From: quixotoes@aol.com (Quixotoes)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking
Subject: Freddie
Date: 15 May 1996 08:00:21 -0400
Message-ID: <4nch0l$fm6@newsbf02.news.aol.com>

Gaetana Returns (1/5)(Freddie)

Dear Reader:

Whenever someone says a kind word about some of my stories that
evoke innocent youth and firm-but-fair paternal love, I can only
silently thank the lady who was my mentor here.

Her name was Gaetana, who was posting heart-warming, bottom-
burning, chin-drooling stories based on her youth, growing up at
at about the same time and same place as I. She brought me to
a.s.s. and taught me how to post. Beyond that -- and I did not
fully realize it till recently -- she taught me by example how to
write a decent spanking story. 

She retired from a.s.s. shortly after I began participating, but
we have stayed pen pals. At the request of a couple of folks, I
have persuaded her to send me five of her best, which I repost
now with her permission. Gaetana no longer reads a.s.s. and has a
different screen name, so any commentary should be delivered to
me and I will relay. -- Ted.
                          ***

Freddie (M/m) by Gaetana

I promised some time ago I'd post my recollections of the one
time I recall genuine corporal punishment in my school.  This
wasn't the rural south but an old Confederate town on the brink
of transition to Washington bedroom community.  When I was in 4th
or 5th grade, however, the old mores and modes of raising kids
still reflected the old ways, and the school itself (although a
new wing had been added for the upper grades) was a relic from
the turn of the century.  The basement level was concrete, dark
and forbidding, but it housed a huge room used for arts & crafts
and for recess games on rainy days; the "boys" and
"girls" rooms were also there - the only rest rooms in the 3-
story school building.  

I wasn't the one that got punished.  That usually occured after I
got home, on the few occasions I wasn't able to escape notice for
some mischief.  Often the instigator of risky little escapades, I
usually recruited willing partners among the boys, and though
frequently enough deserving the punishment, could finesse my own
role if we got in trouble.  These were tiny pecadillos,
infractions of silly rigid rules, and usually resulted in a note
being sent home to my mother, which in effect was a 1st class
ticket to a stern lecture and an ever sterner spanking.  

These, although frequent and ass-stinging, were a regular part of
childhood in our neighborhood, and nothing to be particularly
embarrassed about.  Everybody "got it" and everybody knew it. 
It truly wasn't a frequent occurrence for kids to be punished at
school, but there was no law against it, and the principal indeed
kept a broad wooden paddle in his office.  It was a little like
the H-bomb:  a powerful deterrent and a mythic threat.  More
frequently, a phone call was made to the offender's mother (most
of them housewives who were home all day, as incredible as that
seems even to me now), who would arrive at school to take their
kid home in disgrace, to return the next day exhibiting that
peculiar mincing gait and reluctance to sit that we all
recognized.  

Freddie Parsons got his at school and it was branded into all our
memories.  Although inflamed by the injustice of it all (poor
Freddie's "crime" was nothing more than drawing -- and
allowing to be found -- somewhat pornographic cartoons of
Mrs. Hudson, our 6th grade teacher, which were unfortunately both
graphic and unflattering),  even I kept silent with my outrage - 
the example was too vivid, too fresh and too painful to risk a
replay with my behind in the starring role!  

The pictures dropped out of Freddie's Social Studies book and
probably lay on the floor by his desk most of the school day.  I
remember the papers was scuffed and crumpled when Mrs.
Hudson stooped and picked it up - our classroom was to be tidy at
all times.  I also remember the purplish hue of her face when she
looked at the crude unmistakable "comic strip" he had
drawn, with childishly sexual "things" happening to exaggerated
parts of her ample body.  

He'd gotten all the details right, including our teacher's fat
braided bun of hair bristling with hairpins.  Freddie was frozen
in his desk, clearly terrified.  A freckled strawberry blonde
kid, Freddie's face had gone very pale in contrast to Mrs.
Hudson's angry flush.  She didn't say a word to him, but spun on
her heel and strode out the door to the principal's office, just
4 doors down the old musty hall.  No one in the classroom said a
single word.  There was one nervous snicker from a tall gangly
kid in the back of the class, which was quickly cut off when Mrs.
Hudson marched back in, Mr. Gruver right at her heels - the
legendary spanking paddle in hand.  

Right up until that instant, I had believed devoutly  that it was
a symbol of authority only, not really employed to ignite the
gluteal nerve endings of real kids like us!  Not at school -
certainly not in our classroom!

Freddie's face had gone from pallid to flaming, but he hadn't
moved from his desk.  His hands, I remember, were clasped in his
lap.  Mr. Gruver walked straight up to Fred (Mrs. Hudson stood
with arms folded like an angry Valkyrie) and said, "Stand up
young man!  Now!  Are these pictures yours?  Did you make these? 
Tell the truth, now!"  Freddie stared out the window at the
bright April day on which he had entered the gates of hell.  He
seemed to have lost the power of speech.  

"WELL?" Mr. Gruver raised his voice.  "Do you admit it?  Are
these yours?"  Freddie was apparently determined to stonewall his
interrogator.  He looked past Mr. Gruver and past all of us,
probably trying to project himself into outer space.  "All
right," said the principal.  "I hate to do this, but you've given
me little choice.  This, young Mr. Parsons, is intolerable.  And
you're going to admit it and apologize to Mrs. Hudson.  Get up to
this desk.  MOVE!"  Freddie got a little help from Mr. Gruver,
who jerked him to his feet and marched him up the aisle to the
imposing oak desk at the front of the room.  

"Drop your pants, if you please," Mr. Gruver's didn't shout, but
his voice had the compelling ring of authority.  Freddie broke
out of his seeming trance and spoke for the first time:  "No! I
mean, no SIR...I...I NO!"  This last because Mr. Gruver wasted no
time in waiting for compliance.  He simply bent Freddie over the
desk and pinioned him in place far enough across it to bring his
feet off the floor, then pulled his trousers down forcibly. 

Freddie's belt was still attached, so the trousers drew his
underpants down wtih them.  I don't think Mr. Gruver intended
that, but Fred's butt was now fully exposed to the roomful of
silent peers.  No snickers now.  Not with that broad wooden
paddle and that waiting bare behind in full view.  Was he really
going to do it? 

"All right, Freddie, you've got a choice.  You can admit you made
those disgusting pictures, take about 10 paddles and be sent home
with a note to your parents.  If you don't confess and apologize
now, you're going to be much, much sorrier!"

I remember squirming miserably in my seat.  I was transfixed by
the sight of Freddie's behind and didn't want to watch,  but had
no choice.  This wasn't deliciously eavesdropping while a friend
next door howled under the strap or hairbrush.  This was close up
and all too personal, with the audience arguably in line for the
next dose.  My own bottom wriggled uncomfortably in my panties.
There but for the grace of God....

Freddie remained obturately silent, and Mr. Gruver wasn't
going to waste all day on his decision-making process.  He rolled
up both sleeves melodramatically and raised the paddle.  "All
right," he said, "This was your decision, Master Parsons."  The
paddle moved enough air in its downswing that I
remember feeling the tiny breeze, just before the "THWACK" of it
landing on Fred's backside.  

There was a collective gasp from the class but a sharp cry from
Freddie.  If he had resolved to take this paddling silently, that
hope was defeated.  Mr. Gruver paused a moment and, in the quiet
classroom I can remember hearing the big wall clock ticking and
Freddie's involuntary whimper.  Oh, how that must sting!  Mr.
Gruver raised the paddle (I flinched, I remember that) and
brought it down with another "THWACK" on Fred's naked haunches. 

It connected flat across both cheeks, dead-center, and Freddie
yowled, his bottom jerking to the side.  Since Mr. Gruver's left
hand was firmly on the small of his back now, in an obviously
practiced spanking mode, Freddie couldn't move far.  The next 5
THWACKS landed rhythmically, with sickening resonance,
each punctuated with a gasping sob from Freddie...then,
"NoooWAIT!  NoooWAIT STOP!!"  

Freddie's struggles became frantic and his hands were
ineffectually flying back toward his now-scarlet butt, unable to
reach around Mr. Gruver's arm,  "I did it, I did it, I DID IT!! 
No MORE - PLEASE!"  

Mr. Gruver straightened up and pulled Fred to his feet,
swiveling the bare-assed boy around to face Mrs. Hudson and the
class, holding Fred erect by the collar of his shirt., so he
could confess and apologize.  I don't think he was even
thinking about displaying Freddie essentially naked from the
waist down to all of us.  "We're waiting!"  Mr. Gruver
threatened, the paddle still clutched in his right hand,
positioned directly behind Fred's glowing bottom.  Freddie
sniffled and started, his voice hoarse, "I-I guess I did
'em...I'm...sorry!"  "WHACK! WHACK!"  Mr Gruver delivered a
stinging blow to Fred's behind, and then a second, sending his
captive into a ludicrous howling dance.  

"You will apologize properly, sir!"  "I DID IT AND I'M SORRY! 
I'M --- SORRY!" wailed Fred.  "WHACK!  WHACK!"  Mr. Gruver was
relentless.  "You're sorry, WHO?"  He had to give Freddie a few
minutes, as the paddled boy was prancing in anguish and sobbing
in big yelping gasps.  Finally Mr. Gruver straightened Freddie up
and ordered, "Again."  Freddie managed, "I'm...s-sorry, Mrs.
Hudson!  I'll never do it again!  I MEAN IT!  PLEASE!"  

Satisfied with the confession, Mr. Gruver announced to the class. 
I hope this will be a lesson to every one of you.  Now, Master
Parsons, it was your choice to make me paddle the
apology out of you; now you get the punishment you have told us
you deserve."  He swung Freddie back over the desk.  His bare
bottom looked exactly like a huge double strawberry.  I remember
that, and the rising panic in his voice.  Mr. Gruver raised the
dreadful paddle and began to give Freddie the 10 flaming THWACKS
he'd promised.  

I shut my eyes  - I'd gotten a bare-bottomed spanking just the
previous weekend after short-cutting to the Saturday afternoon
movies along the railroad tracks again - and my own ass tingled
in empathy.  Freddie fairly screamed, his feet kicking and behind
jerking as he took every last whack right on his exposed flaming
cheeks.  
 
When it ended, the room was still, only Freddie's gasping sobs
breaking the horrified silence.  Mr. Gruver let Freddie up and
the boy instantly began to struggle with his pants, desperate to
cover his behind no matter what the pain involved.  I ached with
sympathy and - something else I couldn't identify at that age.  I
realized my own breathing was quick and ragged, watching
Freddie wince and prance.  He finally succeeded in getting his
trousers up, but had to unfasten the belt and fly to get them
over his rear.  

Mr. Gruver let him finish adjusting his pants, although Fred was
standing stiffly and looking at the floor.  His hands were behind
him, palms outward, not holding his bottom but almost as though
warding off any possible further assault.  His face was still
contorted and red with pain and humiliation, but (I thought) the
shards of his defiance and courage shining through.  I attempted
an encouraging smile, trying to project support or friendship. 
When Freddie's eyes met mine, he flushed deeper and swung his
gaze straight out the window again.  I'd just made things worse,
deepening his
embarrassment.  

Mr. Gruver addressed the class solemnly.  "I'm very sorry that I
had to do this and I trust this will never be necessary again. 
Master Parsons, you go straight to the boy's room and wash your
face.  Then you report to the office.  I'm calling your mother
and explaining why you were paddled today.  You may come back to
school when your parents decide you have been punished
adequately."  Freddie looked stricken; he obviously knew what 
"punished adequately" was going to translate to when his father
got home.  

EPILOGUE:  The lesson never had to be repeated while I was in
grade school.  The myth had become reality and no one
doubted again that the symbolic spanking paddle would be
used.  I was in love with Freddie for years after that; he was
the martyred hero, brave until broken by the unjust and brutal 
authorities (I've never outgrown my weakness for rebels without a 
cause). But, even years later in high school, we never dated. I
don't think he could ever get past what we were forced to watch
that day  when he became the example for us all, paddled in
public.

Gaetana