I came across your site and have loved reading the various stories. What follows is the first part of my journey from having had a strict maternal upbringing to being a mother in my own right.
My mother was in her mid-20s when she had me, and I was her only child. Mum was a tall gorgeous woman with a curvaceous body. She had mesmerising eyes tucked underneath raised eyebrows, a pointed slender nose, plump rosy lips and long velvety hair. A black beauty spot along her right smile line decorated her face and added a unique touch of sensuality to her overall look.
As a child, I flocked to my mother and loved cuddling up with her. Mum was caring, affectionate and showered me with a lot of love. Nevertheless, my fondness for Mum was not unchecked. I also feared her a lot.
Mum was a strict disciplinarian. She had many rules and held me to a high standard. From a very young age, she made it clear that failing her meant having to endure painful consequences. If I didn’t obey her and do as I was told, I would get punished – it was that simple.
Mum had a standard method for punishing me. It would begin with a stern look. The strict expression on her face instantly informed me of what was to come, and brought premature tears to my eyes. After glaring at me for a few seconds without uttering a word, Mum would heighten my anxiety by saying: “Go upstairs, and wait for me.”
The wait in the room upstairs was long and dreadful. It drove me to an apprehensive state and gave me knots in my stomach. Before too long, the sound of her approaching footsteps would get my heart pounding even faster.
Mum would enter my room, shut the door, sit on a straight backed wooden chair and position me in front of her. She would begin with a long lecture, scolding me in a stern tone for what I had done naughty. Then she would bare my bottom and explain in detail how she planned to punish me.
Mum always punished in two ’rounds’. First, she would put me over her knee and spank my bottom with either her hand, a spatula or a hairbrush. After that, I had to bend over her chair for either the belt or the cane.
The implement used and the number of strokes depended on the nature of my mistake and also on Mum’s mood. Either way, it was predetermined and communicated to me before the chastisement began.
I was expected to accept my punishments obediently. Breaking position or making a fuss often resulted in Mum adding more strokes.
After the punishment, Mum kept me locked in my room for an hour. She would return after that and have me explain my wrongdoing to her. I had to admit my mistake and give her a sincere apology.
Once she forgave me, I was allowed to fall into her arms and cry my pain out. Mum would hold me in a loving embrace against her bosom and console me. I must admit that these moments were intimately bonding and sacred to me.
My mother’s recipe for raising me certainly gave the intended result. I both loved her and feared her. I was obedient and for the most part lived up to her expectations – and I also grew up to be a responsible, successful woman.