The first time I ever remember being smacked by anyone other than my mum was when I was seven years old. My sister Jennifer was nine and we were at our next door neighbour’s house with Jennifer’s friend, Carol.
It was one of those days in the summer holidays when everybody was bored and we couldn’t think what to do. It was warm and sunny outside but we were in the house and Carol’s mum had repeatedly told us to ‘get yourselves out in the fresh air’. In order to get out of her way, we had retreated to the small cellar below the kitchen.
I believe it was Carol who started it, by asking if anybody would dare to take all their clothes off. You can guess who was pushed into the position of ‘who goes first’. The two of them coaxed me out of my clothes one piece at a time – basically, by flashing their knickers in exchange for each item I removed.
Eventually I was down to nothing but my vest – and neither of them had taken anything off so I dug my heels in and refused to take off my vest before they started to get undressed. Eventually, Carol did take her knickers off and she lifted her skirt to show off her bottom. Jennifer hadn’t even got that far. All she had done was to lift her skirt and pull the front of her knickers down to show her ‘thing’.
Suddenly, we heard the door to the kitchen open and Mrs Walker, Carol’s mum, start down the stairs. I made a futile grab for my clothes and Carol – much more quick-thinking – shouted out ‘get out of here, you dirty thing!’
As Mrs Walker came into the cellar, she was confronted by me, looking very guilty indeed, wearing nothing but my vest and holding my underpants in my hand. Jennifer and Carol appeared to be fully dressed and looking rather disapprovingly at me.
Given the scene, it was not surprising that when Mrs Walker demanded to know what was going on, she quite readily swallowed the story from Jennifer and Carol that I had just taken all my clothes off and showed myself off to them.
She was absolutely furious. She grabbed me and shook me. She cuffed my ears a couple of times and then she started to smack the backs of my legs. Boy, did she make me dance! There was not a lot of room in the little cellar and with four people there, one of whom was me dancing around, it was difficult for her to administer a satisfactory smacking.
She pulled me over to the couch, sat down and hauled me over her knee and then she really smacked – and did she know how to smack! My bottom was literally on fire. She would smack really hard and fast, with every stroke landing on the same place, then she would move on the next spot and continue.
I howled the place down and when she was eventually done, I was a sorry sight, tears flowing, nose running and my bottom was practically purple. She pulled me to my feet and told me to get dressed. She was picking up the clothes scattered around the floor when she came across Carol’s knickers. She was a bit nonplussed at that, as I had already got my underpants back on.
She turned to the girls, asking: “What’s this?” Carol went bright red and good old Jennifer blurted out: “They’re not mine – they’re Carol’s.” Mrs. Walker turned to the tongue-tied Carol and hoisted her dress to reveal her knickerless state. She gave her one good slap on the bottom and told her: “Right – get up these stairs, it’s the belt for you, my lady.”
Carol burst into tears and headed off upstairs howling. I was ordered to get dressed and to go home.
There were two positive aspects of the incident. Firstly, as we crept out through the kitchen, we passed poor Jennifer bent over a kitchen stool on the receiving end of a sound thrashing with a very nasty looking belt – and she was making plenty of noise. Secondly, my mum was not at home and Mrs Walker was kind enough not to tell her of what had happened.