Spanky sports: real-life edition

I (and many others) like to write about school: about schoolgirls, and teachers, and detentions, and spankings. Of course we do – it’s a fun, sexy thing to write about! But real school life, at least in my case, didn’t really compare to the fantasy versions found in spanking fiction.

For a start, I was never spanked as the practice had been discontinued by the time I might have been a candidate for it. But that didn’t mean I didn’t think about it. I’ve written before that, even while I was a girl at school, I envied those pupils of earlier times who received corporal punishment. And I really, really did. I often secretly fantasised about being punished by my teachers (and sometimes by my classmates); being spanked in my uniform with my knickers yanked down, the archetypal naughty schoolgirl. But it never happened. The closest I came was with an Art teacher who threatened – in an ‘is she kidding or not?’ kind of way – to spank me. (The beginning of ‘Long Overdue’, one of the stories in Back to School, is actually a semi-autobiographical version of this episode, with the student’s gender switched to male. I wish to this day that I’d been brave enough to find out if that teacher really was kidding or not).

Yet despite (or perhaps because of) the absence of CP in my school life, as time went on the desire to be spanked only grew stronger. By the time I was a teenager I was desperate for a spanking. My only realistic option to satisfy that urge, as far as I could see, was self-spanking. But where and when could I do it? That question, dear reader, had a rather unlikely answer...

As part of our PE (Physical Education) classes we would occasionally go on cross-country runs. These were runs of a few miles around the land surrounding the school: through fields, over stiles, down country lanes, all very muddy. (And very cold, as they were only ever done in the depths of winter, so your fingers would be frozen by the time you got back to the changing rooms. But then the PE teachers were all sadists). And I couldn’t have cared less about them. Winning was never important to me, especially when it was at something as uninteresting as running.

The runs were entirely unsupervised: we would be untidily assembled at a vague starting point, told to set off, then left to make our own way round. Not that I minded this lack of supervision. Quite the opposite, actually, as it transformed the run from a pointless drudge into an opportunity. As someone who was a) developing as a spanko and b) entirely unfussed about actually racing, the cross-country seemed (to my pubescent mind at least) to present a rare chance to grab a little kinky ‘me time’.

And so it was that, one winter’s morning, I took my opportunity. I dawdled and ambled away from the start, deliberately letting everyone else get ahead. (I remember thinking how annoyingly slow some girls were!) The course was always the same, and I knew that after about half a mile it went through some woods and over a stream: it was in this secluded spot that I stopped. Glancing around to make sure I was alone, I knelt down on the cold earth, pulled my shorts and knickers down and, well, spanked myself. It felt so very strange and daring and naughty to be spanking my own bare bottom, out in the open – in the elements, as it were, cold and wet and muddy beside a babbling stream – and moreover to be doing it in direct opposition to what I should have been doing. It was thrilling. Of course, that exciting feeling was mixed with one of anxiety: I was very aware that I would be immeasurably embarrassed, simply mortified, if anyone was to stumble across me and spot what I was doing, but I couldn’t resist doing it all the same. And any anxiety I might have felt couldn’t compete with the compulsion to continue. If anything, it was subsumed into an overall sense of naughtiness: an intoxicating feeling that simply made me more aroused and made me spank myself harder. My other hand, I will confess, did slip between my legs before very long.

I spanked and masturbated for several minutes, guiltily revelling in my own depravity, until I heard what I assumed to be someone approaching. I pulled my knickers and shorts back up and set off again on the run, miles behind the pack and almost certain to come last. I can’t remember if I did finish last or not – I might have caught some stragglers up, as I was quite fast when I wanted to be. But I honestly couldn’t have cared either way.

Now, I’d like the story to end with teenage Penny getting a ferocious scolding and a spanking from an infuriated teacher, like the fantasy spankings I get from the strict Miss Sharapova, but that didn’t happen. To be honest, I hardly think the PE teachers knew (or cared) that I existed at all, as I wasn’t one of their chosen ones. (The feeling was mutual: I didn’t care for PE or its teachers so I didn’t try). I guess they just thought I went round slowly because I was useless. If only they had known how to motivate me...

This is the first time I’ve ever told anyone this particular tale from my school days, by the way. If any readers have opinions on what should have been done with me (or if you have any similar experiences to recount yourself), please share!