Tears before a smack

One day, during the school holidays when I was a young teenager, I rode my bike to a popular children’s play area in the next village. There were lots of other kids there but I became interested in the activities of one group in particular. This gang was two girls and three boys.

The girls were aged about ten, and so were two of the boys, but the last one was about five, perhaps younger. He was clearly the younger brother of one of the girls, and she was not pleased that she had been made to look after him at the park. I learned from the conversation that his name was David, and she was Sarah.

The older kids were lying on the grass talking, and the little boy was running around the play equipment, but returning to his sister every few minutes. The girl found his attention-seeking irritating and spoke harshly to him.

David was wearing a sky blue t-shirt and matching shorts, and his white underwear was poking out at the waist. Sarah wore a short yellow summer dress, and she displayed her white knickers when she kicked her legs up as she lay on her tummy.

In truth, I thought that the little boy was being very well behaved but Sarah was grumpy. Eventually Sarah told David that he was being naughty by interrupting her conversation. In a very polite voice, David asked: “Am I going to get my bottom smacked?”

The whole playground fell silent. All eyes stared at Sarah, who blushed vividly. After a dramatic pause she whispered “Yes.” David immediately burst into floods of tears. He clutched the sides of his shorts and ran past me to the gate. Sarah ran after him, shouting: “No, it’s all right.”

David was not listening. He certainly did not stop; he exited the park and ran down the street. Naturally I followed, as did Sarah. They only lived a few houses from the play area and their mother was in the front garden. Sarah halted when she saw that David was home. She ran back to the park.

“What’s the matter?” David’s mother asked. Through his tears, David blubbered that he needed a spanking. I was stunned by this. He actually said: “I need my bottom smacked.” As he said it, David pushed his shorts down. He had been holding the elasticated waistband as he ran, and now I learned why.

The woman duly obliged. She pushed his shorts and pants down even further and then, right there in the garden, she heartily slapped his buttocks. David stood quite still as his mother applied ten crisp stingy slaps to his bottom. He kept his hands gripped together, not exactly folded – more holding his wrists, but squeezed tightly to his chest. His mother’s hand covered both of his cheeks and his bottom quickly went red. It was not bruised, but it was visibly smacked.

David continued to sob, breaking his heart. When it was over, he politely held his arms away from his body and mum pulled up his underpants, tucked in his vest, then pulled up his shorts and tucked in the T-shirt. David was picked up and wrapped his legs around his mum. Eventually, the tears stopped.

The spanking had taken no more than 10 seconds, with maybe another 10 as she re-dressed him. By now I was feeling very self-conscious so I moved back to the park. I actually felt scared that I might get smacked if I was seen to be staring.

Sarah had returned to her friends, who had all come to the gate. The excitement over, the kids went back to the swings and things.

After about 10 minutes, David returned to the park. He was still being carried by his mum but he looked a lot happier. Sarah stood up, but looked down at the ground. The woman asked her daughter what David had done to deserve a spanking. Sarah muttered something about how irritating he had been.

The woman was not impressed and David was put down. Sarah was promptly ordered to put her hands on her head. She began to cry, tears flowed freely down her face and she pleaded to go home but her hands went straight onto her head. Sarah’s white knickers were clearly displayed as her short dress rode up.

Mum then started to slap her daughter’s legs – two slaps on the right one, then two on the left. On and on it went, until each leg had received ten slaps. The whole play area was counting silently, it seemed.

After each stinging blow, Sarah twisted and shook the offended thigh but never took her hands down. When it was done, each leg had a reddened patch, with distinct finger marks around the edges.

Finally, Sarah got her wish – she was ordered home. This did not seem to please her, however, as she continued to cry profusely. Sarah ran home, rubbing the backs of her thighs as she went. David held his mother’s hand as they walked home.

Sadly, I have no idea what happened next. Although I hovered in the street for some time, there were no sounds or sightings to give substance to my imagination. Throughout that summer I rode my bike to that play area and often saw those children playing – but never again was the subject of smacked bottoms raised.

contributor: Paul

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