During the early 1970s in London, I belonged to a steadfast group of six children who gathered regularly at the edge of the park, though our numbers sometimes swelled to ten. We were a curious, adventurous lot, always eager to share stories and secrets.
One afternoon, a girl from our group—who, as fate would have it, is now married to another of our childhood companions—arrived at our meeting place in a state of distress. She confessed, after some gentle coaxing, that she had been spanked.
One by one, the others admitted to similar experiences at home, each recounting their own tale of woe. All, that is, except for me. My father, a lorry driver, was often away, so it was usually just Mother and me at home. She was a nurse, and our relationship was close and affectionate.
That evening, I approached Mother and asked if we could talk. She had always encouraged me to come to her with any problem, no matter how small.
I explained what had happened to the girl, and confessed that I seemed to be the only one in our group who had never been spanked. I asked Mother why she had never punished me in that way. She replied that I had always been a rather good boy, and in her opinion, had never deserved such a punishment. Besides, she added, I was now far too old for such things.
Yet, curiosity is a powerful force, especially when one feels left out. I asked Mother if she would consider spanking me, so that I might understand what my friends had experienced. I felt as though I had missed out on a rite of passage.
Mother looked at me thoughtfully and asked, “If a friend of yours put his finger in a mousetrap and said it hurt, would you do the same?” I stood there, uncertain, and finally shrugged my shoulders, unable to answer.
I repeated that I felt I had missed out, and that she was the only person I could trust with such a request. Once more, I asked if she would spank me, just so I could know what my friends were talking about. “I know it will hurt,” I added, “they have all said how much it stings.”
I could see the reluctance in Mother’s face. She told me, “I want you to think carefully about what you are asking. If, in a few hours’ time, you still wish to go through with it, then yes, I will spank you before bedtime.”
“But let me warn you,” she continued, “there will be no half measures. A spanking is meant to hurt, and once I begin, there will be no turning back. Do you understand?” I nodded solemnly.
The hour that followed was filled with anxious anticipation. When the time came, I told Mother I was ready. I assured her that I understood what I was asking for, though in truth, I could not possibly have known.
Mother turned a chair around and sat facing me. “You may walk away now, and we can laugh about this later,” she said. “But if we proceed, I shall not stop until you have been thoroughly spanked. The choice is yours.”
Looking back, I see that she gave me every opportunity to change my mind. But, like a moth to a flame, I insisted. I explained that I simply wanted to be able to say, truthfully, that I had been spanked, just as my friends had.
Mother was calm and understanding. “We shall talk this through properly tomorrow,” she said. “I love you dearly, but you will learn something from this experience, and the memory will last a lifetime.”
For a moment, we looked at each other in silence. Then Mother spoke: “If you are certain, now is the time. There is no going back.”
My heart pounded in my chest. I was nervous, but determined. Mother took my arm gently and repeated that there was no turning back. With the words, “over you go,” she guided me across her knees. It was the first and only time in my life that I found myself in such a position.
The room was quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Mother wore a short skirt, a pair of sandals, and a white blouse that I believe was part of her nurse’s uniform. I looked down at the carpet, my legs dangling on either side, feeling both foolish and apprehensive.
Then, without further ceremony, Mother raised her hand and delivered the first smack. It landed with a sharp, echoing sound, and a sting that was immediate and startling. I gasped, more from surprise than pain.
The second and third smacks followed in quick succession, each one building upon the last. The sensation was unlike anything I had imagined—a hot, prickling sting that seemed to spread across my skin. I tried to remain stoic, but by the fifth smack, my resolve began to waver.
Mother continued, her hand rising and falling with measured regularity. I counted each smack in my head, reaching ten, then fifteen, then twenty. The sting grew sharper, and I found myself wriggling involuntarily, my hands clutching at the chair legs.
By the twenty-fifth smack, my bottom felt as though it were ablaze. Tears pricked
I instinctively reached back to protect my bottom 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 Mother 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 bottom. I relaxed, accepted my fate, and lay still and cried as Mother continued to spank me, hard and fast.
To this day I have no idea how long that spanking lasted. I only know Mother stopped a while after I began crying. My bottom was really on fire, I was still crying a few minutes after she lifted me up. Mother 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.
Mother turned me towards the stairs, adding a very unwelcome firm smack on my already stinging 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. Mother 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. Mother 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. 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!
