Spank Bingo: Jamie Mueller

Jamie Mueller was fidgeting nervously as he stood in front of my desk. I couldn’t actually blame him, since being asked to see a teacher after school was rarely a good thing.

I was pretending to finish an entry in my grade book… Well, I actually was finishing the entry, but was mostly observing Jamie for the minute I kept him standing there.

Jamie was not a good looking kid. Have you ever hear the term ‘rat-faced’? Jamie had a high forehead either making his eyes look a little low on his face, or maybe because his eyes were low on his face. Either way, when combined with a sharp nose, a small mouth, and a pointed chin, it did give him a rather rodent-like look; his small ears didn’t help, nor did the fact that he parted his thin hair, which always seemed slightly greasy, in the middle, accenting his high forehead.

Still, I’m not prepared to say he was ugly. Maybe it’s just that I have a soft spot for kids that aren’t ordinary and average. Maybe it was his beautiful, expressive, sapphire blue eyes, or maybe it was just the personality he packed into his skinny little frame. Not that Jamie was short. He must have been about five feet or so, making him just about average for a twelve-year old. He was pretty skinny though. I never checked to see if he did, but I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn he could still wear size ten briefs without squeezing anything important. On the other hand, Jamie had a lot more to squeeze in there than his skinny hips.

Jamie was at that wonderful, humiliating stage of adolescence when Mr. Happy decided, on a random but much to frequent basis, to pop up and see if anything important was happening, or maybe just if you felt like playing with him. I’d lost track of how many times I’d seen him trying to sneak out with a hard-on. Fortunately, by trying to conceal it from the notice of his peers, he often gave me a great view. A few times, he just made an excuse to wait while the other kids left, then strolled out, not even thinking that his old teacher might have been looking or interested. An average height, skinny, or not, the boy looked like he was already well hung.



After another moment, I put the pen down, leaned back, and looked up at him.

"Thanks for coming back, Jamie. I didn’t want to just hand you a note about this. I think I’m going to have to have a parent-teacher conference."

"With my mom!?!"

"Well, it wouldn’t do you much good for me to do it with my mom."

"No, Mr. Wells. Please don’t do that."

"Jamie, I’m sorry, but I’ve already talked with you about your homework problem, and I really haven’t seen any improvment."

"But I’m making a B."

"Yes you are," I admitted. "But barely. And you should be making an A. Heck, Jame. If you worked at it a little, you could be in the advanced class." He tried to interrupt, but I kept going. "I have no problem with a kid making Bs or Cs, if that’s all he’s capable of, but… Go get your last test, and let me show you something."

He picked up his backpack, set it on a student desk, and started digging in it a minute. I waited a few seconds, then interrupted again. "Just bring me the whole folder Jamie."

I knew something was wrong even before he turned back to me. His whole posture screamed a sheepish uh-oh. When he turned around, he had the math folder, but you could tell the papers had just been randomly stuffed in there.

‘Thank you, Jamie. This is another perfect example of what I’m talking about. It wouldn’t take you thirty seconds a day to keep this in order, like I’ve asked you to." I stopped and just shook my head, while I dug through the loose papers to find the test I had in mind.

"Okay, let’s take a look at this," I said, turning the paper so we could both see it. "Five mistakes, four points each, so you made an eighty, but look at these. Number four is the same type of problem as one through three, but you missed it because you divided six by two and got two. You knew how to do it, you were just careless. Just like this one, and this one, and… Okay, this one was an actual mistake. But still, out of the five mistakes you made, four of them were just careless errors."

With that, I leaned back and looked at him. "Anyway, Jamie, it’s not like you’re in trouble. I’m just going to explain to your mom that she should try to supervise you for a while, to help you improve your study habits."

"She won’t care. She’ll get mad if she has to come up here. She’ll say I should have done it without you having to call her."

Which might seem a little rough, except it was true.

"I’m sorry if… You keep saying your mom. Are your parents divorced?"

"Yeah, my dad and big brother live in Dallas. I live with my mom and little sister."

Boy, didn’t that make me feel sorry for the kid. I can always empathize with a boy stuck in a house full of females.

"I’m sorry to hear that, and I’m also sorry if you think you’re going to get a spanking, but the truth of the matter is…"

"Please, Mr. Wells. I’ll start doing it just like you want me to."

‘That would be nice, Jamie, except this is the third time we’ve talked about this. It’s obvious that you need some help at home to get into the kind of habits you need and, honestly, maybe a sore rear will be a good motivation for you."

I was still looking at the boy. He hadn’t exactly been hopeful, but he when I said that, he slumped. He wasn’t looking at me, but I’d swear I could see a tear shimmering in the corner of one eye.

"Jamie, when you say spank -- your mother doesn’t beat you does she?"

He jumped a bit, seeming startled by the idea. "No, sir!" Or maybe a bit offended. "She spanks really hard, but she don’t beat me."

"What does she spank you with?"

"This uh… It’s a… Well, it’s wooden, and it’s like," he held his hands up about a foot apart, then let them drop, "it’s a… I dunno, kinda like a paddle or a big spoon or something."

Hmmmm…

"Well, if it’s what I think you mean, then I doubt it is abusive, though I’m sure it does sting, but I can’t see it as a reason not to call her."

He was looking at me imploringly as I explained that, then his eyes dropped again. I let the silence drag on to see if he’d say anything else. I was about to start the conversation again when he began to blush deeply.

"It’s not that, Mr. Wells. I mean, the spankings do hurt, but… But she makes me pull down my pants and shorts when she spanks me." The last was admitted in a humiliated rush that I could barely understand.

"And she can see your genitals?"

I hadn’t thought he could get any redder, but he managed to eke out a little more color as he nodded. I knew he was well hung, but wanted to ask if he had any hair yet. Glancing down, I noticed that the direction the conversation had taken had drawn Little Jamie’s attention, and the front of the boy’s jeans were beginning to stretch. Sigh. As much as I’d like to keep going, I decided that employment was the better part of curiosity.

"Well, I’m sorry about that, Jamie. I was an early grower too, and I remember how embarrassing it was to be undressed around my mom, even when I was a little younger than you. I guess I was lucky enough that my dad lived in town. His whippings were worse, but at least they weren’t so humiliating."

The boy nodded eagerly, hoping that he saw an opening coming.

"That doesn’t change the fact that you knew what I was expecting of you and haven’t been doing it, and that you knew how your mom would probably react if I called her. I‘m not going to give you another chance"

He slumped, totally giving up hope now, and I saw that tear start to trace down his cheek.

"I will however, let you earn one more chance. You interested?"

His head came up and he was nodding hard enough I thought something was going to fall out.

"Pull up a chair and let’s talk about this."



Unless the weather was bad, in which case he left early to ride with his mom, Jamie walked or rode his bike to school, so was able to be there early or stay late. After a bit of talk, I’d sent Jamie home to think about what we discussed and decide if it was how he really wanted to approach the problem. It must have been, since he was sitting on the staircase when I arrived at 7:45.

"Hey, Mr. Wells," he said, politely, but not with much enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Jamie."

We didn’t say anything else as he picked up his backpack and followed me up to my classroom.

Once inside, I kept him waiting a couple of minutes while I settled in, then I turned to him.

"So you decided the deal sounded fair to you?"

He nodded.

"And just so I’m sure we both understand, what was it again?"

"Instead of calling my mom, you’re going to help me straighten up all my stuff and show me a way to keep track of it."

"And?"

"And you’re going to paddle me," he added in a very small voice.

"And if you don’t stay organized and start paying more attention?"

"Then you’ll call my mom."

"I’m supposed to have another teacher here when I paddle you, to make sure I don’t get too extreme. Do you want to wait for Mrs. Rowe to get here, or would you rather…"

"Can we just get it over with?"

I nodded. "The thing is, Jamie, that you’re not really in trouble. Technically, I could say you’ve been disregarding instructions, but I’d imagine every kid in the school would need a paddling if we used that. Which isn’t to say I’m not going to do it, but I couldn’t decide what to use."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ring with the keys to the cabinet, then handed it to him.

"So I’ll let you decide. Bring me either Number Two or Three, and let me know if you think you should get two or three swats."

He wasn’t very excited at the news. I’m sure it would have been easier on him (in general, if not necessarily his bottom) to just get three swats with the bigger paddle and get it over with. Still, he didn’t argue.

Instead of just grabbing one, he stood there for a minute, studying them. I had to wonder, was he trying to decide if I’d let him off easy if that’s what he chose, or was he pondering the idea that a sore butt might be what he really needed, and help him avoid that dreaded call to his mom. Once he’d been there a couple of minutes, I cut in.

"Jamie, I think the number three might be a little big for your skinny, little rear end. Grab the Number Two."

He did so gratefully and headed right back to my desk, though he slowed when he remembered what was about to happen.

I took the paddle from him and asked, "How many?"

He looked away before answering. "I guess if it’s the Number Two, I should go ahead and get three swats?" He said in a tone that implied he was asking more than telling, but it did seem reasonable, so I nodded.

"Have you been paddled before? In school?"

"Not since like, fourth grade."

At my direction, he emptied his pockets, then leaned against the desk. Since there wasn’t another teacher around, I took a minute to get him into perfect position: hips back, feet spread just so, head lifted and facing across the desk. Then I flipped the back of his shirt up, revealing the waistband of a pair of navy blue briefs. He flinched just a bit when I reached past him to lift the paddle, but didn’t break position. I lined up carefully, considered my swats, then let the first one fall.

"Ow," he said, in an almost casual way, as the first swat slapped across the middle of his scrawny cheeks. It came out more as a protest than a statement of pain.

"Ow!" he yelped, as the second swat fell just below that one, aimed to have just a hint of overlap. This time, his protest was more emphatic and had a hint of the heat his bottom must have been feeling.

"OW!" he cried, as the third and final swat fell, landing across his sit spots. This time, the sting in his bottom was definitely showing in his voice.

"Okay, Jamie. That’s it."

He hopped to his feet and reached carefully behind him to rub as he turned to me. His face was a bit red, but his eyes were dry. I handed him the paddle.

"Go put that up, then let’s get to work."

He put the paddle away and brought his backpack back with him to my desk. We ended up spending the next days, before and after school, getting not just his math, but his other subjects in order, going so far as to clean out his locker and make a homework folder he could use for the entire day. He had a little surprise for me though, before we got started. Jamie unzipped his backpack and reached into it, pulling out, not papers, but a wooden spatula.

"See, this is what Mom spanks me with."

"I think it’s more a spatula, than a spoon, Jamie."

It did look like one of those big, wooden spoons though, except it was flat, and the end was straight across, rather than curved. I couldn’t remember seeing a spatula like that myself, so it was no wonder the boy wasn’t sure what to call it. It was mostly handle, but the end of it, which wasn’t quite circular, was about two inches wide and three inches long, with three little slats in the middle. I’d have thought it was a little light for a boy his size, but I’m sure it did sting, and, as lean as he was, I could see it still working.



It took us three days to get everything set up for him, but once I got him started, he seemed almost enthusiastic about it, like he’d just been waiting for someone to make him get started. That last morning, with everything finished, I stopped him as he was getting ready to leave.

"I told you that, the next time you messed up, I was calling your mom, no matter what happens. Right?"

He wasn’t happy to be reminded, but admitted it.

"Well, you’ve done a really good job the past few days. As long as you’re trying, I’m going to change that a bit. As long as it’s not in the next week or so, I’m going to give you one chance to mess up. That’s for the rest of the semester. If you backslide, I’ll just remind you and make a note in my grade book. You mess up twice, and I’ll have you back across my desk, and I think we will try the Number Three on you. But three strikes…"

I left it dangling, but he knew exactly where I was going.

"And then you call Mom."

"And then I call your mom," I agreed. "Fair?"

"More than. Thanks, Mr. Wells."



It was a good thing that I did decide to extend that for the boy. I didn’t have to call his mom, but he did slip a couple of times. The Number Three paddle was a lot more effective, though he didn’t still took it pretty well, just a bit louder and with damp eyes that could have been ungenerously called teary. It was enough to straighten him up, though.

I don’t remember if he was sick or in a different class when I had to cover some gym classes, but I never got a chance to find out whether he had any hair at yet or not. Still, even ignoring his still-frequent woodies, I occasionally teased him about his mom’s spankings. I always did it in private, so he took it pretty good naturedly; good enough that he told me, when he came back from Christmas break, that I’d been right about Mom versus Dad. He admitted that he’d pushed his dad a little too far and got the strap. Even though it was bare, it just wasn’t as bad as from mom. Hurt a LOT worse though.



So, I had to think about that one a lot when I entered it on the card, but in the end, I decided that a kitchen implement was a kitchen implement and listed the darned thing.







Return to Story List

Return to Table of Contents