As a young woman, I worked in newspaper advertising for a publication based in the English county of Lincolnshire – the following encounter happened around the late 1980s, as I recall.
As part of my ‘package’, I had a company car – a small but nippy little Ford Fiesta. I loved that little car, and it was normally very reliable – until one hot summer’s day when it broke down in the middle of nowhere on a country road.
I did have a mobile phone (a rather bulky Nokia) but in those days coverage was nowhere near as reliable or universal as it is now. I looked down at the screen in despair. No signal whatsoever.
I had just decided to walk over to a farmhouse I could see about half a mile up the road, when a large family car came around the corner. I flagged it down and the passenger window was wound down. At the wheel was a rather handsome guy in his mid 30s. He had a USAF uniform on and was obviously from the American air force base a few miles away.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked in a rich Southern accent. I asked whether he could phone the AA for me but, after glancing at his own phone, he confirmed that he had the same problem as me. No signal.
“I can give you a ride into town if you like?” he offered. I took a look at the car. It had a child seat in the back and that, along with the uniform, gave me a reasonable sense of security. Reading my mind, he also briefly flashed his military ID card at me and introduced himself as ‘Mike’. I got in, grateful for the lift, and we headed on down the quiet country road, chatting amicably. He and his wife had been in England about two years, it transpired, and had a little boy of seven.
About half a mile later, we hit a pothole. The car juddered slightly and the glovebox in front of me opened up, spilling some of its contents. I didn’t take much notice of them except for one thing – a small wooden bat about the size and shape of a large oval hairbrush. I presumed it to be part of a game. “Your son will be missing his toy,” I remarked.
To my surprise, Mike laughed. “Oh, I don’t think he’ll be missing that!” he said. Without any sign of discomfort, he went on to explain that it was a spanking paddle used to discipline his little boy when he was naughty. I blushed a bit, not used to discussing such subjects with strangers, but nevertheless I found myself fascinated and I probed Mike for some details. He told me that it had last been used after a tantrum in a shop, and his wife had obviously failed to transfer it back to the house afterwards.
By further questioning, I found out that it was actually Mike who did most of the spanking, and the paddle was administered on his son’s bare bottom.
I’m not altogether sure why I questioned him so closely about all this. Actually, that’s a lie. I wasn’t in the least interested about the poor boy’s scrapes but in my mind, I was secretly imagining Mike taking my own knickers down and putting me across his knee for a well smacked bottom with the family paddle. He was a very handsome guy! To be clear, I had no real intention of making a move on a married man but it was a nice little picture in my head.
When we got into town, Mike dropped me off next to a telephone kiosk so I could summon help for my breakdown. I thanked him and, as I walked away from the car and he sped off, I realised I was rather wet between my legs! So before ringing the AA, I strolled over to a nearby public toilet to wipe myself.
My fascination with spanking is something that’s a bit of a mystery to me, as I was never smacked as a child, but the thought of being turned over that manly knee and soundly paddled is one which has fuelled my own masturbation sessions for many, many years, and it is still one of my favourite fantasies. I suspect the reality might be rather more painful and less erotic, however!