At the end of the day

When I was 10 years old and my younger brother was eight, we were playing together and got into an argument about something. The argument led to a fight and the next thing I knew, we were rolling around on the floor, hitting each other hard. This was no little scuffle – I can’t remember why we were so angry but we were furious.

We were so caught up in our anger at each other and the desperation of the fight, we never even noticed our mother standing in the doorway. The noise we were making had obviously attracted her attention.

She yelled at us and when we looked up at her, she walked over, dragged us apart and sternly told us: “You are both in for a good, hard spanking. Do you want your spanking right now, or do you want it later?” Wanting to delay the inevitable as long as possible, we both chose later.

That evening before bedtime, I was alone in my room. I was really hoping that my mom would forget about the spanking, although I knew that wasn’t much of a possibility. Still, there’s a first time for everything. I don’t remember her ever asking before to choose now or later to get spanked.

I was also still really angry with my brother and had convinced myself that he was in the wrong and that I was not. Somehow, I had decided that the way to prove my innocence in this whole matter was to nobly take my spanking without giving anyone the satisfaction of a single tear.

While I was still defiantly thinking this through, my mother came in, holding a slipper in her hand. She closed the door and said: “It’s time for your spanking. Your brother has already had his.”

She then told me: “Come over here and pull down your pants.” We were always spanked bare-bottomed. I reluctantly undid my pants and pulled them and my underwear down to my knees.

My mother then sat on the edge of the bed, pulled me across her knee and said: “I’m sorry, but this is going to be a really hard spanking. We can’t have this kind of fighting between the two of you. This time, it’s really going to hurt.”

She then began to blister my bottom with that slipper. Even though it was only a rubber-soled slipper, she used it hard and it did really hurt; she wasn’t kidding. As much as it hurt, I steeled myself and refused to cry.

I’m sure, looking back on this incident from adulthood, that my refusal to cry made the spanking even harder and longer than she had planned for it to be, since this was a much longer spanking than usual. She kept on spanking and spanking, smacking the slipper hard, until I felt the heat rising from my bottom and it stung like crazy. I thought it would never end.

Finally, she stopped and said: “Now, are we going to have any more fights like that?” I answered ‘no’, still in an angry voice.

She gave me a dozen or more hard smacks with her hand and then let me up. She said, in a kind of puzzled tone: “Didn’t that hurt?” I softened my tone and said that it did, being somehow smart enough to realise that keeping up my defiance and saying that it didn’t hurt would have probably gotten me right back over her knee.

As soon as she left, though, I immediately flopped down on the bed and cried like crazy. All of the pent up frustrations from the fight and from the pain of the spanking came out then.

After crying for a while, I got up and looked at my butt in the mirror on the back of my door. My bottom was still bright red and sore to the touch.

Contributor: Anonymous

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