Here is a tale by Gregory Babcock who frequently wrote for CF Publications. Many of Babcock’s tales may be found on their site at http://www.cfpub.com.
A Spanking Good Marriage
By Greg Babcock
“Gord, go out and cut me three or four switches.”
It was my wife of twenty years, Belinda, speaking. We were in the middle of one
of our spirited Trivial Pursuit games.
“Switches?” I asked. “What for?” Stupid question.
“Because I want to whip you.”
“Aw, Honey. Can’t you wait until after the game?”
She smiled. “You know full well, after all these years, that when I want to whip
you, I want to whip you now . . . right now. We can finish the game after your
whipping. Now go get me those switches.”
I sighted heavily, arose from the dining room table, pulled my suspender straps
up over my shoulders, buttoned the third and fourth buttons on my pale yellow
shirt, slipped into my loafers and headed for the kitchen, where I pulled one of
the sharp butcher knives out of the rack.
“Are you sure it has to be right now?” I asked, the tone of my voice indicating
my knowledge as to the answer.
“I’m getting impatient,” she responded in a sing-song voice which belied the
intensity she conveyed.
Sighted once again, I hurried out the side door, made my way around my car and
then hers in the driveway and opened the gate to the back yard. The maple tree
in the far corner of the yard had lost numerous small branches to switch
requirements over the seven years we’d lived in our lovely, secure middle class
neighborhood in one of Cleveland’s southeastern suburbs.
Why, you ask, would an otherwise normal-appearing man of 45 docily obey his wife
in such an adventure? Isn’t it bad enough to get a switching without the added
embarrassment of actually having to cut the very switches to be used on your
Well, as a matter of fact, I enjoy being spanked. Always have. Hopefully, always
will. Cutting the switches is no big deal. Adds an extra little fillip to the
whipping — a little spice, as it were.
Belinda has been spanking me since — well, since two or three months before we
We both grew up in Cleveland. Attended different high schools, although we lived
a mile and half from each other. My cousin, who lived across the street from
Belinda introduced us.
Incidentally, my wife was born in 1948. Her parents were so taken with a movie
that year, Jane Wyan’s classic Johnny Belinda, that they named her Joanna
Belinda. The Belinda stuck.
In any case, we became very close, double dating for the most part with my
cousin and his girlfriend in the mid and late sixties. Our school football teams
played a game against each other every year. We delighted in zinging each other
for weeks before the big game. This continued even after we graduated.
Eventually, we got to where we bet on the game each year.
We had been “going steady” for a couple of years when the big game of 1968 came
along. Both teams were undefeated and the game loomed as a definite “city
championship bragging rights” contest.
The ’68 bet would be a little different:
“I’ll bet you a good paddling this year,” Belinda had suggested.
“A good paddling. If my alma mammy wins, I get to paddle you. If that rotten
dungeon you used to attend happens to, by hook or by crook, pull off a win . . .
highly doubtful . . . you can paddle me. My brother used to play paddleball a
lot and he’s got a paddle up on the shelf in the closet.”
Her brother’s name is Francis Albert. Guess what forties crooner Belinda’s folks
were impressed by.
“That’s crazy,” I’d replied without too much conviction.
“Why? Afraid you’re going to wind up with a sore fanny?”
“No! It’s . . . it’s just that I . . . well, I don’t want to take a paddle to
your fanny. Afraid I’ll hurt you . . . bad.”
“There’s not much chance of that. But, I’ll take that risk. Bet?” She’d extended
I’d nodded and had shaken hands with her. “Bet,” I’d responded, my eyes closed
with it — as Belinda told me much later — a contented, “almost orgasmic” look
on my face.
All my life, I’d been hung up on spanking. As long back as I could remember, I
was almost obsessed with it. My first erections — at age 6 or 7 came from
When I grew up, there was no spanking literature, movies, videos, etc. I must’ve
spent a fortune on such flicks as: Look For The Silver Lining, a 1950 tome
purported to be the life and times of dancer Marilyn Miller wherein Gordon
MacRae spanked June Haver, and the renown McClintock, in which Maureen O’Hara
gets hers at the capable hand — and coal shovel — of John Wayne.
Then, in 1968, there was my “steady” offering to bet me a good paddling on a
cockamamie football game. As it happened, Belinda’s Alma Mater won — but only
after a circus catch by their tight end in the end zone with 32 seconds left on
the clock. I’ll go to my grave believing he was out of bounds.
Whatever, I’d lost. I was due to be paddled by Belinda. It was a delicious
feeling! Belinda, bless her heart, was in no mood to postpone payment.
The game had been played on a Friday night. After the contest, my cousin Jerry
and his squeeze, Judy, had accompanied Belinda and I to our local hamburger
joint hangout for the obligatory after-game hamburgers and malts.
It was shortly after midnight when we separated from Jerry and Judy and I drove
Belinda home. I figured it would be the usual Friday Night Football passionate
kiss with added option of tongue and a few cheap feels. Wrong!
“Why don’t you come on in? You’ve got a good paddling coming. Remember?”
“Yea. But tonight?”
“Why not? Tonight’s as good as any time. Besides, I can’t wait to take Frank’s
paddle to your fanny.” I was next to being overcome by the rush I was
experiencing at the prospect of her taking Frank’s paddle to my fanny.
“But . . . but . . . but, was about your parents?” I managed to get my
yard-thick tongue to say. “Even if we could sneak past them, they’d hear the
paddle landing on me.”
She laughed. “My parents are in Columbus. Dad managed to get tickets to the
Michigan game and they drove down right after he got home from work.”
“Oh, he’ll be out all night. Frank never wastes an opportunity to go out and get
crocked to the gills. He’ll probably sleep over at Peggy’s house. I think her
folks went down to Columbus too. The only people in the entire city that don’t
know Frank is sleeping with Peggy are her parents and my parents. You won’t have
to worry about Frank. So come along. There’s no way you’re going to get out of
“I’m not trying to get out of it. I was just worried about people hearing . . .
“Not to worry,” she answered as she turned away and fished a key from her purse.
After we’d entered, she led me straight up the ornate staircase to her room at
the end of the hallway on the second floor.
Belinda was the proud owner of what every queen of the sixties lusted for: A
pink and white, lacy, fluffy, canopied bed. Across from the foot to the bed, her
dressing table — complete with matching lacy and fluffy stuff — sat against
the wall. A stodgy chest of drawers against the far wall find of blew the image.
However, all in all it was a nice room.
I sat down on the bed.
“I have to go to Frank’s room and get the paddle,” said Belinda.
“While I’m fetching it, why don’t you take your pants and shorts down?”
“Pants and shorts? Belinda . . . ”
But, she was already out the door.
Surely she couldn’t have meant what she said about taking down my pants and
shorts. She was 20 and I was 22. However, our ages notwithstanding, we’d never
been intimate. Neither of us had ever seen the other in the nude. I’d managed to
get her sweater up and her bra unhooked on a few occasions in the car, but I
really couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t feel much either. She had an ample bosom,
but her bra and/or sweater always managed to get pretty much in the way. The
closeness of quarters in my Maverick didn’t help.
I most certainly heard her wrong. She wouldn’t use that paddle on my bare
bottom. At that point she returned to the room. “Why haven’t you got your pants
and underwear down?” she asked impatiently. “I thought that, by now, you’d have
your fanny bared.”
“Belinda! You can’t be serious! You don’t intend to paddle me on my bare butt.”
“Of course I do! Of course I’m going to give it to you in the bare fanny. A
spanking just isn’t a spanking unless it’s on the bare fanny. Now, take down
your pants and shorts. We’re just wasting time. I’m beginning to get upset, and
it’s going to be reflected in the number . . . and severity . . . of the whacks
you’re going to get.”
“But you’ve never seen me . . . seen my rear end . . . before.”
“Well, I guess that’ll change tonight, won’t it. Look, Gord, you lost fair and
square. If I’d have lost, I’d have expected you to pull my panties down and give
it to me on the bare fanny.”
“You . . . you wouldn’t have objected?”
“Of course not! A spanking has to be on the bare bum. Everybody knows that!”
I arose and unbuckled my belt. My eyes asked the silent question. Hers answered
it. I undid my waist band. The room seemed to be filled with the noise of the
zipper as I opened my fly. I pushed my trousers down. They crumpled in a heap at
“The shorts too,” she admonished when I’d taken too long.
My briefs joined my slacks, covering my shoes and socks.
“Hummmmm,” she muttered, slapping the paddle lightly against the side of her
right thigh. “I guess you might as well take the pants and shorts completely
off. You can’t move with ’em around your feet like that. Take your shoes and
socks off too. I certainly don’t want you lying on my bed with your shoes on.”
I plopped back down on the bed. That lacy, fluffy stuff felt strange on the bare
skin back there.
Once I’d divested myself of my pants, shorts, shoes and socks, I left them in a
pile on the floor. “My God,” she growled. “I think you must be the most helpless
person I’ve ever seen. You’d better marry me sometime soon . . . or you’re going
to turn into a grade A klutz.”
“Marry you? Are you saying . . . ”
“Right now, I’m saying lie down on the bed . . . on your tummy. I want to see
you fanny.” I did as I was ordered.
She seated herself in sort of a slant position just abaft on my left thigh and
pulled my shirt tail up to the small of my back. “My,” she observed, digging the
end of the paddle into my bare left cheek, “you’ve got a nice looking fanny.”
“So do you.”
She laughed. “How do you know that? You’ve never seen my fanny.”
“Practiced eye,” I answered. “Besides, you’ve got a pair of jeans . . . two or
three pairs od jeans . . . that look as though they’ve been sprayed on.”
“You’ve noticed then. Amazing. I thought you were obvious of such things.”
“Jesus,” I responded. “When your elegant ass is just staring me in the face
sometimes, I just . . . ”
SPLAT!! She brought that hard wood paddle across the center of my butt —
getting a generous part of both bare cheeks. “Don’t you ever use language like
that to me again! You’ve never said those things . . . never used those words .
. . before in front of me! (SPLAT!) And I don’t expect you to start now!” She
landed four or five more — vicious on my naked flesh back there — harder than
I’d ever remembered taking.
“Ouch! I’m . . . I’m sorry! I guess I was just excited and wasn’t thinking! The
thought of . . . ”
“I know you’re excited. Your fanny wasn’t the only think I was watching. I’d
never actually seen an erection on a man before. There were a few times when I
was a lot younger when I’d see Frank coming down the hall in his undershorts and
I could see that he was hard. But, I’d never actually seen . . . well, seen such
a sigh before. It excited me.”
“Well of course, silly. Why did you get the erection? The thought of me seeing
you with no clothes on? Or was in the prospect of being spanked? You enjoy being
spanked, don’t you?”
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, you always talk about it. I don’t know how many times I’ve watched tee vee
with you and some woman’s be making a pain in the fanny of herself and you’d
always say, ‘Boy, if that was my sister, I’d take her panties down and spank her
bottom’. It didn’t take long for me to pick up on it. Figured it probably worked
in reverse. Seemed like you’d enjoy receiving it too.”
“Have you been . . . are you interested in spanking?”
“To a point, I guess. Maybe more to a point. I don’t know. My folks never
spanked me. Didn’t have to. I was such a good girl. My father told me a was a
“A saint? Sitting on your bed with a half naked man?”
“Paddling a half naked man. Which reminds me. My mind’s been wandering. I’ve
been doing more talking than spanking. We’ll have to remedy that!” She leveled a
volley of terribly hard shots — each one landing on my unprotected backside
with a loud SPLAT!
After the sixth or seventh spank, I clenched my cheeks back there.
“Relax your fanny!” she ordered.
“Aw c’om, Belinda! I can’t help it. You’re hitting me too hard!”
“It’s not too hard . . . and you’ve still got a long way to go. Now, unclench
I did my best.
Again the avalanche began! The not-give-an-inch wood bounced off of the swelling
globe and then the other. In my entire life, I’d never experienced a whipping
like the one I was taking.
She continued to pound my bare rear with that accursed paddle. The sound filled
the whole room—probably the entire house. Maybe the neighborhood. I wondered
if my cousin was sitting across the street listening to me get my behind
I had no idea whether Jerry knew of our bet. I certainly hadn’t told him —
although, had I won, I might have been tempted to recount the resultant
spanking, especially if Belinda had permitted me to lower her panties and give
it to her on her bare bottom. On the other hand, Belinda may have filled in Judy
as to our little wager. Which means that Jerry would know — and could probably
guess that I’d be getting mine on that very night.
I was losing my power of concentration. Belinda continued to hammer my bare butt
with that paddle. All my attention began to gather at my poor bludgeoned
“Oh! Oh God! Belinda! This is too hard! I never wouldn’t hit you that hard.”
“Of course you wouldn’t have,” she replied, never missing a beat. She continued
to stroke the fires of hell in my rump. “You’re much too gentlemanly. You
probably wouldn’t have tried to take down my panties. But, I’ve got no such
reservations. The bet was for a good paddling . . . and I intend to see that you
get a good paddling. A damn good paddling.”
To emphasize her contention, she laid on an especially vicious cut with that
unyielding paddle. It landed at the crests of both burning cheeks — halfway
“Aaaaarrrrrgggghh! Oh, Belinda! Please! No more! I can’t take any moire! Please
don’t spank me anymore. Please!”
She stopped the paddling.
Thank you. Oh, thank you.
The coolness of her hand as she ran it across my bottom felt so welcome.
“You’ve sure got a lumpy fanny,” she observed. “I still don’t know that you’ve
had enough, though.”
“I have! Believe me, I have! I’ve never been spanked this hard in my life!”
“Oh, poo! I’m sure your parents must’ve spanked you when you were younger.”
“Yes, but never like this. Mother used to use a hair brush on me once in a
while, but I’m sure that she must’ve pulled her punches. Even when Pop took a
strap to me a few times, it never hurt like this paddling you gave me.”
“But, you do enjoy being spanked, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer — not fast enough, anyway.
That horrible paddle bit into my back there once again, landing smack on top of
the other vicious smack — halfway up my crack.
“Ow! Oh, God! Yes. Yes, I admit I like to be spanked. But, my God Belinda, I can
only take so much. My poor butt! It’s not as if i’d taken this over my pants or
even my undershorts! That’d be one thing! But, you gave it to me on my bare
Once again the horrible paddle landed on my unprotected rear.
“Language,” she admonished.
“I’m sorry. But, you can see how torn up I am back there.”
Once again she ran her cool hand over my sore buttocks.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “You’re swollen pretty badly . . . and bruising. And lumpy
as can be. Would you be willing to take another paddling like this? Once your
bum’s cleared up, I mean.”
“I . . . well, I don’t know.” Then, dropping my head onto the pillow, I
admitted, “Yes, I guess I would. I enjoyed it. I’m glad it’s over, but I did
If I were to call you up next week or the week after that and say, ‘Gord,
tonight I’m going to paddle your fanny,’ would that excite you?”
“Yes. Yes, it would.”
“Then, why don’t you marry me. We could have a spanking good time . . . for
always and ever. You do love me, don’t you?”
“Love you? Of course I do.”
“Then, why don’t you marry me? Does it take a sore fanny?”
“I just never thought you’d marry me.”
“Why shouldn’t I marry you? I love you, dammit!”
Once again, she brought the paddle down upon my naked bottom. Twice. Three
times. Four times.
“Oh! I thought you weren’t going to spank me anymore.”
“Well, I figured I’d better make my point. I love you, even though you’ve got a
I turned over — the lacy, fluffy stuff felt like sandpaper on my well-paddled
rump. I reached up toward her.
“Does that means you’ll marry me?” I asked.
“Of course, Fathead. I’ve only mentioned it two or three times tonight.”
She came into my arms and pressed me down into her lacy, fluffy stuff. Our kiss
probably lasted no more than three or four minutes.
Halfway through the kiss, she reached down and caressed my member, which was
swollen and throbbing — not unlike my backside.
She disengaged from me, arose from the bed and began to disrobe.
“You’d better make an honest woman of me,” she rasped.
* * * * *
I thought of that first paddling as I cut four substantial switches from the
veteran tree in the back yard. A lot of water had passed over the dam in the
There were many spankings — all given in love.
But, there were many laughs, a few tears and many accomplishments — not the
least of which was having raised a boy and a girl. He’s eighteen and she’s
almost seventeen. Both are away at college now. Honor Roll students, both of
them. We, of course, had to curtail a good bit of our spanking adventures when
they were at home. Most of the time, we just went to a motel.
The four switches in my hand, I headed back inside. They were substantial ones.
Might as well cut ’em that way. If Belinda feels they’re too flimsy, she’ll just
send me back out to get four — or maybe five — new ones,
“That certainly took you long enough,” she observed once I’d returned to the
“You know me, Al,” I replied. “Got to reminiscing. Thought of that first time .
. . the first time you paddle me. I still think that guy was out of bounds.”
“Well, let’s get started with your whipping,” she replied as she rose from the
table. “Take off all your clothes. I want you completely naked when I whip you
tonight. Here, let me draw the drapes. I’m going to whip you over the back of
She closed the drapes, covering the four huge windows at the front of the living
room and pulled the humongous old leather chair which sits by my pipe stand,
across from the television, to the center of the room.
I divested myself of all my clothing and walked to the back of the huge chair,
pulling myself up across the top — to the point that my toes maybe four or five
inches above the carpeting.
“Why are you giving me this whipping?” I asked looking around as she assumed a
position just to the left of my naked butt.
“Oh, hush,” she soothed. “You talk too much.”
I heard the dreaded THWIP! as the switch cut through the air — and landed right
across the center of my backside. I could feel the welt begin to rise almost
The second, third, fourth, and fifth cuts landed — each above the last stroke.
I knew that I had a “ladder” going right up my bottom. “Ooooch! Belinda! That
last one was too hard! I can’t take the whipping I used to.”
“Nonsense! You’re just as masculine and as virile as you were when you were a
younger man. Your fanny needs to be just as sore as it was when I gave you that
first paddling . . . maybe sorer.”
She was relentless. The room was filling with the constant THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
THWIP! as that dratted switch — and then the one which replaced it — ripped
into my bare butt.
Once my entire rump was covered with weals, Belinda was on the third switch —
probably the most substantial of the four.
As the switch landed and cut across existing welts, the pain became much more
severe. Still, she continued to whip me.
I began kicking my legs — an involuntary reaction. I’d only begun doing that in
the last six or eight months.
She began to lay a whole new set of ridges on my unprotected backside. They
played across the naked cheeks from the lower left mound to the upper right
globe. Each one of those southwest to northeast strokes intersected the dozens
that had gone on west to east.
Another concession to age: My eyes began to tear up and then to overflow.
By the time Belinda progressed to the fourth — and final, thank God — switch,
she’d begun a series of strokes from the top of my right cheek to the bottom of
the left one. Each of those shots bisected the two original series of weals.
By that time, I was riding from side to side on the back of that monstrous
leather chair. I found myself holding my breath for 25 or 30 seconds and then
exhaling with a whoosh that sounded as though it would blow the pictures off the
Still the whipping continued. I was certain that there wasn’t one particle of my
bare bottom that hasn’t visited by one of those damnable switches.
Finally, I felt the last of the switches give away. I looked back and saw
Belinda standing with a limp piece of tree branch in her hand.
“I really wasn’t through with you,” she said. “I should really make you go out
and cut me another one . . . in that condition. Let the neighbors see how your
fanny looks like after a good switching. You’re going to have to bring me more
substantial switches after this.”
“What do you want? Telephone poles?”
“Don’t be so flip. I’ll go upstairs and get my hair brush. Or Frank’s paddle.”
On our wedding day, Belinda had stolen Frank’s paddle. To this day — twenty
years later — I doubt that he knows where it is. Maybe he’s never even missed
“I’m all through and you know it, Missus,” I said.
“I must be gettin’ soft in my old age,” she responded. “Okay, get down and put
the chair back. But, don’t open the drapes. I want you to play the rest of
Trivial pursuit in the buff. And, oh yeah, pull up the wicker chair. You’re
going to be sitting on that the rest of the evening.”
“You don’t show any mercy,” I observed with as smile.
She laughed. “Part of my scorched earth policy.”
“Your scorched fanny policy would be more accurate, ” I replied.
“You’re awfully persnickety for someone who’s just had his bum whipped. If
you’re not careful, I won’t take you to bed after I win this game.” We never did
finish the game. Ten minutes later, I crawled into our kingsized, feather
mattresses bed — sans the lacy, fluffy stuff. I was joined by my beautiful wife
after the two minutes it took her to disrobe.
Truly, we have a spanking good marriage.