It was the final week of our last term at junior school before we all moved up to the high school in the nearby town. We were both excited and worried about transitioning from being big fish in a small pond to very small fish in a huge pond at the new school. Life was now marking time before the summer holidays, and five of us were playing rounders during afternoon break. Well, one batting, one bowling, and three chasing the ball. As it was unlikely anyone would be caught, it was strictly 6 balls and then all moved round. The person batting would then field, fielders would move positions, and one person would take the bat and another would bowl. It was a hot, sunny afternoon and the concrete play yard was radiating the heat back. Although it was forbidden to play ball games in the yard, as most of the other kids were on the grass playing fields, we had plenty of room and thought nothing of it.
The game progressed. I was catching behind a girl called Joan who was batting, facing a girl called Christine’s bowling. Two others, Sally and Ann, were catchers. Joan missed Christine’s first three balls which gave me some catching practice. Her fourth clipped with the underside of the bat and it bounced harmlessly back to Christine. The fifth was a screamer and passed Joan before she saw it.
“Oh come on, Christine. Give her a chance,” I giggled.
“Alright Joan, if you don’t hit this one you bowl for the rest of the game,” Christine smiled.
Christine then bowled a really good ball. Joan’s eyes lit up and she swung with all her might. I thought she had mistimed it, the ball was so slow, but she made a good top edge contact and the ball flew off in the opposite direction to where she intended. Instead of going between the two school buildings which fanned out at over 90 degrees, as she intended, the ball sped off directly at the building to her right. We all followed it’s trajectory and it looked like it would hit the wall above the headmistress’s office window. However, the ball had some phenomenal spin on it. Almost in slow motion, the ball dipped before crashing into the top right hand corner of Mrs Owen’s office window. We froze to the spot as Mrs Owen’s face appeared, slightly shaken by the breaking glass at her window, and she glared directly at us. We were done for.
Opening the still intact left side of the window, she bellowed, “Christine Wilson, Sheila Smart, Joan Barkes, Sally Smith and Ann Banks, my office. Now!” and with that the window closed and a little more glass fell from the broken pane.
We slowly marched off to the end of the building where the entrance was, muttering as to whose fault it was. By rights, it was all our fault as we shouldn’t have been playing there. A minute or two later, which seemed much longer at the time, we arrived at the outer door of Mrs Owen’s office. The door was ajar and we could hear the sound of a broom on the hard wooden floor, plus the soft tinkle of glass as the mess was being cleared up.
“Stay there, please,” Miss Davis, the headmistress’s secretary, instructed firmly.
With a deft touch, the mess was cleared in a couple more minutes and Miss Davis carefully removed a bucket with the glass shards in it and went to put it in the large waste bin the car park. Mrs Owen had a face like thunder, probably as much with the shock as actual anger. Either way, we stood quivering, wondering what was about to befall us.
“What on earth were you girls doing? You know there is a strict ‘no ball games’ policy in the yard. It is there for this very reason,” she said, pointing at the small jagged hole in the glass window. “I was very lucky that none of the glass hit me or anyone stood at my desk. I happened to be getting a file from the cupboard when this,” she held up our ball. “Came thundering in. Otherwise, I might well have been hurt, badly hurt,” she emphasised.
Miss Davis returned and put the headmistress’s waste bin, a stout solid metal thing, back in the corner by the edge of what was left of the window.
“Thank you, Miss Davis,” the headmistress said gratefully, now clearly getting over the shock of her window crashing into her office.
Christine spoke, “Sorry Miss, it was just a bad shot from Joan, Miss. Everyone is on the playing fields so we used the empty yard for a quick game of rounders.”
Mrs Owen held up her hand and Christine stopped mid-sentence.
“All the more reason not to be playing with a ball here. That is what our extensive playing fields are for. The clue is in the name!”
“Sorry, Miss,” we all mumbled, hoping an apology might suffice.
“I very much think you are, genuinely. But you will certainly be more sorry before you return to class after the break,” she added.
We all shared glances, hoping we hadn’t understood what she had just said. Sadly, we were totally correct.
“This might be your last week with us at St Cuthbert’s, but I will not tolerate blatant disregard for the rules, especially those there for safety reasons. I am, therefore, going to give each of your bottoms a spanking.”
With that last word, five sets of eyes looked to the floor and five pairs of shoulders physically dropped.
“Joan, as you had the bat, you will be first. Christine had the ball, so she will be second. I will leave you other three to work out what happens thereafter. Joan, come here,” Mrs Owens said.
Pushing her chair back away from her desk, she made plenty of room for Joan to approach. Joan had tears in her eyes already welling up in her eyes.
“Around here, girl!” Mrs Owen was getting impatient.
Joan now stood by her side. Without another word, Mrs Owen placed her hand two-thirds the way down Joan’s back and gently pushed. Joan resisted momentarily before she realised what was happening. She then bent forward and across Mrs Owen’s lap. Joan wore a loose-fitting light pink skirt which Mrs Owen pulled up out of the way revealing Joan’s bottom now only covered by a pair of pale yellow knickers. Without further ado, having pulled her knickers back across Joan’s partially exposed bum, Mrs Owen preceded to land ten firm smacks alternately on each cheek of Joan’s bottom.
Joan was sobbing by about the fourth, and was still crying when Mrs Owen told her, “You can get up, Joan. Go and stand with the others.”
“Yes Miss,” Joan blubbed as she got up and rubbed her bottom.
“Christine!” was all Mrs Owen needed to say.
Christine walked across to her side and bent over without force or fuss. Again, her skirt, thick green cotton, was pulled up and her matching green panties soon also received ten painful smacks. Whilst she ouched and winced, she did not cry or come close to it.
“Up you get, Christine. Who is next?” Mrs Owen asked.
“Me, Miss,” I offered, keen to just get it over with.
“Very well, Sheila. Over you get.”
I obeyed, and second later the skirt of my dress was over my back and my bottom received it’s full allocation of ten firm spanks. Whilst it certainly stung quite a bit, it was not as bad as mum or gran’s punishments. They invariably were on a bare bottom and often with a hair brush or carpet slipper.
Only Sally and Ann remained. Both booked lamely at each other, neither wanting to go next.
“Ann!” Mrs Owen broke the deadlock.
Sally looked at her apologetically as Ann slowly made her way to the headmistress’s lap. Ann had name the mistake of wearing tiny little briefs so most of her bum was exposed and rapidly turning red as Mrs Owen applied her had forcefully on the covered and uncovered parts of the bottom in front of her. I remember the skin-on-skin sounding quite a lot louder. Ann held her bottom as she was allowed up and was soon back with the rest of us.
Without either saying a word, Sally took the final place on the walk of shame, taking Ann’s place without being asked. Skirt out of the way, her bottom met the same punishment as the previous four had done. Sally must have been pleased to have worn good thick knickers despite the heat today as they would at least offer a little protection during the spanking. Sally got up, straightened her skirt and stood quietly beside me in the line.
“Now, let that be a lesson to you all.” Mrs Walsh paused as the bell rang. “Now, get to your classroom and if Mrs Walsh asks why you are late back, you can tell the whole class that you have each spent part of break across my knee.”
We filed out and walked along the corridor exchanging comments about the experience we had just shared. Mrs Walsh did, of course, ask why we were late back and the rest of the class laughed as we told her, our faces now the colour of beetroot.
Retold on behalf of Sheila by Jo
JG