? It did. I felt myself wince when it did. The skirt comes down without any serious contact with the now caged fire of my bottom. It needs cooling, and wiping down. But I most go straight back to class. And He will check, and have me back for another dose if I don’t. Dr Watson comes round the desk again, this time holding out his hand. Apparently, offering my thanks would be appropriate. I shake his hand, and stammer out my thanks.
In class, of course, a hard wooden seat is not the most comforting of contacts. Sitting still hurts. Moving about hurts, and tends to attract unwanted comment. I survive, though I have seen other girls return from the Headmaster’s office, and unable to sit still enough to avoid a dose of the slipper. The fire burns across my bottom for the rest of the day.
Dancers learn physically, and so this ballerina is learning to not make mistakes through the application of a sound caning in the rehearsal studio.
The diaries of Henry Middleditch, Nineth Baron Stonely, make for interesting reading on many aspects of his time and place. He comments on events and people of the time, matters of Great import and of passing localised interest.
One subject which occurs time and again, is the management and disciplining of his staff. The following a simply a few entries from one month of his diaries. It would seem that Lord Middleditch had particular trouble with the female servants and staff at his house, and needed to deal with them in very firm and robust ways. The following are all believed to be records of the administration of Corporal Punishment.
Elsie Jones, Third Housemaid. Probably around 19 or 20.
A pert little thing. Fine. Well bodied.
Smart evening uniform – black dress, frilled apron. Three layers of petticoats. Old style drawers, able to open at the back. Simple black stockings.
Pneumatically warm over the lap. A little wriggler. Firm round buttocks. Smooth skin. Pale – shows pink marks almost at once. Pliant under the hand. Loud reactions. Ended in tears. Most enjoyable.
Anna Meadows First Kitchen maid. 24
Delays to dinner through poor preparation of accompanying vegetables
Grey dress, cap, one petticoat. Modern undivided undergarments, needing to be removed rather than opened.
Marks well under the cane. Stoic. A few hisses after some of the strokes. Bottom shifts invitingly as she processes the impacts. A battle of wits that hurts her more than me.
Shocked but obedient. Bottom pliant under hand. Ended draped over knee and unresisting – from jolting at each smack to stillness.
Grey day dress, simple cap, plain apron. Pair of drawers. Black stockings with tied garters
Leather bat leaves clear round marks on bottom. Delightful squeals and wriggling motion over lap.
Mishandling appointments leading me to miss important meeting.
Tweed skirt and jacket. Modern one piece knickers, garter belt suspending stockings
Staff are staff, and if she won’t take correction, then she can go.
2 dozen with cane – fine splay of marks and bumps across bottom at conclusion.
Black dress, white day apron, drawers open at rear
Needed to switch to wooden bat to avoid causing damage to hand.
Elizabeth of Hungary was an early 13th Century Hungarian Princess, married at 14 to the Landgrave of Thuringia, Widowed at 20, Dead at 24. Known for a life of piety and good works, giving to and serving the poor, supported both by her husband, and guided by her Spiritual Director (also seen referred to as her “Master of Discipline”) the austere, ascetic, and ultimately deeply unpopular Konrad of Marburg. In obedience to him, after the death of her husband, she made a vow of poverty similar to that of a nun, and lived under his guidance.
This guidance was extremely severe, apparently setting impossible standards, commanding the sending away of her children, a highly limited diet, and reportedly involved Konrad ordering her to be physically punished. It is here, of course, that we find our interest on this blog, in the thought of a Monk ordering, maybe even administering, the chastisement of a noble young woman, her skirts raised, or stripped to the waist or even naked, writhing under the impact of the whip.
Eventually, the totality this severe treatment led to her early death at the age of 24 (Konrad gained his unpopularity for many, many other things he did, mainly to root out perceived heresy, later in his life, and was killed in an ambush by a group of knights). Her kindness and gentleness, as well as miracles attributed to her, mean that she was quickly declared a Saint.
The act of surrendering her power and wealth has been a subject of artistic portrayal. This image of her, “St Elizabeth of Hungary’s Great Act of Renunciation” by Philip Hermogenes Calderon, completely devoid of all possessions, kneeling naked before an Altar, with a monk (Konrad himself?) and nuns looking on catches the eye. There is a story here – though I am sure that the one imagined through this painting goes well beyond what may have happened at that moment.
I first encountered this story, however, through this picture by the Pre-Raphaelite James Collinson – “The Renunciation of St Elizabeth of Hungary”. Rather less exposing, if rather more public, than the Calderon image, it still filled me with a sense of surrender and submission by the young woman who is its subject. Her decision was not a spur of the moment one, which the shock of the onlookers seems to suggest in this image, but neither will it have been as debasing as the Calderon image. The reality will be somewhere between the two.
But was can still think of a young princess, being punished for her failure to live up to some very exacting standards.
Original Image by Louise Malteste, coloured by me. Illustration for the French Novel Quinze Ans.
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Six strokes of the paddle for this naughty girl, who really should have gone to the office when she was summoned, rather than having to be dragged through the corridor.
It was stupid. I know it was. I didn’t think, and now … now I am here, standing in the Headmaster’s office waiting to find out what will happen. It’s obvious, of course, but I might just be lucky. Silverton School prides itself on “the quality and rigour of our education”, and notes, prominently, that “Discipline is strictly maintained at all times”. It’s why I was sent here, of course. Work hard, obey the rules, stay out of trouble.
I had been ill for a few days, stuck in bed, missing lessons. And though I had been back a couple of days, I was still catching up. In fairness, I was catching up, but a test on the previous week’s lessons caught me slightly unaware, and I hadn’t finished all the work from those classes. Even so, 63% was a reasonable mark for work I hadn’t been taught at all, and Mrs Hughes said it was a good effort, though I would need to finish catching up. It was a bit below the ‘middle of the pack’, so to speak, but I hadn’t failed the test (unlike one or two, who were in the lessons). However, I was also not at the top. Or second. My usual spots. And that still rankled with me slightly, when Emma Taylor, who usually took the other slot I didn’t, had seen fit to keep going on and on about my “failure”.
“As good as a failure, Karen. That’s what you are. As good as a failure”
“Not at the top. You should have worked harder, Karen. Like me.”
“Who’s the Miss Cleverclogs now, then?”
So my patience snapped. I slapped her. Hard.
“Oooh. Can’t cope with not winning. Looooseeer!”
I slapped her again. “How dare you. How dare you! You know I’ve been ill”
“Little Miss Stupid, only as good as rest of the class.”
“You … you … you” I slapped her again.
At this point another girl tapped me on the shoulder. I spun round and almost slapped her as well.
I took a moment to catch my breath.
“She hit me! She hit. Several times. Look!” Emma showed where a red mark was still visible on her left cheek.
Explanations were offered, and corroborated by the others. No-one really disagreed as to what had happened. Emma was set 150 lines on “I must not tease and provoke the other girls”, which she looked rather shocked at. Even so, Mr Evans had said, slapping her was not a suitable or appropriate reaction.
And so I was brought to the Headmaster’s Office. He was in a meeting, but I would be seen as soon as possible after this. Mr Evans filled in a report form, which Mrs Hardacre, the School Secretary, would take in for Dr Walton as soon as he was free. And I would have to wait. Not on the chairs where we usually waited if Dr Watson needed to see us. But by the door, visible to those who passed by, facing the wall, hands on my head. The ‘Naughty spot’, we usually called it. Girls who stood on it were ‘naughty’, and were soon to be soundly punished. Well, here I now was.
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Daughter Bare Bottom Spanking Art