Shoplifting punishment

I was the 13-year-old only child of well-to-do parents living in a small Canadian city. They were well respected, prominent citizens and I was pretty much what you could describe as a spoiled brat. I continually stayed out late, drank beer, smoked pot and raised hell throughout the neighbourhood.

The crowd I was running around with was pretty rough and being the youngest in the group, I was required to do the dirty work. One Saturday, I was dared to steal some cigarettes from the local convenience store. I took the dare but ended up getting caught by the older lady who ran the place with her husband.

I begged them not to call the police but it was all to no avail. Thankfully, the officer who attended knew my parents and decided to take me home rather than charge me and cause my parents further embarrassment.

Mom was furious when the officer told her what I’d done and she guaranteed that she would deal with me in a way that ensured I wouldn’t be causing trouble again. No sooner had the officer closed the front door before she screamed at me to go to my room and wait for her.

More than 30 minutes passed before she walked into my room. Without a word, she grabbed me by the arm and marched me down the hall to her bedroom. She slammed the door behind her and proceeded to lecture me about what an embarrassment I was to the family and if I didn’t clean up my act, one day I would end up in jail.

She informed me that I was grounded for the remainder of the summer, would be confined to the house and the only time I left it would be under her direct supervision. She turned towards her dressing table and removed a wooden hairbrush from the top drawer.

“Your father and I never believed in spanking as punishment but since you’ve turned into such a brat you leave me no choice.”

She grabbed me by the ear, led me over to the bed and sat down, and with one quick yank she pulled my pants down around my ankles. With one finger, she tapped her lap and I knew it meant I was to lay across her lap. Without a word or further warning, she delivered what seemed like 40 smacks on my bare bottom.

By the fifth smack I was squirming, by the tenth I was kicking and protesting and by the 20th, I was bawling like a baby. Mom didn’t slow her pace and when she was satisfied I’d learned my lesson, I was forced to stand in the corner for the next hour.

Contributor: Steve

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