The house was deserted and so it seemed was the entire street. The middle of the day in the middle of the week in the middle of summer in the middle of suburbia. Not a soul stirred. I was bored out of my skull.
I had finished school and was waiting for my exam results. I would be going to university in October and was treading water. The economy had tanked and there were no jobs for proper people so what chance did a nearly-university student have? These were the days long before 24-hour supermarkets and bicycle delivery services.
My friend Martin was in the same boat. We spent a lot of time together that summer. Being bored. Martin said we should take a trip up to town, maybe go swimming. Or at least hang around the town and try to meet girls.
It sounded like a great idea, except for one problem. I was grounded. I’m not even sure we called it ‘grounded’ in those days. We adopted that horrible Americanism some years later. Anyhow, Dad had said I couldn’t go out for a week. It had to do with not helping around the house and giving Mum more than a bit of lip.
I suppose I was lucky only to be grounded. When I was younger I would have found myself across Dad’s knee, jeans at the ankles and quite possibly pants at the knees while he took my backside off with a paddle. You get the idea. Dad believed in spanking. But now I was eighteen I was beyond all that.
Which was a pity because although a spanking hurts like crazy (otherwise what’s the point of it?) it is over quickly. Bad deed done, spanking delivered, apologies made and then we all move on with our lives. It’s got to be better than being forced to stay at home for a whole week – in the middle of summer.
I told Martin as much. His eyes widened. “Paddle?” he said, screwing up his eyes to empathise he had no idea what I was talking about. “What’s a paddle?” Another Americanism, I suppose. I had no idea if Martin’s dad ever spanked him and if he did what he used. I supposed the preferred instrument of persuasion would be the slipper. Or a hairbrush. Or that heavy, leather razor strop he inherited from Granddad. Maybe, even a thin, swishy, curve-handled rattan school-type cane.
“Look,” I said as I led him to the cupboard under the stairs. Martin did the widening of his eyes thing again when he saw hanging from a hook was a huge wooden board, probably eighteen inches long and five wide. It looked homemade. If Dad made it with his own hands it would have been about the only thing he had ever made in his life. He couldn’t even mend a fuse when the lights went out.
Martin bent his back and poked his head inside the small cupboard. “Is that a paddle?” he asked. I was about to give him a sarcastic response about his lack of observation, when he said, “I thought like a canoe or a row boat.”
I let it go. Martin peered closely at it. Then, he raised his right hand and very gently touched it. It was a delicate movement, made as if he feared he might break it. “He used to spank you with this?” He spoke softly, almost reverentially.
“Sure,” the level of pride in my voice surprised me. “Twelve swats. More sometimes.” I had no idea why I lied like that. Yes, I did get taken across Dad’s knee and I was spanked with that very paddle. Often on the underpants and sometimes on the bare. But he never gave me more than six swats. Six-of-the-best: the English way.
Martin shook his head in amazement. “Well I never,” he said softly, as if to himself. I watched as gently he took the paddle from the hook and caressed it in his hands, admiring the smooth surface. “It’s heavy,” he said backing out of the cupboard and standing erect in the hallway. He gripped the handle tightly and swished it trough the air. “Careful,” I cried. The hallway was narrow and he very nearly knocked a china ornament to the floor.
Martin’s eyes were wide and glowing when he looked at me. “What does it feel like?” He tapped the paddle’s blade it into the palm of his hand. He winced. “Blimey. It feels like it would really hurt.”
“You might well believe that, but I couldn’t possibly comment,” I laughed. Martin joined in. We both recognised it as a line from a popular political thriller on television. “Does it hurt?” Martin held the paddle gently, like it was a precious artefact.
“Well, what do you think?” I sounded more cross than I actually felt.
“Quite a bit, I suppose,” he conceded. His usually sparkling blue eyes seemed a bit vacant, as if he was not in the hallway with me. He sucked down on his bottom lip. He was thinking. I hadn’t known Martin for long, his family had only moved to The Avenue last year, but I knew him to be a quiet, thoughtful person.
“Why don’t we try it?” he suddenly blurted.
I must have gaped open-mouthed. It made the poor boy blush to his roots. “W-what do you mean?” I asked, although his question had been clear enough.
He ran his tongue around his lips. “Try it. To see what it’s like.”
I sucked down a laugh. “I already know what it feels like, thank you very much,” I tried to make light of it, but there was definitely tension in the air.
“Why not?” I thought I detected a pleading look in his eyes.
I don’t suppose I was much of a man of the world in those days (not like now of course) and I knew nothing of men’s desires. As kids we had often exchanged experiences of our spankings. At school it was the done thing after a caning to go down to the bogs to whip down your trousers and pants and show off your marks.
I asked Martin, “Have you ever been spanked?” It was a daft question. He wouldn’t want to try it out to see how it felt if he had.
Maybe it was my boredom. Perhaps it was a genuine attempt to help a fellow man gain experience in life. Whatever the reason, I said, “Okay then. Why not?”
“Where shall we do it?” Martin almost danced with excitement.
“In the lounge. There’s more room.”
Martin’s eyes blazed with gratitude. He took the paddle in both hands and handed it to me, as if it were a religious relic.
I led the way into the lounge. It was a typical living room, I suppose. There was a sofa and a couple of armchairs and cupboards. We had a separate dining room where we ate our meals. I stood in the middle of the room trying to plan my next move. When Dad spanked me he usually sat in one of the straight backed dining chairs that had no arms. These were in the other room. I was about to tell Martin we needed to go next door when he blurted out, “There! The armchair. You sit in it and I’ll bend over your knee.” He was almost licking his lips. I didn’t have the heart to argue. I could already see that the chair would be too cramped for me to get a decent swing of the paddle at his bum.
I sat in the chair and perched my own buttocks on the edge of the seat cushion. In his eagerness to be spanked, Martin didn’t give me a chance to spread my legs to create a decent platform for him to bend across. For an eighteen-year-old who had never been spanked before he knew the drill. I had hardly sat down before he stood to my right side and lowered himself across my knee. Inside a second he had his hands pressed into the carpet. His knees were straight and the toes of his trainers brushed the floor. His bum was at an angle over my thigh.
The arms of the chair boxed me in and I couldn’t get a decent swing with the paddle. This relived me a little. When I agreed to spank Martin I hadn’t given any thought to how he would react. Done properly a paddling is very painful. I know, Dad was an expert. God knows he had plenty of practice with me and my two brothers. Would Martin howl the house down?
I gripped the paddle in my right fist. Martin was about the same height as me and a bit podgy. His thighs and backside were well padded. The jeans he wore were not well fitting and his bottom was not well defined. The denim material was thick and would give him some protection from the paddle. That suited me. I didn’t want to hurt Martin. He wriggled his bottom as if to encourage me to get on with it. I took the hint and raised the paddle blade about six inches above his bum and smacked it into his left cheek. Martin didn’t react. I waited maybe ten seconds then hit the right buttock.
Martin’s sigh of disappointment could probably be heard across the street. He turned his head so he could see me as best he could. “C’mon. Not like that, do it properly.” He was right in his criticism. I had delivered love taps. The youngest, weakest kid wouldn’t feel a thing. Martin stared down at the floor again. I saw his buttocks tense in anticipation. I gripped the paddle hard. I raised it high. Then I stopped. “Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” I exhaled. “Get up. Go on, stand up.”
Martin stayed across my knee and began a protest from his prone position.
I smacked the palm of my hand into the seat of his jeans and then rubbed his left buttock. “This is no good. These jeans are too thick. You won’t feel a thing. Stand up. Take them down. Then get back over my knee.”
With eagerness, Martin sprang to his feet. He stood before me. His face was flushed and his bright blue eyes watered. “Take them down?” Martin sought confirmation. There was no hint of apprehension in his voice. He was not anxious. He couldn’t wait to get back over my knee.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “Jeans down to your ankles. Then back over.” I felt ridiculous. I had never spanked a friend before. Why should I? Who would. I remembered the stories we used to read about boarding schools where the older prefects would cane the younger boys. Perhaps it wasn’t such a strange idea after all. But Martin had done nothing to deserve a spanking.
My train of thought was interrupted. Martin had unbuckled his belt, pulled the zipper and pushed his jeans to his shins. I tried not to notice the significant bulge in the front of his bright-red Y-fronts as once more he lowered himself across my knee. The cotton underpants fitted his bum much better than the jeans. They lifted and separated each cheek and dug into his crack. I was no expert but I would say his bum was perfectly presented for the spanking I was about to give him.
“I’m going to do this hard,” I threatened, as I tapped the paddle across the fleshiest part of his left cheek. “Hard as you can,” he answered, gritting his teeth for the blow. His whole body tensed in anticipation. I saw this as a dare. I had promised full-force, now I would have to deliver. I tapped some more, marvelling at the impression the paddle made against the snug cotton pants. I also enjoyed how Martin’s buttock cheeks clenched and then hardened like a rubber ball. Tap-tap-tap. Swat! I let fly. Even in my confined space It was a whopper! The paddle struck the surface of his bum, then sank into the flesh before raising out again. Martin gasped. His hips wriggled and his head bounced up and down. There was no doubt: he felt that.
There was a long pause. It probably wasn’t for more than few seconds, but it felt like forever. I could see Martin’s buttocks twitching, almost impatiently, waiting for the next stinging blow. He must have been thinking about this for years, imagining how it would feel to be bent submissively across someone’s knee and spanked on his naughty little bottom.
I took aim again and landed the paddle across the other cheek. A sonic boom echoed around the room. It was so enormous. I couldn’t remember my own spanking sounding like that. For one absurd moment I feared the neighbours would hear. Luckily, the houses in The Avenue were detached from one another with sizeable gardens between them.
Martin did the wriggling thing again so I gripped him tightly around the waist. He wasn’t going anywhere; not until I said so. He had made his bed, he must lie in it. He wanted a spanking and a spanking was what he was getting. I knew by now, even after only two swats, his bum would be slowly burning. As I delivered each new swat that would morph into a sharp biting feeling. The pain would grow until it felt like I had rubbed his bare bum with a Mum’s red hot iron.
I looked down at Martin. His head was neighing from side to side. Those beautiful blue eyes were huge, nearly bulging out of his head. “Are you all right?” I asked. He gasped. “Yeah, I’m fine. Holy cow that hurt! I can’t believe it.” Tears welled in his eyes.
“Good,” I growled, “It’s supposed to hurt,” and I pounded the third swat into his tender bum.
I lifted the paddle again. It was some weight and harder to manoeuvre with one hand than I had expected. Martin was wriggling a bit, but – brave boy that he was – he kept his bottom aligned across my thigh. He was probably in agony, but Martin was determined to see this through to the bitter end. His pants had ridden up further into his crack and the lower half of his buttocks was bare. I thought about ripping down his pants so his bum was completely naked. I was wise to control my urge. I don’t think Martin could have endured that: not on his first spanking.
I grinned, remembering how much Dad’s spankings had hurt me. I felt a strange power, being in control over Martin. I realised I liked it a very great deal. I walloped him again twice in quick succession rat-a-tat, cutting across the bare part of his buttocks. I felt the firmer. meatier, deeper part of his bum as it resisted the paddle, causing the board to bounce off his bottom.
Martin’s deep-throated howl scared me. I released my grip on his waist and he rolled off my lap, he rested a second face-down on the carpet, gasping for air like a beached dolphin. Before I could stand myself he was up on his feet, his hands grasping his battered bottom. Tears flowed easily and he hopped up and down. I had never done that after a spanking. I had assumed only characters in the comics did such a thing.
I knew from my own experience the burning agony Martin was suffering would very quickly die down to become a constant throbbing. Within minutes it would be a dull ache. It would be uncomfortable for him to sit on a hard surface for an hour or two and there would be bruises for some days. Apart from that he would live.
Martin soon calmed down and stood rubbing his bum while trying to peer over his shoulder to get a good look at it. He soon realised that with his pants still up he couldn’t see a thing.
“I have to go now,” he gasped as he tugged his jeans up and buckled his belt. Before I could say a word he was at the front door and away. I stood at the window and watched as he ran down the drive towards his home. I imagined in a few moments time he would be in his bedroom with his jeans and pants down, pointing his bottom at the mirror. It didn’t occur to me at the time that he would probably also have one of the most satisfactory wanks of his young life.
Martin never asked me to spank him again. That was a pity because I had really enjoyed it. I had unexpectedly discovered an important side of my personality. When Martin came over to my house we sometimes looked wistfully at the door to the cupboard under the stairs. We didn’t need words to express what we shared.
I went to the local university and Martin went to one up North. I don’t think he got on with his parents because he never returned to Brocklehurst. We never saw each other again after that summer. I don’t know what became of Martin, but hey pal if you’re reading this, please get in touch – for old time’s sake.
Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films
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