Coming when called

I had just turned seven and was playing at the park with some friends. Our mothers were sitting on benches a few hundred yards away, where they could see us but we were too far to call.

Late in the afternoon, a kid came and told me my mother wanted me to come because it was time to go. I said I would come in a minute, because I was having so much fun I didn’t want to stop just yet. Then I forgot and kept playing.

A while later, my mother came – and her brow was knotted with anger. She took me tightly by the wrist and led me away, saying: “You know better than not to come when I call you, young man! You are going to be spanked when we get home!”

I was thunderstruck. I hadn’t planned on being naughty – it just happened. I tried to protest, but my mother ordered me to be quiet.

All the way home she held my hand, as if to make sure I wouldn’t run away. Of course, I had no thought of running away from my mommy at that age – where would I run to?

I looked up at her imploringly, searching her face for some sign of softening, some sign that the sentence she had pronounced would not be carried out. But her face was resolute and her pace quick, each step bringing us closer to home and me closer to her lap.

When we got home, Mommy pulled up a chair, sat down and stood me in front of her. She asked if I had anything to say for myself before my spanking. Allowed to speak at last, I blurted out that I was sorry, that I didn’t mean it, that I forgot. She was unmoved.

Taking the elastic waistbands of my shorts and underpants between her thumb and forefinger, she pulled them both down to the middle of my thighs, saying: “It looks like you need a little something which will help you remember next time!”

I began to cry as she laid me across her lap, and I cried harder still as she began slapping my bare bottom with her open hand. Each slap hurt more and more, until I was wailing and sobbing into the rug below.

By the time she had finished spanking me, pulled my pants back up and stood me on my feet, I was a very well chastened little boy, still bawling and rubbing the seat of my shorts to try to lessen the sting.

Contributor: Handprince

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