A strapping to remember

I have mentioned in my other contributions here that mom administered the overwhelming majority of spankings in our house. Dad did spank but almost always for ‘line of sight’ things or things that directly affected him like ‘screwing around’ with his tools or breaking something he would have to fix or pay for, like the windows at the school.

Occasionally, Mom might bring something to his attention that he felt was serious enough that he also needed to weigh in, like when one of my brothers was caught drinking at school.

I am the oldest of four kids, and as the oldest I was often the pioneer of the family when it came to discipline. I was the first to get one of the formal spankings from my mom that included corner time and fetching the implement. I was the first to ‘graduate’ from wooden spoon to the hairbrush or the paddle. I was aksi the first to get what we called the strap – an old leather tool belt that had all the pockets removed and for as long as I can remember was doubled over and permanently creased.

I got the strap the first time when I was 11 years old, from mom. I got caught in some whopper of a lie about where I had been one afternoon. I was supposed to be at a friend’s house but when I got there we went to the mall, which I did not have permission to do. Mom called my friend’s house to tell me it was time to come home and my friend’s mom told her where we had really gone.

When I got home, I was confronted with my deceit and not only earned a paddling in the kitchen, about 20 minutes later a dozen licks across my bare butt with the strap. I remember the first lick sending a searing shock of electricity through my bottom that took my breath away – it was exponentially worse than anything I had experienced before and by the end of the whipping I was a sobbing mess.

However, I think this was also the last time I cried after getting it from Mom. I remember her saying that if I ever lied again, I could count on another dose. As it was, I carried the stripes from it for a couple of days afterwards and also had got corner time in the kitchen after the strapping with a bar of soap in my mouth – yuck!

Another pioneering moment came about a year later. It was one of the rare instances of Dad stepping in for something which had not directly involved him. I had got into an argument with my mother and had been banished to my room. Instead of being grateful that it was one of the rare times my attitude had not earned ne a trip over her knee, I stomped away up the stairs, muttering ‘bitch’ under my breath, in what I thought was a soft enough voice to go unheard. 

It was for Mom – but not for Dad – who, unluckily for me, was just coming out of his room and down the stairs to see what all the fuss was about. He didn’t even break stride but came flying down the stairs, grabbed my arm, spun me around and hustled me right through the kitchen and down the basement stairs. 

We had a rec room down in the basement with a couch and Dad frogmarched me over to it. “Drop your shorts!” he barked out. I had seldom seen him so pissed and I was so scared, it is the closest I think I ever came to losing control of my bladder in a spanking. I shucked down my shorts and panties, incredibly embarrassed that my fairly new patch of pubic hair was showing. Dad pointed to the arm of the couch. “Bend over – and stay there until i come back!” 

I heard him tramp back up the stairs, returning barely 30 seconds later with the strap. “If I ever hear you talk to your mother like that again, it will be worse than this is for you,” he said. Crack! I heard the pistol shot sound of the belt a split second before I felt the searing pain across my bare bottom. I absolutely howled – in my fright, I never counted the swat, like Mom required.

Dad didn’t seem to take any notice, and a second later there was another crack of the leather. It bounced off the basement walls and could no doubt be heard throughout the house. Dad was not a methodical spanker like Mom, and I got a bunch of swats in rapid succession. I honestly don’t know how many I received, but I’m guessing it was a dozen or so absolutely scorching licks. 

I was a mess of tears and snot afterward and I lay there over the arm of the couch, my bare butt in the air and sobbing convulsively, long after Dad left the room and went back upstairs.

That punbishment ranks among the all-time worst ones I ever got. I carried a mass of angry red stripes and bruises for three or four days afterwards, and was reminded of my transgression every time I sat down. Even sitting to pee was agony. But I certainly learned my lesson, and never called Mom that name again!

Contributor: Lauren

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