My Last Spanking

Earlier Experiences

I was born just after the Second World War and grew up together with my younger sister, in a small town in Southern England. I went to the local Primary School, then after passing my Eleven Plus exam, moved on to a boys only Grammar School.

My school days lasted through the nineteen fifties and early sixties. Life for children was very different then. Teenagers hadn't really been invented and although Rock and Roll and Teddy Boys were often talked about disapprovingly in the newspaper, they were a largely unknown species where we lived.

While I was still in Primary School we had rationing of all sorts of different things, including of course sweets. Being young, we knew no different, although I often heard my parents moaning about it. For kids like me, the only thing that seemed in free supply, looking back, was smacked bottoms. Although again, knowing no different, we also just regarded that as normal.

None of us were strangers to having our bottoms smacked. Usually by our mums and across her knee. We wouldn't have called it a spanking as that wasn't a word we knew....a smacked bottom, a good hiding, or just being put across mum's knee, those were what we heard.

At Primary School, certainly after we were about eight years old, the teachers used to whack the palms of our hands with a wooden ruler when we misbehaved in class. Most of the teachers were women, a few were men, but it made no difference. Both boys and girls got whacked, usually just the one, sometimes two whacks. And normally, we deserved it.

It was different if we were larking around in the playground and maybe it all got a bit out of hand. If one of the lady teachers was on duty, she would probably smack the back of your legs with her hand. Of course the girls all wore dresses or skirts while we were still in short trousers, so they had an easy target. And it really stung!

The men teachers though, didn't often do this. They usually gave lines. Mostly we would have preferred a smack as at least that got it over with, but I don't think they were as used to smacking bottoms as were the ladies.

And it wasn't just the teachers. Out of school, if you were playing round at a friends and were a bit naughty. And what ten year old isn't sometimes naughty? Then you were both likely to get slapped legs from their mum.

At Grammar School things carried on much the same, at least for the first year or so. Most teachers kept a ruler on their desk and used it when necessary. Gradually though, this was replaced with detentions and extra school work. The Head of course could cane you for serious things, but this happened very rarely. Luckily that was something I managed to avoid.

Similarly at home, smacked bottoms thankfully became much rarer and after I had turned thirteen, I don't think I ever again went back across mum's knee. That doesn't mean I never got whacked, but it was just three or four times in those secondary school years. Sometimes I was threatened with dad, but I think mum preferred to deal with things herself.

Twice, when I got older, I was punished together with my sister. As we were both too big by then to go across mum's knee, we were sent upstairs to our rooms to wait. Mum expected to find me kneeling beside my bed, my trousers already down and she slippered me on my underpants. Lucy got it on her knickers. Mum always went first into my sister's room, so I had to listen as Lucy was whacked and I could hear her squeal with shock at the sudden hurt, then her quieter sobbing which continued as mum moved on to my room. Then it was my turn. 

I did though have one lucky escape during my years at Grammar School. I guess I was just sixteen, in my first term in Sixth Form.

I didn't really smoke. Well I couldn't have afforded it and my parents certainly wouldn't have allowed it. But like most boys of that age, I had a few quiet puffs in private, just to practice. We used to buy Woodbines, because you could get them cheaply in packs of five. I'm sure we would have got caught had we tried smoking 'behind the bike sheds' at school, so our preferred place was an old boarded up office building near the town centre.

The building was covered in warning notices and the gates were locked but we all knew how to get in. So did half the town and all sorts of things went on there. Also stuff got ripped out and nicked, light fittings, old furnishings, whatever was useful or could be sold. The local policeman checked it on his round but provided everything was quiet would normally just walk on. But not that day.

Why he came in, I don't know, but he caught the three of us, smoking and also with a little fire we had lit for a laugh, using some rubbish. Trespass, causing damage, maybe theft. He made it sound bad. Of course we pleaded that all we were doing was smoking, we hadn't broken in, it was already open and we hadn't really done any damage.

The constable took our names and wrote them into his notebook. Then saying he was near the end of his beat, told us we would have to come back with him to the Police Station where we would be dealt with properly. We three trailed miserably behind him as he set off, still begging not to be charged. We were all hoping to go to university two years later and a police record would not look good on our applications. I think we got through to him, as he promised he would discuss it with the Sergeant when we got there. He did though say that whatever the decision, they would be contacting our fathers to come and pick each of us up. While better than a permanent record, none of us had any illusions about what that would mean.

While as I said, normally Mum was happy to handle family discipline herself. Firstly this was clearly not normal and secondly, I was older now, sixteen. I knew I would have to face Dad.

I didn't know what he would do. Clearly I would get 'a good hiding', but I wasn't sure what that would mean. Different, frightening possibilities swirled around my head. And I could see my friends had similar thoughts.

In the end, I decided he would probably give me a caning, because Dad knew that is what I would have got at school. Of course, he didn't have a proper cane in the drawer, but I knew that in the garden shed there were the sticks he used to tie up plants. I had been threatened, with those in the past.

So we three were all quiet as we walked reluctantly behind our captor. The building we had been in was a bit out of the way, down an empty lane. That was part of its attraction. I worried that when we came out onto the main road, there was a big risk that people we knew would see us. However when we reached the corner, the constable stopped and spoke to us.

He said he expected we were probably nervous about what our fathers would do when they had to come to the police station for us. He said, he would have been, if he were in our shoes, he would have got a good hiding.
He then reminded us he had our names and told us they would certainly go into the incident book they kept at the Station and that if any of us were caught doing anything, anything, wrong again, we would be in big trouble. Then he told us to get off home, before he changed his mind!

That seemed a miracle. Yes we had all been scared about what waited for us at home, but even more about the prospect of a police record for university or job applications.
Perhaps he was being kind hearted. He knew we had really only just been having a quiet fag, but I suspect it was a least partly for his benefit. He was near the end of his shift, if he took us to the Station there would be paperwork and he might even have to hang around until our parents came. He just wanted to get home.

So that was a spanking or maybe, worse, narrowly avoided. I know this story is supposed to be about my last spanking, but that had to wait nearly another two years. In this first part, I am telling how punishments of that kind were not unusual growing up and that my last spanking was not so unexpected, it just happened to be the last one I got.

But you will have to read Part Two for that.