An own goal

At the end of our street was a quite large patch of grass, where my friends and I played football. Adjacent was a bungalow where a lady called Miss Cripps lived. She was a widow in her late 50s, quite buxom not overly attractive, and she ran the local Sunday school, although I didn’t attend it myself.

Sometimes, we would accidentally hit the ball against the side of Miss Cripps’ bungalow. When that happened, she would come out and threaten to give us a good hiding – but we would just run off, laughing at her.

On one particular day, I was on my own on this patch of grass, as no-one else was about. I was wearing my new Manchester United football kit that I got for my 11th birthday. So there I was, imagining I was George Best on the attack, and I struck the ball beautifully.

Unfortunately, it sailed right over Miss Cripps’ garden wall.

I guessed that Miss Cripps wasn’t in – I had already hit her wall earlier and she never came out to threaten me with a smacked bottom – so I quickly scaled the wall. When I got on top, I immediately saw that my football had ended up next to a tempting patch of strawberries. I dropped down into the garden and leaving my football to one side for a moment, I began helping myself to Miss Cripps’ strawberries. They were absolutely delicious.

I was so engrossed in eating the lovely red berries that I didn’t hear Miss Cripps suddenly appear behind me. “Right Michael, I’ve got you now, you naughty boy!” She grabbed my arm and smacked my bottom hard through my shorts, then led me into her bungalow, applying a few more firm spanks in the process.

Finally, she looked down at me. “Well, Michael, what do you think your mum will have to say about this, stealing from my garden? You’re a very naughty boy!”

I knew very well what my mum would say, and that it would end in a very sore bottom for me, possibly even the belt from Dad. “Please, Miss Cripps, don’t tell my mum! I’m really sorry!”

“We’ll have to see just how sorry you are,” Miss Cripps replied. “You can take off those muddy boots and socks for a start!” I obeyed, and while I was taking them off, Miss Cripps pulled out a dining chair and sat down on it. She had a light summer dress on and once she was seated, she pulled the skirt clear of her lap, revealing her bare thighs.

Then, to my horror, she took down my football shorts, quickly followed by my pants. It was bad enough that my own mother still saw me like this when I was put across her knee for a smacked bare bottom, let alone Miss Cripps, but I was completely helpless and at her mercy.

She put me across her knee with practiced ease – I’m sure she probably smacked other children at the Sunday school occasionally, despite having none of her own. Her left hand went around my waist and under my tummy to hold me in position and despite my age, my feet didn’t touch the floor and I fitted more like an eight-year-old across Miss Cripps’ knee.

I remember looking down at the floor and seeing Miss Cripps’ large, bare feet, her toenails painted bright red. Then she set about turning my bottom pretty much the same colour. Her large hand began smacking my bum hard – boy, could she smack! She covered every inch of my bottom.

I cried my eyes out as I was firmly chastised, and kicked my legs so much that my shorts and pants came completely off. Miss Cripps ignored all my crying and struggling, merely telling me to ‘stay still and take it like a big boy’. “I’ve waited a long time to get you across my knee, Michael,” she said, as she continued smacking my bottom and the tops of my thighs. “You’re a very naughty boy!” Smack, smack, smack! Lots of tears.

“Your friends would be laughing at you now, wouldn’t they?” she asked. “Over my knee with your pants down getting a smacked bottom?”

After a while, I stopped struggling. I had no fight left in me and I just lay there, crying but submitting to the smacking, begging her to stop and saying how sorry I was for stealing and hitting her wall. I felt completely exposed and helpless across Miss Cripps’ lap, and my bottom was incredibly sore from her very hard hand.

Eventually, she stopped spanking and rested her now very warm hand on my even warmer buttocks. “Right, Michael,” she said, “I think you have been sufficiently punished for now. I won’t tell your mother about this – but I expect to see you in Sunday school next week. Do you understand?”

I nodded – I would have promised anything not to put my bum in more peril. Miss Cripps had talked to my mum before about me going to Sunday school, and I knew Mum was keen on the idea. However, as I had rebelled against it, she had dropped the subject. Now, if I didn’t go, the least I could expect would be another well smacked bottom – this time at home.

Miss Cripps still had me across her knee. She had a Bible to hand and while I was still over her lap bare bottomed, she opened it and read out loud several verses about the corporal punishment of children. Although I had a very sore bum, I found this oddly comforting – Miss Cripps’ bare thighs were warm and something was happening in my groin, though fortunately I didn’t get an erection.

She gave my bottom one last light slap. “Right, Michael – up you get. Pass me your shorts and pants.” I handed them to her and she dressed me herself, like a baby. She pulled my face into her ample bosom as I had one last little cry, and she softly sang a hymn to comfort me. Finally, Miss Cripps kissed the top of my head and smacked my behind again lightly. “Now, you be a good boy and I’ll see you in school on Sunday.”

I collected my football and walked home, ruefully rubbing my very sore bottom, which was now as bright red as those lovely strawberries.

Contributor: Michael

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