The Squealer

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

I don’t usually come right out and announce it, but I’m a Spanko. You’re among the select few, the rare few I’ve told. I’ve been fascinated with the idea of the spanking of bare bottoms since long before I entered puberty. And so you know, I usually picture myself on the receiving end. I’m twenty-two now, so that gives you an idea of how long this fascination has been going on.

My mother never spanked me as a child, although she threatened a time or two. And I never had the courage to call her bluff those few times when she did seem on the edge of granting my secret wish. I also never had a babysitter who spanked, or an aunt who spanked. In fact, during my formative years, no one ever grabbed me, pulled down my pants, flung me over their knee, and went to work on my deserving little backside.

You might wonder whence this fascination came? Beats the hell out of me. So, have I ever taken a chance? Told someone of the opposite sex about this desire—almost a need—to be taken over a woman’s knee? Yes. And what happened next? Glad you asked. That’s what this tale is all about.

As I was approaching my twenty-second birthday, I screwed up my courage and told Samantha what I wanted for my birthday. Samantha is my girlfriend—a petite, cute, auburn-haired, green-eyed, freckle-faced beauty. Specifically, I asked her for a bare-bottomed spanking over her knee.

We’d have to work on the logistics. I’m a little small for a man of my age, but I still tower over Samantha. I would barely fit over her lap, and my weight might be more than she’d like to support, especially if she gave me the kind of spanking I wanted and it drove me to squirming.

As for my size, I inherited my father’s genes, not my mother’s. Dad, who died of cancer when I was eleven, was also smaller than average, while my mom is a large, big-boned woman.

Samantha’s hand is clearly not up to the challenge. Small and delicate, it would probably break before I felt much heat rise in my backside. So, several years ago—I’ll explain the delay soon—I bought a wide, flat-backed wooden hairbrush. I slapped it against my thigh, just to evaluate its potential one day after coming out of the shower. It stung. That evil brush left a burning red patch, and I’d used very little force. Yup, it’ll do.

They say: “God created man; Samuel Colt made them equal.” I’m thinking a woman created the hairbrush, making her the equal of any man.

I’ve also been working on the lap size problem. In my apartment, I’ve got an overstuffed chair with a matching hassock. Samantha could sit on the hassock and her feet would rest flat on the floor. So, if we move the hassock up against the chair, and if Samantha sat on it with the chair on her left, I’d lay across her lap with my upper body on the seat of the chair. That would take most of my weight off of Sam, and I’d be sort of confined between the arms of the chair.

I imagined when the time came, I would undo my belt, open my fly and drop my pants, leaving me in my boxers. Sam would whisk those down before I lay over her lap. She would be dressed in her tight blue jeans and Eddie Bauer flannel shirt. I picture her cupping and stroking my cheeks with her graceful fingers, perhaps pushing my legs apart to arrange my tackle to her satisfaction before raising the brush high and delivering the first spank. That first one would not be too hard. She will, no doubt, be hesitant, not wanting to hurt me. But that concern will diminish as she gets into the spirit of the scene. By the time she reaches twenty-two good spanks plus one, I will have finally lived my fantasy and be well and truly spanked.

So anyway, that’s how I pictured it. I originally made my plans and purchased the hairbrush leading up to my eighteenth birthday, then my nineteenth, my twentieth, well you get the idea. The girlfriends have changed over the years, but my imagined scenario from year to year remained much the same. What also remained the same is I always chickened out before requesting this gift of a birthday spanking.

The terrors that kept me from making this proposal were all the standard ones: What will she think of me? Will she drop me like a hot rock? Will the spanking be too intense? Will the whole thing end up in gales of derisive laughter? Will she tell her friends, who will tell their friends, who will tell their friends? Will I have to leave town in disgrace?

The thing between Samantha and me is pretty serious. [Wow! Check out that sentence. Would a woman use the words “thing” and “pretty” serious? Hardly. That is clearly male-speak from start to finish.] We’ve been going out for two years now and I love and trust her like none of her predecessors. I knew I had to take the chance. My twenty-second birthday would be the day. If the revelation of me being a spanko was too much for Samantha to handle, it would be best to find out now. And who knows, perhaps she would enjoy herself and make it an annual event.

So, two weeks before my birthday…

“John, your birthday is next month, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s the third.”

“That’s what I thought. Care to give me a hint or two? I’ve got no idea what to get you this year.”

There was a pause in the conversation, then I said, “Why don’t you save your money and just give me a good bare-bottom birthday spanking.”

Samantha laughed, and when I didn’t immediately join in, she said, “Seriously?”

“Well, I thought it might be kind of fun, and it’s very traditional, you know?”

Over the years, I’ve imagined many clever things I might say as follow-up to the initial suggestion. Under pressure, none of them came to mind. It’s very traditional? Really?!

“I don’t know,” Sam said, fighting back that quirky smile she has, “you’re a lot bigger than me. I doubt you’d even notice any spanking I gave you.”

“Hold that thought,” I said and practically ran from the room. She didn’t say no, I thought. She laughed, but she didn’t say no. My stomach muscles were doing a flamenco as I rushed into my bathroom, grabbed the special hairbrush, and hurried back to Samantha who, fortunately, had not left the building.

“It’ll be my birthday, but I bought the first present for you,” I said, and handed her the brush.

“I see,” she said, took the brush from my trembling hand and smacked it against her other hand.

She knows what it’s for, I thought. I won’t have to get into an embarrassing explanation.

“Ouch! A person could do some real damage with this thing. Are you sure that’s what you want? Where did this unusual desire come from?”

She said unusual. She didn’t say crazy, or childish, or sissy, and she didn’t drop the brush and stomp out the door. “I don’t know. Mom never spanked my sister or me. I’ve always just been kind of curious. You know? I mean, being spanked by a woman, what would it be like? But if you don’t want to, it’s okay. It was just an idea. You could forget the whole thing.” I was backpedaling so fast I would have gotten a ticket for speeding if a cop had been in the room.

“No,” she said, drawing out the word. “I’ll have to think about it.” She walked over to her purse and dropped the brush in. She carries one of those big leather purses like a feedbag for a horse, and the brush disappeared like it was dropped into a bottomless pit.

Funny, the thoughts you have at moments like this. When the brush I’d bought more than four years ago disappeared into her purse, I immediately started thinking about where I might buy another one like it. I wouldn’t go to Amazon, wouldn’t want that to appear on my purchasing history.

The rest of that afternoon reverted to normal, with no further talk of birthdays or spankings. We ended up in my bedroom, as we often did these days, and my performance, if I do say so myself, was well above average.

As my birthday approached, my tension increased. Samantha never mentioned spanking, and she did not return the brush. What was she thinking? Had she written the whole thing off as a silly idea, or did she take me seriously? Was she making plans of her own for executing my spanking, or did she find it too daunting? I should have told her about the chair and the hassock.

When the third arrived, it felt like any other day. Nothing special. No real prospect of achieving my long-held goal. Ah well, I thought. At least this year I finally screwed up the courage and put it out there.

My birthday was on a Saturday this year. Samantha, who usually has Saturdays off from work, was called in to cover for another woman who was out with Covid. At the age of twenty-two, birthdays are not the big deal they were when I was younger. Still, there was the prospect of receiving a few gifts. Mom texted me to drop by the old home about four PM. She’d have something for me, almost certainly clothing, and maybe even a cake. I could use the excuse of Samantha getting off work so I wouldn’t be stuck there all evening. Mom would understand.

I played video games until about two, then took a shower and put on clean clothes. Mothers notice these things. When the time was right, I left my apartment to make the drive across town. I missed Sam and wished she were coming with me. Mom likes her a lot, and her presence would reduce the pressure on me to be sociable. I love mom, but Sam has much better social skills than mine.

I parked in the driveway and walked in the back door. We rarely use the front door; the back is more convenient. “Mom?” I called as I came into the kitchen. There was silence, and I began to wonder if she’d gone out and was running late. But that couldn’t be right. There was a pot of beef stew cooking on the stove. That’s my favorite meal, so I stepped over and lifted the lid. Love that smell.

At first, I did not realize I was no longer alone. When I became aware of more than the stew, my sister, mom, my Aunt Beth, and Samantha all yelled, “Surprise!” I almost dropped the hot lid of the pot on my foot.

I looked around grinning, then said to Samantha, “You lied to me.”

“Well, duh,” she said and kissed me.

I was then hugged by each of the women in turn. My maiden Aunt Beth likes a kiss on the cheek, which I delivered, and in the clinch my sister whispered, “Happy Birthday, little brother.” Those words used to really yank my chain when we were younger. Now, we just laugh. Sis is nineteen, but she inherited mom’s genes instead of dad’s. She tops me by a couple inches and is built like… Well, her future husband will have no complaints about Sis’ endowments.

When the initial greetings were complete, mom said, “Dinner is almost ready, but I think we have time for a few presents.”

“Presents!” I said in my best Cookie Monster imitation.

We laughed, and mom handed me a box to unwrap. Shaking it first, I held it up to my ear. “I hope it’s not fine china,” I said. “There’s no sound of breakage.”

I stripped off the ribbon and tore off the paper. Mom always saves wrapping paper from her gifts, but I’ve never seen the point. When I lifted the top off the box, there, wrapped in tissue paper, was my flat-backed wooden hairbrush.

“Wait,” Mom exclaimed. “There’s been a mix up. That gift is for me.” She snatched the brush from the box, grabbed my upper arm and pulled me to a kitchen chair my sister pulled out from the table. She sat and unbuckled my belt.

I was almost in shock; I was so surprised. I looked at Samantha and accused her, “You squealed on me!”

She just grinned back and said, “Yup.”

By this time, my jeans were at my ankles. Mom pulled me down over her lap, then commanded, “Raise up.”

When I did, she yanked my boxers down to my knees. The thought flashed through my mind, Glad I put on clean underwear.

“Samantha, dear,” Mom said, “why don’t you take off John’s shoes and his jeans so they’re out of the way. He’ll not need them for a while.” Mom held me in place while Sam removed my jeans.

Mom said to me, “Johnny, you should have told me you wanted to be spanked. I’d have satisfied your curiosity once a day and twice on Sundays.”

With my jeans gone, mom put her right leg around behind mine. She must have done some research on the internet, because as far as I know she’s never spanked anybody in her life. I felt like a little kid over the lap of this large, strong woman.

Ready now, Mom raised the brush and brought it done with a resounding SMACK! I let out a yelp with that first spank. It was not playful, at least not from my perspective. Sis was calling encouragement to Mom, while Aunt Beth looked on with a satisfied smile. Samantha crouched down in front of me, took my chin, and turned my head to face her. “Who’s the squealer now?” she said with a grin.

Those twenty-two plus one from mom were far more than I wanted to take. She really scorched my backside. The back of the hairbrush was smoldering, it generated so much heat. I managed to not beg her to stop, but there were plenty of other sounds coming past my lips and my eyes were watering freely. I reached back to cover my ass with my hand about half way through, but Mom just clamped my arm against my side with her free hand. It didn’t even break her rhythm.

When it was over, Mom said, “Happy Birthday, son, and may you have many more.”

Samantha said, “Oh, he will get more; It’s my turn next.”

Mom pulled my boxers up more or less in place and helped me off of her lap. She then led me by the arm, following Samantha into the family room. Sam sat in the middle of the couch so she would not have to support my weight, and Mom placed me over her lap, handed her the hairbrush, and yanked my boxers back down to my knees.

Samantha was in blue jeans and her Eddie Bauer flannel shirt, and she started cupping and stroking my hot cheeks with her graceful fingers.

“Let’s see, is it twenty-two or fifty-seven? I forget,” Samantha said, and gave my left cheek a pinch.

“Twenty-two!” I squealed. While all the women chimed in with, “Fifty-seven!”

THE  END

Copyright © 2021 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.