A touch of mercy

One of my most vivid memories of being spanked happened a few weeks after I turned seven.

It was a warm, late summer day and my mother and I were out with some other young mothers with children my age. Apparently, she decided at some point that it was time for us to go – but I didn’t come when she called me. Actually, I was too far away to for her to call, but she sent another little boy to get me and bring me back. But I didn’t believe him and stayed where I was.

When I did finally wander back, she was very displeased with me, and announced in front of all the other mothers and kids, “You’re going to be spanked when we get home, young man!”

I suspect my ‘disobedience’ had embarrassed her in front of the other mothers, and she wanted them all to know that she was, in fact, a good disciplinarian – which, back in those days, meant a spanking disciplinarian.

For my part, I was thunderstruck at her words. I’d had no idea that I was in trouble.

She quickly took her leave of the other mothers, then seized me firmly by my hand and marched me off in the direction of home. I felt stunned because I hadn’t imagined myself to have been misbehaving – although looking back I can see how, from her point of view, I had been very naughty indeed and deserving of the ultimate punishment.

As we marched homeward hand in hand, I kept looking beseechingly up at her, hoping this was all some kind of mistake – since, in fact, it was. She ignored my gaze, though, continuing to look straight ahead, her expression solemn and resolute.

Her big maternal hand felt so soft and warm gripping mine. But when I looked at it, just inches from my eyes, in that moment I saw only an instrument of pain. I knew from several years of experience just how much Mommy’s palm hurt when repeatedly applied to the sensitive bare skin of a little boy’s upturned bottom. And each step we took brought me closer to a re-acquaintance with that reality.

When we got home, she marched me straight upstairs to my room, closing the door behind us. She sat down on the side of my bed and I expected her to put me over her knee forthwith as she usually did. But instead, she got me out of my shoes and socks, and then my shorts. I was on the verge of tears but not crying.

I didn’t resist her in the slightest – I was still on my best behaviour and hoping for a reprieve. As Mommy undressed me, I just kept tearfully whimpering that I was sorry and that I hadn’t meant to be a bad boy.

Then she stood up, turned back the covers of my bed, and told me to climb into bed, face down. Once I’d obeyed her, she lowered my covers just far enough to leave the seat of my underpants in view. She then sat back down on my bedside, which pulled my covers tight across my legs and kept them from moving.

My hands pasted themselves protectively across my behind and my wide teary eyes turned backwards to look at her over my shoulder, desperately trying to stall for time. In a meek, frightened little voice I implored Mommy to please give me another chance, saying I hadn’t meant to be naughty, and please, please please not to spank me.

Her demeanour clearly revealed that her earlier anger at my behaviour had passed, and that she really didn’t want to carry out the discipline she had promised. On this I pinned my slim, frantic hope of a last-minute pardon.

But my mother was a firm believer in ‘consistency’, which meant that if she promised my sister or me a spanking, we always got it. As I learned later in life, my mother believed that if she promised her child a spanking and didn’t follow through, her authority would be undermined in her child’s eyes, and misbehaviour would worsen.

She took hold of my wrists with her left hand and pinned them snugly against the small of my back, which left me completely unable to move or cover myself up. Then, with her right hand she gently tugged down my underpants just far enough to leave my backside bare.

Her eyes were sad and moist, and it was obvious she really didn’t want to go through with her earlier promise. I hoped that maybe she really wouldn’t, and that she had just pulled down my underpants to give me a scare, and that maybe – just maybe – she was going to let me off with a warning.

But after quietly admonishing me for several seconds more, she raised her open hand high. My view of her face blurred from sudden tears as I frantically cried ‘no, mommy, please no!’

My shouts of protest quickly dissolved into cries of distress as Mommy began to administer crisp, smarting slaps squarely across both cheeks of my tender little buttocks. As the all-too-familiar sensation of Mommy’s punishing palm welled up, I turned my head to cry into my pillow as she continued to swiftly smack my unprotected behind. Each slap hurt worse than the last and very soon I was bawling with pain, my nose running and my pillowcase wet with my tears.

At last, she got up and left my room, closing my door behind her. At once, my hands shot back to rub the smarting pain from my pink little backside while I continued to cry.

As the minutes passed my sobs and sniffles slowly subsided, and I noticed myself recovering a bit more quickly than I usually did from a Mommy spanking. That’s when I realised that although she had given me the discipline she had promised, and though it had certainly hurt, she been a little less severe with me that afternoon than she usually was.

Contributor: Anonymous

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