Cricket goes wrong

I used to get spanked pretty often at school and home when I was younger. One memorable occasion which cost me a very sore bottom happened one day when I was playing cricket in the street with three other children.

The other kids concerned were Alan and Carol, the children of our neighbours, and a friend from school named Kevin. 

Alan was batting and Kevin bowling. The ball was hit out towards me and I made to throw it back. Unfortunately, I used the weaker of my two arms to throw the ball in and instead of sailing in a straight line back to Kevin, it flew by on his left – and went through a window of Alan and Carol’s home.

All four of us stood there with our mouths open. Unfortunately for me, Mr Smith, Alan and Carol’s dad, happened to be at home. He came running out of the house, an angry flash across his face, and demanded to know what had happened.

Bit by bit, the story got pieced together, and as this process was going on, my own mother came out of our house. She had evidently heard the window smashing and the subsequent shouting.

To my horror, after a few words of explanation to my mother, Mr Smith asked her: “Are you all right with me dealing with Andrew along with these other three?” Mum, looking very cross, nodded emphatically. She left me to my fate, and Mr Smith shepherded all of us children into his living room.

“Right,” Mr Smith said. “First things first. Who threw that ball?” Reluctantly, my friends pointed at me. I tried to bluff my way out of it, but seconds later there was a knock on the door. It was another neighbour who had seen exactly what had happened – and who smashed the window.

Mr Smith came back into the lounge with a look of grim determination on his face. “Right, Andrew,” he said, “since there doesn’t seem to be much doubt that yours was the hand that actually caused this damage, you can go first.” He glared at the other three kids. “Don’t think you’re not going to get your arses tanned either – you’ve been told often enough about playing cricket in the street!”

His attention turned back to me. “Trousers and pants down, young man, and bend over the sofa there.” As I reluctantly bared my backside, Mr Smith ordered Carol – who had begun to cry – upstairs to her room. “I’ll call you down when it’s your turn to have your bottom smacked,” he said shortly. “You lads,” he said to the other two boys, “get your pants down too and bend over next to your friend.”

So there we were, literally cheek to cheek and ready to be punished. I was aware of Mr Smith coming to stand behind me. For a moment the rough palm of his hand rested on my right buttock, then it was briefly withdrawn and came crashing down. I yelped like a whipped puppy.

For the next few minutes, Mr Smith systematically spanked his way through all three boys’ bottoms, relentlessly warming them with his tough workman’s hand. I was incredibly sore, and the room reverberated with the combined sound of crying and bottoms being soundly smacked.

There was a pause, and I thought it was all over. I began to stand up, but felt Mr Smith’s hand on the small of my back. “Stay there, all of you – I’m not finished with those backsides yet!” I heard and recognised (from my own beatings at home) the sound of a man’s belt being withdrawn from his trousers. Then the leather was laid across my already hot rear six times in all. Finally, I was allowed to rise, and watched miserably as the belt was then used on my playmate’s bums as well.

”Right – make yourselves decent. Alan, bed immediately! You two other boys, get yourselves home sharpish. Carol!” he roared up the stairs, “get that backside of yours down here now!”

We boys briefly compared our bottoms as we pulled our clothes back up. All three were the colour of a ripe tomato, with strap lines criss-crossing over our cracks. The last of us had just pulled his pants up when Carol came back into the room, eyes already stained with many tears. Her father pointed to the sofa, and without a word, she went over to it, bent over, then flipped up the back of her summer dress and rolled down her knickers. I just caught a brief glance of her white bum as we boys were ushered out of the lounge.

I was halfway through the front door when I heard another smack and Carol screamed. By the time I was slowly and reluctantly walking back up the path to my back door, it had turned to full-on hysterical crying. Clearly, Carol was getting her own dose of the belt too.

Nor were my own troubles over, either. Mum met me at the back door and pulled me inside. There, she made me drop my pants and show her my newly-whipped bottom. “Well, Andrew, it’s a start, that’s all I can say. I’m horrified by what you did – we’ll have to pay for that window, you know. Go to your room – when your father gets home, I shall ask him to come up and belt you.”

She was as good as her word. Dad had been home only minutes when I heard his firm step coming up the stairs and he came into my room with the belt in his hand.

I received a massive telling off and then for the third time that day I had to suffer the indignity of baring my bottom to a grown-up. I was ordered to lie face down on my bed, where I was given another six of the best – this time having to count the strokes as they were administered.

Finally, though, it was all over. Dad ordered me to remain in my room until he said otherwise, and I was left lying on my tummy, bottom glowing like a lit cigarette and waiting for the pain to begin to subside.

It had been a lovely day to begin with but it ended with four very sad children and four very sore bottoms – of which mine was surely the sorest.

Contributor: Andrew