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One Thing Leads to Another

by Paul Lewis

Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 23 Mar 2010

One Thing Leads to Another

This story is a more or less true one and the events described took place some 25 years ago, about three months after my 11th birthday. The details are as accurate as I can remember.

It was a fine spring afternoon during the last week of the Easter school holiday and my pal, Mark and I were playing out in our back garden. Mark was just on 10 years old and, although slightly over a year younger than I, we had been close friends from the time we were very small. We did, however, by this stage go to different schools but in view of the fact that we lived only five doors apart, we lost no chance to get together whenever the opportunity presented itself. In appearance, we were quite distinct from one another, Mark being blond, whilst my hair was dark brown. We both had blue eyes and both were slim and athletic although, being older, I was a little taller.

In our garden at that time close up against the fence, was an old wood-bunker, built by my father many years before. This was a rectangular wooden structure with a flat top, which lifted for filling and the whole thing stood about five feet tall. Mark and I had used it from time immemorial as a lookout post, scrambling up onto it via some old concrete blocks that lay on the ground at one end. Now, however, my mother had warned us against climbing on the bunker, (a) because it was now becoming decidedly rickety and (b), because we were now considerably bigger and heavier than when we had first started playing on it some years before.

Chasing each other joyously around the garden in the spring sunshine, Mark suddenly leapt up onto the blocks at the end of the bunker and hauled himself up onto the top. “Hey, you'd better not do that,” I called. “Mum has told us not to any more.”

“Oh, come on, Paul,” he answered, “it's quite safe, look,” and he bounced up and down a few times.

“Well, OK,” I replied doubtfully, “but if Mum catches us, we'll be in trouble after she's told us not to.”

“She's not about, is she?” Mark reminded me. “I thought she was going upstairs for a rest.”

“Well, alright then, but we mustn't be too long. I guess she'll be down soon,” I answered and, somewhat against my better judgement, clambered up to join him on our “lookout”, from where we had a fine view over the next-door neighbour's garden.

As I reached the top, Mark pretended to push me back and we grappled together, giggling and laughing as we did so. Unfortunately, we did not hear until too late, the protesting creaks and cracks being emitted by the bunker in response to our antics and, our first inkling of disaster, was when the surface we were standing on, gave a loud crack. Next, we found ourselves falling, as the wooden top of the bunker gave way and we disappeared into the interior with what remained of the winter firewood. Worse was to come however as, with a splintering crash, the front of the bunker fell out and collapsed onto the ground amid a heap of wood. Luckily, we were not hurt, beyond a few scratches, but the bunker was a total wreck. We looked at each other in shocked horror but, before we could extricate ourselves from the mess, the window above us opened, to reveal my mother looking down. Her expression did not bode well!

Being a fine, warm day, the French windows into the living room were open and my mother, rushing downstairs, came straight out into the garden that way. “Both of you, inside, now!” she ordered and, shamefacedly, we pulled ourselves clear of the wreckage and preceded her indoors. In the living room, she rounded on me. “Paul! What on earth were you thinking of? I have told you, quite clearly and on numerous occasions, that you should no longer climb on that bunker and you have been deliberately disobedient. Mark, I think you had better go home!”

“Yes, Mrs. Lewis,” he mumbled and hurried from the room glad, no doubt, to be escaping from a very embarrassing situation. A few seconds later, we heard the front door shut behind him. It did occur to me briefly, to attempt to explain that it was Mark's idea to go up onto the bunker and that I had tried to stop him. However, I didn't bother; it probably would have been useless in any case, especially as this was our garden, I was the elder and Mum would simply have thought I was lying to try and get out of trouble.

As the front door closed, she turned to me. “What you need, my lad, is a good smack bottom,” she said, in that quiet, level tone she always used when she was particularly angry.

So saying, she took my arm in one hand and, with the other, drew out one of the dining chairs and plonked it down in the middle of the room. Then she sat down, pulled me towards her, undid the clip of my shorts and, unzipping them, tugged them down to my ankles, together with my underpants. In one swift movement, she pulled me forward across her lap from right to left, so that my head and shoulders were close to the floor and I was holding myself up with both hands. My legs and feet were well off the ground on the opposite side and my bare, upturned buttocks had suddenly become my highest point.

She then pushed my tee-shirt well up my back so that, from shoulders to ankles, I was naked. My mother's bottom-smacking technique never varied, from the very first spanking I received at about the age of seven, right through to the last, when I was twelve and this time was no exception. Without a word she began laying it on, quick, hard, resounding slaps that covered my pert mounds from the crown down to the tops of my thighs. She never slapped any higher than the peak of my buttocks, but the swift succession of very hard smacks, all over my bottom from one cheek to the other, up and down, from thighs to crown and back again, was rapidly making me very sore indeed.

Very soon, I was wriggling and squirming, legs kicking up and down, as my bum became increasingly hot and sore. Shortly after the spanking began, my shorts and pants flew off and landed in a heap. Released from their confinement, my legs and thighs started going in all directions as my backside became hotter and hotter and I became aware that this spanking seemed to be lasting longer than any that I had ever had before. With the speed she was laying on the smacks, my mother must have been averaging about two per second, each one as hard as the last and, normally, this tended to go on for about fifteen to twenty seconds. This time, however, she must have been smacking steadily for forty-five seconds at least, before she finally stopped and drew me back across her lap and onto my feet. I was crying lustily by this time, jigging about from one foot to the other and rubbing my hot, smarting arse vigorously with both hands.

“Now,” went on my mother, in that same quiet voice, almost as if she had never spent the last minute giving her errant son the smacked bottom of his life, “I think you had better go upstairs, wash your face, go to your room and think about your behaviour today. When you are ready, come down and we'll have a talk.”

Without a word, I picked up my discarded shorts and pants and, still bare-arsed, left the room and went up to my bedroom, where I flung myself face-down on the bed, bare bottom up, still sniffling audibly.

That was more or less that; later I had the talk with Mum, apologised for my disobedience and was forgiven. Otherwise, I was banned from playing with Mark for the rest of the holiday but, as this was Thursday and we went back to school the following Monday, that probably wasn't all that important.


The next week duly arrived and back to school it was. Walking home that afternoon, I was surprised to see Mark out in his front garden, as if waiting for me. As his school was nearer than mine, he always got back first but, normally would go straight indoors. He waved as I approached.

“Hi! How ya doing?” he called out. “Can you come in for a minute?”

I thought swiftly. Being a Monday, my mother would be at her Townswomen's Guild meeting that afternoon and wouldn't be home until 5.00 p.m. so, it now being only about 3.50, it should be safe enough.

“Is your Mum back yet?” I asked. I did not think she would be, as she worked as receptionist at the local doctors' surgery and generally came home around 5.30. However, as we were still officially not allowed to play together, I didn't feel like taking any chances.

“No,” he replied, “she won't be back for a couple of hours yet. Let's go in.” In other circumstances, I might have registered the slightly mischievous grin on his lips but, being a little preoccupied, I let it pass without notice.

In their living room, Mark fetched us a couple of glasses of squash and we settled down on the hearthrug, legs curled under us.

“I'm really sorry about the other day,” he began when we were settled. “Did you get into an awful lot of trouble after I left?”

Well, there was no way that I was going to admit that, three minutes after he'd gone out the front door, I was face-down, bum up, across Mum's knee, getting a very hard spanking, so I just said, “Nah. I was grounded for the rest of the holidays and Mum wouldn't let us get together.”

It was then that I noticed, finally, the rapidly broadening grin on my pal's face. “You lying toerag!” he exclaimed. “Your Mum smacked your bum, didn't she!”

I didn't quite know how to answer this and, in the pause which followed Mark's comment he went on, “Pulled you over her knee right there in the lounge and spanked your arse red!”

“OK,” I surrendered. “But how the hell did you know?”

At least he had the grace to look very slightly sheepish, though not very much so! “Well,” he began, “you know when I went out the front door and closed it behind me?”

I nodded. “Go on.”

“I didn't actually go home. You see, I guessed that something was going to happen after I'd gone, so I nipped round through your side gate to the back and looked round the corner of the garden door, which was still open. Your Mum was pulling you across her knee just as I got there and because of the way she was sitting, your bum was straight towards the window and you couldn't see me. I saw everything!”

I sat back on my heels and just gaped at him, not knowing whether to laugh or be angry at his cheek. Then I felt a strange sensation in my loins and found, for the first time, that the thought of my best friend having seen me almost totally naked and in that position, was actually very erotic. Then I thought of the show I must have been putting on, wriggling and kicking and what Mark must have seen of my most intimate areas and my 11-year-old prick stiffened in response.

“You little bugger!” I exclaimed with a laugh and jumped on him, rolling him over and pinning him to the floor. “I suppose you do know that it's all your fault that I ended up with a very sore bum, don't you?”

Mark struggled but was laughing too much to put up much resistance and another, very naughty thought came into my head.

“Actually,” I went on, “you're the one who should have been spanked, not me at all! Suppose we tell your Mum exactly what happened. What do you think she'd say?”

Mark stopped laughing. “Oh, no, Paul. Please don't do that!”

“Well, why not? What would she do?”

He paused, then went on quietly, “she'd give me a hell of a spanking, just like you got, I expect.”

“I think you deserve it though.” I pretended to think about it for a while before continuing, “But of course, there is something else we could do.”

“What's that?”

“Well, as you've seen my bare bum getting smacked, it's only fair that I get to smack yours, isn't it?”

He laughed nervously. “You're joking!”

“No, either I smack your bum or I tell your Mum!” In view of his cheeky behaviour, I didn't feel too ashamed of the blackmail and suddenly I realised that I really wanted to see Mark's bum naked, just as he'd seen mine.

After a moment he sighed and said, “OK, then. When shall we do it?”

I looked at my watch; still only 4.15 – plenty of time. “Now!” I answered firmly, looking around the room for a convenient spanking location. My eyes lighted on the settee, which had broad, roll-top arms, just the perfect height and width to bend a 10-year-old boy over for a good smacked bottom.

I let him up. “Take down your trousers and pants and go and bend over the arm of the settee,” I told him. Without a word, he stood up, undid the belt of his grey school trousers, unbuttoned the top, unzipped the fly and let them fall to his ankles. “Right off,” I instructed.

Slipping his shoes off, he took off his trousers and draped them over the back of the settee. “Right, now pants,” I went on. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his skimpy blue briefs, tugged them down and off and looked at me. “OK, now over the arm,” I ordered him. Again without speaking, he turned and draped himself over the roll-top arm, the tails of his school shirt just covering his buttocks. I quickly pulled the shirt right up his back to expose his bum completely and stood for a moment, savouring the splendid view.

Mark's bum was gorgeous – smooth and firm and white as snow. His thighs were quite close together, so I shifted his legs apart, exposing his pink bulls-eye and small, neat balls. My own prick was rock-hard at the sight and tenting the front of my own school trousers with its 3-½ inch length. I rubbed a hand over the flawless buttocks in front of me, enjoying the satiny smooth feel of a pristine, 10-year-old bottom. Then I raised my right hand and brought it down hard on the right cheek, with a satisfyingly loud slap. Mark gasped slightly and I was gratified to see that milk-white bottom turning pink. Then I started smacking him for real, hard and fast, imitating what my mother had done to me a few days earlier and the resounding slaps echoed round the room as Mark's backside gradually changed from white to pink and then to bright red.

Just as I had done, he was squirming around, legs kicking and revealing all his secrets to my gaze. At one point, he raised his bum off the arm and, to my amazement, I caught a glimpse of his prick – and it was stiff! Only about 2-½ inches, it is true, but definitely erect. As he was very red now, I stopped spanking and ran my hand gently over his hot buttocks, letting a finger slide into his crack and tickle his balls and bulls-eye as I did so. He moaned gently and looked round. “Come on, get up,” I said. “That was a really good spanking.”

Mark heaved himself up and stood facing me, his little stiff cock jiggling before him. He grinned. “Blimey, Paul! That wasn't quite as hard as I've ever been smacked by Mum but it wasn't far off. I guess I know now, what you got.”

“Well, I don't think I smacked you as hard as my Mum smacked me but it certainly wasn't bad.”

Mark eyed the bulge in the front of my trousers and I saw a grin start to spread over his face. “Come on, Paul, let's swap over. You've smacked me now, so get your trousers off and let me smack you. We've got time and we might as well have some fun!”

I grinned in my turn and, without hesitating, took off my shoes, undid my trousers and let them join Mark's over the back of the settee. Then I stripped off my briefs and lay down across the arm, bare arse high in the air. Mark moved behind me, pushing my shirt right up and then, the little devil, he put his hand down between my thighs and started massaging my balls with his fingers.

“I got a really good view of your balls when you were getting smacked the other day,” he said. “I just wanted to know what they felt like.” Then his hand moved from my balls and I felt his cool palm resting on my bum, just across the crack. The hand lifted and a moment later, a sharp smack echoed round the room. Mark spanked me as hard as he could for a couple of minutes but, of course, it was nothing to the spanking I'd had from Mum the other day. Anyway, I felt my prick stiffen up again as he smacked away at my buttocks and realised why he had enjoyed it. After a while, he moved to separate my legs a bit further and I felt his fingers spread my bum cheeks.

A second later, a small, cool finger was exploring my crack from top to bottom. As it reached my bulls-eye, it stopped, tracing the outline and tickling the very centre of my most secret place. If we'd done all this before my spanking last week, I'm sure that I'd have felt too embarrassed to allow this but, somehow, now it didn't worry me, perhaps because I knew that Mark had already had a grandstand view of what he was now exploring.

I moaned with pleasure, as Mark's finger probed a little deeper and I felt it just push inside before withdrawing again. Suddenly, I felt that we probably had done enough in that direction for one day, so heaved myself up off the settee arm and stood facing my best mate. We both grinned as we eyed each other's stiffies and, as one, we reached out to grasp them gently, hands moving in unison to rub one other. In a very short time we both came to climax, although, at our age, we were still dry; nonetheless, the sensation was wonderful.

After that, we decided, regretfully, that it was time for me to get off home and be back in safely, before my mother's return.

After this first exploratory venture, Mark and I were enthusiastic to repeat the exercise and our mutual spanking and wanking games carried on for the next couple of years, ceasing only when Mark's family moved away. Before he left however, we often talked about that first time and how it was all kicked off by Mark's disobedience and his later, cheeky observation of my subsequent punishment.

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