Now it’s not like I don’t think a girl needs a good spanking now and again. I don’t exactly like it, but there is no denying that it does a girl good. This was a lesson I learned in school.

At 18 Miss Parmenter told me after a particularly memorable shellacking that I had a bottom on me that was never going to be safe.

I was a little tearful at the time and I was sporting a dozen biting lines of fire across my bare bottom when she shared this little gem, but I asked her what she meant.

“My dear,” she said imperiously, “Some girls will get through life with a bottom untouched by mortal man and others will suffer the sting of a thousand spanking hands. But you my little Rachel Roux have a bottom on you that I defy the gods not to chastise.”

I had wanted to protest or at least find out more but she had leaned in close and whispered, “I suggest you leave now before I give you another dozen.”

I hadn’t needed telling twice.

But it played on my mind and I have to confess I was intrigued. You see spanking and other girls’ getting the cane was something of an interest of mine; in a purely academic way of course. But hearing about such things always gave me a funny feeling.

Even when it was my own bottom in the firing line my fear was always tinged with an excitement that stayed with me at intimate times until well after all marks had faded. After Miss Parmenter’s little chat these feelings only intensified and many a time I stood naked in front of a mirror to turn this way and that as I assessed my dubious assets.

I had been caned a few times, although strangely only in my last year, but my first proper spanking happened during my last weeks of school. I was a bit demob happy and became embroiled in an illegal game of tennis with some of the boys. It was a game that started with a few cans of beer and ended in two broken racquets and one torn net.

Bull-faced Thomas the head games master found me flat on my back in a fit of giggles in the middle of the tennis court. The boys had all scarpered by then, not without urging me to flee also, but I was a stubborn brat in those days.

“Miss Roux, how nice,” Mr Thomas, as I feel I should call him, said pleasantly, “Did you enjoy your game?”

“Eh…?” was my best response.

He was a big bull-faced man who always wore heavy cricket jumpers over a chest like a barrel. He was always polite to the girls, but you knew he was angry because even when he spoke softly his ruddy face turned purple. That was the way he had looked at me then. By the time he spoke again I was on my feet.

“Tell me Miss Roux, shall we make a visit to Miss Parmenter or do you prefer to step into my office?” he asked me, still pleasantly of voice, but now ruddy of face.

I knew old Bull-Face was a terror with a slipper and there were even rumours that the big girls had their knickers taken down. But you have to realise that Miss Parmenter would have given me a baker’s dozen before asking question one and Mr Thomas may not have been required to leave the room anyway.

The thought of the headmistress crushed most of the usual excitement out of existence, but strangely the prospect of the slipper from old Bull-Face seemed almost comedic.

“Eh Sir, please Sir,” I said cheekily, my hand held aloft like some sprog, “Your office please Sir.” I almost giggled.

His eyes became like slits and all the little curls of wiry grey hair on his head seem to stand on end. I particularly liked his huge eyebrows, they were deliciously stern. Then he slowly crooked a wagging finger at me and I gulped. No more giggles.

The slipper was huge. It was one of the old-style tennis shoes with a very thick sole. Mr Thomas worked it back and forth between both hands as if limbering it up. Then he pulled an armless plastic bucket chair away from the wall and sat down.

I heard about the over-the-knee sessions, but most girls got it bending to touch her toes.

“Are you honest girl?” he asked pleasantly.

I nodded, but my tummy was tingling furiously.

“We’ll see,” he muttered. “Swats or an imposition?” he asked.

I just pointed mutely at the slipper and pulled a face.

“Fair enough,” he continued. “Tell me, have you ever had a bare bender from Miss Parmenter?”

I gaped and blushing furiously I almost told him to sod off. It was none of his business.

“The reason I ask is if you haven’t, then your knickers stay up. If you have then you need to take them down. That’s fair isn’t it?” he said with expansive magnanimity.

I gulped and blushed even more. I couldn’t argue with that.

“What if I lie?” I said.

He shrugged. I guess that was why he asked me if I was honest.

I rolled my eyes and with as much courage as I could I reached under my tennis skirt without another word to tug them down and slip them off.

“Down would have been sufficient,” he said disapprovingly. But I found myself suddenly across his knee all the same.

“I’m 18,” I wailed as if it had anything at all to do with it.

“So you can consent,” he countered.

“Oh yes,” I said stupidly and rolled my eyes again, duh.

Then with a sigh he grabbed the back of my skirt to bunch at my waist and landed the first spank.

Ohmygodlovingshittingchristonabicycle. Did you know that when 90 kilo man spanks a girl’s bare bottom with a relatively flat surface and with a decent force then it really hurts? Nor did I back then.

The second spank was rather worse and by the third my bum was on fire and I was yelling my head off for England. By the second minute in and countless spanks to my bare bottom I would have traded the spanking for a dozen from Miss Parmenter any day.

It doesn’t do to cry, girls just don’t, although I have in front of Miss Parmenter. I usually save the tears for the bogs after. Or when I am back in my room and face down on the bed. But less than halfway through my spanking at the hands of Mr Thomas I was bawling like a sprog.

“I’m sorry,” I howled and maybe some other things.

“There that should do you,” he said at last and some considerable time later.

I was a lake of tears with a well blow-torched bottom by then and it was a minute or two before I even knew he had finished.

It was so embarrassing to be sent to the corner like a sprog, especially when he had me put my hands on my head so that my short skirt lifted off my bare bottom. But I would rather that than be returned to school in a flood of tears. So instead of having lunch, I stood meekly in the corner and hoped no one else would come in.

After I was dismissed Mr Thomas confiscated my knickers and I had to walk to my room in an impossibly short skirt. But old Bull-Face had said I was showing off when I removed them and part of me thinks he was right.

“Thank you Sir,” I said as I left, and I meant it. But I was dreading the stairs that led to my room.

Anyway that was how I got started with what was to be the pattern of my life.

Oh silly me, did I say that my name is Rachel Roux, pronounced ‘roo’? I’m 26 now, a little on the short side with dark brown hair, which I sometimes wear short and sometimes tint with highlights. I carry a little too much weight for my height and my bottom is definitely too big.

I work for a magazine and get into all kinds of scrapes. But strangely it is my bottom that always seems to come off worse. But it has got me out of as many situations as it as it got me into, so I suppose that’s only fair. That sounds kind of odd doesn’t it? What I mean is… oh God my deadline… Charlie is going to kill me, well not kill me, he will probably just… yeah, I have really got to go.