I am a teacher, and, though a woman, there are times when I get exasperated with a student and would just love to tan the kid's hide. An example of such exasperation and frustration arose out of a recent incident. The fact that our faculty, like that of most modern public schools is forbidden to apply corporal punishment -- no matter how well deserved -- only added to my feelings of helpless rage.

A short time ago my husband and I were at our local shopping mall. We stopped at the florist shop to buy a plant for a friend in the hospital. In the display window I saw a beautiful arrangement of silk flowers in a crystal vase.

I kind of fell in love with it, and asked the salesclerk how much it cost. When I heard the price I smiled weakly, and we went on about our business. The next day, while I was in the school office during my break, a florist delivery man walked in. My husband had bought me that vase of flowers!

I took the lovely thing to my classroom, and proudly placed it on my desk. Around 12 o'clock that day, Cynthia Gold (one of my students, a girl with discipline problems and an attitude to match) came waltzing into class. She knocked the flowers off my desk (there was no doubt that she did it on purpose). As I leaned over frantically to see if anything could be salvaged, she "accidentally" stepped on the flowers while "avoiding the broken glass" -- and she was laughing!.

That was the first time in my teaching career that I had to stop myself from slapping a student. I was furious about the incident. That afternoon, during an open period, I called Cynthia's mother. I explained the incident and my certainty that it was intentional on the girl's part. I told her that I expected Cynthia to pay me the full purchase price of my husband's present. I offered to set up some sort of installment arrangement so that the girl could pay me back out of her allowance.

About 3:20, after the last student had left my classroom, the mother sauntered in with her little darling in tow. I had never met Mrs. Gold, but I could see that though her clothes were expensive, they were of the kind that made her look like a Hollywood hooker in a "B" movie. Now I understood why Cynthia always dressed in such outlandish costumes, and wore heavy make-up, even though she was only twelve.

Mrs. Gold was furious because "it had all been an accident" and I "had no right to punish her daughter by sending her out to stand in the hall during the rest of that class." Further, she rejected my demand that I be paid. I insisted that it was Cynthia's carelessness, at the very least, and that I wanted to be compensated. It had been a gift from my husband, I added almost tearfully, and I had only had it for a grand total of two hours when it was destroyed.

"Well, if that's the way you're going to act about it," the mother sneered, "take your money," and she pulled out a checkbook, scribbled a check, and threw it at me. "You know it was stupid and silly of your husbnd to send you flowers at school," she added, "and I don't know why you're fussing about the cheap little thing anyway."

As mother and daughter left my classroom, Cynthia twisted around and stuck her tongue out at me.

Trying not to be drawn into a petty cat fight, I had bitten my lips until I drew blood. I was shaking so hard when I left the school that I am surprised I was able to drive home safely.

My husband found me huddled on the couch, sobbing, when he got home that evening. When he offered to buy me another flower arrangement, I refused. I am sure he thought I was just being difficult.

I soon found myself brooding over that mother and what I would have loved to do to her. I guess I ended up being angrier with the parent than with that impossible child.

I started getting pictures in my mind of that rich bitch sprawled over my lap with her pants down and that fat ass of hers in prime spanking position. I wallowed in imaginings of using my hand to turn her plump bottom cheeks bright red. I imagined making her get up and bring me the hairbrush I kept in my classroom closet. I could see myself ordering her back over my lap and then raising the temperature in her bare behind to the boiling point with the back of that brush.

I ended that fantasy with my bending her over her daughter's desk there in the classroom and re-lighting the fire in her big bare ass with the sorority paddle I had brought in one time, to show some of the girls what we had had to go through in my day.

My imaginings continued with me turning to Cynthia, pulling down her equally snug jeans and her underpants, and giving her a dose of the same thing she had just seen her mother get. Finally, I imagined myself watching with glee, the little twit first, then her mother, wriggling and crying while they tried to get their panties and then those very tight stretch pants back up over their hot, swollen behinds.

Well, it was a silly dream, but it made me feel good, just to think about it....

* * *

Incredibly, my wish came true -- but in a totally unexpected way. I got a phone call around eight o'clock one evening. It was a little more than a week after the incident in class in which my brand new floral display had been destroyed by 12-year-old Cynthia Gold.

"This is John Gold, Cynthia's father?" a strong masculine voice announced. "We've just had quite a discussion here at home and after some effort, I think I've got all the facts on that little 'accident' with your flowers, in the classroom."

My heart sank. Was this parent going to complain to me about my unhappy interview with his wife, and daughter -- maybe even take it up with the principal, or the school board?

"Mrs. Rayburn, I think if you could come over to the house in the next evening or so, we can straighten this matter out in a more satisfactory way than it has been," he said. "I gather that my wife was not very gracious about making up your loss. I'd really like to have you feel happy about your relations with my family. After all, our daughter's education is in your hands, to a considerable degree, and I would like the three of you to understand each other better."

I was uncertain. He sounded, calm and friendly -- and very reasonable. Maybe it could all be smoothed out.

"All right, Mr. Gold, could you make it Thursday evening?" (Thursday was my Ralph's night at the model railroad club.)

"Fine," he answered in a cheerful friendly way. "Let's say about eight? Oh, and Mrs. Rayburn, do you have a car -- or shall I have Dick, our chauffeur, pick you up at your home?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Gold. I have my own little car. About directions?"

"Don't worry about that. Cynthia will tell you tommorrow, in class, just how to find us. We'll look forward to seeing you then."

* * *

When I arrived at the Gold house, my coat was taken, and I was ushered through the stately front hall and into "the drawing room" by a prim and starched maid. Cynthia, her mother and a large, impressive looking man of about fifty -- whom I assumed to be Mr. Gold, were all waiting for me.

Cynthia was in a neat, navy-blue, pleated skirt and a scarlet sweater. She was perfectly and very conservatively groomed from her glossy black slippers and white knee socks to the barret in her shining and well-combed straight black hair.

I was astonished. Cynthia had always looked like a little tart, with precocious use of make-up, totally inappropriate to a 12-year-old. Her clothes tended toward tight jeans, and sweaters that tried to make the most of a newly-budding bosom. I was sure it was her mother's influence that got her up in padded bras that were absurd for her age, and make-up that would have been better suited to a girl of the streets. Apparently, this evening a different influence had been at work on her.

Mrs. Gold was in her usually expensive but flashy clothes, conspicuous mascara and eye shadow, very high-heeled silver slippers on bare feet, and stretch jeans so tight that she must have used powder or grease to get them on. The trousers hugged her voluptuous thighs, and pulled in at the crotch to show off that plump little mound in front, just under a curving tummy that I was sure would bulge out unattractively were it not held in by the snug elastic girdling of those excruciatingly tight stretch pants.

At a look from Mr. Gold, his wife rose and came forward, holding out her hand. I took it and gave her a gentle shake. She dropped mine quickly and turned to go back to the big easy chair in which she had been sitting, with her legs folded beneath her. The stretch pants, in that brief back view, hugged her hips and backside just as tightly as they did her tummy. The buttocks were very full, conspicuously divided by the inward pull of the central seam. As she walked her hips and bottom swung with an insolent proclamation of sexuality and contempt.

Mrs. Gold wore a silver and white blouse, and this too seemed stretched-to-bursting over a push-up bra that offered a quivering opulence of deeply cleft bosom. This awesome display threatened to spill out of the wickedly low-cut V of her blouse.

I had a quick flash of what I had dreamed about: being able to strip her down and whale that big, sexy, impertinent bottom in just the way it deserved to be punished.

But we were all here to kiss and make up, weren't we? I was ashamed of my thought. I took a quick look at Mr. Gold. He was handsome, grey-haired, expensively suited in charcoal gray, with an immaculate white-on-white shirt and a coordinated tie in blue and grey He wore steel-rimmed spectacles that suited his dress and features perfectly, and added to his impressive appearance.

How could such a refined, tasteful man be married to such a strumpet as Mrs. Gold?

Mr. Gold was speaking. "What you experienced in class the other day, Mrs. Rayburn, was just the merest hint of the kind of behavior I have tolerated for far too long from my wife and my daughter. Young Cynthia is perhaps not too much to blame. She has been under her mother's influence entirely too much. I have been abroad a lot of the time on business.

"My wife? Well Sylvia was my first and only love. I have tolerated her bad temper, her selfishness, extravagance, her downright bitchiness, all these years because I keep on seeing her with the eyes of that 19-year old boy who thought she was a princess, when I was too young to know better."

Sylvia Gold, I could see, was steaming. She started to speak once or twice but was silenced by a curt shake of her husband's head.

Mr. Gold continued, "I was a poor kid, but I 'made good,' as they say. I like to think that, along the way, I have developed some taste, judgement, and discrimination. Sylvia? well she hasn't kept up. I am afraid she still has the values, standards, and sometimes the manners of the ten-cent-store clerk she was until we got married.

"Tonight, Mrs. Rayburn, I am going to begin a course of lessons for my two ladies which, I hope, will fit them to live and act in the style which my success is making possible for them.

"I want you to give each of them a good, sound spanking. I am going to have you take care of Sylvia while Cynthia and I watch. When she has been properly dealt with, I will want you to do the same for my daughter -- with some moderation, in consideration of her youth."

"You son of a bitch!" Sylvia screamed at him. "You're not gonna let that -- that, woman lay her hands on me. I'll sue her and have you arrested for wife beating and child molesting or -- or, whatever they call it."

"Mr. Gold," I protested, "I don't want to have any more trouble with your wife -- or Cynthia. It's all forgotten. Please!"

"You are not going to have any trouble, Mrs. Rayburn. Sylvia and Cynthia are going to do just exactly what I tell them to do. And I am telling them that they must each accept their lesson and improve their conduct, starting right now."

The husband and father looked first at his wife, then at his daughter, and I was glad that I had never been subjected to such a stare by my husband -- or my father. I could see that the two females were thunderstruck by this sudden new side of this particular husband and father.

In an amazingly subdued tone, Sylvia whined, "John, send this woman home and, I guess you can p -- punish me -- us -- some way, if you really think you gotta."

Mr. Gold had turned to me. "This all started when I found myself listening to my wife regaling me with the story of how she had 'told you off' for complaining about Cynthia's conduct concerning that vase. She was boasting about how Cynthia had 'put you in your place' and then how Sylvia herself had thrown you a few dollars to shut you up. Suddenly all the nasty, selfish, arrogant conduct she has shown over the years flashed in front of me and I decided it was going to stop, and stop right now!

"Now you, Mrs. Rayburn, are the wronged party and a little determined retribution from you will make this lesson sink in even better than if I took each of them across my knee and walloped them as they deserve."

Mr. Gold walked over to the side of the room and picked up one of a set of very straight, sturdy, armless, guilded Louis XIV chairs. He placed it right in the center of the big room.

"Please take a seat there, Mrs. Rayburn."
I was almost paralyzed by these incredible events and I sat on the divan, unable to move.

He turned to his wife, "Sylvia, walk over to that chair and take those damned jeans of yours down."

"My God!" his wife half screamed, "you want me to strip down to my panties in front of this -- this woman, and little Cynthia -- and with you watching. And then you're gonna let her hit me?"

"Getting those pants down is a start, Sylvia. Now do as I say!" her husband snapped.

"You're being very mean to mommy," Cynthia squalled, "and you're not gonna make me get spanked by that teacher -- and all because of those stupid, nasty flowers!"

"Shut up, Cynthia," her father said with a cold firmness that made her subside instantly.

I was suddenly sure that a lot of serious groundwork had been laid before I arrived. Something had gone on, perhaps at dinner, which was already working its magic on these two "women."

Sylvia, meanwhile, had apparently decided that she had better obey her instructions -- or at least make a start. She had unbuckled the silver belt of her jeans and was working the zipper down the front. The taut cloth responded instantly, gaping widely as it was released by the push of Sylvia's descending fingers.

When it became time to slide the opened jeans down from her hips, Sylvia had a serious task to accomplish. The garment hugged her hips and bottom so tightly that she had to perform an almost-obscene shimmy to get the pants down. I stole a glance at Mr. Gold. He was staring stonily at his wife as she undressed. Cynthia was standing well back, her mouth moronically agape.

When the jeans were down in a careless puddle at her ankles, Sylvia threw her husband a furious glance. "What now?" she demanded, in a voice choked with her anger.

"Mrs. Rayburn, would you please take your place on the chair that I've provided," John Gold asked quietly.

When I had done so, completely under the spell of this calm but demanding man, he glanced at his wife. "Get yourself face down over Mrs. Rayburn's lap.

Sylvia turned to look at her husband and I had a chance to see that bottom which I had glimpsed before only in the very tight sheath of her stretch pants. Her silvery blouse ended a good two inches above the elastic of her panties. There was a ring of exposed flesh between. She was turned half away from me and I could see her buttocks filling out the nylon in plump arrogance. I could hardly believe it of myself but, even in my confused and doubtful state of mind, the idea of smacking that big, shapely ass was exciting....

"Are you really gonna humiliate me this way, John? Ohhh, I could kill you -- and this, this bitch!" Sylvia Gold was near hysteria.

"Get - down - over - her - lap," her husband repeated slowly, a word at a time.

Slowly, and with a groan of loathing and shame, she placed herself as directed. My thighs flattened under the weight of her wide, solid pelvis. She wriggled and adjusted herself, more to assure that she would not fall off than to place her bottom conveniently for me, I am sure.

"You're going to have to lift your hips so that Mrs. Rayburn can take your pants down, Syl."

"What?" the woman shrieked, "oh, no! I am not going to be naked for this crazy idea of yours."

John Gold strode swiftly across the room, leaned over us, and delivered a resounding swat of his big flattened palm right onto the center of Sylvia Gold's plump, bikinied bottom. She lurched and screamed, her hands flew back to clutch her outraged backside.

Young Cynthia put both hands over her face and started screaming too.

"Shut up, both of you," Mr. Gold snapped in a voice that cut through their screeching. "You're each going to get what you need so much. And there is going to be no nonsense about it."

"Lift, Syl," he repeated grimly.

"Mrs. Rayburn, get her pants down."

Amazingly, Mrs. Gold did dig her toes into the carpet and grip my ankles to enable herself to arch up her hips. I had no intention of becoming an additional target for Mr. Gold's obvious impatience, and I took the elastic of Sylvia's panties into my fingers and began to tug the tiny garment out and down to bare her big bottom. I was uncovering two large, smooth white cheeks of what I am sure any man would consider a very inviting backside. Those hillocks were trembling spasmodically, and the ripples passed down through that abundant flesh and into her full thighs.

"That's right, get her panties well down on her legs, Mrs. Rayburn. I don't want them in the way when you get started on that nice fat behind of hers."

Sylvia gasped at this insult, added to the injury she had already felt. Now, I could see a pink splotch across the summits of both cheeks where hubby's big hand had so soundly smacked her.

I looked up at Mr. Gold inquiringly.

"Go ahead, Mrs. Rayburn, give her the spanking we both know she richly deserves."

I raised my hand and brought my palm down in a smart little smack. I felt it sink slightly into the fleshy globe of her right buttock. She bucked and gasped.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Rayburn. You're a teacher, you know just what naughty girls need. Now start giving her a good sound spanking -- something she'll remember," John Gold ordered.

I was actually afraid of this stern and determined man. I placed my left hand down firmly on the small of Sylvia's bare back and set about spanking her a good deal harder. She began to roll and squall and then to beg her husband to stop me. Instead, as I glanced up between landing solid smacks on that full and handsome behind, he nodded his approval to me.

I thought I had her screeching and squirming wildly enough under my palm to satisfy any thirst for her punishment that he was entertaining, but suddenly he raised his hand. I stopped. Sylvia kept on wriggling and sobbing.

"Cynthia, run upstairs to your mother's room and bring down the big black hairbrush."

"No, Daddy, don't have her spank Mommy with the brush," Cynthia squealed.

"Get up there and bring down the brush before I start on your fat little tush myself," he snapped -- and Cynthia fled the room.

Sylvia kept us entertained by her sobbing and wailing. She reached back and scrubbed at her hot pink buttocks all the time Cynthia was gone on her errand. Her anguish was such that she pulled at her buttocks, opening them shamelessly. She squeezed the flesh, and felt at it gingerly with her fingertips.

When the young girl returned, Sylvia twisted to see the big ebony-backed brush in her daughter's hand and shrieked, "No! No! This bitch will kill me if she uses that thing on my rear end!"

"Cynthia, give the brush to Mrs. Rayburn," Mr. Gold ordered with a tone of finality that cancelled any further inclination Cynthia might have entertained to beg relief for her mother. She held the brush out to me.

I took it hesitantly. It was surprisingly heavy. I looked at the smooth, polished back, then glanced doubtfully at Mr. Gold.

He nodded. "Your hand doesn't seem to be impressing Sylvia very much. Maybe her behind is just too plump -- or you're going too easy on her. I think she'll find your use of that implement on her bare
bottom a lot more convincing. Go ahead now, give it to her."

I thought back to those scenes in the classroom, the nasty impudence of the daughter and the haughty, self-centered, contemptuous attitude of the mother -- and steeled myself.

Crack!

Aiiigghhh!

That got a reaction. Sylvia's whole body arced up, from her heels to her head. She howled. I bent to the task then and worked the large, solid oval over the full expanse of both yielding, bouncing buttocks. She was getting harder to hold as she struggled more wildly with each impact of the back of that brush upon her now-crimson bottom. I must have given that woman more than a hundred good hard smacks before I paused and looked at Mr. Gold.

"All right, Mrs. Rayburn, now I just want you to give her five nice solid strokes up and down one thigh, then the other, to finish her off. She'll remember those while she's thinking of how she can improve her conduct over the next few days."

I had begun to feel a certain exhilaration in spanking Sylvia, she really deserved it, and I was becoming convinced that her husband's determination might really teach her something -- make a more polite and considerate woman of her -- if anything could.

I did as he had instructed me, delivering each smack of the hard oval to the backs of her legs. I elected to begin with the right leg. She began a new level of screaming as she felt the fire in the flesh of her thighs. I delivered each stroke separately, and each just below the preceding one, until I had worked down from just under her right buttock, almost to her knee. Then I went back up and began on her left thigh, again just under a red hot bottom cheek. I was slow and deliberate and gave her each one as a distinct punishing whack, with time between strokes for her to appreciate each one to the full. Sylvia assured us of the effectiveness of that treatment by her screams, tumbling one over the other as she kicked and wriggled.

When I stopped, I had a thoroughly subdued woman draped over my legs, head drooping, her whole body shaking with slow convulsive sobs.

Mr. Gold was standing a few feet away contemplating his wife's blazing red bottom and the hot flush in the backs of her full thighs. It was a long moment before he said, "All right, Sylvia. Get up."

She started to rise and almost stumbled. I reached out to steady her. "Leave me alone, you goddamn bitch!" she shrieked at me.

I jerked my hand back. Her husband said, "That'll be enough of that, Syl. Haven't you learned anything yet? You march yourself over to the wall and stand there with your back to us. I want you to leave your pants and panties at your ankles and to keep that nice red backside on exhibit, while Mrs. Rayburn takes care of your daughter. Any disobedience and I'll take you across my lap and see if my belt will finish the job this little lady has started."

Cynthia, who had been sitting on a small divan to the side, started squalling again when she heard the threat to her own backside revived. But, Sylvia was too busy with the fire in her own rear end to concern herself with the iminent fate of her daughter. She did shuffle across the room in her dropped pants and underwear, and take up the position she had been instructed to assume.

I must admit feeling a certain exultation as I looked at those big scarlet cheeks. Certainly this was a whole new experience for that woman. I thought that if she had felt something like that a few times when she was a girl she might not be there now.

Dealing with young Cynthia was a reprise in miniature of what her mother had undergone -- except that she was so infuriated and frightened that I could not hold her in position. Mr. Gold had to kneel in front of her and hold her wrists while I spanked her.

Although I was in favor of just hand spanking the girl, he insisted that she be given "a taste of the hairbrush" before she was allowed to rise and join her mother, with her panties down, and at the wall. As I smacked her impudent behind with the back of that brush, I decided that she did deserve good hot punishment, and I devoted myself to giving that young backside a real churning. As I watched those plump, youthful bottom cheeks jiggling and wobbling to the hot impacts of the hairbrush I could see that Cynthia's buttocks were surely destined to reach the full, rich development of her mother's big and very sexy behind.

When Cynthia was "done," and the two stood side-by-side, facing the wall and displaying their two well-spanked rears, they made a charming sight. The two very red bottoms, one large and one small, were trembling and shaking as they sobbed in a discordant duet.

Mr. Gold engaged me in conversation about school, my husband, and so on, while the two well-spanked females over at the wall gradually quieted, except for an occasional sob or whimper while they nursed their burning backsides.

At last he turned to them and said, "All right, you two. Get your panties up and finish dressing -- and while you're doing it, keep your backs to us. We want to see you fitting those nice hot behinds back into your clothes."

For Cynthia, this was no more than a bit embarrassing. She had only to stoop, (thus providing a last glimpse of two very red and very promising young buttocks), pull up her panties, and jerk her skirt back down into place.

But for Sylvia, it meant, first, tugging a very tight little bikini panty back up over those sore, swollen buttocks. Even this task elicited a series of grunts and "ouches" from the woman.

Then she had to work those very tight stretch pants back up. As she dragged those jeans up her legs she gasped and whimpered. When the cloth passed snugly over the reddened backs of her thighs she groaned. When the fabric reached her bottom, she paused and begged.

"John, don't make me pull 'em up. I can't get them up over my ass after what that dame has done to it. Let me go upstairs as I am and I'll get into something a little looser."

"You'll get back into them now," her husband barked. "You love to wear them so tight that everybody looks at your rear end, well, we want to look at it right now. So get busy. I'm sure you'll be able to squeeze into them somehow."

And she did, but the fabric constricting the abundance of that backside, pushed a chubby roll of flesh upward ahead of it until she got the jeans back up to her waist. I'm sure she was in agony over the show she knew she was putting on for us behind her back.

"There!" Sylvia grunted, as she turned to face us, "now can I go upstairs?"

"When you've zipped it up," Mr. Gold nodded.

Sylvia shook her head in desperation, sucked in a deep breath to flatten her tummy a bit, and did get the pants closed across her belly. She was breathing hard and couldn't stop squirming her hips as they burned and itched inside those jeans.

* * *

"You'll find Cynthia one of your best behaved pupils from now on," Mr. Gold reassured me as he guided me back to the hall. "And the next time you have a visit from my wife, it will be to deliver a present to you, for all the care and interest you have always shown our daughter -- and all your students, from what I hear."

He opened the big front door for me and, as I stepped out, I felt a gentle little pat on my fanny. Although I certainly do not ordinarily encourage that sort of thing, in this instance, I didn't mind at all.

* * *