In the 1960s, my father was employed by an Anglo-American company. He became acquainted with a colleague there, and soon after, invited this gentleman and his family to visit us in England for a holiday. This was a splendid arrangement for me, as they had children, and one boy was precisely my age. We became the closest of friends.
I also found myself quite taken with the children’s mother, Mrs. Val. She addressed me as ‘honey’ in a deep, melodious American accent and was always warm and affectionate. She was, I must admit, rather attractive, and she played a significant role in my early adolescent daydreams.
The following year, the invitation was returned, and we journeyed to America to stay with them.
I harboured a peculiar longing: I wished to have my bottom smacked. My parents had never spanked me, though for several years I had intended to request a ‘birthday spanking’, only to lose my nerve at the last moment. Each time, I regretted my timidity for weeks after my birthday had passed.
My fascination had always been with the idea of an over-the-knee spanking. The thought of being rendered helpless, unable to escape, was curiously thrilling. However, by the age of fourteen, I had resigned myself to the fact that such an experience was now out of reach, and I would never know what it was like.
Like many boys, I was enamoured with motorcars. Mr. Val owned a classic Mustang and had promised me a ride in it upon our arrival. I was filled with anticipation.
When we arrived, we spent a day settling in. Their house was larger than ours, but what fascinated me most were the basement and the garage. The garage was enormous—they owned a truck, a modern family car, and, of course, the Mustang.
Basements are rare in English homes, so I found theirs a delightful novelty. It served as a games room, storage area, and laundry. There was even a spare television and a sofa for anyone wishing to watch a different programme.
The weekend arrived, and some of the American family’s relatives visited for the day. There were a few more boys of my age, all of whom seemed to prefer basketball to football or rugby. They played ‘hoops’, as they called it, behind the garage at every opportunity.
On Sunday morning, Mr. Val asked if I would like to accompany him to a ‘coffee meet’ in the Mustang. The other boys were not interested, so off we went, just the two of us. The Mustang’s engine sounded magnificent—I felt as though I were a film star.
I thoroughly enjoyed the car gathering, and several owners allowed me to sit in their vehicles. I was something of a novelty, being English and yet knowledgeable about their beloved cars. One gentleman even gave me a magazine devoted to Mustangs. I thanked him profusely, and I still possess that magazine to this day. We spent the entire morning there, and I was delighted, especially knowing I still had the return journey to look forward to.
Upon our return to the house, I assisted in dusting the Mustang and putting it away. I was in the highest of spirits—nothing, I thought, could spoil my day. I was mistaken.
While we had been away, the visiting children had discovered a spanking paddle in the basement. They had been given permission to rummage through some old boxes and had come across the paddle.
They managed to persuade Mrs. Val to line them up in the basement and give each a few swats. By all accounts, it was a great amusement. Although it was all in good fun, some of the swats were delivered with such vigour that a few boys hopped about, clutching their smarting posteriors.
I suspected the boys were exaggerating, perhaps to impress one another or me. One boy admitted he had only pretended it hurt. Curiously, only the boys volunteered for these spankings. None of the girls participated, though they did watch, which may explain some of the boys’ theatrical reactions.
Yet, this news quite ruined my day. I tried to convince myself that it was not as enjoyable as a ride in the Mustang, but inwardly I was filled with frustration. I would have dearly loved to have been there and to join in. It was not an over-the-knee spanking, but a playful paddling would have been most exciting.
Mealtime came and went, and soon everyone drifted to different parts of the house. The girls retreated to a bedroom to play their games. My father and his friend disappeared into the home office, likely to discuss work. Mrs. Val and my mother tidied the kitchen and chatted until my mother went off to telephone my grandparents in England. The boys returned to play basketball behind the garage, but I was not interested, so I settled down to peruse my treasured magazine.
Mrs. Val finished her tasks in the kitchen and came to where I was sitting. She asked about my outing and what I thought of the Mustang. I liked Mrs. Val very much—she was homely and always kind to me. “You are not much for hoops, are you?” she said, glancing at my magazine. I explained that I preferred football—English football, not the American variety.
Suddenly, I found the courage to ask about the paddling incident, hoping she would tell me what had happened. I asked if it was true, or if the boys were simply teasing me. Mrs. Val laughed. “They all asked for a few swats and received just that. It was only a bit of fun—I had quite forgotten about that old paddle!”
I inquired what a ‘swat’ was. “Well, would you say smack? Or spank?” When she uttered the word ‘spank’, I felt a peculiar sensation. I told her I would have liked to join in—it was a pity it had happened while I was out.
“Do you think you might paddle the boys again before we return home?” I asked. “Oh, I doubt it, dear—it was a spontaneous moment.” I nodded, but my disappointment must have been evident.
“Why do you ask? Did you wish to try? The paddle is probably still on the table in the basement.” I replied, “Yes, please,” as eagerly as I could. Mrs. Val laughed and said, “Come along, then!”
As we descended to the basement, my excitement grew. In my imagination, I had always wished for a spanking, but a paddling would be just as thrilling. I kept thinking, “I am being taken to the basement for a paddling!” That thought remains vivid in my memory even now.
At the far end of the basement was a table, and there, just as it had been left, was the paddle. I was filled with anticipation. It was the first time I had seen a real paddle that had been used on children. It was about twenty inches long, including the handle, and perhaps three inches wide.
Mrs. Val picked up the paddle and patted her hand with it. “Well then, you naughty boy, you have earned yourself a paddling!” she said with a broad smile. “Assume the position, young man!” She tapped the paddle on the table.
I stepped forward and bent over the table—on tiptoe, as it was warm and I wore only thin shorts. “Like this?” I asked. “Yes—spread your legs a little wider.” She briefly ran her hand over my bottom, tugged my shorts to make them taut, and patted me gently. “Perfect!” she declared.
“Now, cheeky boy, I am going to wear a hole in those shorts! Stick your bottom out and keep it there. If you let go of the table or use improper language, I shall add extra swats!” Her tone was both playful and commanding.
“Count the swats aloud, young man—and do not lose count, or we shall begin again!” I realised I had no idea how many swats I was to receive. Mrs. Val wasted no time. She tapped the paddle against my bottom, and I held my breath, staring at the wall.
Whap! Goodness, that stung—one swat, and it stung so much! And she was not even being severe—what would it feel like if I had truly misbehaved? Perhaps the boys had not exaggerated after all.
I called out, “One!” “One, ma’am!” she corrected. “One, ma’am,” I repeated obediently. “Better,” said Mrs. Val.
Whap! That was even more painful! Was Mrs. Val truly being gentle, or was she enjoying herself? “Two, ma’am.” I gripped the table so tightly my fingers turned white. Whap! I squeezed my eyes shut. “Three, ma’am.”
“It stings quite a bit, does it not, dear?” Mrs. Val asked. I certainly was not going to say anything improper. “Yes, ma’am,” I replied honestly.
A gentle tap, then—whap! The hardest yet. “Four, ma’am.” My fingers were growing numb from gripping the table, and my bottom was aflame.
Whap! That one simply hurt. “Five, ma’am.” My voice rose in pitch—how many was she going to give me? My head dropped until my forehead touched the table. “Look up, face the wall, and stick your bottom out, or I shall add a swat, dear,” Mrs. Val warned. I looked up and presented my bottom again, waiting anxiously.
Whap! The hardest so far, it brought tears to my eyes, though I managed not to cry. “Six, ma’am.”
“Two more to go. I shall make these count, dear, all right?” What? Make them count! What were the previous six, then?
Whap, whap! Two in quick succession. “Seven and eight, ma’am,” I called, my voice much louder and higher. Those two swats stung more than anything I had ever felt before! They were delivered perfectly, right in the centre of my burning bottom.
It was over, but for a few moments I remained bent over the table. It never occurred to me to ask Mrs. Val to stop, and the truth is that, although she wielded the paddle with skill (I suspect she had some experience as a mother), I found the experience both exciting and strangely enjoyable. She managed to strike the perfect balance—hard enough to sting, but not enough to make me cry.
She placed the paddle on the table beside me and gave my bottom a brisk rub, followed by a firm and rather unwelcome smack with her hand. “All done, dear!”
I stood up. Mrs. Val was smiling at me. I placed my hands on my rear, straightened up, and looked at the ceiling with a groan. I had just received a very thorough paddling, and it burned most fiercely. “It stings quite a bit, does it not?” she repeated with a chuckle. “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, though I had nothing to compare it to. It certainly did sting—my bottom was numb, burning, and exceedingly tender.
Mrs. Val put her arm around me and led me towards the stairs, giving me a gentle squeeze. “Did you enjoy that, dear?” I blushed. “I think so, ma’am—my bottom is burning, but I think so!” She laughed and, as we walked upstairs, added, “Come now, it was not so bad—I hardly touched you!”
Hardly touched me, indeed! As I followed her up the stairs, I could not help but notice that Mrs. Val had a most pleasant figure, and I watched her with interest as I hobbled along, one hand on the rail, the other rubbing my sore bottom. “Well, I certainly enjoyed it!” Mrs. Val said, glancing back at me.
As we entered the kitchen, I asked her, “How many swats did the other boys receive?” “Oh, I do not know. A couple received two, and one received three, I think. Mind you, they received proper swats—not gentle taps like you!” She playfully pushed my head to one side, laughed, and walked away.
