(gap: 2s) There was a delightful sort of magic to those long, golden afternoons in the Thompson family’s parlour, where sunlight would dance across the patterned wallpaper and the air always seemed to sparkle with the promise of innocent adventure. The room was filled with the gentle clink of decorative plates and the distant aroma of baking, and it was here that I, ever the mischievous child, found myself drawn to the prospect of time spent in the company of a kindly lady. On this particular day, my attention was fixed upon Mrs Thompson—the brisk, no-nonsense mother of my friend. She was a lady of quick wit and gentle hands, and whenever I visited, she would warn us boys to behave, her eyes twinkling with a mixture of warning and good humour. I was quite certain that, with just a little encouragement, I could persuade her to give me a proper, old-fashioned smacked bottom.
Beyond the Thompson’s house stretched a wild, sun-dappled meadow, bordered by hedgerows and sprinkled with buttercups. There, a rope swing hung from a sturdy oak, and we boys would cheer as we swung out over the tall grass, our laughter echoing across the countryside. One particular Saturday, Mrs Thompson invited me and three other boys to play in the field. As we tumbled into the house, I noticed a cheerful array of greeting cards propped up on the mantelpiece—evidence of Mrs Thompson’s recent birthday. The sight set my mind whirring with possibilities, and a plan began to form.
I made my excuses, telling the others I required a drink and a visit to the lavatory, and hurried back into the house. The kitchen was warm and bright, filled with the comforting aroma of freshly baked scones. Mrs Thompson stood at the counter, her sleeves rolled up, humming softly as she worked. She glanced up as I entered, her expression a blend of curiosity and fond exasperation—she knew me well, and was well accustomed to my antics.
With a mischievous smile, I pointed to the cards and asked, “Are all those for your fortieth birthday, Mrs Thompson?” She let out a peal of laughter, shaking her head. “You are far too forward for your own good, Peter!” she replied, her eyes sparkling. I asked for a glass of water, and she handed me one, her lips twitching with amusement. “Drink up and run along back to the meadow!” she said, but there was a warmth in her voice that made me feel most welcome.
As I sipped my water, Mrs Thompson muttered something about having a word with my mother about my cheekiness. I played along, delighting in the game. What I truly wished, though, was to hear her say I deserved a jolly good smacked bottom—and, as fortune would have it, I received far more than I had anticipated!
“If I were your mother, I should soon set you straight, young man!” she declared, her tone half-jesting, half-serious. My heart thudded with excitement and a touch of apprehension. This was my moment. I dared her, my voice trembling with bravado.
Mrs Thompson folded her arms and leaned back against the sink, her gaze steady and unblinking. “Peter,” she said, “if I take one step towards you, I wager you will dash out that door as fast as your legs will carry you. You are all talk!” Her words hung in the air, a challenge I could not ignore.
I smiled, but inside, my stomach fluttered with nerves. “Well, boy, are you leaving this kitchen with a sore bottom—or shall we all call you a coward from now on?” she teased, her voice low and playful. She had me cornered, and I knew it. I could not back down now, not with my pride at stake.
I could sense the years of my cheeky remarks catching up with me, and Mrs Thompson was clearly relishing the chance to settle the score. I straightened my shoulders and replied, “I am not a coward!” My voice was steady, but my knees felt wobbly.
Mrs Thompson arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Prove it!” she said, pulling out a sturdy wooden chair and sitting down, her skirt rustling. She patted her lap, her finger pointing with unmistakable authority. “Come along, across my knee—I am going to give you the smacked bottom your mother ought to have given you years ago!” Her eyes never left mine, and I felt the weight of her gaze.
Suddenly, the fun of the game seemed to vanish, replaced by a prickling sense of dread. But I could not bear the thought of being called a coward, not in front of Mrs Thompson, and certainly not in front of the other boys. Swallowing my nerves, I stepped forward, my heart pounding. “I am not a coward!” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. Mrs Thompson smiled, a glint of triumph in her eyes. “Then get yourself across my knee, before all the other boys come up from the meadow and see me scold you!” she said, her tone both playful and commanding.
With a deep breath, I draped myself across her lap, the world narrowing to the sound of my own heartbeat and the faint ticking of the kitchen clock. The kitchen, usually so full of light and laughter, now seemed to hold its breath. I could feel the warmth of Mrs Thompson’s skirt beneath me, and the faint scent of flour and lavender that always seemed to cling to her. My hands gripped the sturdy legs of the chair, and I squeezed my eyes shut, determined to be brave. “I shall give you ‘am I forty!’” was the last thing I heard before the first sharp smack landed.
Mrs Thompson did not hold back. Her hand was swift and sure, and each smack stung more than the last. The sensation was startling—hot, sharp, and utterly impossible to ignore. I bit my lip, determined not to cry, but the tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. She continued, her rhythm steady, until I was right on the edge of tears. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, she stopped. “Up you get, Peter—the other boys are coming,” she said briskly, her voice gentle now.
The smacked bottom had lasted no more than two minutes, but it felt like an eternity. My bottom throbbed, and I was certain that another half-minute would have seen me in tears. I scrambled to my feet, cheeks burning with embarrassment and something else—a strange, secret thrill.
But let me tell you more of that moment, for it is etched in my memory as clearly as the sunlight on the parlour wall. As Mrs Thompson’s hand descended, I felt a curious mixture of shame and pride. I was determined to show her—and myself—that I could take my punishment like a proper boy. The kitchen clock ticked on, and the gentle clatter of a spoon in a teacup somewhere in the house seemed to echo my racing thoughts. Mrs Thompson’s face was kind, but firm, and I could see that she took no pleasure in my discomfort, though her eyes twinkled with a certain satisfaction at having restored order. When she finally let me up, she gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, as if to say, “All is forgiven now.” I blinked away the tears, and she handed me a handkerchief, her voice softening. “There now, Peter, that’s all over. You are a good boy at heart, I know.”
I had barely managed to compose myself when my friends burst into the kitchen, their faces flushed from running. They clamoured for drinks, their voices loud and cheerful, and I did my best to act normal, though I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Mrs Thompson, ever the picture of composure, poured lemonade as if nothing had happened.
The kitchen was suddenly alive with noise and movement, and I was grateful for the distraction. My bottom still burned, but I managed to hide my discomfort, at least for the moment. Mrs Thompson chatted with the other boys, her manner as brisk and cheerful as ever, and I marvelled at her ability to switch from stern disciplinarian to kindly hostess in the blink of an eye.
As we filed out of the kitchen, Mrs Thompson gave me a parting swat, firmer than before. I yelped, unable to help myself, and the other boys erupted in laughter. “Peter got a smack!” they cried, unaware of the true extent of my ordeal. I forced a smile, but inside, I was still reeling from the experience.
Later, as we prepared to leave, Mrs Thompson caught my arm and leaned in close, her voice low and conspiratorial. “We have unfinished business, young man—unless you wish to be called a coward?” she whispered, her eyes twinkling with mischief. My heart skipped a beat, and I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
I never did receive that threatened second smacked bottom, but every time I visited the Thompson house after that, I was a bundle of nerves. Mrs Thompson had a reputation for being strict, and I knew better than to test her patience. Sometimes, she would catch my eye and say, “Go on—be cheeky, and see what happens.” I never dared.
Around this time, I heard whispers of the tradition of birthday smacks—a curious custom that set my imagination racing. I wondered if it might offer me another chance to experience a proper smacked bottom, perhaps even from my own mother. But as I soon discovered, most birthday smacks were delivered with a slipper or wooden spoon, and always in a standing position. The idea quickly lost its appeal.
As I grew older, the world seemed to grow larger and more complicated. There were a few lady friends along the way, but the subject of smacked bottoms never arose. I was content if a girl wore a skirt and shoes on a walk, and I never dared to ask for more. It seemed impossible to broach such a topic, especially after only a few outings.
When I was twenty-one, still shy and inexperienced, I attended a wedding that would change everything. Among the guests was a bridesmaid who caught my eye at once—she was eight years older than I, with a confident air and a dazzling smile. Her legs, clad in white seamed stockings, were the most beautiful I had seen since my schooldays, and I found myself utterly captivated.
She was, without doubt, the most attractive lady at the wedding, and I could hardly take my eyes off her. The stockings, so elegant and old-fashioned, seemed to belong to another era, and I felt as though I had stepped into one of my favourite adventure stories.
Summoning my courage, I asked her for a dance. She hesitated at first, explaining that she was single but had a daughter, and that she was wary of gentlemen. I understood her caution, and set about proving myself trustworthy. Slowly, over the weeks that followed, I won her trust—and, eventually, her heart.
For the first time in my life, I found myself tongue-tied and bashful. I had planned to confess my interest in spanking on Valentine’s Day, but at the last moment, I lost my nerve. The evening was too perfect to risk spoiling it with such a confession.
The following weekend, with her daughter away at her grandmother’s, I finally found the courage to share my secret. My fondness for stockings was easy enough to explain, but the subject of spankings was more difficult. My companion listened carefully, then made me promise that if she agreed, her daughter would never know or see anything of it.
I agreed at once, and so, at last, I received my first adult spanking. At my request, my companion wore those white seamed stockings, and I found myself once again across a lady’s knee, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
The spanking was gentle, lasting no more than thirty seconds, but it was enough to send a shiver down my spine and leave me feeling oddly contented.
Afterwards, I stood in the corner, hands on my head, just as I had imagined in my childhood daydreams. The room was quiet, filled with a sense of peace and understanding.
We are still together today, and my companion has become quite the accomplished scolder. Most of our encounters are light-hearted and fun, but every now and then, she delivers a smacked bottom that leaves me wriggling for days. She never admits to enjoying it, but I suspect she does—after all, she often initiates it herself, her hand as enthusiastic as ever.
