Age five. Your small, chubby fingers reach for the metallic glint of a cross on the wall of the library. It's placed just at your eye level, and the whole class genuflects as they pass it in crisp little tartan uniforms.
Mrs. Clairefontaine's long, thin reed whistles as it makes its way down in an arch. The wood cracks as it hits your skin. The class stops, and you can hear them sucking in their breath as they turn to look at you. The noise of their polished black shoes goes silent. Your eyes fill with tears and your cheeks burn, but you don't yell even though a raised red welt has already started to form.
Age twelve. The sound of the choir's voice rising and falling echoes though the empty halls. Sister Louise has you by the ear, and you nearly trip over yourself trying to keep up with her. The thick, sturdy heels of her shoes thud against the old stone floors.
She pulls you into an empty classroom. It seems strange to be here without anyone else, with so many empty seats instead of noisy children. Practiced hands pull you over her knee, unroll your shortened skirt, and expose your panties. The force behind her blows is almost surprising. So many years of spanking children have made those old arms strong, and your bottom burns before she lets you go again. Finishing mass on those hard wooden pews is torture and you are grateful, for once, to bend on your knees.
Age 26. The crowd is noisy as it filters in from outside. Some people are shocked as they come in, others point, others avert their eyes. Goosebumps cover every inch of your naked skin. Your stomach twists, as it always does. It's still exciting.
He comes out from backstage. Tonight his tool is a large leather paddle with holes riddled throughout it. It's so thick that it seems like it must be heavy for him to hold.
You want to greet him, but you can't move. You are tied to a wooden structure, bent over the edge, your ass sticking out for the crowd to see. Your mouth is gagged.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
You nod. He raises the paddle high above his head.