I will always remember a day my wife Karen and I visited the home of my work colleague Phil and his wife Carolyn. I was fairly new in the job and had become very friendly with Phil and the Smiths [last name changed – Ed] were kind enough to invite us both round for supper on several occasions.
Karen and I were childless at the time, but Phil and Carolyn had a little boy, called David, who was about two years old at the time. Karen was quite broody to start a family of her own (she had come off birth control about a month earlier) so she absolutely doted over David.
On this occasion, the conversation in the room divided itself into two threads – Phil and I talked about work and music, while Karen mostly chatted to Carolyn about David. Shortly afterwards, though, Phil got up to answer a phone call in the hall and I was left listening to the women’s conversation.
Karen was saying about David: “He seems a little bit subdued today.” Carolyn replied: “Oh, that’s because he’s had his first smack bottom this afternoon. He threw a tantrum so I took his nappy down and smacked him a few times, then put him to bed.”
Karen appeared enchanted to hear about this morsel of maternal discipline. She sat David on her knee and shook her head at him in mock reproval: “Oh dear! Were you a naughty boy? Was it smack bottom and bed?” David nodded solemnly. “Oh dear, smack bottom and bed! What a naughty boy!”
I had been spanked as a boy, like many of my era, and hearing my beautiful, sexy wife talking openly about maternal spanking took me back to my own boyhood and made the blood course in my veins and I had to stay seated for some time in order to remain polite. But Karen threw a glimpse at me and I knew from the glint in her eye that the teasing was for my benefit.
That suspicion was confirmed a few hours later when she took me to bed.