I’ve already told you how I got paddled for passing notes in class – this is the story about what happened when I got home that day, with an already sore bottom.
As I noted in my previous story, prior to being paddled that day at school, I had not been spanked in over two years. I hadn’t even really been threatened with a spanking. Grounding had replaced the parental hand.
As I went through the rest of my school day, squirming in hard chairs, feeling a little feverish, I mentally played the ‘how long will I be grounded for’ game. It’s amazing I didn’t get in trouble again that day, for not paying attention.
My mind wandered a couple of times to a rule I had known throughout my younger years – that being in trouble at school would result in an immediate spanking. However, I dismissed the possibility. That rule was for back when I was still being spanked, after all.
When I finally reached the final bell and shuffled off to home, I was dreading what was sure to be an exceptionally long chewing out and the forthcoming sentence. Caroline and I wished each other luck as we left the building. So I walked on home.
When I finally got there, my mom was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the door. There was none of the calm coldness of Mrs Jamison. Rather, the fire of anger animated her entire face.
“Sit your little fanny down and do your homework right this second, young lady – then we are going to talk.”
Well, that didn’t sound good. I complied, thinking she was giving herself time to calm down. As I worked through my assignments, I actually found myself settling down. I didn’t exactly forget that I was in big trouble, but I pushed the thought aside.
When my homework was finished, Mom swooped right back in and told me: “Go to my bedroom, right now.” Her bedroom? That was weird – that had never happened before. But I wasn’t exactly feeling confident that I could question her right then. So upstairs and into my parents’ bedroom I went. My mom followed, and her voice was rising as we entered. “What were you thinking – if you were even thinking? School is not a spot to act up, young lady.”
I don’t remember her ever once bringing up the note-passing or the profanity – just the very fact that I had been sent to the principal and that I had been paddled. My offence wasn’t the specific action, in her mind, but merely the very basic misdemeanour of getting in trouble at school. Did I say she was taking time to calm down? I’m a damn fool, because she was as angry as I had ever seen her in my life.
Then came a very unexpected sentence. “Let me see how bad it is.” “What?” “Pull your jeans down so I can see how bad you got it.”
So my jeans came down. Remember, removing clothing was never part of my spankings, so I still wasn’t really thinking in that direction. I stood there in just my yellow panties. Thirty-five years later, I still remember the panties I wore that day – not what shirt or shoes, but I remember the underwear.
I also remember Mom looking at my butt. I caught a glance in her mirror and my left thigh had a pretty clear bruise. Before I thought much else, her hands were suddenly whisking down my yellow undies to join my jeans, and my right cheek was also clearly showing the results of the punishment.
My bottom wasn’t exactly a mess of bruises, but there was a splotch of purple on my right cheek and another on my left thigh, and a lot of red all around. I quickly pulled my panties back up but before I could reach for my jeans, my mom froze me in fear.
“Don’t move another muscle, Samantha Lynn,” she ordered.
She opened a dresser drawer and removed a wooden hairbrush I had never seen before. I should’ve known at that point what was in my future, but I swear it didn’t register.
“What’s that for mom?” “What do you think, that’s it to fix your hair? Come here.” And so for the first time in two years, and the first time as a teenager, I found myself across my mother’s lap.
Then the brush began to come down, right on my utterly too-thin-to-help panties, and I began to scream. For the first time in my life, I got a true bottom tanning. The brush continued to talk well past the point that I myself could even verbalise. My mom was spanking me well past the point of crying; she was going for hysterical. She was trying to make sure I never sat comfortably again, or so it seemed at the time.
Finally, after what felt like hours, she pushed me off her lap. I grabbed my bottom and tried to rub the fire away. “You are not too old for a spanking, Samantha, and I hope you remember that – because this can be done again, and worse.”
I finally got myself together enough to leave her room and go to mine. I fell asleep still crying.
Over the next two or three years, Mom threatened me with the brush on several occasions (often using the euphemism ‘do we need to go fix your hair?’). Just one more time, she proved true to her word: that I was not too old to be spanked; and that it could indeed be done again, and worse.