Wet clothes

When I was 10, mom and dad went away on a business trip. Since they could not take me with them, mom asked a girlfriend if I could stay with her until they returned. The girlfriend said yes, and I was taken to her home.

The friend was younger than mom and very pretty. She was not yet married and lived alone. It would be fun to have a little boy around the house, she said to mom. But little boys, mom assured her, often got themselves into trouble and before she left, mom told the woman exactly what she should do if I did not behave.

“If he doesn’t do what he’s supposed to do or gets out of line,” mom instructed, “make sure you put him across your lap and give him a warm bottom.”

The woman giggled at this and smiled at me. I assumed nothing of the kind would actually happen – but I quickly discovered how very wrong my thinking was!

Things went fine for the first few days, without even a threat or scolding, and I began to fall into my usual routine of doing as I pleased and getting away with as much as I could. However, I soon found out that my Mother’s friend was not a pushover and that she could – and would – carry out the instructions she had been given to the letter.

One very wet morning, I was sternly warned to not get my clothes dirty while playing. The rear yard was sopping wet and the bare patches on the lawn were muddy. Needless to say, I did not stay clean for very long – and by the time I was finished playing and went back into the house, I was caked with thick brown mud and left a tell-tale trail of brown, from the kitchen to the living room.

“You naughty boy!” came an angry female voice from behind me. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself, never mind my clean floor and carpet!”

Grabbing me by my right hand, she led me into the bathroom and said: “I’ll have to wash everything you have on while you take a shower. Leave them outside the door.” I did as told, stripping and placing my muddy clothes on the floor outside the door. I then showered and had just turned off the water when the door opened, and she walked back in.

I peeked around the shower curtain and saw her take a large pink bath towel off the rack. She held it out and told me to get out of the tub. “After you’re gone,” I said to her. “You gave up your right to modesty when you disobeyed me,” she said. “You can get out and let me dry you, or I can leave and return with a hairbrush. Which will it be, young man?”

I opted for the towel and slid the curtain aside and stepped on to the mat next to the tub. She knelt down and dried me all over, including, to my embarrassment, my private parts. I felt the blush rising but said not a word.

But it was just the start of my embarrassment. I reached for the towel when I was dry and she folded it and placed it back on the rack, but she slapped my hand and took me by my left wrist and towed me from the room, as naked as the day I was born.

“While you’re still in the buff, we can take care of the second order of business,” she said as we arrived at the living room sofa.

Now blushing as red as a beet, I asked her what she was going to do and she replied by seating herself and pulling me face down across her knees – a position I was more than familiar with at home. However, I was used to mom doing it, not a complete stranger, and I became a contrite little boy, hoping to beg my way out of my just desserts.

But Mom’s pretty girlfriend was not buying it. She encircled my waist with her left arm, raised her right and her open palm came down across the summit of my left buttock. Yelping from the sting, I pleaded with her not to spank me but my pleas were to no avail.

Her hand began coming down briskly and readily and alternated from cheek to cheek. I began to cry and wiggle as the sting spread and my cheeks burned. Each spank was a white-hot needle, and there was no escape.

I can’t say for sure just how many spanks I received that day, but it seemed to go on forever. Finally I just lay there taking them, gritting my teeth and promising I’d never disobey her again.

Then it was over. The last spank fell and I heard my own breath coming in gasps, She left me there over her lap for a minute, then helped me back to my feet. I was warned not to rub or I would get more, then I was hustled into a corner, still naked.

I stood there, red bottom on display, until she returned with my clean clothes. I was told to dress and she watched as I did, arms folded over her breasts – wearing, I noticed, a smile of smug satisfaction.

She did not tell mom she had spanked me. She feared mom might spank me again if she reported the incident, and that would not be right. She explained that I had been spanked for my misdeed, and the case was closed.

Now, some 30 years after that day, I still think of her and look back on that spanking with fondness.

Contributor: Anonymous

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