I awoke early the morning of my 30th birthday with a feeling of expectation. Today was the day, I believed, that I would finally get what I wanted so badly. I had more than just hinted to my wife; I had flat-out told her what special gift she could give me: a birthday spanking. And not some paddy-cake paddling, a but a good, hard spanking. Save your money, I had told her, and give me what I really need. Turn me over your knee and swat my bare bottom thirty times. Plus one to grow on.
She hadn’t promised; in fact, she evaded the request as she had for the last nine or ten months since I first became aware of my need for the discipline. The unfulfilled desire only grew and now was intense. Having the “excuse” of my birthday, I felt sure, would give her the impetus to give it to me.
And so I awoke expectant. I rolled over and nudged her. “Good morning, dear,” I whispered. “Guess what? Today’s my birthday.”
She groaned and rolled away from my attempt to wake her. “Uh, huh,” she said. “Happy Birthday.”
“Isn’t there something you want to give me?”
“Honey,” she whined. “It’s too early.” She never had been a morning person. I should have anticipated her response. I got out of bed and opened the curtains in our hotel room. The light streamed in and my wife covered her head with a pillow. I looked out into the sky. It was mostly clear except for some dark pink clouds in the distance. The shape of the clouds caught my eye. I hurried to the bed, elated at my discovery.
“Come look!” I pleaded, pulling at her. “You’ve got to see this.” Protesting all the way, she grudgingly allowed me to pull her to the window. “See those clouds?” I asked, pointing to a beet-red bulbous mass that, to me, looked like a beautiful bare bottom, freshly spanked. “That’s how I want my ass to look when you’re through spanking it.”
She sighed and pushed away. “Yeah, right. Come and take a shower so we can get going. It’s going to get hot today. The earlier we leave the better.”
“Not until you spank me.”
“Baby,” she said pointedly, “we’re in a hotel.” I realized that even in a Reno hotel the sounds might cause concern. She saw my dejected look. “Ah, come on birthday boy.” She patted my rear a couple of times, making me think: maybe later.
We had come to Reno to celebrate my birthday that weekend, but now it was time to go back home to Provo. We had driven over on Interstate 80, but had decided to go back across on highway 50. Signs on the highway markers label the stretch “the loneliest road in America” and I could believe it. We saw no other cars going in our direction and very few coming the other way. Just lots of empty land, little valleys tucked between rolling mountains. The solitude gave me an idea.
“Say, why don’t we just pull off on one of these little side roads, find a private spot and you can give me that spanking?”
“Honey…”
“Hey, nobody will hear us or see us. You can give it to me really good. I’ll just stop the car, open your door, bend over your lap and we’re all set. You won’t even have to get out.”
“No. We’re not going to stop along the way so I can spank you. That’s final.”
“Why not?” I whined.
“It just doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to.”
We drove along in silence and I began to feel convinced that it wasn’t going to happen, that there was no way I would find myself bent over her knee, feeling the sting of her hairbrush on my behind. The desire inside felt like a melancholy ache. I glumly watched the sagebrush whiz by as our Z zipped down the highway. The speed limit was 55–a ridiculously low number–but we were doing much more, so the immediate landscape was a blur. But coming up was a mileage sign. The town of Eureka was not far away. I pointed to the sign.
“You want to get an early lunch there?” I asked her.
She nodded and pushed in a cassette tape. The music of Miami Sound Machine filled the car. The pulsing beat got me going and the car’s speedometer needle crept higher and higher. It felt good, and it covered up the feeling of disappointment in not getting the present I wanted–I needed–so badly.
The tires screeched around a couple of corners but the Z could handle them. We peeled around a couple of more and then, there it was, off the side of the road: Nevada Highway Patrol. As we rushed past it, my heart was in my mouth as my foot got off of the gas pedal. As I watched the patrol car move onto the roadway, I grimly said, “Wrong song is playing right now. It should be the ‘uh-oh’ song.” My wife looked back and the red light came on in the window of the car bearing down on us.
I pulled over quickly and the patrol car was behind us in seconds. After a minute the officer stepped out of the car. I had expected a man. I was wrong. A large, stocky woman walked up to my window, which I slowly rolled down.
“Morning, sir,” she began courteously. “May I see your license and registration, please?” I fumbled nervously for my wallet as my wife searched the glovebox for the registration. The officer thanked me as I handed them to her and then walked back to her car. I began to swear softly. Some birthday this was turning out to be!
Within a few minutes she returned to my window and motioned for me to get out of the car. I slid out and leaned against the Z. “Well, sir,” she began, “you were going pretty fast there.”
“I didn’t realize I was that fast. I mean, I know I was over fifty-five, but I thought I, I…” I shut up before I began babbling.
The officer pursed her lips together and regarded me through her sunglasses. I looked away and saw her nametag: Officer Lillie Mae Armstrong. “Mister,” she said sharply, “I got you on radar at eighty-six miles per hour. That’s a mite over fifty-five, isn’t it? I nodded. “Well, do you have a good reason for it? One of you two dying or something?”
“Just hungry, ma’am,” I smiled weakly. “We’re getting lunch in Eureka.”
Officer Armstrong frowned. “That won’t do it, mister. Now, you listen, I heard you screeching around all those corners. I could cite you for speeding, reckless driving and wasting gas if I wanted to. Drivers like you are a menace. Now you’re either very lucky with the law or you aren’t such a bad driver usually, because when I checked I found your record is clean. Until now.”
“Still,” she continued, “eighty-six miles per hour is very serious around here. I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you a citation for speeding.”
“Couldn’t you, maybe, give me a warning, a stern warning?” I gushed out. “I’m really sorry and, well, today’s my birthday.”
She looked at the date on the license for a moment and then smiled a bit. “So it is. Thirty years old today, huh?”
“Yeah. So it’s kind of a bad day anyway. Turning thirty…”
Officer Armstrong considered the license for a moment and then me for another. I was praying she would be kind and let me off. When she spoke I believed it hadn’t worked.
“I just can’t let you off for driving eighty-six miles per hour. But I can use an alternate form of justice, if you agree.”
“What is it?” I cautiously asked.
“Tell me, mister,” she said forcefully, “has anyone given you a birthday spanking yet today?”
The words stunned me and it seemed forever before I could get out the truthful answer. “No.”
“Well, here’s the deal. You must be punished, either by a ticket, which will cost you about a hundred bucks and stay on your record for years, or by some other method. In this case, a spanking, which acts like an official warning and is recorded as such.
I looked at her intently to see if she was really serious. Her expression told me she was. The decision to make had me reeling. I didn’t want a ticket, of course, but I wanted my wife to spank me. Still, that didn’t seem like it would happen. And maybe this would fulfill the need. But with my wife there…I wondered how she felt about it. I glanced toward the car’s interior and the officer understood. She looked in.
“Is that acceptable with you, ma’am?” she asked my wife.
Nervous and fidgety, my wife struggled to get out her words. “If that’s what he wants…it’s up to him.”
“Well?” she asked in a tone that meant business. I felt my fact flush and she stared me down, like a principal in front of a naughty schoolboy. “What’s it going to be?”
I wanted to be matter-of-fact–or brave–about it and say “I’ll take the spanking,” but all I could get out of my mouth was “I…I don’t want a ticket.”
That was good enough. The officer pressed her lips into a tight, thin smile and said, “All right then. Got a hairbrush?” I hadn’t expected that question, but it was too late to change my mind now. I stuck my head in the car window and looked at my wife.
“She wants a hairbrush,” I said softly but urgently. Without a word, my wife reached back for her make-up bag, unzipped it and pulled out the heavy, wide-back wooden brush I had given to her for Christmas, hoping she would use it in the very manner that the officer was about to. She rolled her eyes a bit as she handed me the brush, as if to say “OK, you asked for it; now you’re going to really get it.”
I withdrew from the car and turned to face Office Armstrong. As she took the brush from my hand, a car passed us, the occupants, as travelers always do, looking at us in curiosity. The patrol-woman pondered a second, then pointed out a clump of scrub pine trees ten feet away. “All right, mister, march on over to those trees.” As I turned to march to what would be my private woodshed, she gave me a light but firm push on the back. “No stalling, now. Justice will be fair and swift. And severe.”
The trees made a perfect six-foot privacy screen. Once behind them, the world was gone; it was just me and the woman who was going to spank me. She hopped up to sit on a high-cut stump of a former pine and rested her feet firmly on a large rock on the ground below her. While she adjusted herself for comfort, I gauged that I would have to bend up-and-over her lap and would dangle completely at her mercy. Which, I began to be sure, she would have little of. Settled in place, she called me over, waving the hairbrush. “Come over here, mister. It’s time someone taught you the importance of the speed limit. It’s time…” she paused, “for someone to give you a good, hard, birthday spanking. And I’m the one who’s going to do it. Now, get over here.”
I trudged over to her right side and felt my heart race as I began to bend over her knee. She put her hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Just a moment, mister. Aren’t you forgetting something?” I felt my face flush crimson again as I realized what she meant. I hadn’t counted on having to take my pants down, but then, I hadn’t counted on any of this happening. Soon, I knew, my bottom would be as red as my face was now.
“Your pants, mister. Drop ’em. After all, you’ve got to be in your birthday suit for a birthday spanking. So pull down your pants and shorts, and then get over my lap. Right now.”
I fumbled with my belt, then the button and then the zipper. After overcoming those obstacles, the material was no problem and I pushed my pants down to my knees. “Do I have to pull down my underpants?” I asked meekly, more in modesty than in the hope of having something to cushion the paddling.
“You heard me,” she replied. “Get those shorts down and bend over my knee.” My face was still burning, so the added embarrassment of standing exposed was not going to show. I slipped my fingers under the elastic leg bands of my jockey shorts and pulled them down to joint my pants below. I looked up at the officer and she spread her arms to receive me. “All right, you naughty boy. Time for your spanking. Bend over.”
My wife, back in the car, either had been able to hear what was happening or didn’t want to risk having to listen, because the music of Miami Sound Machine wafted to us in “the woodshed”. The song that began as I bent over Officer Armstrong’s lap struck me as ironic; funny enough even now to actually make me smile.
“Boys will be boys…bad boys…bad boys… Boys will be boys… bad boys…bad boys” came the words. “Bad, bad, bad, bad boys,” sang Gloria Estafan and I heard the officer give a “humph” in consideration of the song as she heard it.
“Sounds like they’re playing your song,” she told me as she guided me into position across her lap. She jostled and adjusted my body until my bottom curved just right over her right knee. I had been correct; I now lay dangling across her lap, unable to touch the ground with my toes or fingers. She planted a hand against my back to pin me securely, and rested the back of the wooden hairbrush against my right buttock. Mouth dry, lips quivering, palms sweating, I awaited my birthday spanking.
“Well, young man, you’ve been a very naughty boy. Driving thirty-one miles an hour over the speed limit is very, very naughty. But I’m going to see to it that you learn a lesson on your birthday. I’m going to spank your bare bottom thirty times, plus one to grow on, and while I do I want you to think about how naughty you were and how fortunate I was there to catch you. Because you need to be punished, young man, and I’m going to see to it that you are. Now, you think about what you’ve done.
I was thinking, hard, and I was thinking that maybe I’d bit off a lot more than I could chew. In a moment I felt the same way, because the hairbrush raised off of my bottom and all I felt was the warm sunshine on it. Here I was, a thirty-year old man, about to be spanked like a naughty boy. The sun was warm; I knew very soon my bottom would feel much warmer. But down deep, I knew I deserved it, knew I needed it and knew this spanking was what I had really been looking for.
The first spank’s SMACK sounded like a gunshot and the pain made me gasp in shock. The second, on my other, untouched buttock, was harder yet and the sting felt like fire. The officer took her time, aimed carefully and delivered each spank forcefully on a new area of my bottom. The eighth swat completed the spanking of my “virgin” bottom and it was now totally aflame. Methodically, she continued to spank me each time where I would feel it most.
“Stop squirming, now,” she commanded me. “You just lie still and take your spanking, naughty boy.”
“It’s too hard!” I heard myself whine. “Please—“
“Too hard?” she exclaimed. “I’m just beginning. You don’t know hard yet, mister.”
And she was right. I couldn’t believe how each spank was more excruciating than the last. I struggled to break free, desperately wanting to stop even if it meant a ticket, but she was too strong. She stopped and held me tight to her knees until I ceased moving.
“Young man,” she barked as I lay there gasping, “I’m only going to tell you this once. If you don’t stop fighting this spanking, I’m not going to stop at thirty-one. I’ll continue to spank your bare bottom until you can’t sit in your driver’s seat for a month! Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I panted, tears slipping from my eyes.
“Good. Now, where was I?” she mused.
“Twenty-eight” I said hopefully. She blew out air in disgust at the number I had chosen.
“I’m nowhere near twenty-eight and you know it. Do you want me to start all over again?”
“No, no!” I pleaded.
“All right, then, enough with the smart-ass remarks. After all, right now, your ass don’t look so smart. But when I’m through with you, it will smart. Now, let’s see…oh, yes, nineteen.”
And with that she continued. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, carefully measuring out my punishment. I laid as still as I could, jumping by reflex only with each spank, which she didn’t seem to mind. My entire bottom was burning and I knew it would burn for a long time, retaining the heat like barbecue coals.
Finally, she counted off the last ones. “Twenty-nine–SPANK!, thirty–SPANK!” She paused for an extra moment to let me dread the last one a while longer. “And one to grow-UP on,” she said sternly, modifying the traditional phrase.
She must have really reached back and swung hard, because the sound it made and the shock of the spank made me let out a howl. “Now get up, naughty birthday boy,” she told me, and I struggled weakly off of her lap. She sat holding the hairbrush, regarding my beet-red, teary-eyed face as I clumsily pulled up my jockey shorts and pants. Without a word she hopped off of the stump and I followed her to the cars.
My wife, drumming her fingers nervously against the side of the car, quickly turned down the music as we approached her. Officer Armstrong handed her the hairbrush. “Ma’am,” she said politely, “I suggest you use this on him from time to time, especially if he’s going to drive you around like that.” My wife took the brush without a word, and Officer Armstrong turned to me.
“Don’t you ever drive too fast through here again, mister.” I nodded and gingerly got in and sat behind the wheel. She watched me carefully and legally merge onto the highway and drive on. After following for awhile, she passed us.
“Are you OK?” was all my wife asked me. I nodded, not knowing how much she had heard and not in the mood to ask. “Still hungry?” she questioned and again I nodded.
We ate in a small Eureka care and as we finished, Officer Armstrong entered. She spotted us in the small room and smiled slightly, as if we shared a secret. As we headed for the door, we passed her at the counter. She swivelled her chair to face me and my wife hurried on to pay the bill.
“I’m surprised you didn’t have to eat standing up,” she said in a low voice meant only for us. “Maybe I didn’t do a good job.”
“I think it was good enough,” I told her.
“Just remember, birthday boy, if you ever want that to happen again, you just speed through here. I guarantee you’ll get the same.”
I looked in her eyes and saw not just the stern expression of a highway patrol officer, but the earnest look of a woman who had gotten satisfaction out of our encounter. And I understood. I knew I had gotten satisfaction, too. I nodded.
“When I come back, I will try to drive more carefully,” I said, and saw in her eyes that she knew what I meant; I most likely would be flying more than eighty-six miles per hour, anticipating her catching me in the act again and punishing me for it as I so richly would deserve. My heart beat fast as I went to joint my wife outside in the town that would become a very special and frequent stop for me and my needs.
Eureka! I had found it.
