I won’t bore everyone rigid with how I came to find the Maman website, but let’s just say I came the long way round. I’m not sexually interested in the subject but I am, as a married woman, aware of spanking in all its forms. I have never smacked my boys for punishment – I’ve been tempted a few times, but never actually followed through.
When they were in their teens, long after the two incidents I am writing about, I did threaten, (mostly in jest) that they were not too big or too old to be put across my knee. The result was normally laughter, waggling a behind at me or some comment like: “Go on, old lady – dare you!” Or all of the above! So, I’d like to contribute two incidents from when the boys were younger.
The youngest at the time of this incident was five, the older nine. I naturally don’t want to use their real names, so let’s call them Bill and Ben. The boys have alwys been naturally a little competitive with each other, and importantly like to feel they are treated equally and fairly in all aspects of life.
I have absolutely no spanking history of my own through childhood into adulthood. In part, this is why I am writing, because the following was so unexpected and frankly, surprising.
I was sitting with some lady friends, working on ideas to raise funds at our village fete. My youngest, Bill, marched into the dining room where we were all sitting at the table. He was wearing a crown he’d made at pre-school from card and tin foil. He announced, in a serious tone, that he was the king and that we would all have to do as he said or, he would send us all to jail.
One of the ladies in our group looked at Bill and said: “Well, I certainly don’t want to go to jail, so what can we do for you, oh great king?” Bill demanded chocolate milk and chocolate biscuits, or he would send us all to jail.
Winking at me across the table, the lady then asked Bill: “I see – and would the king like his milk and biscuits before or after his smacked bottom?” The other two ladies turned to look at the king, to see what he would make of such a question.
I was amazed that Bill took this question in his stride. It didn’t throw him at all – he simply replied quite seriously that only the king’s mum could smack the king’s bum, and that he would send the lady to jail if she dared to try and smack his bum! The lady made us all laugh when she said in an exasperated voice: “Oh, I do wish I was the king’s mum right now!”
Bill approached me and repeated his demand for chocolate milk and biscuits. The lady begged me to smack his bottom, in a loud whisper, and the other two urged me on, all in good fun.
I surprised myself really, but I joined in. I repeated the question, asking the king that as I was his mum, should I smack his bottom before or after his milk and biscuits. Cool as you like, and without a second’s hesitation, Bill said: “Now, please!” It made me smile that he said ‘please’!
With plenty of encouragement from the ladies, who were all very keen to see me smack Bill’s bottom, I lifted my son up and over my knee and smacked his bum half a dozen times. They were little more than pats and I doubt he felt much at all. In fact, he seemed more concertned whenb his crown fell to the floor rather than the fact that he was across my knee!
I then asked if he would spare the other lady jail, and he agreed. So, with a final few smacks just for fun, a couple of which (with plenty of encouragement from the other ladies) were a little firmer, I put him back on his feet.
Bill didn’t blink. He accepted his smacked bottom without comment or complaint, as if we did this every day. He had no need to, but he didn’t even touch or rub his bottom. He simply calmly retrieved his crown and asked whether he could have his biscuits now.
I got up and got my boy some milk and biscuits, along with and a fresh pot of tea for the ladies. After a little chat and giggle about what had just happened. The first lady whispered: “I so wanted to do that!” Then we got back to work, while Bill sat quite content, eating his biscuits and drinking his milk. Not a sound or even a mention of the fact he had just had his bottom smacked!
There were four smiling faces and shaking heads as we got back to sorting out the fundraising ideas for the fete. There was one suggestion that we all sit on a bench and charge a small fee for every bottom we smack at the fete! We decided it would probably be the busiest stall at the fete, and raise the most money.
One of the younger ladies remarked that there would be a queue of older boys (meaning adult men, I think) keen for a go! If Bill had not been in the room, I suspect the conversation may have turned a little raunchy at that point – I certainly got the impression that at least one of the ladies was quite keen on smacking bottoms!
Anyway, that was that incident. I must admit, having never smacked either of my boys for any reason, I regarded it as just a fun diversion and nothing more. I was going to ask Bill what he thought about having his bum smacked but as he never mentioned the incident, so I didn’t follow up. As I say, as far as I was concerned it was just a bit of fun.
There was however another surprise in store for me. Shortly after this incident, my older son Ben came home from school and asked me outright whether it was true that I had smacked his brother’s bottom. I confirmed I had, and before I had a chance to explain the circumstances and context, Ben asked (actually, it was more like a demand) whether he could have one too!
I looked at my eldest as he stood there, straight-faced and quite serious. I must admit, I was really surprised – obviously his brother must have mentioned the incident to him.
I asked Ben: “Why do you want a smacked bum?” With that simple, child-like logic, he replied: “Because you smacked Bill, so I want one too!” I asked him if Bill told him exactly what had happened, and he shook his head. All he knew was, Bill had had his bum smacked! Repressing a smile, I replied: “All right. Wait there for a minute while I unload the washing and load it into the dryer.”
When I re-entered the kitchen, I was utterly surprised by the sight of Ben’s bare bottom waiting for me. He had lowered his school trousers and underpants in readiness for his smacked bum. Biting my tongue and now really struggling to keep a straight face, I nevertheless went along with the game. I sat down on a kitchen chair, patted my lap with my hands and said: “Ready when you are, then!”
Ben shuffled towards me, leaned forward and I took his weight, hoisting him up and right over my knee so he was completely off the ground. He hung there without a sound.
I gave him roughly twelve pats on his bare little bottom. There absolutely no response from him whatsoever, so I rather naughtily gave him a few more, harder smacks and a pink tinge began to show on his bared buttocks. Although he still didn’t react, I felt that was quite enough, although part of me was reluctant to end the game. I gave his bottom two more good firm smacks, then returned him to his feet. I smiled and said: “There you go – one smacked bottom, just like your brother!”
Ben stood there thinking for a second, trousers and pants still bunched around his ankles. “Is that it?” he finally asked. I nodded, adding: “I can smack you some more if you’d like me to?” He stared at my lap for a few seconds, then politely mumbled ‘no, thank you’ and began pulling his pants up.
A grin now on my face, I added: “Of course, Bill only got smacked over his shorts, not on the bare bottom!” I couldn’t help but laugh at the look on my son’s face as this news soaked in. “You tricked me!” he finally complained in wonderment. “I most certainly did not,” I retorted. “It was you who took down your trousers and pants – I never said a word about baring your bottom!”
Ben glared at me in disbelief before wandering off. For myself, I had a silly grin on my face that just would not go away all evening. I must say. I giggled every time my eldest and I made eye contact. Ben tried to be quite cross with me, although he saw the funny side of it too. I teased him of course, telling him how much I enjoyed smacking his bare bottom etc. When he started to laugh, he would turn away and accuse me of cheating and tricking him.
As Ben grew older I would sometimes ask him to do something for me, then add: “And for goodness’ sake, keep your trousers on!” He would look away, trying so hard not to laugh and mumble something or other, and the memory of his little bare bottom across my knee would amuse me for quite a while. Children are funny sometimes – but I must admit I had fun smacking him!