While I had my bottom smacked numerous times in my formative years, this one stands out as perhaps the most unusual incident. I was spending the night at my friend Simon’s house after his birthday party.
After the party, things took a turn. Simon had disobeyed his mother, and she announced that he was about to get a spanking—even though it was his birthday.
The moment those words left her mouth, Simon’s whole demeanor changed. His face went pale, his eyes grew wide with fear, and he started shifting from foot to foot, wringing his hands. He looked at his mother with a pleading expression, then at me, as if searching for an escape. The dread was written all over him—he was frozen, barely able to speak, and I could see the anxiety building in every nervous glance and fidget.
Seeing Simon’s shock and discomfort, I suddenly got the crazy idea that a guy shouldn’t have to get spanked on his birthday.
I told his mother that, and she replied that if I really felt that way, I could take Simon’s spanking for him. Now, Mrs. Johnson was a big lady, with fearsome features and a presence that filled the room. She had grey hair styled in a tight perm, and was dressed in a house coat and slippers, looking every bit the formidable mother at home. I don’t know what came over me, but I said I thought that was a good idea—I’d take Simon’s spanking.
I don’t think she was expecting that, because she then spent several minutes trying to talk me out of it. But I was insistent, so after confirming that I really wanted to do it, she shrugged, turned to Simon, and said, “I hope seeing this teaches you a real good lesson.”
All this time Simon was just standing there, saying nothing. Like most boys, he was glad to get out of a spanking, but he was really surprised by what I was doing.
Mrs. Johnson, towering over us with her broad shoulders and stern, intimidating face, her grey hair in a tight perm, still in her house coat and slippers, took me and Simon up to his room. There, she placed me across her knee—her grip was firm and unyielding—and began smacking my bottom with her large, heavy hand.
The hand smacks hurt, but not too bad, and I was beginning to think I’d come out of this situation just fine.
But after perhaps ten or so hand spanks, she stopped.
Then, with a deliberate motion, Mrs. Johnson slipped off one of her house slippers. The room seemed to grow quieter, the air thick with anticipation. The slipper looked ordinary, but in her hand, it became something else entirely. The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing crack—a sound so much louder and more startling than her hand. The sting was immediate and fierce, a hot, biting sensation that spread across my skin and seemed to sink deeper with every blow. Each strike of the slipper was punctuated by a crisp, rubbery slap, the noise bouncing off the bedroom walls, making my ears ring. The difference was unmistakable: her hand had been firm, but the slipper was relentless, its flat sole delivering a sting that built and built, leaving my skin burning and my eyes watering. I tried to hold still, but my body jerked with every smack, my legs kicking and my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The heat in my bottom grew with each blow, radiating outward, until it felt like I was sitting on a stove. My face twisted in pain, and I couldn’t help but cry out, the sound raw and desperate. (short pause) Emotionally, I felt a wave of embarrassment and regret, wishing I’d never volunteered. I could sense Simon watching, his eyes wide and his face pale, shifting from foot to foot, torn between relief and guilt. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming—each smack from the slipper not just a physical punishment, but a lesson I’d never forget.
After a minute, I lost my composure and began to wail, kicking my legs and trying to block the blows. She grabbed my hands and held them in the small of my back and continued, her imposing figure making any resistance feel hopeless.
I glanced over at Simon, who was looking more and more uncomfortable, and extremely repentant. I guess that’s what his mother was hoping for.
Finally, after three minutes, she stopped. She stood me up and placed me in the corner, with orders to keep my hands on my head.
She then proceeded to lecture Simon, making sure he was looking at me in the corner.
At that point he started crying, apologizing to me and his mother for his misbehaviour. She made him stand there watching me for the full five minutes of corner time.
Actually, that experience made a big impact on Simon. From that day forward, he was a much better behaved boy. As for me, I never felt the need to volunteer to be smacked ever ever again, although I did get many more spankings for my own misbehaviour.
