When my fantasies turn to ancient Greece, they normally involve slave girls, but there’s some space for a school whipping as well.

The poem below comes from “Schools of Hellas” by Kenneth J Foreman; it was found and translated by the author. I think this may be one of the earliest examples of spanking fiction we’re likely to see.

A vivid picture of school life has recently come to light in the third Mime of Herondas. It belongs to the Alexandrian period in point of date, but many of its details will, no doubt, suit the Athenian schools just as well.

A mother, Metrotime, brings her truant boy, Kottalos, to his schoolmaster Lampriskos to receive a flogging.

Metrotime. Flog him, Lampriskos,
Across his shoulders, till his wicked soul
Is all but out of him. He’s spent my all
In playing odd and even: knucklebones
Are nothing to him …
But, so may yonder Muses prosper you,
Give him in stripes no less than —-
Lampriskos.                                                             Right you are.
Here, Euthias, Kokkalos and Phillos, hoist him
Upon your backs. I like your goings on,
My boy. I’ll teach you manners. Where’s my strap,
The stinging cow’s-tail!
Kottalos.                                         By the Muses, Sir,
Not with the stinger.
L.                                                     Then you shouldn’t be
So naughty.
K.                             O, how many will you give me?
L. Your mother fixes that.
K.                                                                   How many, mother?
M. As many as your wicked hide can bear.
K. Stop, that’s enough, stop.
L.                                                                             You should stop your ways.
K. I’ll never do it more, I promise you.
L. Don’t talk so much, or else I’ll bring a gag.
K. I won’t talk, only do not kill me, please.
L. Let him down, boys.
M.                                                         No, leather him till sunset.
L. Why, he’s as mottled as a water-snake.
M. Well, when he’s done his reading, good or bad,
Give him a trifle more, say twenty strokes.

I’ve cut out some of it, as the mother spends a whole page describing in verse all the stuff that her son’s done wrong.

Next time you’re about to get punished, I dare you to exclaim: “By the Muses, Sir!”