Independence day

As a child, I was often packed off to my maternal grandparent’s home in the country. While there, I was allowed to get away with all manner of mischief and back talk. I went to bed when I pleased, ate what I pleased and said what I pleased.

At about age four, I was becoming accustomed to this liberal way of life and was often treated to a sound spanking from my mother once I returned home and attempted to continue my sassy ways.

On one memorable occasion after a visit to grandma’s, I received a well-deserved dose of my mother’s hand on my fanny.

Impatient to embark on a planned afternoon visit to a friend’s house, I told my mother, who was making lunch before we went, that I was ‘going to go now!’ and marched to the door to make good on my promise.

Now, we lived on a very busy stretch of road and I can only imagine what horrors flashed through my mother’s mind at my statement. If I had attempted to cross that busy road by myself, I surely would have been killed.

I still remember hearing the angry slap of the spatula on the counter as my mother left her task in the kitchen to take the time to give her rebellious daughter a lesson in manners and patience.

In a flash she was kneeling beside me, holding me over her bent knee with one arm wrapped around my waist while the other hand administered a series of smacks to my tiny backside.

Always quick to cry and squirm my way out of a punishment, I tried to wriggle away as the tears began streaming down my face. There was to be no escape for my poor behind this time, however. The more I fought, the madder my mother became! I had never had such a spanking to my recollection – it seemed to go on forever.

I stomped my feet and yelled, but to no avail. I only succeeded in making my mother even more furious. “That’s it, young lady!” she snapped, and yanked my polyester draw-waisted pants around my ankles.

And if that wasn’t enough of a surprise for my childish mind, the feel of my panties coming down next certainly did the trick! You can bet I was shocked when I felt the cool air on my behind and then the rain of smacks on my bare bottom.

I had never received a bare-bottomed spanking before and boy, did it hurt! The number of smacks was uncountable – I don’t think I could count past 20 at that young age – and I remember getting the hiccups in the middle of my spanking.

When it was all over, I remember my mother swiftly pulling up my trousers and turning me to face her. She shook me gently to make me look into her eyes as I continued to cry. “If you ever talk to me that way again, you will be spanked with your pants down,” she stated earnestly and added, almost as an afterthought, “with a paddle.”

I never did receive that dreaded paddle – perhaps it was because I was a smart child and learned to keep my antics and tantrums confined to my grandparents’ more liberal household.

Or perhaps it was because I never did want to find out about something which I had no doubt could cause more of a fire in my fanny than my mother’s hand on my bare behind!

Contributor: Heather

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