Davy Crocket

From: [email protected] (Boy Spanker)

My most memorable spanking experience was at the hands of a relative stranger: the woman who ran the toy store in my home town, Mrs. Emily Winchel.

If youíre my age, youíll remember how huge the Davy Crockett era was to kids in the mid to late SOís. If youíre not, allow me to explain that Davy was the first in what has turned out to be a long line of popular TV or movie marketing phenomena. Davy toys were many, and every kid wanted as many of them as they could talk their parents into buying.

My parents were cool enough to get me a coonskin cap, a Davy shirt, a flintlock rifle, and a powder horn. But I didnít have the flintlock pistol that completed the set, and I really wanted it. I was 12 at the time and I remember how that pistol was all I could think of. My parents said theyíd get it for my birthday, but to my way of thinking, that was next to never since it was months away. I had some money saved up from my allowances and wanted to buy the gun myself, but my parents wouldnít let me.

So I used to go into the toy store in town and moon over the flintlock pistol and a few other Davy items, too. I got so desperate that I tried to talk the lady who ran the store into letting me have the pistol right away since my parents were going to buy it for me anyway. Mrs. Winchel (Iíll never forget her name or face!) was really nice, but she wouldnít go for it. She told me that learning to wait for some of the things I wanted was an important lesson. She smiled and promised that the pistol would be right there waiting for me when it was time for me to have it.

I liked Mrs. Winchel, but I thought she was stupid for not letting me have the gun. I tried whining at my parents again, but they just told me to be quiet about it, or I could forget getting it for my birthday. I concluded my parents were stupid too, and started dreaming about that pistol and how I could get it.

I wasnít the smartest kid in the world. I decided to steal the pistol and say I found it in the woods if anyone asked. There were no security cameras or alarms in those days, and there wasnít much cause for anyone to be suspicious in our town anyway, so it wasnít all that hard for me to hang around the store and walk out with a pistol one day when Mrs. Winchel got a phone call.

I was so happy to have the gun that I didnít care that Iíd stolen it. I really thought my plan was foolproof too, so the very next day, I added the pistol to my Davy outfit and proudly dis-played it for all to see. My friends all thought I was the coolest thing in town. They assumed my parents had bought me the gun and didnít question me at all. That got my confidence flying, but that only lasted until my mother rang the lunch bell and called for me to come home.

My blissful happiness ended as soon as I walked into the kitchen and saw the box the pistol had come in sitting on the kitchen table. Like I said, I wasnít the smartest kid in the world. Iíd stuffed the box under my bed the night before, and forgotten all about it. I couldnít think of anything else to say when my mother demanded to know how I got it, so I told her Iíd raided my piggy bank and bought it. I knew Iíd get in trouble for disobeying her, but I wasnít so dumb that I didnít know which was the lesser of two evils, disobedience or theft!

My parents werenít big spankers and I hadnít gotten spanked since I was 8, so I figured Iíd get grounded and have my allowance withheld for a week. But then my mom decided to go upstairs and take a look at my piggy bank. The stupid pig squealed as soon as mom checked it, and then the you know what really hit the fan!

Mom turned out to be far from stupid, after all. As soon as she knew I hadnít bought the gun, she deduced what Iíd done and interrogated a frightened confession out of me in a matter of minutes. Mom was real scary when she was mad, and she was real mad that day! She took the pistol and my hand, and nearly dragged me the few blocks to the toy store.

Mrs. Winchel was alone in the store when we entered. I recall her eyes opening wide in surprise when mom put the gun on the counter and told her what Iíd done. I recall her insisting that I look up at her instead of at my feet, and then Iíll never forget how hurt and disappointed she looked. For the first time, I felt really, really guilty for stealing the gun.

Mom was sort of ranting, but Mrs. Winchel was as calm as could be. I stood as still as I could while Mrs. Winchel calmed mom down. Mom said something about not knowing what to do with me, to which Mrs. Winchel replied that she had a very good idea of the best course of action. Mrs. Winchel had 4 kids of her own, was a pillar of our church, and, as a career woman, was respected by my morn and most of the other women in town. I guess you could say that she was ahead of her time in one respect, but the solution she came up with was very old-fashioned indeed!

I wish I could remember every word that was said, but I donít. However, I do recall some of what was said, and have since recreated the following conversation in my fantastic memory of that day: "All children are tempted to steal, Betty. Most donít because they listen to what we try to teach them. The ones who donít listen arenít really bad, they just need a little extra lesson. Iíve known you and little Billy since he was born. Youíve done a good job raising him. Heís a good boy. He just made a mistake."

"But he stole this gun from you!!"

"Yes, he did. But weíll take care of that, and Iím sure Billy will never steal anything again..."

I recall worshipping Mrs. Winchel right then. She was going to let me off the hook, and calm mom down at the same time, too. Before I could canonize her in my thoughts though, Mrs. Emily Winchel-- career woman, religious pillar, and mother-- finished her sentence.

"...after he has paid his penance for breaking the Eighth Commandment."

Penance?!? I went to church with my parents and all that, but I wasnít a particularly religious kid. Still, I knew enough to know penance was not a good thing. I wasnít sure what Mrs. Winchel meant. Neither was mom, so she asked. Unfortunately for me, Mrs. Winchel was only too happy to clarify her meaning.

"Speaking from my own experience, Betty, I think Billy should receive the sound spanking he earned for stealing the toy. And then he should work here in the store for an hourly wage until he pays it off. That would teach him not to steal, and also the value of working for something he wants."

I didnít like the sound of Mrs. Winchelís solution at all! I tried to say so, but both women turned on me with danger in their eyes, so I shut up. I really thought I was too big to be spanked, and mom wasnít a big believer in spanking anyway, so I expected her to thank Mrs. Winchel for her suggestion, and then not follow it.

But I learned a hard lesson that day-- just when you think youíve got parents figured out, theyíll do something to surprise you! Mom did, in more ways than one. She not only said she thought Mrs. Winchel was right, she also said she thought that since she was the injured party, she should be the one to give me my spanking.

I was too shocked to move or say a thing at first, but Mrs. Winchel wasnít. She looked at me, then at mom, smiled, and said she would happily treat me as if I were her own son, who she said never committed the same crime twice after having his bare bottom spanked!

Bare bottom! I would have run out of there, but mom was still holding my hand. I whined loudly about being too old to be spanked, being real sorry already, all that sort of thing. But I may as well have been mute and invisible. Neither woman paid the slightest attention to me as they settled the rest of my fate. I would be left in Mrs. Winchelís care until the shop closed at 5 p.m. She would bring me home on her way home, but until then, I was at her mercy. She assured my mother that I would learn a lesson Iíd never forget, and then begin earning the hourly wage that would pay for the stupid pistol.

I really couldnít believe my mother would leave me in the clutches of the obviously sadistic Mrs. Winchel, but she did. I recall watching the door close behind her and feeling like it was the end of my joyously youthful world. I stood stock still, not knowing what to do. It was the longest, most scary moment of my life.

Mrs. Winchel swept past me and went to lock the front door. She turned the "Out to Lunch" sign toward the street, and then came at me like an avenging angel out to smite the devil. Iíd always thought Mrs. Winchel was a pleasant looking lady-- she was about 5í4", buxom and matronly, wore her hair up in the fashion of the day, smiled a lot, and had nice, friendly brown eyes-- but right then she looked like Godzilla to me!

"In the back, my boy. Youíve got a good, sound spanking coming. Letís hop to it." I think she said, and I recall thinking she had to be out of her mind to think Iíd "hop" to get my ass spanked! It had been years since my last spanking, but I hadnít forgotten how terrible it was. My dad had administered my last spanking and it was awful, but somehow, I had the feeling the one Mrs. Winchel planned to give me would be even worse.

Mrs. Winchel put a hand on my shoulder and guided me to the storage area behind the store. I took tiny little steps at first, but then Mrs. Winchelís free hand whacked my backside hard and I scampered the rest of the way. I remember being surprised at how much that first smack over my pants and shorts stung, and how my mind raced wondering how much worse it would feel on my bare bottom!

I was too scared to care about pride, so I started begging, pleading, and whining before we got into the back room. I knew I was going to get spanked, and I knew it was going to be on my bare bottom, but it never occurred to me really resist. Mrs. Winchel was my elder, and a woman Iíd known all my life. I sure didnít want her to show me how experienced a spanker she was-- what sheíd said about her son had already convinced me!-- but being 12 back in the 50ís was a lot different than being 12 today. I was going to get bare bottom spanked, and all I could do was try and whine enough to make her want to go easy on me.

Mrs. Winchel propelled me through the storage room door and into the middle of the big, forbidding warehouse area. There were rows of shelves that rose way above my head and boxes scattered around. Mrs. Winchel paused for a moment, then pushed me toward a stack of crates. Before I could grasp everything that was happening, she sat down on one of the crates, pulled her skirt up out of the way, and pulled me between her knees. Locking her legs around mine, she held me fast and then got my full attention as she reached out and took hold of the stretch waistband of my pants.

"No! You canít! Please donít! Not on my bare heinie!..." Iím sure these were among the many protests I squealed while the determined mother of 4 demonstrated her expertise at baring bad bottoms for spanking. When I tried to grab my pants, she slapped my hands with one hand, and tugged them down to my knees with the other.

I recall feeling frantically humiliated as I stood there with just my soon to be lowered jockey shorts covering my 12 year-old privates. I was a modest kid, so not even my mother or father had seen me that naked for a long, long time. What was even more embarrassing to me was the fact that I hadnít yet attained what I and my male friends considered the mark of male maturity; pubic hair. Iíd lied to my friends and said I had, but I hadnít. Why that should matter to me so much right then, I donít know, but I vividly remember feeling ashamed that Mrs. Winchel was going to see that I was still a bald little boy!

"You canít! Youíre not my mother!" I hollered, holding onto the waistband of my little jockey shorts.

"No, Iím not your mother, Billy." Mrs. Winchel replied in a patient tone, "But I am going to soundly spank your naughty bare bottom none-theless."

A short tug of war followed, but it ended quickly when Mrs. Winchel somehow got her hand behind me and gave my sensitive seat three or four really hard slaps. They burned and hurt something fierce, so, without thinking, I let go of my underwear and put my hands back to protect and rub my assaulted ass. Before I even knew it, my jockeys was down around my knees with my pants, and my hairless privates were staring Mrs. Winchel in the face. She had to see! I thought Iíd die of shame!

Mrs. Winchel didnít seem at all flustered by my display or by the scarlet blush I could feel on my face. She simply spread her legs apart, took my hips in her hands, and moved me around to the side of her lap. I nearly dove across her knee when she ordered me to, experiencing for the first time in my life the paradox of eagerly jumping from a merely embarrassing position into a far more humiliating and dangerous one.

Mrs. Winchel took her time about getting me ready once I was over her lap. She moved me around, reached down and pulled my pants and shorts the rest of the way down my legs to my ankles, and then reached out and pulled my arm up behind my back. I tried to move around when I realized my little cock was resting against Mrs. Winchelís warm, stocking-covered thigh, but she had me pinned down too tight. As embarrassing as it was having her staring down at my very bare bottom, I was mortified with certainty that she felt my little nubbiní too. I had been acquainted with Mrs. Winchel all my life, but never in any way that could prepare me for the intimacy of what was going on. I couldnít ejaculate yet, but I was at the age when almost anything could get me hard. I prayed that I wouldnít, and I also prayed that Mrs. Winchel would hurry up and get it over with.

Neither of those prayers were answered, as it turned out, but first things first.

Mrs. Winchel didnít spank at all like my mom or dad. Iíd gotten a lot of one whackers in my life, but Iíd only been spanked in the traditional OTK position twice: once by my mom when I was 6, and once by my dad when I was 8. Both of those were on the bare and hurt like crazy, but they were probably less than 20 slaps each and over and done with in a hurry. Mrs. Winchel wasnít in any hurry.

She scolded me for a long time while I hung there with my butt up in her face. I donít remember everything she said, but I recall her mentioning the Eighth Commandment ("Thou shalt not steal!") and "Sparing the Rod and Spoiling the Child!" Iíd listened to several minutes of her sermonizing when I couldnít take it anymore. I yelled out for her to shut up and get it over with, which got me the two hardest, most hurtful slaps Iíd ever experienced, and a "Donít be insolent, my boy!" admonishment.

I didnít know anything could sting my ass that much! It had been a long time since Iíd been spanked, so I donít know if Mrs. Winchel slapped harder than dad or I had just forgotten how much a spanking hurt. Whatever it was, I know I howled like crazy as my whole butt erupted in flames, and my young intellect recoiled with fear at the thought of more to come!

Mrs. Winchel went back to sermonizing for about a minute or so, then she said the words Iíve replayed in my fantasies ever since, "Are you ready to learn your lesson, Billy?"

I answered with what I assume is all the usual stuff: "Iíve already learned... Iím sorry... Never do it again... Please donít spank... Not too hard..."

Mrs. Winchel listened patiently until I ran out of things to say, tucked me in tighter on her lap, and then stared slapping my bare little butt like it was possessed and she was going to drive the demons right back to hell! Iíll never forget how that spanking felt at first. (I guess itís like the first time you make love-- no matter how many years pass, you donít forget the details.) Her palm was big enough to almost cover a cheek, and Iím sure she spanked from cheek to cheek to start, because I recall my whole ass stinging and burning, then stinging and burning more, then more, and more. As far as I knew, Iíd never felt such intense pain in my young life. I couldnít believe how much it hurt, but every time I thought it couldnít get worse, Mrs. Winchelís hand would slap my bare ass and show me how wrong I was.

I know I raised a real ruckus while Mrs. Winchel warmed my bottom, and I remember feeling like sheíd never stop before I burst into tears. Iíd totally forgotten any semblance of modesty or where my nubbin was by 10 slaps or so, and only became remotely aware that my little guy had stiffened against Mrs. Winchelís warm thigh as I bounced around on her lap. I remember pleading and crying uncontrollably for a little while, then everything sort of went blank while Mrs. Winchel continued to spank my sorry seat.

I donít know how long Mrs. Winchel spanked me or how many spanks she administered. I donít even remember her letting me off her knee. All I remember is sobbing and gasping for air over her lap one minute, and then realizing I was dancing around the store room half naked and holding my abused ass. I remember noticing Mrs. Winchel watching me, but I didnít care. It felt good to rub, but it was like trying to put out a bonfire with a glass of water. I donít know how long I danced before I noticed my little cock was half hard, but when I did, some modesty returned and I bent over to get my shorts and pants.

"Leave them. Youíve got a date with that corner before they come back up." Mrs. Winchel said firmly, pointing across the room. I sure wasnít about to argue about anything. I left my pants right where they were and hopped over to the corner.

"Iíll call you when itís time to come out, Billy." she informed me, then added, "Iím going to open the store. But Iíll be watching you. If I see you rub your bottom just once, Iíll close the shop up tight and put you back over my knee again!"

"I wonít rub! I wonít! I promise!" I think I said, totally petrified by the notion of going back over her knee.

Mrs. Winchel told me later that I spent fifteen minutes in that corner. It was the longest, most enlightening fifteen minutes of my life. I put my hands in front of me so Mrs. Winchel couldnít possibly see think I was rubbing. It was quiet in the store, so I could hear her turn the lock on the front door, and her footsteps as she moved around on the wooden floor. I heard her come back towards me once and stood very still, not at all concerned that my bare little bottom was shining under the hanging lights in the back. I knew I passed muster when I heard her walk back toward the counter at the front. I felt a lot of things as I stood in that corner, but I didnít feel an ounce of resentment at Mrs. Winchel or my mom. I knew Iíd done wrong and deserved what I got. I had been taught to trust my elders, and I guess I did because as bad as the spanking had been, I never doubted for a second that Mrs. Winchel had spanked me for my own good

I donít know how long I stood there before I noticed my little cock was still half hard. The memory of Mrs. Winchelís warm thigh rubbing against it as I bucked on her lap was fresh, and I was a randy 12 year-old. Mrs. Winchel was still at the front of the store, so I looked behind me and figured I could touch myself with no one being the wiser. I did, carefully, and it felt great. I think between what had happened and how I felt standing there naked for Mrs. Winchel to see, I got a rush of lust. I was too afraid to play with myself like I did at home, but I wanted to badly. (And did later that night.)

Mrs. Winchel came back eventually and told me to pull up my pants. Then she sat back on the crate and called me over to her. She pulled me onto her lap and enveloped me in a big hug. I remember feeling her soft breasts against my cheek as she told me she had spanked me for my own good just like she did her own kids. She said she loved them very much and didnít like to spank them, but firm guidance was an important part of love. Then she said she loved all kids, including me. She kissed my forehead and hair a few times while she soothed me, and I felt weird feelings of love and respect in return.

Mrs. Winchel took me home that evening and every evening for the next two weeks while I worked off the price of the pistol. Even before my bottom had recovered two days later, I wanted her to spank me again. At least, I fantasized that I wanted her to while I played with myself. But in the light of day and Mrs. Winchelís sound spanking technique, I just couldnít bring myself to do it. I did have chances, like the second time she caught me climbing on the shelves in the back and told me Iíd get a spanking if she caught me doing it again. I kick myself today for not climbing right back up on those shelves or challenging her with a, "You wouldnít dare!"

As you can tell, I still think of Mrs. Winchel fondly, and often. She was the first and last woman to spank me so soundly, so many, many years ago. I secretly searched for a woman like Mrs. Winchel for years, but I didnít find one. Then I grew up, got married, and accepted the fact that I never would. My own wife would never understand what happened with that fine lady, and why it has stayed an important part of me ever since.

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