I was young, eight or just nine. Our family attended what I think was a Christening. There were several children there that I met for the first time.
A young, attractive woman, whom I didn’t know at all, seemed to be in charge of entertaining the children. She was doing a great job of it too! A game evolved whereby we children hid behind an old armchair. One at a time, we ran to the sofa and launched ourselves into a pile of cushions. The lady babysitter then grabbed us, roughed us up and tickled us. We were eventually released, only to hide behind the chair and wait for our turn again.
A small blond boy took his turn before me. He suffered a terrible tickling, which had him screaming with laughter. In his desperation to escape, he rolled towards the floor. The lady half caught him, trying to prevent him from hurting himself. In doing so, by sheer misfortune, he found himself face down across her knee.
The young lady made a big theatrical drama of this, playing to an audience of wide-eyed children, by pretending to smack the boy’s bottom. I watched with a mixture of curiosity and excitement, as it was my turn next. I had never had a spanking in my life, but I suppose it’s natural to be curious at that age about something new.
After suffering no more than a few playful smacks to his buttocks, the blond boy escaped. I flew into the cushions and rolled towards the babysitter lady. She tickled me and ruffled my hair. No matter how much I tried, I could not get myself into the ‘spanking position’ like the boy before me had done. I really wanted my bottom smacked but failed at every attempt. I should add, in fairness, that no other child that day got a spanking, pretend or otherwise. I didn’t sulk, but I was disappointed and, it must have shown.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened once we arrived home that evening, and I changed into my pyjamas ready for bed. The only odd thing that happened was rather than just telling it was bedtime, Mum came up to my room with me.
Even more unusually, Mum took me by the hand and sat herself down on the bottom corner of my bed. She opened her legs as much as her dress would allow, drew me in close and asked me some questions. She wanted to know if something had happened at the party, because she had noticed my quieter than usual demeanour.
After a mini Spanish Inquisition, I explained about the game I played with the babysitter and the other children. I confessed to Mum shyly that I felt left out because the blond boy had got a smacked bum and I hadn’t.
My mum chuckled and pulled me in close for a hug. As she hugged me, she told me I was a ‘funny boy’. Then, after an extra-firm squeeze, Mum asked me if I would like her to smack my bottom before bed to make up for the disappointment. To be honest, I was thrilled and nodded vigorously.
Mum stepped me back so she could swing her legs round together. Getting comfortable, she took my hand and guided me across her knee, saying: “Over you go, then!”
At first I was half lying on the bed but Mum shuffled a bit and moved me forward. My head dropped down and suddenly I was gazing at the bedroom carpet, my pyjama-clad bottom now my highest point.
Mum pushed my top up a bit to clear the target and smoothed the seat of my pyjamas over my buttocks. With her hand resting on my bum, she asked if I was ready – I confirmed I was. She then administered perhaps six or seven gentle smacks that I could hardly feel.
She stopped and rubbed my bottom a little. “Is that enough?” I asked if I could have a few more – it was a pleasant experience, lying over my mum’s knee having my bottom gently smacked. “Same – or a bit harder?” “A bit harder, please.” “OK – ready?” “Yes, Mum.”
This time I definitely felt the smacks. They came at the same pace but my mother was laying them on harder. She gave me about seven or eight smacks, then stopped again.
“Had enough, funny boy?” came the question. I asked if I could have a few more, then promised I would go to bed. The same question: “Would you like the next ones the same or even harder?” Well, the previous smacks had left a definite warm tingle inside my pyjamas. But I was a boy and curiosity is a powerful thing.
So I asked: “Can you smack me a bit harder?” “Are you sure, funny boy? I can smack pretty hard, you know!” “Please, Mum – I want to try,” I replied naively. After all, so far I had enjoyed the experience! “Right then – ready?” “Ready.” “OK – a real smacked bottom and then straight to bed, funny boy!”
If I live another 100 years, I will never forget that first hard smack. I jolted forward and my eyes almost popped out on stalks. Mum almost knocked the breath out of me and I never recovered my composure until she finally stopped spanking me. I didn’t cry but I was definitely in shock. When mum said she could smack hard, she wasn’t kidding – I lost count because of the intensity of that first smack, but I supposed I got about 10. They stung like hell – if Mum had carried on for a few more smacks, I would have been in tears in short order.
Finally, and now with a proper sore bottom, I was lifted into a sitting position on Mum’s lap and enveloped in her arms for a tight hug. She asked: “How was that, funny boy?” I was still a bit breathless, but managed to say: “It stung a lot!”
“Do you still feel disappointed or left out?” “No, Mum.” Then, because I felt I should, I added: “Thank you for smacking my bottom.”
We sat cuddled up for a little while longer, then Mum broke the silence. “Time for bed, I think?” I slid off her lap and climbed into my bed. She kissed my forehead and whispered: “How’s your bottom? Nice and warm?” I grinned, and said it was tingly but felt nice. Mum smiled. “You are a funny boy!”
We said our goodnights and that was the end of my spanking adventures. I never got smacked again.