If anyone should ever ask me what my earliest memory is, I simply recall receiving a basic train set one Christmas – I would have been five years old. But the truth is, I have a vivid, earlier memory – something I cannot unsee, speak about or ever forget.
One night, when I must have been four years old and having been tucked up in bed for a while, a storm started outside. The rain rattled the window of my bedroom, I lay awake listening. Then the lightning began and distant rumbles of thunder could be heard. They got closer and louder, and I remember feeling a bit frightened.
I wanted my dad, so I crept out of my room – jumping as the lightning lit up the landing. I could see Mum and Dad’s bedroom light was on and so made my way along the landing. I could hear voices, giggling and shushing. Through the gap in the doorway I could see Mum, sitting at her dressing table in just her underwear. Suddenly there was movement – I froze.
Dad appeared, naked, and began kissing Mum’s neck and rubbing her shoulders. There was talk but I couldn’t hear what was being said. Seeing my father naked shocked me, I have to say. I wanted to be with Mum and Dad, but instinct told me not to enter the room. I knew I shouldn’t be there. There was some murmuring and quiet talk and kissing.
Suddenly, Mum turned slightly, took Dad’s hand and put him across her knee like a naughty child. I just watched. I was too young to appreciate what was going on (though I suppose I may have seen other children spanked, or be aware of such a punishment. All I knew was that I shouldn’t be there.
Mum smacked Dad’s bare bottom lightly and they talked and giggled. I must have stood watching for at least a couple of minutes before both my parents disappeared out of view to the bed, presumably to fuck.
By this time the storm had passed, so I crept quietly back to my room. I had seen something that, even at that young age, I instinctively knew I should never tell anyone about, ever. I should add that I never again heard or saw anything remotely sexual happening between my parents.
A year or so later after witnessing that act of intimacy, I started school. Here, spankings were dished out like sweeties – a bit of a shock for a boy like me who had never felt his mother’s hand on his backside.
I somehow managed to avoid any serious spanking, only suffering a few slaps to my legs and two swift smacks of a ruler to my hand. But I can remember wondering what a real spanking was like, and always watched closely when a classmate was getting done. Part of my fascination was the look on the teachers face.
Some children (and in the main, it was the boys) received world class spankings from the women teachers. There were no male teachers at either my infant or junior schools.
My own teacher seemed in particular to relish telling boys off. She took her time with any scolding, deliberately increasing the anticipation of what was to come. Several boys were in tears before a smack had even landed. Every boy, without fail, was in floods of tears when eventually he was lifted from the teachers knee and taken to the corner for some ‘thinking time’.
I cannot remember a girl suffering such a harsh punishment. Yes, they were smacked, but nowhere near as severely as the boys.
One sentence no child ever wanted to hear was: “Get yourself to the headmistresses office!” Our headmistress was a physically large woman and very, very intimidating. Her response to every crime committed by her charges was ‘six of the best’, no matter how minor or serious the offence. Some boys who had progressed to the senior school even maintained that she caned significantly harder than their present headmaster.
I was seven years old. On our way to school one particular morning, my friend Simon and I came across a box of broken eggs some poor soul had dropped. We examined them and found that two eggs remained intact, although one was cracked. Simon and I thought it would be a great laugh to drop the eggs onto a passing train from the bridge over the railway. With one fast approaching, we grabbed an egg each and dropped them over the parapet. Both missed by a mile but it was great fun and we continued on to school, laughing all the way.
That afternoon, to our consternation, Simon and myself were ordered to report to the headmistress. We had no idea why we had been summoned, but we both feared the worst and honestly, were both terrified.
When we were finally admitted into the headmistress’s office, there was a welcoming committee. As well as the headmistress, there was a woman neither of us knew – and both our mums. Not good! I looked across at my mum and, almost in tears, asked her: “What did we do? We haven’t done anything wrong!”
The headmistress explained that the other lady present had accused us of throwing stones at the trains. She had recognised Simon, and as it was known we walked to school together regular, I was the co-accused. I didn’t take in all of what the headmistress said because, lying across her desk behind her, was the dreaded cane!
In desperation I appealed to Mum: “We just dropped an egg each we found, and we both missed the train – honest!” Almost simultaneously, Simon turned to his own mother and said: “We didn’t throw stones – we dropped eggs!”
I think at that moment the adults knew we were telling the truth as we both came up immediately with the same defence, albeit using slightly different words. I followed up, still addressing my mum, and explaining we had just found the box of broken eggs and thought it would be fun to drop them on the train. “But we missed!”
There then followed a conversation among the adults about how best to deal with the situation. As we were wearing school uniform the headmistress wanted us to be punished by the school, and she felt the cane was deserved.
Luckily, Simon’s mum spoke up: “I’m sorry, but I disagree that the cane is needed here. The boys have been very foolish but it was a relatively harmless deed. You can be sure I’ll deal with Simon once I get him home.”
My own mother nodded in agreement. “He needs a sore bottom but not the cane. I’ll give him exactly the same punishment as Simon, to keep things fair.”
Reluctantly, seeing the opportunity to thrash two boys slipping away from her, the headmistress agreed. “Nevertheless, I must insist that you give both boys at the very least a very sound spanking. Dropping things from railway bridges is a serious matter.
The head was egged on (pardon the pun) by the other lady: “It seems to me these two don’t get their bottoms smacked anything like as enough!”
At that point, Simon and I were dismissed back to our classes. As I re-entered the classroom, all eyes turned on me. I think they must have assumed I would be getting the cane and they were surprised not to see me in tears.
At home that afternoon, I faced the music. Mum sat me down and explained my sentence. “I’ve spoken to Simon’s mum, and we both agree you’ve been nothing more than silly little boys. But you do need to realise that dropping things from a railway bridge – even eggs – is potentially very dangerous, Paul.
“You are both going to get a slippering for your trouble. It will be on your bare bottom and last a full minute. I’m having no arguing about this, and you’re going to be given it immediately. I think that’s fair, and you will both suffer equally. Once you’ve been done, that will be the end of the matter. There will be no further punishment and we’ll say no more about it. Understand?” My legs were wobbling like jelly now but I managed a nod.
Mum stood up. “Come on – let’s get this over with!” I offered a final, feeble protest about it being ‘only eggs’ but mum ignored me. She headed off to her bedroom and I followed meekly. A slippering. At least it wasn’t the cane, and Simon was getting the same. But I still felt hard done by.
Mum was dressed as she had been when I saw her at school – a dress, cardigan and shoes. She held the door open for me, then closed it behind us. Mum slipped out of her cardigan. “Shoes, shorts and underpants right off, Paul!” she ordered.
She pulled the chair out from her dressing table – it was the very same chair she’d sat in when I’d seen her smack Dad’s bum that night some three years before! She picked up one of her mule-style slippers and stood by the chair waiting for me. “Come on, Paul, hurry up! Let’s get this over with. I don’t like it any more than you do but, it’s only fair that you and Simon are treated equally. The sooner we start, the sooner we’re done.”
Slowly, I edged towards Mum. She had settled herself on the chair, slipper in hand, waiting to introduce itto my bare bottom. My eyes fixed on the slipper, I moved within reach and Mum took my arm. With a short tug, she bent me over her knee. “Come on! That’s it – over you go.” Mum adjusted my position slightly so my bottom was in the right position for the slipper, then she put an arm around my waist and raised the other, as the spanking began without delay.
I had no time to think or prepare myself, and it took just a few whacks of the slipper to catch my attention. A few more good hard smacks and the effect of the slipper began to sink in. Once Mum got into her stride, boy did that slipper make its mark!
She really did slipper me hard, and all the time not a word was spoken. All you could hear in that bedroom was the sound of the slipper as it met my bare buttocks, my yelps and cries of protest. Before we were even halfway through, those cries had turned into sobs, then full-on crying like a baby. It was, without question, the longest minute of my life. I have no idea how mum timed the minute, if she timed it at all, but by the time the slipper had done its work, her son was a very sorry sight indeed.
Mum dropped the slipper in front of me, her hand resting in the small of my back. She said something like: “There – all done.” I hung limply across Mum’s knee, crying openly without shame, my only concern the pain throbbing in pulses through my bottom and deep into my body.
She left me there for what seemed like ages. Occasionally she steered my hands away firmly from my burning rear, to prevent me rubbing it better, giving the heat generated from the slippering time to reach its crescendo.
After a while, a couple of pats of mum’s hand on my newly-smacked bottom signalled that it was time to get up. I was helped off the maternal knee and I cupped my throbbing bottom.
Mum bent down and picked up my shorts, pants and shoes. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting these on for a while,” she remarked archly. She opened the bedroom door and I walked behind her, still half naked, to my own room.
She put my clothes on my bed, then put a finger under my chin to make me look her straight in the eye. “Paul, I want you to promise me never do drop anything off that bridge again – even eggs.” My eyes were still awash with tears and my throat sore from yelling and crying, but I promised with a nod. “Good boy. Now, as I told you, there will be no further punishment – and I hope I never have to do that again. You can come back downstairs when you’re ready.”
I lay curled up on my bed and cried myself out before beginning the slow process of recovery. My bum was very sore and tender, and sitting down for my supper later that evening was a very uncomfortable experience. Only when I became an adult and discovered erotic spanking did I understand the difference in feeling between the slipper and a hand smacking. The hand stings more, but the slipper leaves a deeper, throbbing heat in the recipient’s backside.
Over the weekend, I went to visit Simon. I walked, as my bottom was still far too uncomfortable to think of cycling. Simon had indeed suffered a similar slippering, only he had been bent over the end of his bed by his mum for his. He said he was sure his slippering took more than a minute, and he had some bruising. He was keen to show me, so we both took our pants down to compare bottoms.
Actually, the damage was pretty equal. Simon did comment that my mum seemed to have targeted the lower part of my bum whereas his mother had mostly targeted the centre of his buttocks, or a little higher. We both felt hard done by, and we plotted all manor of revenge pranks on the woman who reported us, none were carried out.
It was only later that I realised that there had been an element of pleasure in being turned over Mum’s knee. I slowly joined the dots. What I had witnessed on that stormy night when I was four, was Mum and Dad having fun. At least one of them – Dad – clearly enjoyed the sexual pleasures of spanking.
Over the next year or so I avoided all forms of corporal punishment, but my simmering interest in the subject was fed by the regular spankings dished out at school.
Having suffered a real slippering I wasn’t keen on being spanked again, and yet that nagging thing in my head just wouldn’t leave me alone. But as a boy, how on earth do you get smacked for fun? Unlike some of your contributors here, it never occurred to me to ask my mother! All through my teens I daydreamed about spankings, but I never got smacked again.
Then, one day, I met a lovely girl and we got serious. Marriage was discussed.
We found ourselves dog-sitting for her parents one evening. With a pounding heart, during a heated kissing and cuddling session on her sofa, I asked my girlfriend if she would mind slipping into a pair of stockings. I thought that if she would do that, I might build up the courage to ask for a few smacks as well.
Luckily, she smiled and said I was a very naughty boy, asking her to wear stockings. I overegged the pudding terribly, apologising for my behaviour and said I wouldn’t blame her if she were to smack my bottom for such a request. But it worked, more by luck than anything.
It was all a bit awkward and amateur as I lay over her lap on the sofa but once she had smacked my bare bottom and I stood back up, my excitement was plain to see. From then on she spanked me before every sex session, and at long last I understood the pleasure that a spanking could bring. We have included a slippering now and then, mostly out of curiosity on my part to relive that time over Mum’s knee, but generally we both agree that a simple across-the-knee hand spanking is our ‘thing’.