The Psychology Student

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

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The Psychology Student

(*****, F/m, Intense, schoolboy, surprise)

A legendary student recollects what really happened way back when. (Approximately 4,240 words. Originally published 1999-11.)

He came to the school burdened by the name Clarence Elmer Jocelyn the Third. He left a legend. Not a kid doesn't know the story, circulated by word of mouth from senior to freshmen over five or six generations. No one could remember exactly when he'd attended, or when it had happened, or even _if_ it had happened, but the legend grew every year as kids wanted to believe the fantastic tale.

I myself was a non-believer. They haven't allowed paddling at the school in thirty-nine years, and even when they did I understood it to be a rare event. It couldn't have happened, not like the legend described it. Improbable. Impossible. Not in a million years.

Of course I knew the name. It was branded into my memory like J. Edgar Hoover or Lee Harvey Oswald. I thought of it like I did them, too, as historical figures, probably not a tenth as interesting as history makes them out to be.

So when I saw the name on the credit card receipt I couldn't keep quiet. I stared at the old man in disbelief. "You're THE Clarence Jocelyn!" I gasped.

The man was startled. "Uh, yeah. You heard of me, kid?"

"Heard of you? You're a legend! At least that's how they tell it at Casey High."


"Yeah. Didn't happen the way they said it, did it?"

Slowly a smile formed across the wrinkled face of the old man. "You mean the Spanking, don't you."

I nodded and he sighed deeply.

"Ah, so they still talk about it. After all these years."

"So it DID happen?"

"Of course. Bet they don't know the half of it, though." The man pushed his coffee cup toward me. "You gotta break, kid? Let's find a booth and I'll tell you a story."

The place was as empty as a graveyard at midnight, so I nodded and poured Clarence a fresh cup of joe. He took a seat in the corner booth and I slid in opposite him.

"Well, kid, I don't know what version they tell today, but this here's the God's honest truth. This is exactly what happened, not one word omitted.

"It's a strange tale, even in those days. Copped me a lot of notoriety back then. Got me elected Senior Class President, it did, and I was a nobody before... well, I'm getting ahead of myself."

The old man took a long sip of black coffee, stared at the ceiling until I thought he'd fallen asleep or croaked off, and then suddenly he began talking. Here's the tale he told me, complete with all the extra details and forestory that's usually left out.

* * * * *

I was what you'd call a nerd today. Back then we didn't have a name like that, but it was the same thing. I was studious, shy, hard-working, quiet. I wasn't good at athletics -- I was as clumsy as a cow with its feet tied together. I didn't hardly ever talk to girls, they didn't hardly ever talk to me, unless they needed some help with their mathematics or physics.

I studied everything, read everything. I was fascinated by issues of psychology. I captained the debate team, won many honors, too. I was on the chess team, science club, business club, everything you'd expect from an academic overachiever.

I was a good student, never getting in any trouble. Until Miss Clarice Adams came to the school.

She was the new English teacher, replacing Mr. Reed who'd suffered a stroke. She was fresh out of college, tender as spring leaf. In her early twenties, she looked younger than most of the sophomore girls. Guys whistled every time she walked the hallways. She didn't take it well, either, blushing and getting all flustered and bothered by the attention. She used to eat a sack lunch in her room just so she wouldn't have to walk to the cafeteria; at least that's what I made out.

She was beautiful, intelligent, and took her job very seriously. Every guy in school had bad thoughts about her. Me? I was obsessed. Miss Adams was my dream girl. She was the most amazing person I'd ever met. I did anything to get the chance to talk with her after class, even pretending I didn't understand something about the novel we were reading, or coming up with a tricky question of grammar I knew she'd find challenging to answer.

The other boys knew what I was doing and teased me mercilessly, but it didn't weaken my resolve in the least. I was helpless before that woman.

Back in those days, discipline wasn't anything like today. Most teachers took care of matters right then and there, in the classroom. It was the mark of a poor teacher who had to involve the principal in a discipline matter. Only in extreme situations were you sent out of class. Usually the teacher spanked or paddled you right there, in front of everyone.

This wasn't an usual thing. Most days you'd see one or two paddlings, and you'd hear about others. It was generally the same bunch of loudmouths and lazy louts who got it regular.

But those troublemakers -- woe to you if you didn't keep them under control! They loved nothing better than to push a teacher to the limit, right to the edge of a paddling. It was a game they played, and they knew every teacher's weakness and limits.

Miss Adams, well, she was like a sheep thrown in with the wolves. She didn't have the slightest idea what to do with these kids. On her third day, I found her after school, at her desk weeping.

"Miss Adams!" I gasped. "Whatever's the matter?"

But she wouldn't tell me, not then. Twice more it happened, nearly breaking my heart each time. Then I heard that Jonny Pickett was in her last class of the day, and it seemed he was giving her a hard time. He was a big bruiser of a kid, easily a hundred-and-twenty pounds heavier and two feet taller than poor Miss Adams.

I was livid. I wanted nothing more than to thrash that Jonny Pickett within an inch of his life, but of course, I'd never been in a winning fight in my life. There was no way I could take him on physically.

I pined around for a week or so, doing nothing, and then I hear a rumor that Miss Adams was going to quit. Horrors! It couldn't happen. I set out to make sure it wouldn't.

I knew that all Jonny and his like needed was a good paddling. They thought they had Miss Adams under their control, but if she were to just once put one of them over her knee, they'd sober up real quick.

The problem was, Miss Adams had never spanked anyone in her life. She'd never even been spanked, she told me. Her sister got spanked once and it scared Miss Adams so bad she never did anything to get herself in that position.

Don't ask me where I got the idea, but somehow I came up with the notion that if Miss Adams got some spanking practice, she'd learn how to deal with those rowdy boys. So I volunteered my "services."

"Go ahead, Miss Adams," I told her after school one day. "It's okay. Spank me good."

But she wouldn't do it. I had done anything to deserve it, and she was such a kind-hearted lady, she couldn't bear to hurt me. I tried and tried, but she wouldn't back down.

"So what would I have to do to earn a spanking from you?" I asked her. I walked up to the chalkboard and began writing. "Write something like this on your blackboard?"

She stared at what I'd written with shock and her face went all red as an overripe tomato. "Why Clarence E. Jocelyn that's horrible!"

I smiled at what I'd written: "Miss A. is a bitch."

"Surely that deserves a spanking, Miss Adams. That's awful naughty!"

Well, it _still_ took some persuading, but finally I got her to agree to paddle me. My, what a change came over that woman! She started out with me bent over her desk and gave me a few swats. They didn't sting much at all and I told her so. She tried harder and harder, and finally got in some pretty good swats.

I could see she was beginning to enjoy it -- she had a lusty look in her eyes, and her smile contained an awful lot of delight. Eyes twinkling, she said, "You can't feel much through those thick jeans, boy, let's get 'em down."

Well, I already told you I couldn't resist the woman. I was a mere fifteen-year-old boy head-over-heels in love with her -- what could I do? I dropped my pants and she spanked me over my shorts. I felt those blows, let me tell you! That paddle was starting to make an impression!

But I'd opened Pandora's Box with that woman. She wasn't done by a country mile. She wanted to try spanking me over lap, and of course I couldn't say no. She tried out her hairbrush for a dozen or so swats, and then she pulled down my underpants!

Now bare bottomed spankings weren't as rare as blue cows in those days. There were always rumors, and everyone knew it was sort of the ultimate punishment. It was generally assumed to be reserved for the principal. It certainly had never occurred to me that a woman teacher would be allowed to spank a boy's bare bottom!

But with Miss Adams rubbing my bare end and making comments about how "cute and pink" by backside was, I was too embarrassed to protest. Besides, I rather _liked_ her touching me back there. It was embarrassing, but it was also wonderously exciting.

She spanked me then, and it hurt. I didn't utter a word in protest, however. I let her spank me half the night! It wasn't until nearly seven o'clock that I left her classroom, and if I hadn't had my jeans back on, I swear my bottom would have lit up the night like a streetlight!

The next day I discovered I'd created a monster. Miss Adams suddenly became a disciplinarian. She was good at it, too. Most thorough. She paddled everyone: little boys, big boys, bad girls, good girls. Drunk with the power of her newfound courage, she put together the strictest class rules of anyone in the school.

Talking in class earned you a spanking. A missed assignment was four swats. Two missed assignments in a row was a dozen. Chewing gum was a hairbrushing. Rudeness or smart alec comments was a paddling. Tardiness was one paddle swat per minute late.

Behavior in Miss Adams' classes became angelic overnight. Everyone did their homework, and everyone raised their hands when they had a question, and no one dared interrupt another who was speaking. Fear became the active ingredient in Miss Adams' classes.

My relationship with Miss Adams began to change. I had no problems with her spanking me in private, after school, but the humiliation of being spanked in class in front of everyone else was too much. I wouldn't say I hated her, but I certainly grew angry and resentful.

"Why did I get her started?" I kept asking myself. "You stupid fool! Even you're not immune from her ridiculous rules."

The rules got worse. Soon it was paddlings for poor results on tests: one swat for every wrong answer. Even the near perfect grades of 98% like mine earned one swat.

Students talked about the teacher incessantly. Guys who used to brag about Miss Adams' sexy body now talked about how hard she spanked. There were rumors that she kept some of the bigger boys after school and spanked them bare bottom.

What had I done? I'd turned a sweet, innocent college graduate into a sadistic terror. It was maddening. I still lusted after her. I watched her constantly during class, standing and writing on the blackboard, her tight skirt containing the swell of the roundest, sexiest bottom in existence. But now I was terrified to even talk to her, for drawing any kind of attention to yourself was bound to end you up over her lap.

Then one day it happened. All the sequences fell into place perfectly, as though the outcome was ordained. My frustration had reached a peak where I was so angry at the teacher I scarcely cared what would happen to me. Hell, I figured I'd probably be expelled, but I had to do _something_. My mood was ideal for opening Miss Adams gave me.

It began with a paddling. For everyone in the class. We'd had a test the previous day and there wasn't a single perfect score. Miss Adams gave the papers back to us and called us up, one by one, to take our swats. I only got two, but I resented them enormously. Especially since I didn't agree with her answer on question number seven.

It was an issue of grammar, and I felt her question was ambiguous. What she considered to be the correct answer was not accurate, in my opinion.

When I pointed this out, she wouldn't listen. Several others -- top students in English -- echoed my sentiments, saying that was the sole question they'd gotten wrong. It did no good. We all took our punishments.

Then she gave as some reading time. We'd recently started on _MacBeth_. I figured Miss Adams was reading the play along with the class, but I was wrong. Suddenly Miss Adams gave a strangled gasp. Everyone looked up. She was beet red, her cheeks glowing.

Embarrassed, she stood. "Class, I must apologize. Clarence and the others were indeed correct. My answer for question seven was wrong."

Now I give Miss Adams full credit for admitting her mistake so forthrightly. Few teachers have the guts to admit they screwed up. They set a poor example for students. Miss Adams didn't try to hide or cover up her error, however. The moment she looked up the topic in her textbook and realized her mistake she announced it to the class. She promptly corrected all the incorrect grades, bringing my 90% to a 95%.

She smiled sheepishly at the class. "Silly me. I'm really sorry about that, class. I shouldn't try to create tests from memory at eleven o'clock at night!"

It was a resolution, but something stuck in my craw. Actually, it was my sore backside, still tingling from the two swats from Miss Adams' paddle. Something in me snapped at that point. I guess the tension of the last few weeks had stretched and there was just no give left. Suddenly, I didn't care what Miss Adams might do or think -- I wanted justice.

"You repaired our grades," I said boldly, without raising my hand, "but what about our paddlings?"

There was a stunned moment of silence. No one physically moved, but the impression was one of scrapping desks as those near me scooted away, desperate to be as far from the scene of disaster as possible.

Miss Adams' beautiful dark eyes rotated to focus on me. "What are you talking about, Clarence?" she said coldly.

She knew exactly what I was talking about. "You paddled every one of us in this room," I said bluntly. "Many of us got that question wrong; for some, it was the _only_ wrong answer. Now you've admitted _you_ were in the wrong, but all of us here are sitting on sore butts for your mistake!"

I felt very alone at that moment. The gauntlet had been thrown, battle lines drawn, and Miss Adams and I faced off for the gunfight. But I didn't slack at all -- I grew angrier and more confident. Justice, that's all I wanted.

For a long moment it was just the two of us, glaring at each other. Than Miss Adams backed down. Slightly, but it was a retreat.

"I'm sorry you were paddled unjustly," she said. "But I can't erase your paddling."

"That's not fair," I said. "If you'd listened to me before the paddlings, when I complained about the answer, you could have prevented the excess punishment. It's only too late because you didn't listen."

"I don't like your tone, Clarence," Miss Adams said in a warning voice.

"I'm not trying to be rude, Miss. I'm just frustrated. You're the one who makes all these strict rules. Fine, we've cooperated and accepted them. No one has complained. You tell us up front, we make this mistake, we pay this price. That's fair. But now the worm has turned. Now _you're_ the one making the mistake, and you get off with an apology! And we've already paid with a paddling!"

There were a few murmurs of agreement from the class. It wasn't much, just some whispered phrases: "Yeah!" and "Not fair!" It gave me hope and confidence, and I watched Miss Adams take another step backward.

"You're right, and I'm sorry. It's not fair. It's not. But what can I do? I can't go back in time! I wish I could fix it, but it's done."

"It's not just fixing it," I said, becoming daring with all my success. "It's the fact that your mistake goes unpunished. We all suffer consequences of our actions. We get an answer wrong and we get paddled. YOU get an answer wrong and nothing happens. That's not fair."

"Now listen, I'm the teacher, Clarence--"

"That makes it even worse! As the teacher you should be held to an even higher standard than the rest of us! If we get one swat for every wrong answer, you should get two!"

Now the class was getting into it. The more vocal support was coming from the rowdier boys, but I saw many of the "good" students -- studious girls and boys who greatly resented being paddled for the slightest fraction of the rules -- were fully on my side. Their faces expressed resentment and outrage and anger.

Miss Adams began to crumble. Remember, this was her first year teaching. She'd only been at the school for few months. Her confidence and security wasn't on the strongest foundation. As I pecked away at it, she became more and more unstable.

"I'm sorry," she wailed. "You're right, you're right. I made a mistake. I was careless. I stayed out late the night before last and had to finish writing that test at the last minute. I didn't word the question properly; the answer I intended didn't work for the question I wrote. I'm sorry."

"That's not good enough, Miss Adams. You've a roomful of kids with sore bottoms -- bottoms you paddled because of _your_ mistake."

She was getting weaker. I could see it. Every time I mentioned that it was _her_ mistake, she cringed. She was very sensitive; quite a shy gal, really. The thought of her hurting us kids for no reason was horrifying to her. She'd acted tough in her transition into "discipline mode," but now it was obvious it was all bravado. She began to cry.

"I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry. You must all hate me!"

"We don't hate you, Miss Adams," I said, still speaking for the class. I rose and crossed to her and gave her a short hug. "We've always admired your fairness and kindness. We may not like getting paddled, but we know you're fair about it." I paused for a few seconds, letting my next words have huge impact. "Until now."

"Oh!" she cried. "I wish there was something I could do, some way to undo everything. I feel so awful!"

Her cries were so genuine that I could see some of the more sensitive girls in the class were starting to have pity on the teacher, so I knew it was time to make my move.

"There _is_ something you could do," I said suddenly, as though it had just occurred to me.

She stared at me, hope gleaming in her beautiful eyes.

"We could spank you."

The silence in the room at that moment hurt it was so loud. I don't think anyone breathed for a full minute. I know I didn't. I didn't show how nervous I was, I just glared at the woman. I worked hard not to blink -- that's a debating tactic that unnerves opponents.

She broke, looking away from me. When she looked at the class, she saw dozens of wounded eyes staring at her. She couldn't take it. She looked at the ground, the worst place for her position.

"You've got to be joking," she said, but her tone was flat and lifeless, and all the outrage that should have been there was not. I had her. Forcing myself not to smile, I reeled her in.

"I'm completely serious," I said firmly. "We'll be fair. One swat from each student who took an unjust swat from you. It's fair. You get punished for making your mistake, and we have our unjust swats made up. You've got to admit, that's fair."

"No, it's not faaaair," she whined. "There's too many of you." She sounded just like a naughty schoolgirl, trying to convince her father she didn't deserve a spanking.

I could see she was beat. I didn't even have to say a word. I just stood there, silent and confident, arms folded in front me. She collapsed.


No one could believe it. It was impossible, right? A teacher submitting to a paddling? No way, never happen. Not in a million years.

Let me tell you, son, it happened. Miss Adams turned and put her hands on her desk, stuck out that plump little butt of hers, and told me to go first. She did it quickly, as though she wanted to get it over with before she lost her nerve, and I certainly didn't draw out her punishment.

I pulled back that paddle and delivered the sweetest thwack! into those cheeks. Her skirt flattened for an instant, and I felt this amazing vibration run through the paddle up to my hands. It was like I could sense the shape of her bottom with the end of the paddle. I could feel the flesh compress, bounce and jiggle, and then pop back into perfect roundness. It was amazing.

Miss Adams let out an "Oh!" after my swat, and before she could protest or move, I handed the paddle to Jock Wilkins, one of the football players. I knew he had a crush on the teacher and the look on his face said he'd kill his grandmother to get the chance to paddle the lovely Miss Adams. He was ready the second the paddle was in his hands and there was an immediately SMACK! and another cry from the teacher.

Student after student ran up after that. I had them lined up and ready so the moment a swat was given the next was taking the paddle back for another hard swing. It gave Miss Adams no time to change her mind. All she could do was stand there and yelp and wince and wiggle.

My admiration of her swelled to new heights during that paddling, because she didn't get out of position once. It hurt, too. You could tell. Especially some of the blows from the bigger guys. She was crying at one point. But she never faltered, never protested. She took every smack with utter dignity.

Just about every kid in the class whacked her one. I don't know how many actually got that question right -- some of the jocks I figured didn't deserve to paddle her -- but I didn't want to take the time to check everyone's test and Miss Adams didn't say anything, so I let whoever wanted get in line and give her a smack. Eric "Weasel" Carter even snuck in twice!

That was pretty much the end of the event. The bell rang not long after and we all departed. Miss Adams never said a word to any of us about that day, but the number of paddlings she gave dropped off immensely. Odd thing was hardly anyone misbehaved in her class after that either. Guys who did were so ashamed they'd go up and _ask_ her for a paddling. Everyone had total respect for her after that day. She was a queen. She was one of us.

* * * * *

The story finished, I stared at the man. His coffee cup was empty, so I quickly ran and grabbed the pot to refill it.

"What happened to you after that?"

"Me? I became quite the guy. Everyone wanted to talk to me, to be around me. Guys I'd never seen were patting me on the back and inviting me to parties. Pretty girls -- _popular_ girls -- were smiling and winking at me and writing me perfumey notes with drawings of hearts and fancy lettering.

"My life changed a great deal after that day. I was respected, admired. No one could figure out how I'd managed to talk a teacher, and not just any teacher, but the most beautiful teacher in the whole school -- into letting her class paddle her bottom!

"I think it was about that time I realized what I wanted to do with my life."

I sat back down. "What was that?"

"I became a psychologist, of course.""

The End