I spent my childhood attending school from the late 1950s and leaving in the early 1970s. Corporal punishment, such as a smack on the bottom or legs, was a common occurrence at school. Some teachers were rather enthusiastic about it, while others were more restrained.
I never experienced an over-the-knee spanking, but I did receive the occasional smack both at school and at home. These were frequent, yet usually amounted to no more than a swipe or two to the back of the legs. It was customary to be held by the arm and given perhaps four or five smacks, particularly in junior school. Most were administered to the bottom, some to the legs. These smacks were typically for what would now be considered minor infractions. Some stung a little, especially those delivered to bare legs, but none ever brought me to tears.
I often wondered what an over-the-knee spanking might feel like, and my curiosity only grew as I became older. The thought of being held firmly and smacked on my bare bottom was never far from my mind. Part of the intrigue was the position itself. The other part was the question of how much more it would sting. The combination of being unable to wriggle away or evade the smacks, as one was held in place, simmered quietly in the back of my young mind.
I would daydream about such matters while observing Mother at home, female teachers, friends’ mothers—indeed, any attractive lady was a potential subject for my imagination. These thoughts never included men.
As I approached the age of ten or eleven, these thoughts became more complex. Most of my daydreams now centred on one particular lady. She and her husband managed the newsagent’s on our estate, situated in a small parade of shops. Because it was also a sweet shop, we referred to the couple as Mr and Mrs Sweets, though I have no idea what their actual surname was.
They sold all the usual items: newspapers, magazines, sweets, cigarettes, and small necessities such as string, stamps, adhesive tape, matches, and so forth. It was a busy shop, and everyone knew everyone else.
Mr Sweets managed the newspapers, organised the paper rounds, and worked the early shift. Mrs Sweets took over at lunchtime and managed the afternoon trade.
After school and at weekends, most of the children from the estate would descend upon the shop to spend their pocket money. I was among them from a very early age.
Behind the counter, on shelves that reached to the ceiling, were jars of old-fashioned sweets. We boys found it most amusing to ask Mrs Sweets to fetch the step ladder to reach a jar from the highest shelf. Then, when she returned it, another boy would request the same or a different jar from up high, and she would have to fetch the steps again. She would pretend to scold us as she climbed the steps, and her threats were always related to spanking!
As I entered my second decade, I began to notice that Mrs Sweets had rather attractive legs. She always wore what I hoped were black stockings—though they were probably tights, but one can dream! She was always attired in a light blue blouse, black skirt, black stockings, and low black shoes. When she stood on the steps, we had an excellent view of her legs, which only fuelled my imagination.
Part of her appeal was her temperament. She addressed everyone as “dear,” “handsome,” or “darling.” She encouraged playful conversation with all her customers. I found myself increasingly fond of her. The best part was her constant threats to “sort us out,” “smack our bottoms,” “turn us over her knee,” and every other phrase that could imply a spanking. I even heard her make similar remarks to older gentlemen. Nothing ever came of these threats—it was simply her manner.
By the time I reached secondary school, hand smacking had ceased, and punishment was either detention or the cane. I endured a few detentions but managed to avoid the cane. There was nothing appealing about the cane for me; it was simply something to be avoided. Those who were caned always had a certain look about them. Usually, it was one or two strokes on each hand, depending on the offence. I do not recall anyone ever being caned on the bottom.
I still received the occasional swipe at home, but these gradually diminished. Threats were made but never carried out. My experiences were now confined to my imagination.
From the age of thirteen, one was permitted to work as a paper boy. A few months before my birthday, I put my name down with Mr Sweets, to be considered should a position become available. Being rather forward, I attempted to engage Mrs Sweets in conversation as often as possible. I suppose I was learning the delicate art of conversation—just as every other boy on the estate was!
One afternoon in the shop, I was purchasing a comic when some boxes fell down. I helped to pick them up, returned all the contents to their proper boxes, and restacked them. Mrs Sweets was most grateful, and after a little playful conversation that left me quite flustered, she offered me a job behind the scenes. After school, I could help sort the stock and bring boxes out to the shop front, leaving Mrs Sweets to concentrate on the afternoon trade. It was a splendid result—up close and personal with the lady of my daydreams.
I felt very grown up and enjoyed working with Mrs Sweets. It gave me ample opportunity to admire her lovely legs. We rarely saw her leave the counter, and I realised she was taller than I had thought.
One afternoon stands out as the beginning of a most exciting period in my life. I was kneeling down, below counter level where she stood, replenishing the stock that was not visible from the other side. She had asked me to do it, and at the time I was topping up matchboxes, notepads, and pencils.
Mrs Sweets came and stood right beside me; I was mere inches from her leg. I took some matchboxes and, by moving my arm just an inch to the side, I brushed against her leg. It was like an electric shock; I had never felt such excitement. It was my first real encounter of note.
On one occasion, I happened to be on that side of the counter, kneeling down, when Mrs Sweets ascended the ladder. I do not recall seeing anything as thrilling as a stocking top, but I certainly saw more of her leg than usual. What a thrill it was!
As the days and weeks passed, our relationship grew stronger. I became more adept at playful conversation and a little bolder. The next significant moment occurred when she squeezed past me behind the counter. There was limited space, but we could pass. “Move along!” she said playfully, and gave me a light pat on the bottom. That little pat was most exhilarating!
I realised that if I stood in the way, I was more likely to receive a pat. Not a hard smack, just a pat in passing. I enjoyed this and tried to place myself ‘in the way’ as often as possible. In the storeroom-cum-office, it almost became customary for her to pat my bottom as she passed. Sometimes she would say “move along,” other times nothing at all—I simply received a pat.
I wished to encourage this playful behaviour but was not sophisticated enough to know how. After the shop closed one day, I was taking empty boxes out the back and checking which stock was low in the storeroom. It was a small room with boxes, files, and a desk where Mr Sweets prepared the newspapers for the paperboys.
Mrs Sweets had been engaging in playful banter with the last of the day’s customers, including an older gentleman. They both laughed as Mrs Sweets threatened him with a smack, which she said was no more than he deserved. This was not unusual.
When she returned to the storeroom, she gave me a firmer smack than usual and asked, half laughing, “Right, where are we with this lot?” I was counting and checking off boxes of crisps that had been delivered.
I could not help myself. I asked her why she was always threatening to smack her customers. We had a brief conversation in which she explained it was simply a bit of light-hearted fun and kept the customers happy.
I had to ask, and I remember being extremely excited: “Have you ever actually smacked any of the boys who come into the shop?”
Her answer was most thrilling: “Not yet! But if I ever do, I know who will be first on the list!” My knees felt weak. “Who?” “You!” she said, pointing at me with a stern look that quickly turned into a smile. Goodness me!
Now I was quite caught up in the excitement of the moment. Mrs Sweets had been the subject of my daydreams for a long time, and simply being near her was exhilarating. I summoned a little courage and said, “Go on, then, I challenge you! You are always saying it—I challenge you!”
She bustled about and replied, “If I did, and by goodness I should like to, you would run off to your parents and I would lose regular customers and a good worker. I am very pleased with how you help out back here and in the shop. It would be a shame to lose you.”
I assured her I would not tell my parents. I was trembling with excitement, but my hopes were dashed. I do not think I had ever been so disappointed. I nearly wept in frustration. She moved some things around and told me she would be having a word with my mother about me, but it was all bluster. Empty threats.
We finished the stock count, closed the shop, and I cycled home, my mind filled with disappointment. If only! So close, and yet so far.
At bedtime, I was in the habit of reading under the covers by torchlight. It was enjoyable and felt a little mischievous. Mother usually came in to say goodnight when Father walked the dog. She would then make a pot of tea when he returned.
The usual routine was as follows. “Are you reading by torchlight under there, Luke?” “No, Mother, I am fast asleep!” I would giggle, turn off the torch, and settle down.
I believe that particular evening, I must have been driven by the great disappointment from Mrs Sweets earlier, so when Mother asked the usual question, I popped my head up and replied, “Yes, Mother!” grinning.
I continued, “If you were Mrs Sweets, you would put me over your knee!” I rather surprised myself, as this was not planned, but simply spontaneous. It was a significant moment in my life, the result of my disappointment and longing to be spanked by my employer. I had not thought about being spanked by Mother for a long time—it was always Mrs Sweets in my imagination.
Mother came closer. “What do you mean? Has Mrs Sweets done that to you?” she asked, with a curious expression. “No, Mother, but she is always telling all the boys and some of the older gentlemen that she ought to smack their bottoms or put them over her knee.” I finished hopefully, “Are you going to put me over your knee for reading under the covers, Mother?”
“No, of course not.” I threw off my covers and sat on the side of my bed. “Go on, Mother—you caught me red-handed reading under the covers.” I smiled at her, hoping she would agree.
Mother looked quite serious. “You tell me if Mrs Sweets ever tries to do that, all right?” “She is only joking, Mother, she says it all the time. She has never done it to anyone.” I thought it best not to mention the little pats to my bottom as she squeezed past now and then!
“Go on, Mother, put me over your knee for reading under the covers. It is only pretend—you are not really cross with me, are you?” It was a last, desperate plea. “Why are you so eager to have your bottom smacked?” Mother asked, hands on hips.
I answered honestly. “It sounds like fun—Mrs Sweets is always saying it to people. All the older gentlemen laugh when she says it to them.”
“I see. Well, it can be amusing, I suppose, but normally it is a way of keeping you still, so you cannot escape while you are being punished. You are a little old for that now—it is mostly used for toddlers. Still, I could make an exception in your case, as you insist on reading under the covers!”
This caught my attention—I focused on the part about escaping. “So if you put me over your knee, are you saying that I cannot get away?” This was most intriguing, and the challenge excited me. “Yes—if you have a wriggling toddler, it is a way of keeping them in place so you can smack them.”
“I cannot remember that far back—did you do that to me when I was a toddler?” “Possibly. I may have just given you a tap or two when you were two or three. I cannot actually remember myself, to be honest.” “Can you do it now, Mother? Go on—I want to see if I can escape!” I was most eager and up for the challenge.
Mother smiled. “Really? Very well—let us see if you can escape!” “I wager I can!” I said, excitedly. This changed the dynamic for me. Suddenly, I was more interested in the challenge of escape than the actual spanking. “Shall we wager?” Mother asked, folding her arms. “Yes, I wager I can escape, quite easily!” I had seen over-the-knee spankings in comics—it did not appear that difficult to wriggle away.
“I wager you triple pocket money you cannot! If you escape before the end of your spanking, you receive triple pocket money. If you cannot, you must do all the washing up and drying all weekend—every meal, Saturday and Sunday, without a single complaint!”
All I heard was “triple pocket money,” and the excitement of a spanking from Mother. “Agreed?” she asked. “Yes!” Mother held out her little finger. “Pinky promises cannot be broken.” I accepted the wager, and we shook pinky fingers.
(short pause) “Very well, then—stand up!” I stood, feeling rather like a lamb to the slaughter. Mother took my hand and sat down on the end of my bed. She opened her legs, pulled me to her, and tipped me over her knee. I felt her reach for my hand, which she pinned down on my back, and then I felt her other leg wrap around me. She tightened her hold and said, “Any time you are ready to escape, feel free. Meanwhile, I shall give you that spanking for reading under the covers!”
(pause) The moment I was tipped over her knee, my heart pounded in my chest. I felt a curious mixture of anticipation, embarrassment, and excitement. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with the tension of the moment. Mother’s grip was surprisingly strong—her arm across my back, her other hand pinning my wrist, and her leg hooked over mine, holding me firmly in place. I could feel the warmth of her lap through my pyjamas, and the vulnerability of my position made my cheeks flush with both shame and a secret thrill.
(short pause) The first smack landed, firm and deliberate, sending a jolt through my body. I gasped, more from surprise than pain, but the sting quickly followed. Mother’s hand was relentless, each smack echoing in the quiet room. I tried to twist, to wriggle free, but her hold was unyielding. My free arm flailed, searching for leverage, but I was completely at her mercy. The sensation was overwhelming—my bottom tingled and burned, and I could feel the heat building with every smack.
(pause) “I am so looking forward to not doing any washing up this weekend!” Mother teased, her voice light but her hand steady. I could barely move, pinned so tightly that escape seemed impossible. I laughed, half in disbelief, half in surrender, as I realised just how hopeless my struggle was. The smacks continued, a steady rhythm that left my bottom stinging and my pride wounded.
(short pause) “Feel free to escape, remember, triple pocket money if you do!” she taunted, her words only fuelling my determination. I strained against her grip, twisting and arching my back, but she anticipated every move. The more I struggled, the harder she smacked, her hand never missing its mark. My laughter turned to yelps as the sting intensified, and I could feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes—not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of the experience.
(pause) Mother’s gloating continued, her voice a playful torment. “I thought you would have escaped by now, especially with all that washing up awaiting you this weekend!” she said, her tone both mocking and affectionate. I could sense her enjoyment, the satisfaction of having me so thoroughly bested. My bottom was on fire, the heat radiating through my pyjamas, and I knew I was defeated.
