I grew up in the gentle countryside of southeast Texas, where the days were long and golden, and the values of kindness and honesty were as strong as the great oak trees that stood in our fields. My parents, Mary and James, believed in discipline, but always with a loving and gentle hand. My dearest friend, Barbara, lived just across the pasture, and together we shared many happy adventures and secrets. When Barbara’s twelfth birthday arrived, I, still eleven, was invited to her home for a delightful celebration with cake and homemade ice cream. Barbara had two younger brothers, and as her father, Mr. James, was away working, it was just the four of us children and her mother, Mrs. Betty.
Mrs. Betty was a kindly lady, with a warm smile and gentle ways. She always made me feel welcome and cared for. After we had finished the last spoonful of ice cream, Mrs. Betty announced, with a twinkle in her eye, that it was time for Barbara’s birthday spanking. The younger boys and I were most interested, though Barbara herself blushed with embarrassment at the idea.
After a little protest, Barbara agreed, though I felt sure Mrs. Betty would never have insisted if Barbara had truly objected. With a cheerful air, Mrs. Betty fetched an oval-shaped paddle from a drawer. “Time to christen this!” she declared. I soon learned that Mr. James had made the paddle himself, believing Barbara was now too old for a simple hand spanking, and until this day, it had never been used.
Barbara’s cheeks turned pink. “Not on the bare, Mother!” she pleaded. Mrs. Betty, always thoughtful, agreed, especially as we were all present. I already knew that any necessary discipline was always handled privately in their home.
Mrs. Betty drew out a dining chair and called Barbara over. The room became very quiet, and the sunlight danced through the kitchen window, making everything look golden and magical.
With careful hands, Mrs. Betty smoothed her own dress and patted her lap, her face both kind and determined. Barbara, with a little sigh, lay across her mother’s knees, her underclothes smoothed down by Mrs. Betty’s careful hand. The anticipation in the room was almost like a game, a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity.
Mrs. Betty tapped the paddle lightly on Barbara’s seat, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. Then, with a measured swing, she gave a firm swat to Barbara’s left side. The paddle made a crisp, echoing sound, and Barbara nearly jumped from the surprise, her face showing both astonishment and discomfort. The rest of us counted, “One!”—our voices a mixture of awe and excitement.
Twelve more swats followed, each one careful and fair, the paddle’s flat surface landing with a brisk snap. Barbara’s knuckles turned white as she held the chair leg, her body tensing with each swat. The traditional “one to grow on” was given with a flourish, and Barbara tried very hard to be brave, but her eyes shone with unshed tears. When she was finally allowed to stand, she hopped up, rubbing her bottom with both hands and exclaiming, “Goodness, that stings!” She added, with a laugh that was half relief, “Perhaps that paddle should be burned in the fireplace this winter!” We all laughed, but Mrs. Betty, with a knowing smile, replied, “If anything happens to that paddle, my dear, we shall have to gather willow switches instead!”
Barbara continued to rub her bottom, remarking on the persistent heat. The paddle was left on the kitchen table, and I picked it up, curious. It was quite thin, perhaps a quarter inch, yet surprisingly weighty, larger than a ping pong paddle and with a longer handle. I ran my fingers over the smooth wood, wondering what it must have felt like.
Without thinking, I said, “I imagine this would sting quite a bit!” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and the room became very quiet.
The three children stared at me in surprise. Mrs. Betty turned to me with a playful glint in her eye. “Would you care to find out, Susan? I have always wondered what it would be like to spank you.” The children burst into laughter, their voices ringing through the house.
I was both embarrassed and a little afraid. For some time, I had been curious about spankings, but never had I asked for one. The others encouraged me to try the paddle, and, to my own surprise, I blurted, “Not in front of everyone!” My cheeks burned hotter than Barbara’s must have.
I should mention that my parents had given Mrs. Betty permission to discipline me if necessary. She had never done so, but I knew my mother had encouraged her to do so if I misbehaved at Barbara’s home.
To my surprise, Mrs. Betty told the other children, “You three go and play outside, and I shall call you when you may return.” It dawned on me that I had, in a way, volunteered for a spanking, and I would seem cowardly if I changed my mind now. My heart beat quickly as the door closed behind them.
I was filled with nervousness, yet a strange curiosity as well. I had never been disciplined by anyone but my parents, and their ways were always gentle. Mrs. Betty, with her kind smile and gentle manner, seemed both familiar and suddenly rather formidable.
The children left, teasing me as they went. Barbara called, “Good luck, Susan!” My nerves were on edge, not so much from fear of pain, but from the uncertainty of the experience. The kitchen felt larger and quieter, as if it were waiting for something important to happen.
Mrs. Betty asked, “Did you mean to talk yourself into this?” I replied that I had not, but admitted I would be terribly embarrassed to back out now. My pride would not allow it. She looked at me with both amusement and sympathy.
“You have done nothing wrong, Susan, except let your words run away with you. Her voice was gentle and reassuring, and I felt a little braver.
At last, I said I wished to go through with it, if she was willing. She smiled warmly. “I would be happy to oblige.” There was a sense of ceremony to the moment, as if we were both taking part in a very important lesson.
She sat in the same chair and patted her lap. “Come here, dear.” I did as I was told, modestly keeping my hands in front, and lay across her knees. The fabric of her dress was cool against my skin, and I could feel the gentle rise and fall of her breath.
Mrs. Betty guided me forward. “What a lovely bottom you have, Susan,” she said kindly. “Forgive me for ever saying otherwise.” She gave me a gentle pat, her touch both motherly and firm.
“Now, the paddle will sting, but would you prefer a gentle hand spanking first to warm you up?” “A hand spanking first, please,” I replied, my voice trembling. The anticipation was almost too much, a mixture of worry and curiosity.
After a few gentle pats and a reassuring rub, Mrs. Betty began to spank me with her hand. The first few smacks were light, almost playful, but gradually they grew in strength and tempo. The sound of her palm meeting my seat echoed in the quiet kitchen, each swat sending a warm tingle through me. She remarked, “You have a very spankable bottom, Susan. It is quite bouncy! My own children have hardly anything back there.” I managed a nervous giggle, feeling both embarrassed and oddly comforted.
The hand spanking lasted several minutes, the rhythm steady and unhurried. Each swat stung a little more than the last, and soon my skin felt hot and tingling. There was a certain intimacy in the ritual, a sense of being cared for even in discipline. Mrs. Betty paused now and then to rub my back, her touch soothing, before resuming the spanking with renewed vigour.
At last, Mrs. Betty picked up the paddle. “Now for the main event,” she said, her tone both playful and solemn.
