The first spanking

Her name was Anita and she was a friend's sister and the first girl that I ever laid across my knee. We were both 15 at the time, so that puts the date at mid to late 1970.

Anita was never my girlfriend as such, but she was one of the first girls that I ever kissed and she would stroke my cock though my trousers. She was also the first girl to ever kiss and gently nibble my neck, something that even today I still find irresistible.

Quite how the spanking came about has faded from memory. I know that for some reason we were alone in her house, and I can remember the actual discipline and its aftermath as if it were yesterday, but the reason for it sadly escapes me. I think that Anita had said something that I disliked and I replied by telling her that she needed her bottom smacking. That was a fairly common thing to say in the England of those days and so was her lightening fast reply: "It would take a man to do that, not a shirt button!"

So far so normal, but something inspired me to take the matter to its logical conclusion. To this day I am not entirely sure what it was, but I concluded in an instant that the saucy young madam was going to learn her place.

We were sitting in Anita's bedroom and I left my chair to stride over to her and then sat down next to her on her bed. I pulled her across my knee and lifted her skirt. She was wearing, and again this image is clear in my mind after almost four decades, a white crew necked sweater, very thin and short sleeved, made of cream lambs' wool. Her skirt was a typical black miniskirt of the day and she wore dark blue knee socks with black shoes that fastened with a buckle to the feet.

She lay quietly across my knee and for the first time I saw a female bottom, encased in sweet panties, just waiting for my attention. The panties were white cotton and had light blue lace around the waist and legs. They were not the skimpy variety that girls wear today but high-waisted and designed to give the wearer the illusion of security.

Of course it was just an illusion because without pausing for thought I placed the fingers of my right hand into the waistband and peeled them down. There, in front of my eyes, was a bare, defenceless, female bottom just waiting its fate.

Anita tried to put her right hand behind herself to cover her bottom but I took it in my left hand and then administrated three firm smacks to her upturned buttocks. That was all I gave her and then I let her go. She sat up and put her arms around my neck and held me tightly. "I'm sorry," she whispered into my ear.

That was it. Some years later Anita married a local man and is now a wife, mother and grandmother, but I wonder sometimes if she remembers that far off day in 1970 when I corrected her behaviour in the time-honoured way?