A Slow Learner
A girl fails to learn her lesson the first time.
By Julie Baker
My name is Chloe Wilson and I was born in Edinburgh in January 1980. I am now a happily married mother of three lovely children living in very comfortable circumstances in Kilmacolm, Ayrshire. I don’t work now and spend my days looking after my children, walking in the countryside, playing tennis during the summer and getting involved with various charitable organisations. I suppose you would have to say that, to most people I know, I’m a picture of stability and respectability. Most of them would be quite shocked if they knew of my other, more sensual, side and how this came to the fore during my teenage years.
We lived in Barnton, Edinburgh, during my childhood. My mother is Greek and my father is Scottish. My mother comes from a wealthy Greek family whose businesses are based in the north of Greece around Thessaloniki. She is a classic Greek beauty with a long, lean body, olive-coloured skin, jet black hair and a very attractive face. Even today, when she enters a room, it seems like everyone turns to look at her. She was also strong academically and on leaving school opted to study abroad to improve her language skills and widen her life experiences. She gained a place at Edinburgh University to study Economics where she met my father during her Fresher’s Week. He is from Perth and had just started on a Maths degree. They have been together ever since.
Whenever I’m seen in the company of my mother, there is no mistaking that I am her daughter. We look so alike. I’ve inherited her beauty and colouring, along with her passionate nature, which presumably is part of her Greek makeup. We are both impulsive and naturally outward going with a very low boredom threshold, which can occasionally cause us difficulties. If there is nothing going on, we can generally be counted on to make something happen. This trait I quite like, but it was my seemingly insatiable need to always be the centre of attention that was less attractive and ultimately got me into some troubling situations.
My father worked in the banking sector in Edinburgh and, along with my mother’s family money, finances were never stretched. When I was 13 my parents enrolled me in one of the top day-schools in the city. It was coeducational and I loved it from day one. I played tennis in the summer, hockey in the winter, worked hard at my studies and made lots of great friends for life. Despite my confident nature, I was always respectful to everyone at the school and I was rarely in any sort of trouble.
However, as my teenage years progressed, I began to realise that I had a certain power over my male peers who were attracted by my personality and looks. For a developing teenage boy, I suppose this could be categorised simply as ‘lust’.
I’m slightly ashamed to now admit that I played up to this by endlessly flirting with them. It never went beyond this in the school years but I loved the attention and the control that I had over them. My behaviour escalated over time, though, as I challenged myself to maintain their interest. I have always been poor at resisting a challenge that I have set for myself or a dare presented to me by others. It was this pattern of behaviour that ultimately got me into trouble and eventually could have had an impact on my later life.
There is a pattern of behaviour and part of my makeup that is relevant to this tale. I am not promiscuous and I am not a naturist, but I do love nudity. Even today, I can often be found wondering around my house naked, and I love to sunbath in our secluded garden in Kilmacolm with no clothes on. It’s just the way I am and always have been. If I have control, and in what I think is the right context, I’m also happy for others to see me either partly clothed or naked. For me, I’m proud of my body and what is inherently wrong with nudity? It’s totally natural although, if I’m honest with myself, there are still some erotic elements to how it makes me feel. I realise there are some conflicting elements within this explanation, but hopefully it conveys a picture of how I am on this aspect of my personality.
One of my favourite teachers at school was Mrs Robertson, who taught us English. In those days, she would be in her late 50s and was an absolute sweety. Traditional, but unfailingly kind, she worked tirelessly for the best outcome for all her pupils. Each teacher at my school had their own classroom. Mrs Robertson’s classroom had a classic layout with her sat behind a large table on a dais at the front, with rows of desks laid out in front, split by a central isle. There were typically about 10 to 15 pupils in her class at any one time, and discipline was good, given that she was liked and had a natural air of authority.
Normally, her lessons would conclude with 15 minutes of quiet time when we worked on a project on our own, but she was always on hand to provide any assistance. During this time we were not allowed to call out with questions so that the other pupils were not distracted. We were required to quietly walk up to her raised table at the front and ask our question in a hushed voice.
It was during my final term of Standard Grades that I hit upon the idea of brightening up this relatively dull 15 minutes with a bit of mildly flirtatious behaviour. Our school uniform consisted of white blouse, dark navy pleated skirt, navy school blazer, white ankle socks and blue flat shoes. I would have to say that the uniform suited me perfectly. The white blouse and white socks contrasted beautifully with the navy skirt, and my darker skin tones created a very pleasing effect overall. It might sound vain, but I spent a lot of time as a teenager looking at myself in the full length mirror at home, striking various poses, some of which were to perfect my best look and some of which were simply experiments in how to attract attention.
I came up with an idea. I wondered if anyone would notice if, when I went up to Mrs Robertson’s desk during that 15 minutes at the end of her lesson, I slightly raised the back hem of my skirt to reveal a flash of my white panties normally hidden beneath. I know this now sounds incredibly childish, but I was 15 at the time and it seemed like a bit of harmless fun. On the day that I tried this for the first time, I selected my favourite white satin underwear, which was both shiny and would provide a striking contrast between their bright whiteness and the darker skin at the top of my leg. I perfected this procedure in front of the mirror at home. Just a glimpse of my white underwear. No more.
All went according to plan. When I was at Mrs Robertson’s table I stretched my right hand behind me, lifting the back hem of my skirt to deal with an imaginary itch part way up my bottom. Mrs Robertson was none the wiser as this was all happening behind me and out of her sight. I knew that anyone looking up at that moment would have got a brief sighting of my normally concealed underwear. However, there was no reaction from my classmates and no comments made afterwards.
I let it drop after this disappointing outcome. Time moved on and I elected to study English for one of my highers, along with the science based courses that played more to my strengths. This meant that I had two more years of being taught English by Mrs Robertson. It wasn’t long before I decided that a flash of my panties was needed again to try to brighten up the vibe in our English lessons. The next time I tried it, I went for underwear with more Lycra in them which meant that they hugged my curves to a greater extent. The pair I selected were white again and there was no doubt about the shape of what lay beneath them. This time I raised the hem of my skirt a bit more, but, disappointingly, still no reaction.
This was getting to be a bit of a challenge. Why was nobody noticing me? Very frustrating! I decided to up my game a little bit. I had one pair of panties that had quite a high cut at the top of my legs which exposed a lot more of my bottom; a long way short of a thong but not suitable for playing tennis in, for example. Would this generate the desired effect? I knew straight away that it had. Mrs Robertson was again oblivious but there was an audible murmur from my fellow pupils as the back of my skirt was raised. I regained my seat and nothing more was said until after the lesson had concluded. Two boys then approached me with broad grins on their faces thanking me for brightening up their days and begging me to try it again.
During the rest of that year I did treat them on odd occasions but even I realised that if I overdid it, it would lose its effect and could land me in trouble if the class reaction became too vocal. Also, it was clear that my behaviour was not quite so popular with my fellow female students. Some saw it as a bit of fun, but others were maybe jealous or simply saw it as disruptive to their studies as well as being disrespectful to Mrs Robertson.
However, these two boys in particular were constantly egging me on. I had got through to my final term at school and for one of our last English classes they dared me to do my raised skirt trick, but wearing no underwear this time. Initially, I thought this would be a step too far but they were persistent and I began to feel that I was in danger of failing to live up to the image I had created of myself. With some reservations, I agreed to do it.
Before the class began, I slipped into the girl’s toilets, removed my panties and buried them in the bottom of my school bag. I quite liked this feeling of freedom and danger all rolled into one from being secretly exposed beneath my skirt. Because my school skirt came down to just above my knee, there was no hint to anyone else that I was less than fully clothed. The lesson followed its normal pattern and I found some pretext to approach Mrs Robertson’s desk during that final 15 minutes. I went for it big time. The imaginary itch was half way up my back this time which necessitated the rear of my skirt to be fully raised. Again the heavy pleats allowed the front of my skirt to hang normally, from Mrs Robertson’s perspective, but my bare bottom was now in full view to the rest of my classmates.
I would have to say that my two male co-conspirators let me down badly. They whooped with delight and a ripple of applause could be heard around the classroom, along with barely suppressed laughter. I immediately let the back of my skirt drop back into place.
I soon realised that Mrs Robertson knew something was not as it should be, but I could see that she was confused. I could tell from her tone of voice, though, that she was not impressed.
“What have you got behind your back, Chloe?” she started out with.
“Nothing Miss,” I replied, but I could tell that my face had gone bright red.
“You’ve got something behind your back that is causing the rest of the class to laugh. Don’t lie to me, Chloe.”
I was desperately trying to think of a way out of this situation. Actually, I was telling the truth! I had nothing hidden behind my back.
“Turn around, Chloe, so that I can see for myself, please,” she said.
I did this and I knew that everything would look normal. Unfortunately, she wasn’t finished though.
“I know you must have had something behind your back, otherwise why was everyone else making such a noise? I suspect that whatever it was is now hidden in your knickers, given that I thought I saw some movement in the back of your skirt a few moments ago. Please come round to my side of the table, face towards the class and I will have a look myself.”
My heart sank. I couldn’t see any way out of this. I did as instructed, knowing that Mrs Robertson was about to discover my guilty secret. I clung on to the hope that she would simply reprimand me for not wearing underwear, but the glimpsed movement in my skirt and the reaction of the class told her all she needed to know. She was obviously, and justifiably, furious with me.
“Chloe, you are an absolute disgrace to yourself, this class and to me.” I had never heard this tone of voice from Mrs Robertson before. “This is utterly unacceptable behaviour from an eighteen year old girl from a good family who should know better. I’m not prepared to accept, or even deal with, this type of exhibitionist activity. You and I are going to see Miss McRobbie and she can decide what is to be done with you.”
She then addressed the rest of the class.
“In future, please remember that the last part of my classes are for pupils to work on their own in silence. You may go now.”
With this, the classroom rapidly emptied and I was soon left alone with Mrs Robertson.
“Pick up your bag, Chloe, and follow me,” she commanded.
It was a short walk to Miss McRobbie’s study. She was Head of Girls’ School and was due to retire the year after I left. I respected her rather than liked her. She was literally ‘old school’ in terms of the way she ran that school and certainly in matters to do with discipline. We were soon inside her study with her sat behind her impressive desk, Mrs Robertson stood to the side and me seated on a hard backed chair in front of the desk facing Miss McRobbie. Mrs Robertson gave a full and accurate account of what had happened in her English lesson. I could hear the tension in her normally soft voice and I could see a reaction of utter shock develop on Miss McRobbie’s face as the tale unfolded. Miss McRobbie then spoke.
“Is this all true, Chloe?” she asked.
“Yes Miss,” I replied.
“I’m lost for words, Chloe. I really don’t know where to start.”
She wasn’t lost for words as far as I could see! I got a 10 minute lecture on morals, respect for others, reputation of the school, and my apparent lack of commitment to learning. It went on and on, but I knew that she was right and that I had to take it. I also sensed that I wasn’t simply going to be allowed to leave without sanctions after my telling-off was complete.
“Mrs Robertson is correct,” she concluded. “You have acted today more in line with the behaviour that I would expect from one of my Junior School pupils. I am therefore going to punish you as if you were still in the Junior School. You are going to experience what it feels like to have your bottom slippered, young lady.”
As she said this, I saw her go to the right hand bottom drawer of her desk and produce a fairly stout looking flat-soled white canvas shoe. She placed it on the surface of the desk and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this was soon to be used on me. She then explained what was required of me.
“Stand up, Chloe, remove your skirt and place it on my desk once you have neatly folded it. You will then bend over the back of the chair and grab each side of the seat with your hands. Is that clear?”
“Yes Miss,” I replied as the full horror of what was about to happen to me sank in. Corporal punishment was almost unheard of in my school in the late 1990s. It was formally abolished in Scottish private schools in 2000 but the occasional junior girl would get her bottom smacked from time to time. But a senior girl, an adult over the age of 18, never!
I did as instructed. I felt I had no choice and I couldn’t contemplate trying to argue my way out of this one. The tails of my blouse provided me with a minimal amount of cover but the back of it rode up a bit as I took up my position over the back of the chair. Miss McRobbie came round the back of me and I felt her lift the back of my blouse which she then tucked in to my bra strap, thereby ensuring that it was securely stowed, with my bottom fully exposed.
“It is standard practice for girls who are in here for a slippering to be asked to remove their skirts,” Miss McRobbie explained. “However, this generally means that they are taking their punishment over their underwear which helps to protect them a little and certainly makes the experience less embarrassing for them. You have made certain choices today and by choosing not to wear underwear to Mrs Robertson’s class you will now be getting your punishment inflicted on to your bare bottom. I have little sympathy for you, Chloe,” she concluded.
I was left there for a few moments while the two school teachers completed my entry into the punishment book. In many ways, this was the worst bit. Bent over that chair, the hard back digging into my hip bones, with my bottom exposed and waiting to be slippered. All this generated unbearable tension. I had never received corporal punishment before at home or at school so I had no idea what to expect. I knew it was likely to be uncomfortable, but was it acceptable to make a fuss during the process? Would I be in tears at the end? Should I thank Miss McRobbie when it was all over? Did I need to apologise to Mrs Robertson again? These questions flashed through my mind while I waited.
The two ladies completed the paperwork and I saw Miss McRobbie pick up the canvas shoe from her desk top. She soon took up her position on my left with the shoe in her right hand. I then felt the cool rubber sole resting on my bottom.
“I’m going to give you six with my slipper, Chloe,” I heard her say. “You will remain in position, with your hands gripping the sides of the chair until I give you permission to move. Is that clear?”
“Yes Miss,” I replied.
If anyone had been passing by Miss McRobbie’s door in the next few minutes, they would be in no doubt as to what was happening on the other side of that door. The sound of the shoe crashing into my bottom seemed incredibly loud in that confined space. I suppose a pair of knickers would deaden the pitch a little but, by its nature, I realised that a slippering cannot be done quietly.
I didn’t feel that Miss McRobbie was holding back in any way. The first stroke caught me by surprise and as I felt the impact I was immediately gasping for breath. She left a short internal between strokes, probably no more than a few seconds, so as each one landed I hadn’t quite recovered from the previous one. The pain just built and built. By the last one, I was more groaning than yelling, but I couldn’t stop the tears coming, more from the humiliation rather than the discomfort felt in my poor little bottom.
What a dreadful experience! I had to sign the punishment book, still in a state of partial undress, and then Miss McRobbie asked where my panties were.
“In my school bag, Miss,” I replied between sobs.
“OK, Chloe. I suggest you put them back on and, when you have composed yourself, go back to your classes. What have you got on for the rest of the day?”
Her voice sounded softer, and when I replied that I was on a free period and then double Chemistry she reverted back to her normal business-like self. She kindly told me that I was generally well liked by the staff at the school and that she would regard today’s incident as an isolated aberration in judgment that had been dealt with firmly and conclusively. I put on my panties and retrieved my skirt from the desk. When I was fully dressed I thanked my teachers for dealing with me, apologised again for my behaviour and left to get on with the rest of my school day.
Inevitably my classmates were all over me with questions about my visit to Miss McRobbie’s office. I told them about the long and severe lecture, which was truthful, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell them about the slippering. Just too embarrassing! Amazingly, it seemed to be accepted that I had been given no further punishment so, as far as I know, nobody beyond Mrs Robertson and Miss McRobbie knows the whole truth of what happened in the head’s study that day.
My bottom was a mess of inflamed red skin and dark bruising for at least five days after that event. There wasn’t much of the school term left but that punishment had certainly banished any ideas from my head of a repeat performance. The problem was, though, that the underlying cause of that behaviour was still in my makeup then and probably still is now.
I got good grades in my highers and got a place on a nursing degree course at the University of Glasgow. This was exactly what I wanted and I couldn’t wait to get started in the autumn after leaving school. First year nurses at Glasgow are not given accommodation in a nurses’ home, so I ended up renting a flat with four other friends from school who were also studying in Glasgow. The flat was towards the West End but east of the M8 motorway, a couple of blocks back from the River Clyde. This part of Glasgow is very much ‘post industrial decline’ with streets laid out in a classic gridiron formation. Most blocks consisted of a mixture of derelict factories and buildings that had been converted into accommodation of some sort. Ours was no exception.
We had many good times in that flat. Two girls, including me, and three boys; great friendships, all of us high achievers and all high spirited. Because I did some shift work at the hospital connected with my course, I would sometimes be getting in during the wee small hours of the night. Students being students there would generally be somebody still up and occasionally there would be a full blown party going on with multiple other guests.
One particularly filthy night in November, I got back to the flat at just after 2.00 am and there was a party going on in full flow. I downed a couple of glasses of wine and settled in to listen to the music and chat with my friends. One of my flatmates was indeed one of the infamous two boys from my English class. His name was James and he was holding court after a few cans of lager telling all who wanted to listen about what happened on that fateful day at school. There was much laughter and, as usual, I was loving the attention.
“Come on, Chloe,” he said. “Do your streak round the block again for everyone!”
I should explain that the previous week my flatmates had dared me to run naked round the block at 3.00 am in the morning. At the time, it didn’t feel quite as risky as it sounds, given that even in Glasgow there are few people out and about in our part of the city at that time of night. Conveniently, there is a cut through some old factory buildings which means that the route is slightly shorter and you are not seen along the busier main road side of the block. Also, I can run fast and always made a point of checking that each street was clear before rounding a corner. Looking back though, it was ridiculously risky and could easily go horribly wrong. However, it worked perfectly first time I tried it so, fortified by the wine, I agreed to try it again.
I went to my room and stripped out of my nurse’s uniform. Standing naked in front of the mirror I could feel my heart pounding and my body looked taut, ready for the challenge ahead. I put on a pair of short white socks along with my flat-soled plimsolls and grabbed my thin silky dressing gown to cover myself until I was at the door which led onto the street. Ours was a second floor flat and as I descended the stairs I was followed by James, along with the other party goers close behind.
I opened the front door and looked out. I knew it was a cold night, about 5 deg C, but the rain had intensified since I had got back from work. It seemed like a solid wall of water, glistening in the white light of the street lamps as it came tumbling down. None of this deterred me. I would be exercising to keep warm and the rain would simply be running off my bare skin. Nothing to worry about!
I poked my head out of the door and checked in both directions. No sign of anybody. I unfastened the little bow on the front of my gown, slipped it off my shoulders and handed it to James. Without delay, I was off on my mission. I was soon at the first corner where I slowed to check the next stretch of street. No problems, so onto the next corner. I followed the same routine and I was soon heading up the back straight that would eventually lead me to the short cut through the factory buildings. When I reached this turn, I knew that I was close to home and away from the more exposed public spaces.
However, I was in for a considerable shock! At the point just before I emerged onto our street, a man jumped out at me from the shadows of one of the buildings. With his left hand he grabbed my right wrist and held it in a vice like grip.
“Fuck off! What are you doing?” I yelled at him in a state of absolute panic.
I could see in the dim security lights that he was a stockily built man in his mid- 40s. He was dressed in a blue iniform with the word ‘SECURITY’ written in gold lettering on his baseball cap and just above his breast pocket. Not particularly threatening to look at, but the reality was that I was alone, stark naked and he had a tight grip on my wrist. When he spoke, though, I felt that he wasn’t looking to do me any harm.
“I could ask you the same question, young lady, given that you are on private land,” he opened up with. “I think you and I need to go into my office to sort this out.”
I really had no choice. I could have screamed or made a fuss, but on a night like that there would be nobody on hand to help me out. Clearly, I wasn’t in a great position, but equally I wasn’t getting that instinctive feeling that I was in imminent danger of being raped or murdered. I concluded that I needed to cooperate with this man and get out of this situation as quickly as I could and as best I could.
He led me into a dimly lit room which was full of CCTV screens, a solitary desk and a four bar electric fire. The room was certainly warm but what you might also describe as grubby. As he closed the door he turned the key in the lock and placed the key in his pocket. He opened a small cupboard and unexpectedly produced for me a lovely freshly laundered bath towel. This seemed so out of keeping with the rest of the setup but I gratefully dried myself in an effort to keep warm. I then clutched the towel to my bosom as I faced him to hear his verdict.
“I saw you do this last month on the CCTV,” he informed me. “I’ve been looking out for you ever since, planning to catch you if you tried it again. This is really not a good idea, you know, on so many different levels. What I propose is that I use my hot line to the Strathclyde Police and get one of their officers to deal with this matter. They can be here in 2 minutes from my call, you’ll get a caution for indecent exposure and you’ll be back in your flat in no time. You look like a lovely girl but you really do need a wake-up call to break this dangerous pattern of behaviour.”
There was not much to argue with in what he said. However, my mind was racing forward on the implications of me getting a police caution.
“I’m a student nurse,” I told him. “If you involve the police I think you might finish my career. Please let me go and I promise that this will not happen again.”
“I’m not sure that is good enough,” he replied. “I’m not convinced that I can trust you on that one. You need to be taught a lesson, and a lesson that you will remember.”
There was then a brief moment of silence. He sat down in his chair and I was left standing in the middle of that room, stark naked with rain water dripping off my sodden wet hair. Eventually he spoke again.
“I’ve got two young daughters at home. I’m old-fashioned and when they misbehave they get their bottoms smacked. They don’t like it, but it is a short, sharp way of making my point. If you don’t like the police idea then you can have your bottom slippered instead. What do you think?”
Here we go again, I thought. I wasn’t so naive that it didn’t cross my mind he was likely to get some sexual pleasure from slippering an eighteen year old’s bare bottom, but what could I do? I didn’t have many options open to me. I quickly realised, though, that I would need to agree some ground rules with him.
“What would you use on me?” I asked, before adding, “I’m not prepared to accept you touching me with your hands.”
“That’s fine. I’ll use one of your plimsolls and I won’t touch you at all.”
“How many will I get?”
“I would have thought 10 would be sufficient,” he replied.
“I’ll accept six,” I countered, partly on the basis that I had managed this number a few months before at school. “Please don’t make them too hard,” I added.
“OK, we have deal. Take off your right shoe and hand it to me.”
I reached down and did as requested.
“Now put the towel down, turn round and bend over so that you can grab your ankles.”
I followed his instructions. I was a supple girl and adopting this position with straight legs presented no difficulties for me. I was steady in my stance with my bottom now ideally presented to receive the punishment. The atmosphere was very different from school, but the actual slippering was similar. A few preliminary taps were followed by six fairly rapid strikes into the heart of my bottom. He was a strong man, though, and this experience was much more painful than the slippering at school. I was certainly gasping after each whack of the plimsoll, but this time I was ready for it and less shocked by the experience. I straightened up after the last stroke with watery eyes, but none of the sobbing that had followed Miss McRobbie’s efforts. I rubbed my bottom a few times and turned to face the security man again.
“OK, you’re sorted,” he said. “You are free to go. Wrap yourself up in the towel to get you home and drop it back in here when convenient.”
He handed me my plimsoll back, which I slipped on to my foot, before he went to the door, unlocked it and let me out. A few seconds later, I was back at the front door into the flats. I had probably been gone a total of about 10 minutes, but the previous time I had been round the circuit in less than two. James was starting to get a little concerned and was clearly pleased to see me back. He looked puzzled to see me covered in the towel but without explanation I handed the damp towel to him and took my robe in exchange.
Everyone went back upstairs and I gave them all a full account of recent events. You could have heard a pin drop! I was buzzing and everyone was totally focused on me and my story. Inevitably I was asked to let them have a look at my bottom and I was more than happy to oblige. I looked over my shoulder and could see that it had taken a bit more damage compared to the last time. Unashamedly, I was loving the attention. I stayed in that silky robe until the last guests were leaving, just as the first signs of dawn were appearing to the east of the Glasgow skyline. That robe clung to my body in a lovely sensual way revealing my curvaceous body lines and the excitement revealed in the shape of my small firm breasts beneath that fine fabric.
There were two outcomes from that night’s events.
Firstly, it cured me of any desire to indulge in public displays of nudity. My makeup didn’t change but I realised that it was simply too risky, given that I was set on a career in nursing. This, ultimately, was more important to me than showing off in front of my friends.
The second outcome was that I realised under the right circumstances I loved having my bottom smacked. I have come to enjoy the pain and I love the erotic feeling of vulnerability that goes with offering yourself up for corporal punishment. In my second year of training, I met my future husband, John, who was taking a degree in Medicine at the University. We married as soon as he qualified and he is now a consultant gynaecologist at the main hospital in the city. When we started our family, we moved out to Kilmacolm and I finally became what you might call ‘respectable’! However we are still partial to a bit of rough play when the opportunity presents itself.
© Julie Baker 2019
Julie welcomes contact from her readers. Email at: firstname.lastname@example.org or Julie’s Twitter address is: @JulieBaker_cane
Posted on Monday, September 16th, 2019 at 12:26 pm in School & College Stories | RSS feed Comments and pings are currently closed.
Tags: Julie Baker