I love the spanking accounts on here, and the fact that they are clearly not fantasy. I’m sharing this, my own story, with my wife’s permission. I should add that we are now 67 and 63 years old respectively, but she is still as cheeky and naughty as she ever was.
This story goes back to the year 1977, when Sara was 17, I was 20 and we were first going out together. One day, Sara asked for me help in moving a dresser in the room she then shared with her sister. There was nobody else in the house in the time, so I gladly agreed to help.
While we were moving this bit of furniture, Sarah’s mother arrived back home. She called Sara downstairs, and I followed her. Well, her mum was not best pleased that I was up in her daughter’s bedroom with nobody else in the house, and she made that very clear! Sara explained what we were doing and protested that nothing untoward had happened.
Now, I should add here that Sara is a redhead, with a temperament to match – throughout her life, her mouth has frequently got her into trouble! So when her mother said that she didn’t care what we were or not doing, I was not meant to be upstairs, Sara demanded snappily: “What are you accusing me of?”
Looking back, I think Sara was purposely missing her mother’s fair point (a man three years her senior was a significant gap at 17) and being deliberately argumentative. She was also probably angry at being embarrassed by being told off like a little girl in front of me. Meanwhile, I had enough wisdom by then to know not to get involved in an argument between two women, especially mother and daughter, so I kept my mouth shut!
The argument resumed in the kitchen, which was just off the living room and climaxed with Sara saying: “I can’t wait to get out of this fucking place.” Now, I come from Ireland, where such language was commonplace. But in 1977 England, language of that sort – especially from a young girl – was certainly not tolerated. I think that as soon as the words left her mouth, Sara realised she had gone too far.
Her mother angrily grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her back into the living room. Sara told me later that she knew she was going to get the hairbrush, and all she could hope for at that point was to be taken to her bedroom to be spanked, where I wouldn’t hear as clearly.
Instead, the ‘execution party’ came to a halt in the in the living room, and Sara’s mum ordered her daughter to fetch the hairbrush. Sara came briefly out of the living room – I remained at the kitchen door – ran upstairs and returned back with the hairbrush in her hand, never once looking me in the eye. She closed the living room door behind her as she went in to meet her doom.
I then overheard Sara’s mother telling her daughter to hitch up her skirt and get her knickers down. By now, Sara was sobbing her heart out and pleaded: “Please, Mum, not on the bare!” “Come along!” her mother replied, “don’t make me have to do it myself!”
I looked up, and realised that Sara had closed the door behind her a little too hard and it had bounced back a little – enough for me to see the proceedings through the mirrored back of an old china cabinet which stood just inside the door. I should add that up until then, our petting had gone no further than me putting a hand up Sara’s jumper and feeling up her breasts through her bra. So, despite her mum’s efforts to keep her daughter chaste, I was about to see far more of my girlfriend than I had up to this point!
I watched with bated breath as Sara’s hands went down to the hem of her pencil skirt. These kind of skirts were very fashionable at the time, but because of the close fit it took a little effort to peel it back over her bottom. I then stared at my darling’s knickers. They were of made of translucent nylon, again very fashionable at the time, and I was reminded of a Roxy Music album cover.
I wasn’t forced to use my imagination for much longer, because almost immediately Sara slipped her knickers down to her knees – no doubt wanting to get the punishment over with. It may have been my imagination, but to me it looked like her now bare bottom cheeks were tensing in anticipation of what was to come.
All Sara’s anger and defiance had disappeared by now and, already sobbing bitterly, she laid herself obediently over her mother’s knee for her spanking.
Then her mother did something I had never seen before. She picked up an old brass hourglass-style egg timer and reversed it to time a three-minute spanking. That may not sound like long, but boy did Sara get a blistering!
She kicked and squealed as the hairbrush did its job. For the first few smacks she managed to keep her legs together but soon she was bucking and flailing around like a toddler getting their first smacked bottom. As she did so, her knickers slipped slowly down her legs and eventually off altogether.
Sara’s scissoring legs gave me a view of her most intimate parts for the first time, and when she was finally let up she did the classic post-spanking dance, familiar to so many children and parents. By this time she didn’t care who saw what, and I got my first proper look at her pubic hair – flaming red to match her hair and, at that moment at least, her bottom. This was before ‘lady gardening’ was a thing, and there was an impressive bush covering Sara’s vulva.
It was a good job she didn’t care who saw her at that moment, as I noticed the curtains of the large bay window had been left open, so presumably had anyone been walking past at the time, they would have had as good a view of my girlfriend’s private parts as I had!
The door opened wide again and Sara – again not looking at me – ran upstairs in floods of tears, clutching her knickers in one hand and her scorched backside in the other. I at least had the gumption to recognise my cue to make a quick getaway, and I slipped quietly out of the back door. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing any more of Sara that night.
However, I had of course seen plenty of her already, and when I got home I went to my bedroom and indulged in an intense wank, the scenes of a few minutes earlier replaying in my head as I did so.
This, to slightly misquote Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship!
Contributor: George