During the early 70s in London, I was part of a hard-core group of six children who gathered regularly on the edge of the park, though sometimes our numbers swelled to as many as 10. Our ages ranged from 10 through to 12.
One of the regular girls (who, incidentally, is now married to another one of our little gang) arrived one at our hangout one afternoon in some distress. She admitted she had been spanked and after some gentle teasing, she lifted her skirt and pulled her pants to one side so we could see. Her bottom looked like a bad case of sunburn, and this was a while after the event, so she had clearly received a sound spanking.
One by one, the other kids admitted they had suffered the same ordeal at home, and they swapped their stories – all, that is, except me. My dad was a lorry driver, so away from home a lot. Mostly it was just me and Mum at home. She was a nurse and we had a very close, tactile relationship.
That evening I approached Mum and asked her if we could talk – she had always said I could come to her with any problem.
I explained what had happened to the girl, and that I seemed to be the only one in the group who had never had my bottom smacked. I asked Mum why she had never spanked me. She replied that I had always been rather a good boy, and in her opinion had never deserved a spanking, and anyway I was now way past the age where she would consider such a punishment.
Now, here’s the thing. When all your friends have experienced something, curiosity takes a hold, almost to the point of stupidity. I asked Mum if she could spank me regardless, so I knew what they were all talking about. I felt I’d missed out.
Her answer stumped me. She asked me: “If a friend of yours put his finger in a mousetrap and he said it hurt, would you then do the same?”
I stood looking at her, eventually answering with a typically childish response – a shrug of the shoulders and a ‘dunno’!
I repeated that I felt I had missed out and the only person I could come to about it was my mum. Once again, I asked her if she could give me a spanking, just so I knew what my friends were talking about. I added: “I know it will hurt – they’ve all said how much it stings.”
I could see the reluctance in Mum’s face. She told me: “I want you to have a good think about what you’re asking for. In a few hours’ time, if you still want to go through with it, then yes, I will spank you before bedtime.
“But let me warn you, there will be no half measures. A spanking is a spanking. It’s supposed to hurt and once I begin spanking you, there will be no crying off – you’ll be committed to the bitter end. Do you understand?” I nodded.
Well, cometh the moment, having stewed for over an hour, I asked Mum if she would carry out my request. I told her I understood what I was letting myself in for, even though, in retrospect, clearly I didn’t!
Mum turned a chair around and sat facing me. She told me: “You can walk away now and we can have a laugh about it all later. But once we agree to go ahead, I’m not going to stop until you’ve been thoroughly spanked. It’s your call.”
Looking back, it’s clear she was giving me every opportunity to walk away – but I went and put my finger in that mousetrap! I asked her if she understood why I was asking; that I wanted to say I had been spanked too, among my group of friends.
Mum was very understanding, calm and matter of fact in her manner. She said: “We’ll talk this through properly tomorrow. I love you to bits, but you’ll learn a lot from this experience and the memory will last a lifetime.”
For a second we looked at each other, there was nothing more to say. Mum broke the silence: “If you’re sure, then now is the time. Take down your shorts and pants – once you’ve bared that bottom for me, there’s no going back.”
I was extremely nervous. I knew it was going to hurt, but I was totally unprepared for what followed. Nevertheless I obeyed the instruction and bared my bottom. Once I had done that, I stood in front of Mum with my hands over my privates, feeling very vulnerable.
Mum spoke quite calmly. She took hold of my arm and repeated that there was no going back now – I was going to get the spanking I had asked for. As she spoke, she pulled me towards her and with the words ‘over you go’, I found myself over my mother’s knees for the first and only time in my life.
This being the early 70s short or mini skirts were the fashion. Mum had a short skirt and a pair of sandals on and a white blouse which I seem to remember was part of her nurse’s uniform.
I looked down at the carpet – I couldn’t quite reach the floor on either side, so I was laid across my mum’s knee like a naughty baby.
From that moment, my only memories are about how much that spanking hurt. The first few smacks from Mum’s hand were a shock – and yes, they stung – and I seem to recall, from the other side of Mum’s lap, seeing my shorts and pants dangling around my ankles.
Then the sting began to get really uncomfortable as the friction built up on my bottom. I tried to hold on and began gasping and naturally moving my arms and legs. The spanking continued – the sting was intense, each smack jolted my whole body. Mum wasn’t holding anything back.
I instinctively reached back to protect my poor bum but my hand was held with super-human strength, I slipped forward and suddenly found I was over just the one knee – now I couldn’t move my legs. I pulled faces and squeezed my eyes tight.
I told Mum it was hurting. She just said: “I know.” I asked when she was going to stop, but her only response was: “When I’m good and ready.”
I am not entirely sure how long into the spanking this was, but with the struggle for freedom lost and unable to protect my stinging rear, I remember shaking my head from side to side. The carpet blurred as the tears started, overwhelmed with the burning sensation in my bum. I relaxed, accepted my fate, and lay still and cried as mum continued to spank me, hard and fast.
To this day I have no idea how long that spanking lasted. I only know Mum stopped a while after I began crying. My bum was really on fire, my nose was running and I was still crying a few minutes after she lifted me up. Mum gave me a hug, then she said in a very matter-of-fact manner: “So, now you know what a spanking feels like!” But at that moment, my only concern was the intense burning behind me.
Mum picked up my shorts and pants, gave them back to me with a kiss, then turned me towards the stairs, adding a very unwelcome firm smack on my already stinging bare bottom as she sent me to bed. Once I got to my room, I laid down on my side and rubbed my sore behind for a while.
The next day we spoke about the whole thing. Mum told me she had hated doing it, but that I would remember it for the rest of my days. She wasn’t wrong!
I asked how long she had spanked me for. Mum had no idea. She said she had just spanked me until she felt the time was right to stop, mother’s instinct maybe.
I told her it had hurt in a way that I didn’t expect, that I couldn’t really explain, but I was glad I had at least, at last, experienced a spanking. We had a long hug. She ruffled my hair and kissed my head.
Over the years which followed, there were one or two references made back to that day – always in jest: threats of perhaps I needed a reminder of what a spanking felt like, or the promise of a good spanking across her knee, if I wasn’t careful, for being cheeky. However, these were idle, light-hearted threats, never to be carried out.
I still see one or two of the old gang now and then. Ironically, to this day not one of them know that I received that spanking!