Technically, I joined the ‘smacked bottom club’ on Christmas Day. It wasn’t much of a smacked bum, to be honest, but it was a start.
What was more unusual about it was that I was 11 years old at the time, in fact a month short of my 12th birthday. For most of us, I guess smacked bottoms would generally begin around the age of two or three and tended to be phased out around 10 years old. Obviously there are exceptions, such as corporal punishment in school – and reading this site, it’s clear some may have suffered physical punishments into their teens.
However, I had managed to evade getting my bottom smacked throughout my childhood – which was all rather disappointing when you were obsessed with the subject! I even managed not to be spanked all through my school days, quite an accomplishment in those days.
So, back to Christmas Day 1972. Myself, Mum and Dad, had been invited to my Aunt Jean and Uncle Harry’s house for Christmas dinner. Other members of the family were present. Aunt Jean was my mum’s sister and a rather attractive woman who I had begun fantasising over by this age. Aunt Jean was fun, smoked and drank, and had a wicked sense of humour. I adored her.
She would often threaten me with a smacked bottom. “I’ll smack your bottom for you, young man,” she would say, or “if it were down to me, I’d smack your bottom”. Such were her regular threatened promises, although they were delivered almost entirely in a fun way, never as a real threat.
My mother was similar to her sister in looks and temperament, but rather quieter. Mum didn’t smoke, though she did enjoy the odd sherry or two. And not once did she threaten me with a smacked bum, let alone actually spank me.
On that Christmas Day, the room was full of family members. Presents were scattered about, the television was on and most of the adults were full of both Christmas cheer and food.
Aunt Jean was hunting for a plate or a dish to put more food on. She was bending over, with her head almost in the sideboard, when Uncle Harry entered the room. Seeing the target, he couldn’t resist and smacked Aunt Jean’s bottom with a resounding whack. I saw the whole thing from my chair over the top of my book.
Aunt Jean’s reaction was priceless.”Ooh Harry, you bugger!” she squealed. The smack had made her jerk up and bang her head on the sideboard, which made me laugh out loud – I was a terrible giggler.
Aunt Jean swung for her husband and threatened him with all sorts – all very good-natured and great fun. There were calls for her to return the favour and some pretty adult banter, if memory serves! The room was full of laughter/ It was my grandmother who pointed me out to Aunt Jean. I now was curled up in a ball and crying with laughter.
Aunt Jean turned her attention to me. “Oh, just look at Mr Gigglechops there!” she exclaimed to the whole room. “Thinks it funny to see his aunt get a smacked bum, bless. Let’s see how funny he thinks it is to get one himself!”
Now at this stage, I was as helpless as a kitten. My giggling fit was in full flow, and tears ran down my face. I could barely speak. Aunt Jean approached my chair and sort of scooped my legs up to one side. This really only gave her access to one side of my bum but there was no struggle, no resistance from me at all. I was still laughing my socks off.
“Right, Gigglechops, now I’m going to smack your bottom, and we can all have a giggle with you!” Aunt Jean said. She hammed it up to the room. And so it happened. Finally, three smacks to one cheek, only the final one of worth made an impact worth mentioning.
As that last smack landed, I cried out in my best Aunt Jean impersonation: “Ooh Harry, you bugger!”
This comment brought the house down. Aunt Jean laughed like a drain, dropping my legs back down to the chair. “Cheeky boy,” she laughed. “I ought to turn you over my knee for such language!”
My mum and dad were both laughing, so I knew I had got away with a swear word. At that moment, all that mattered was the fact I had joined the smacked bottom club. Even more thrilling was the threat from Aunt Jean to turn me over her knee, the first time I’d heard that expression. So that was my first spanking – I was in the club.
I also had a little stiffy, and when everyone had calmed down a bit (and Aunt Jean had run out of ways to threaten me), I went to the bathroom and relieved myself. It was the first time I had masturbated outside of my bedroom. Aunt Jean had spanked me! The fantasy was a little more erotic than the reality, but much, much better was to come.
When we arrived home, I was allowed to stay up and have hot chocolate with spray-on whipped cream – a real treat. There was no mention of my rude word or my smacked bottom. I lay awake for ages that night, probably due to the overload of food and sugar, thinking about Aunt Jean turning me over her knee for a proper smacked bottom.
Boxing Day dawned, and my father and all the other men in the family went to watch the greyhound racing. This was a popular event – they had a few beers and a good laugh, won and lost a few shillings, then came home to a late supper, full of stories of what might have been.
While Dad was gone I played with some of my new toys – but the events of the previous day were still at the forefront of my mind. I decided I had to ask Mum some questions.
I found her bustling around in the kitchen. I sat at the table and asked for a glass of milk, wondering how to start. Mum had her back to me as she worked. She wore her new Christmas slippers, a jumper with tiny pom poms and a grey skirt. I am sure it was the first time I noticed her legs – she had dark tights on.
It was a terribly clumsy start but I finally blurted out: “Mum, do you think Aunt Jean really would turn me over her knee?” Even just saying the words out loud was a turn-on and I felt some movement inside my underpants.
Mum glanced over at me and replied: “Well, I doubt it – but if she did, it would only be for fun. It’s just her way.”
I had got the ball rolling and felt compelled to continue. “Did Grandma smack you and Aunt Jean when you were young?” I asked. “She certainly did!” Mum replied. “She had us hopping around the room a few times, I can tell you!”
Her answer was not only news to me but terribly exciting. I pressed on.
“What does that mean, Mum?” “What, hopping about the room, do you mean?” Mum still wasn’t looking at me, as she was busy preparing food. “Yeah,” I replied, eager to hear her mum’s explanation. I could tell by now that my penis was definitely hard again.
“It means that when you have your bottom smacked properly, you hop from foot to foot and try to rub the sting away. “Oh!” I managed to say. After a brief pause, I asked the burning question: “How come you have never smacked me, then?”
Mum stopped whatever it was she was doing, turned and brought a towel with her, wiping her hands as she pulled a chair out opposite me. She sat down, crossed her legs and thought for a second.
Then she spoke seriously but quietly. “When you were born, your dad told me in no uncertain terms you were never to be spanked. I don’t know, but I suspect he was beaten as a child and therefore didn’t approve of any physical punishment. He has never spoken about his reasons.”
Mum looked very serious. “Now, you must promise me you won’t tell your dad what I just told you.” “I promise,” I replied, “cross my heart and hope to die.”
Then I added: “So, if it had been down to you, I might have got my bum smacked when I was naughty?” “Yes – there is a lot of difference between beating a child and a smacked bottom. There were a few occasions when I was tempted – but I made your father a promise.”
I had to ask – I just had to. “Would you agree with Aunt Jean that I should have my bum smacked for saying ‘bugger’ yesterday, Mum?” I grinned – I had now said the naughty (by 70s’ standards) word twice! Mum just chuckled but said: “If only I hadn’t made that promise to your father 12 years ago!”
The conversation was fun and exciting. Looking Mum straight in the eye, I said: “I promise not to tell if you won’t, Mum! If Aunt Jean were here, she would turn me over her knee!” Mum stood up: “Don’t tempt me – and be careful what you wish for, young man!” She turned to go back to whatever she had been doing.
Driven by excitement, curiosity and testosterone, I said: “Go on, Mum – get me hopping around the room. I won’t tell!”
She turned back to me. “You’ll be sorry you asked!” It was a fair warning, but at that age who takes any notice? It was a lark! “I did say a rude word twice, Mum!” That proved the final nail in my coffin. “Very well, young man – but don’t you say I didn’t warn you!”
If only I could have bottled my feelings at that precise moment! Excitement, anticipation and a little bit of fear. I was about to get my first official smacked bottom – I could not have been more excited if you had handed me the keys to the sweet shop!
Mum sat back down and I walked over to her compliantly. She adjusted the chair to make room for me, then reached for my trousers. It had never occurred to me that they would be coming down, and the anticipation and nerves now outweighed the excitement I was feeling. I had a minor panic attack over my erection. What would Mum say if she noticed my bulging pants?
Nevertheless, she eased my trousers down to my knees and looked at me. “This is a private business between us. I’m going to smack your bottom for swearing twice, is that clear?” “I promise I won’t tell anyone, Mum,” I replied honestly. “When this is over, you’ll understand all about hopping from foot to foot, mark my words!”
All I could do was look down at Mum’s waiting knee and nod. My nerves now outweighed all other emotions – I was seconds away from my first ever trip across my mother’s knee. “Come along, then! Over you go – this is going to take a while.”
With Mum guiding me, I leaned forward, pressing my legs against her closest thigh. I placed a hand on her knee and over I went. Mum manhandled me forward, and my feet left the ground. On the other side of her lap, my fingertips could barely brush the floor. Mum tugged my underwear down, and I hoped and prayed she couldn’t feel my erection.
Then Mum said in a stern voice: “Christmas or not, Lee, that kind of language is unacceptable!” And so my first official spanking began, on a Boxing Day morning three weeks before my 12th birthday.
I lay still to begin with, as Mum set about me at a steady ‘slow handclap’ pace. She smacked me in silence – there was no accompanying telling off, just the sound of her hand slapping my increasingly-sore bottom.
I struggled for a bit and pulled faces. Mum gripped me tightly around my waist and carried on. She must have known that it was starting to sting at that point. I stretched my legs out and pointed my toes, and gasped for breath as my mother’s relentless hand never rested for a second. My wriggling became more desperate, and I did the ‘frog thing’ – arms and legs swimming – but I was going nowhere.
Then, suddenly, there was a change of pace – Mum both smacked harder and increased the stroke rate. Wow, did it sting! I kicked, squirmed and yelled for England, none of which did any good at all. In fact, I suspect it just encouraged Mum, knowing full well she would indeed have me hopping from foot to foot quite soon!
My bottom was on fire – it burned, it stung, it just plain hurt. The initial shock and stinging developed into a deeper burning sensation in my behind. For a woman who had never smacked a boy’s bottom, Mum made an excellent job of mine. Tears rolled down my face as she finished me off with a dozen or so extra-hard swats to my burning rear. What an education!
Mum finally stood me up. My little stiffy was long gone – which was a relief because by then I was standing front-on to her, rubbing my bottom furiously – and, yes, hopping from foot to foot. Actually, it was more like a war dance.
Mum folded her arms, crossed her legs and watched me with a smug look on her face. When I had calmed down and come to my senses, she calmly remarked: “Stings, doesn’t it?” It was difficult to argue with that! Yes, it did sting, and what’s more it stung for quite a while afterwards too.
“Hopping from foot to foot doesn’t help much, does it?” Mum asked rhetorically. I shook my head. I had both hands clasped to my bare buttocks, occasionally taking a hand away to wipe tears from my eyes before replacing it carefully on my newly-smacked behind.
As I pulled my trousers and pants back up, Mum made to go back to doing whatever it was before I had interrupted. She said: “I told you you’d be sorry you asked.” Well, part of me was but another part definitely wasn’t!
The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. The sting in my backside eased after a couple of hours, but there was a tenderness left behind. Every time I sat, stood or walked, there was a reminder that I’d had my bottom properly smacked.
Mum carried on for the rest of the day as if nothing had happened. I, on the other hand, had some questions still in my mind. It occurred to me I had no idea how long my spanking had lasted. I also wondered if Mum might decide to start regularly using spanking as a form of discipline for me. That thought gave me some cause for concern – the harsh reality of a proper spanking lingered for hours after the event itself.
Later on, other family members popped in for coffee and mince pies. Aunt Jean was among them. Although she could not possibly have known what had happened to me earlier in the day, I felt that she somehow knew. Could she tell something from my demeanour? There was something in the way she looked at me.
Whatever, I went to bed that night a happy boy. I did finally ask Mum how long my spanking had taken. “I really don’t know, Lee,” she answered. “However, the time’s irrelevant – it’s the result on your child’s bottom that matters!”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone about you smacking me, Mum,” I said. “Good,” she replied, “because it’s a private thing between us. Anyway, you’d better behave – or else!” I found that further threat both scary and exciting.
As I lay in bed, that slightly tender feeling in my bottom persisting, little did I know there would be more spankings to come, both from Mum and, eventually, Aunt Jean too.
However, all I cared about right then was that I had finally joined the smacked bottom club.