A Ballet Memoir by Naomi Darvell

Cheers, everyone. This story comes out of a dance class I took in college-- one of my last. This is for real: One day it was late and everyone was kind of dragging and the teacher-- one of those scary ballet women-- suddenly said, 'I'm going to have to get my hickory stick.' I was s spanko by then & found this idea quite exciting. I don't know why I don't think of ballet and spanking more often, 'cause some of those girls are pretty sexy. Not the pale wraiths in Balanchineland, but some of those bodacious ballerinas in ABT or Dance Theater of Harlem. Even the 'turn-out' and the overdevelopment through the hips and thighs corresponds to my interest in girdles and corsetry and that whole level of physical discipline. I suppose it's just that the punishing routine of a dancer seems to make S/M redundant-- and you know that however sexy a ballet dancer may look, she's usually too drained and sore-- in the wrong places-- to feel sexy. (The guys, on the other hand, seem to be sex machines. But then ballet is much less competitive for men. And those gross padded crotches-- forget it! Please imagine any men in this story to be wearing workout clothes.)

Sorry for the ramble-- I'm putting off cleaning. Entertaining: the height of masochism.

The rest is fiction. Minors, please don't read it.

Ten years ago, just after my fifteenth birthday, I moved from the Midwest to take up a scholarship at a ballet school. My parents were extremely reluctant to let me go, but they were reassured by the idea that I would be living in the apartment with a ballet mom who had taken an apartment to be with her daughter and who helped finance things by taking in other ballet students.

The first thing I remember is walking into an Intermediate class (make no mistake, this was an advanced class for someone my age) to find 20 girls, and a couple of boys, mostly older than I was. I kept close to Maria, in whose apartment I was boarding and whom I had chosen to guide me through the early days. The teacher, Madame B., was not long retired from performing, but scary, with dark, tightly pulled-back hair, heavy meakeup, and long-red fingernails which heightened the drama of her gestures as she pointed, usually disapprovingly, to this or that.

Once she said: 'Keep your leg up on that turn, or you'll get a spanking!' I laughed and turned to Marie to share my delight: Madame making a joke? Marie shook her head repressively.

Spanking was by no mean unheard-of in my own provincial ballet school, where teachers were always ready to slap a protruding bottom or even sting it with a pointer to get you to tuck it up properly. I suppose I had always imagined that such punishments would fall into disuse as we all grew older. Now here I was I found myself among a crowd of girls, each one better more accomplished than the best at my old school-- and it turned out that even these minor goddesses were subjected to spanking. Still there was little immediate fear for me in the prospect of a spanking, compared with the other things I had to worry about here, especially being dismissed or demoted.

It was no more than ten days before I saw a spanking. Somebody screwed up a turn. People were always screwing up, things went so fast; this must have been a chronic thing. 'Sophie! Come to the piano.'

Manuel, the piano player, moved over on the bench; then, at a look from Madame, he got up and joined the injured students and the visitors who were standing around the piano.

'Who is that?' I said. The girl who walked out of our group was tall and agile, with one of those unbelievably long necks. She walked straight over to Madame, who had positioned herself on the stool. Madame drew Sophie over her long, muscular thighs and began swatting her with the flat of her hand. I couldn't help watching, but it was like a nightmare, much more so than the usual public spanking. You see children spanked in public of course, occasionally, but it usually happens very fast. Madame really made a production out of this. With each spank she lifted har hand very high. Sophie's bottom bounced around chaotically on our teacher's lap. It was all the more embarrassing because usually the movements in our studio were so highly disciplined and controlled. Even now, Sophie's appearance was extremely orderly: hair up neatly, feet coerced into pointe shoes-- except for the wobbling and flinching of her lovely slender buttocks. I hated the idea that one day I would find my own bottom on display like that: unrestrained, out of control.

Other people seemed to find it awful too. "Stupid," someone commented, "she should have worn a girdle."

'Yes, but who wants to get switched with that pointer?'

Marie explained later. I already knew that lots of people wore girdles in class. Of course such a garment would make a spanking, like the one we had just seen, both less painful and less embarrasing, because a restrained bottom would bounce and wobble a lot less under a spanking hand.

I started to reconsider this whole girdle thing. At my old school the use of any kind of supporter-- by a girl at least-- was considered phoney and even weak: a sign that you were afraid your body was not firm enough to pass muster. Here, at a more competitive school and among older girls, I saw that no one had such qualms: anything was fine if it made you look better. A lot of people wore panty girdles. The problem with these was that they were a bit too long; sometimes the legs would show through beneath your tights. And they were expensive: durable enough under normal use, when subjected to our moving and sweating, a pair could easily be ruined in under a week. Some impoverished students went so far-- I am not joking-- as to use rubber pants, the kind made for babies. If you bought the toddlers' size they would split at the legs when you put them on, but they would last as long as a girdle, after which you could throw them out. These pants had the disadvantage of making you so warm that you would sweat even more than was normal. It didn't take me long to decide that, above all else, I was not ready even theoretically to risk being spanked on a wet bottom in a pair of kids' plastic pants, so I went shopping for girdles.

This, mind you, was before I saw someone punished while wearing a girdle. I have to admit it was enough to scare me. Madame actually failed to notice the presence of a girdle at first. Well, she was very angry. And unlike Sophie, this girl had on a gauze skirt, which Madame had to flip up before she could begin the punishment. Madame had already pulled the girl in question over her knee and slapped her bottom a couple of times when she realized that protection was in place. "Hand me the short pointer, Manuel," she said, and Manuel stepped forward with that instrument. The sound of the wood striking the girl's rather heavily clothed buttocks was horrifying. Still, I decided that the effect of this whipping was more heroic, and hence less mortifying, than that of the hand-spanking.

Nevertheless my first spanking was a dreadful embarrassment. "Correct your turn-out immediately! If I have to tell you again, you'll be spanked!" I went over to the bench as quickly as possible, to avoid being dragged there by Madame. I draped myself over her lap as gracefully as possible and stuck my bottom up, bracing me feet against the floor in order to keep my body immobile when the pointer fell. In fact the pain was not to bad. The pointer, striking my behind through painties, girdle, tights and leotard, was not much worse than my mother's hairbrush on the seat of my pyjamas. There was, however, this awful problem of where to look. When I was spanked at home, as a little girl, it was always on my bed and I had a pillow to hug. Here, not only did I have no pillow to bury my face in, but there were people watching. I held my head up, figuring that would appear more dignified, and looked directly into the eyes of Manuel. Like everyone else in school, I thought Manuel-- who was probably 22 and looked like someone in todays Calvin Klein ads, only several years ahead of time-- was a doll, and I hated to have him watch me get punished this way. I suppose that trying to read his eyes took my mind off my beleagered derriere. He looked sypathetic, perhaps wincing a little as the pointer hit me particularly hard, or else fell on my thigh, which did not enjoy the covering of the girdle.

Madame did not believe in comforting a punished student; she pushed me unceremoniously off her lap and told me to get back to work. Manuel, however, did put an arm around my shoulders and give me a little squeeze before he sat down again to play the piano. Had he done that to anyone else? I hadn't noticed. I didn't want to think so. I suppose that, after all, this was the beginning of my erotic experience of spanking. That night I went to sleep thinking of Manuel, and I could not separate these thoughts from the memory of Madame's thighs under my tummy, and her pointer striking my backside.

That incident marked the beginning of a dual obsession: I had an intense crush on Manuel; and the eortic excitement I felt in his presence seemed directly associated with fantasies about spanking. Awkward and embarrassing as it was to go through a the remainder of a class with my buttocks stinging from Madame's pointer, it was stimulating as well. In bed at night I would imagine that Madame was spanking me, as in real life but on a bare bottom as I lay across Manuel's lap. I did not actively seek to be punished again: I took too much pride in my work to make mistakes deliberately. But I was punished occasionally during my first months. Each time I felt Manuel's embrace after a spanking I became more convinced that my fascination with him was reciprocated. I began unaccountably to wish that madame would spank me much harder, hard enough to justify tears and sobbing, so that I could throw myself into Manuel's arms and weep for a long time.

Eventually I did find Manuel comforting me as I wept, but it was not the situation I had wished for. I was making every effort to be around Manuel. He would let me sit beside him on the piano bench and play a bass continuo while he improvised above. One day, when class was over and the studio almost empty, he showed no sign of being in a hurry to leave. I moved my little butt over, sitting closer and closer to him and at last I whispered that I loved him.

His reaction was horribly humiliating: he laughed loudly, then turned to me and said, "What are you, nuts? How old are you, anyway? I'm not interested in little kids." I heard my own wail of dismay as if it were coming from someone else's mouth, and then I was crying with my head on Manuel's chest while he patted my back with what felt like a forced show of patience. Or maybe it was distaste-- I was very sweaty.

After that I became very sad. Manuel was always around and it was impossible to ignore him or not to think of him. His rejection made me realize how lonely I was in New York. I lived with Marie and her mother and four other girls in an apartment with basically three rooms. The complete lack of privacy in the apartment only made the loneliness worse. Marie at least had her mother: a source of great envy on my part, especially when I saw Marie scolded or punished. Why was this? I suppose my new erotic feelings about spanking came together with my wish to have someone care about me enough to punish me in the intimacy of a bedroom and on my bare bottom, not over a piano bench and with a pointer.

Marie's mother spanked her quite often, nor was Marie very embarrased about it. After all, she saw the rest of us get our bottoms beaten in school. The first time I saw Marie spanked she had come home a half-hour late: a serious offense in that city. "Get the hairbrush, Marie!" said her mother as soon as she walked in the door. She took Marie to her bedroom and, not bothering to shut the door, took down her jeans and turned her over on her lap.

Maire lay there obidiently, whimpering a little as the wooden brush cracked down again and again on her firm little behind. After warming that behind thoroughly, Marie's mother gave her a hug and restored her clothing.

I developed a desperate longing to be spanked as Marie was, but none of the boarders ever seemed to be subjected to the hairbrush: we just got to see it in the bathroom every day. Eventually, in my longing for an intimate and loving spanking, I began using my one moment of solitude during the day-- the time when I ran water for my bath-- to reach around with that brush and awkwardly whack my own bottom.

I went on in this pathetic state for several weeks, until finally I had the happy thought of asking Madame to give me a real spanking. One afternoon, when I had received the pointer for repeatedly messing up a jump, I stopped Madame in the hallway: an audacious thing for any student to do, but as it happened well worth it.

"Madame," I said, as her overly defined black eyebrows arched still higher in surprise, "Thank you for punishing me today." "Very well," said Madame, and made as if to walk away. "Please, Madame," I said. "I don't think I've been spanked hard enough, for what I did. Would you... would you consider taking me somewhere and giving me a good whipping?"

Madame had one reaction only for just about anything a student could do or say: she lost her temper. "Good Lord, what is the matter with you children?" she exclaimed. "What do you want from me? You're always bothering me with your crazy ideas? All right then: come to my dressing room!"

I followed her in a kind of stupor, with a weird buzzing in my ears. All I could think was that, with luck, there would be a nice wooden hairbrush in that dressing room. Madame was scolding me sharply: "I will give you a spanking! But not because you want one; because you keep wasting my time! And it's going to be a hard spanking; you will never ask me for another one." Clearly, in her mind, Madame was speaking not just to me but to every young student who had pestered her for attention. People looked at me and Madame as we passed, most appearing envious because Madame was talking to me.

"Oh yes," she went on as we entered her office. "I'm prepared to spank you soundly, my dear young lady. I'm going to pound your lazy little fanny until you can't sit down. Now what am I going to use?"

There was the longed-for hairbrush, right on the makeup table. Boldly I picked it up and handed it to her. Madame grabbed my leotard at the shoulder and pulled it down along with my tights. As I undid my toes shoes, preparatory to stepping out of my clothes, madame whacked me on the seat of my panty girdle with the brush. "Disgusting garment!" she hissed. "Get all that off and bend over!" She patted her knee. Stark naked, I laid myself across her lap. The hairbrush came down instantly. Madame spanked so hard and fast that I could not breathe. If I had ever been embarrassed by the sight of a bottom bouncing and flinching under the pointer, I knew that my own backside must look a hundred times worse now, but I didn't care. As soon as I got my breath back I began sobbing, shedding huge tears. Madame spanked and spanked, doubtless working out months or years of frustration at having to educate students she considered hopeless.

It was the severest paddling I'd ever had in my life. When it was over madame let me rest in her lap for a grudging moment before sending me to the corner. "You can stand there with your naughty little bottom showing," she said. Then she picked up her bag and left, apparently for good. I rubbed my bottom and cried, expressing all my unhappiness with everything from the school's harsh discipline and competition to Manuel's disdain for me. After a long time I put on my clothes, damp and now chilly from the floor.

Unsatisfactory though this spanking was-- I had wanted so badly to be lovingly spanked and then comforted-- it must have had a cathartic affect. When I saw Manuel the next day, he gave me what had become his usual condescending look of sympathy. Instead of averting my gaze, I glared at him. He had been interested in me, I decided. I never saw him hug or kiss a student other than myself. He had laughed at me just because he was a s***head. My change in attitude had what I now realize is a very common effect, when you are dealing with a young, vain man. Manuel began watching me all the time. When Madame next spanked me, weilding the pointer with all her might, he watched with an open display of Schadenfreude.

"Hey, you jerk!" I whispered the next time I saw him in a relatively empty studio. "You called me a little kid, but you're the one who's immature."

Some impulse made Manuel turn away from the keyboard and slap at me with one hand. The poorly-aimed smack fell on my hip, not my bottom; he grabbed me around the waist and aimed again, more successfully. This time I gave him absolutely no choice: I jumped onto his lap and kissed him, smashing my lips agains his and even trying to cram my tongue into his mouth.

"All right," he said, pushing me off. "I'll take you out on a date, but only after you turn sixteen."

I counted the days until my birthday: seventy-two. On almost every one of those days I locked myself into the bathroom and used the hairbrush, not to swat my bottom but to rub against the crotch of my panties as I lay on my back with my legs raised.When the orgasm came I was usually imagining that Manuel was spanking my quivering bottom, or else that he was holding my head and kissing me while Madame did the honors with her pointer. In reality it was years before Manuel did anything more than spank the seat of my panties: he refused to make love to me or even to let me into his apartment, because he still believed I was too young. All he allowed me were a few sneaky interludes in some temporarily deserted corner. But quite early in the relationship he said something that turned out to be true: "Darling, I think you're too kinky to be a baby ballerina."

When I left the ballet, four years later, I moved in with Manuel, and at present he is supporting us-- playing in nightclubs now-- while I study to be a textile designer. But some nights I still put on a qauze skirt and toe shoes...