Up to my tenth year I had led a very sheltered life. An only child, my mother, whom I adored, undoubtedly spoiled me and allowed me every freedom. She never raised her voice, never mind her hand, to me. My father, a gentle man, took very little interest in my upbringing, and was happy to leave her to raise me in her own sweet way. An idyllic existence, perhaps, but not one guaranteed to prepare me for the rough and tumble of the real world outside our door.

Then it all changed! Mother ran off with a door to door salesman called Cyril, leaving father and me to cope alone. He was not, despite or perhaps because of his sense of betrayal, inclined even now to take a more active part in my education but he did recognise his need for help – and as a young, virile man he also needed someone to warm his bed and so Veronica entered our life and things were never the same again!

Veronica was, or soon became, the archetypal stepmother! She did not like small boys, especially this small boy, and made her antipathy clear from the start. I found myself suddenly and frighteningly, transported from the life of a spoiled mummie’s boy to that of a Dickensian orphan and I did not like it! My father, a kindly but weak man, must have seen what was going on. I cannot believe the new regime was his idea but he clearly lacked the wish or ability to do anything to save me! Punishment became the norm and included being sent to bed with no supper, being made to go to my room in disgrace, having my pocket money withheld, being banned from going out to meet my pals or go into town. Veronica awarded these sanctions liberally and Father looked on miserably. I received her discipline sullenly and resentfully but did nothing to improve my behaviour in her eyes in fact, if the truth be told, I got worse!

Things came to a head one Saturday morning when Veronica told me to carry out some chore or other and I sulked saying I was just about to go out. It blew as you might imagine. A truculent and, I admit, badly behaved boy in confrontation with a bad tempered strict stepmother. Looking back now I guess I could see it coming and perhaps in the contrary way of young people I wanted to bring to a head!

I defied her in front of my father and there was no going back! Veronica turned on her stressed out husband and my fate was sealed!

“Did you hear that? Are you going to stand there and let him talk to me like that? If you’re not man enough to teach him the lesson he deserves then I will take him upstairs and do it myself!”

Suddenly I was scared, very scared – I sensed that ‘being taught a lesson’ would mean taking my discipline to a new and frightening level. Of course I could have, should have, backed and saved myself from what I somehow knew I was going to get. But I didn’t.

“Do what your mother says” said dad miserably.

Yes, you know what I said, don’t you?

“She’s not my mother! I won’t, I won’t!”

Veronica glared at my beleaguered parent. “There, defiance, rudeness, insolence what more will it take to make you act like a man. I’ll not stand for it! If you lack the guts to give him what he needs I don’t.. I’m going to take him to his room and teach him his manners!”

Dad did and said nothing. He sold me down the river as they say!

“Come with me young man!” and, taking me by the wrist, she led me from the room and up the stairs. I knew, then, that I was going to have my bottom smacked! I just knew it but I went with her unresisting.



We went to my room and she closed the door. Veronica gave me the most scathing lecture, scathing but well deserved, as I stood, all defiance now gone, waiting to learn my fate.

When she had finished she said “Is there anything you want to say?”

“You’re not my mother and I hate you! Hate you!”

Veronica, it must be said, controlled herself very well. She took my wrist. “Come with me” she said mildly and led me over to my bed. She sat down and drew me in to her side!

…. and then she took my trousers down! I stood meekly as she unloosed my trousers and, with a little tug, pulled them down to fall at my ankles. I felt her hands on my underpants and, as I tried to preserve my modesty with one hand while protecting my bottom with the other, down they came too and I felt her hand almost caress my bare bottom as she uttered those chilling words known so well to naughty boys!

“I’m going to smack your bottom!” and she looked at me with pure malice.

I was plunged into profound misery and regret. I knew there was no way out!

“You’ve never had your bottom smacked before, have you? Well, you will not like it I can assure you, you will not like it one little bit. Now, ..” and she took me by the waist “… I want you to lie over my knee, …” she patted her lap “ … here so that I can get at your bottom. Come on, over you go!” and she deftly took me off balance so that I went sprawling into place. I felt her thighs move beneath me so that my bare bottom was raised for smacking. I lay there, tense and helpless, waiting.

“Now, you’re not going to like this but I hope it makes you think about your behaviour. Believe me, young man, if this smacking does not persuade you to mend your ways I shall not hesitate to take you over my knee again and again until you have learned your lesson! A sore bottom is what you need and a sore bottom is what you’re going to get. Now!”

I heard a pathetic, whining voice whimper “I’m sorry, please, don’t!” I am ashamed to admit it was my voice.

Veronica lifted my shirt tail and gazed appreciatively at my neat, firm little buttocks.

“Ready?” and she whacked me right across the fullest part of my bottom. One! I howled in shock and, downstairs my father winced and covered his ears.

My very first, but sadly not my last, bare bottom spanking had begun. It was some time before she had finished with me! I howled with pain and shame – but I did not learn my lesson, yet!

Author’s note: I, too, was ten before I had my first bare bottom over the knee smacking but mine was delivered, in sorrow, by a loving mother and I relish the memory to this day!