A brush with harsh reality

By the time I reached 14 and a half, I knew in my heart that I was getting a bit old for a ‘proper’ smacked bottom, although I felt there was perhaps still time for a few playful smackings. However, I had noticed that even Aunt Jean wasn’t threatening me with corporal punishment so much. I suppose she thought I was too old for an aunt to be smacking my bum, even in fun – it was the kind of threat you would make to a younger boy.

All that makes the episode I’m writing about even more shameful. At the time, I was perhaps suffering from hormones and had a few days of being really bratty. I think I was sulking over something, but now cannot remember what it was. 

My frustration boiled over in my bedroom one Friday evening, when I threw a large model aircraft carrier I had been building across the room. It was an extreme reaction to a very minor woe – one of the stickers wouldn’t sit straight! Whatever, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Although no-one witnessed or overheard this fit of temper, to make matters worse, I formulated a plan to tell my parents I had accidentally trod on my model – which was an outright lie, of course. In the aftermath of my tantrum I sat on my bed, head in my hands. I was angry with myself. I picked up the model, which was beyond repair.

At that moment, a friend of my dad’s friend arrived. He had bought a new car – he and my father were going out for a spin in it, and they invited me too – but I feigned a headache and asked if I might go another time. Dad’s friend said that was fine, and off they went. I knew they would be a while – the ‘spin’ would no doubt include a pit stop at the local pub! 

Mum asked me if I wanted anything for my headache, but I shook my head. As mothers do, she instantly knew something was wrong with me. She asked a couple of questions, which elicited not much more than one-word answers.

Then she offered me some advice. “Take a pencil and a piece of paper and write down whatever it is that’s bothering you. I find it helps.” Then she left me alone for a while.

While she was gone, with nothing better to do I wrote it all down. I sat at the kitchen table, on the very chair mum had used for my first ever spanking. That was when an idea came into my mind.

Mum returned a little later. I was sitting staring at what I had written down. “Wow!” Mum exclaimed, “that’s a lot of problems! Did doing that help?”

I tried to reply but instead felt tears well up in my eyes. “Oh Lee,” Mum said. “Surely, it can’t be all that bad?” She sat down next to me, took the piece of paper and began to read. As she did so, my tears fell quietly – I remember the feeling of abject misery sitting there like it was yesterday.

Mum read in silence, then sat back in her chair. I had listed all my issues. I had detailed my offences and expressed my remorse. I had also suggested a choice of punishments, the final word going to Mum.

“Did it help to write all this down?” she asked quietly. I wiped my eyes and nodded. Mum picked up the pencil I had been using and began to write herself. When she had finished, she slid the paper – with her comments – back across to me.

What she had done was take my suggested punishments and allocated them to specific offences. I had suggested that I not be allowed to watch the football that was coming on that weekend. It was an England match too, so a real punishment for a 14-year-old football-mad boy. There were other withdrawals of privileges suggested that mum had put against lesser offences.

At the bottom, perhaps appropriately, I had written that perhaps a spanking would help improve my mood. Mum had circled the word ‘spanking’ and drawn a line directly to the model-throwing incident. She had underlined where I had confessed how bad I felt and that I had planned to lie about how it got broken.

She looked me in the face. “Yes, a spanking, Lee. I can forgive you for lots of things, but deceit and lying to my face, no! You were quite prepared to tell me you trod on the model. I would probably have believed you and sympathised. I cannot tolerate deceit. Honesty is all-important in life. You own up, face the consequences and move on, starting from a boy as you mean to be a man!”

I felt about two inches tall. I was thoroughly ashamed, and the memory of sitting at the table with my mum has stayed with me to this day.

Mum stood up. “Right – no football, no treats, and you stay home all weekend. You will help around the house, starting with tidying your room and washing the dishes after every meal. Now, come with me.”

Mum walked away – I was expecting her to spank me at the table, but I followed her, wondering why. She led me to her and Dad’s bedroom, a place I hardly ever entered.

“Shorts off!” The instruction was simple. I removed my shorts and stood terrified in my underpants and socks. Mum pulled a chair out and then opened a drawer. I went stone cold! The blood drained from my face as Mum walked back to the chair carrying a large hairbrush. She placed it on the bed, then took my arm and firmly placed me across her lap.

I had never known fear like it – I was literally trembling as I lay there. I had wondered what Mum might be capable of if I ever I was a really naughty boy, and now I was about to find out.

Facing the floor, I heard my mother’s calm but steely voice. “I will not tolerate lies or deceit, Lee. I hate to do this but it will stand you in good stead for the future.”

I felt her hands go inside my underpants and she lowered them carefully to my knees. Then she began to spank me with her hand – hard, slow, deliberate smacks, carefully placed across my bare bottom. There were the hardest Mum had ever given me, and I began to really cry properly. It wasn’t just the pain, it was the sheer emotion and shame. I suddenly realised this was the first time I hadn’t looked forward to a smacked bottom – but Mum was dead right to spank me and I knew it.

Suddenly the smacking stopped. I was openly crying, my bottom stinging tremendously. Little did I know that I was about to enter hell! Mum lifted me slightly and adjusted me so I was draped over just her left knee. Then I felt her other leg clamp over both of mine and my fear rose to a new level. It didn’t take a genius to work out what was about to happen. In an attempt to appeal to Mum’s sympathetic side, I yelled out one last desperate time that I was really sorry. It didn’t work.

When I set out to share these memories with you, I knew I would have to include this event in my life, even though to this day it is something I am thoroughly ashamed of. Other people, far more eloquent than me, have expressed the pain from a spanking – a real spanking. I cannot, in all honesty, do justice to what happened next. Let’s just say that an angry, determined mother armed with a stout hairbrush will make short work of even a teenage boy’s bare bottom.

From the very first strike, I sobbed my heart out. Mum had tightened her hold around my waist, and her leg hooked my lower half in close to her. My arms waved about hopelessly and I couldn’t reach back far enough to interfere with the process of punishment. Mum’s left arm or elbow seemed to prevent me from protecting my backside.

Oh God, did it hurt! Mum applied the brush slowly and deliberately. I couldn’t tell you how many smacks I received, not even close. Each smack landed on my behind with full force. Mum left the brush where it had landed for a second before pulling back for the next delivery.

I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances, accept my fate and bawl like a baby. Still the smacks came, each as hard as the last and the intense burning in my buttocks building all the time.

Mum was clearly a believer in the big finish – just as she had finished me off Bocing Day with a fast flurry, she ended this hairbrush spanking on a high. I had taken leave of all senses by now, but around 20 smacks hit the target in quick succession. I briefly became more animated at this and tried to twist away, but in many ways I was past caring at this stage.

Finally it ended. Mum left me hanging across her knee for a minute, then smacked my bottom half a dozen times more sharply with her hand.
She pulled me back and I dropped to my knees, forehead resting on the floor as I sobbed like a freshly-smacked toddler. A moment later, I felt Mum’s arms around me as she gently pulled me up. My hands cupped my burning bottom – I had cried myself dry but continued to sniffle and gulp in the air.

She looked me in the eye again, her face sad with disappointment and upset. “Lee, I hated to have to do that – but you deserved it. One day, you will understand and – I hope – learn from what has just happened.

“Now, you are to go straight to bed, and the all other punishments stand! No football, no treats and washing the dishes all weekend. I will tell your father you had a headache and went to bed. And Lee – don’t ever lie or try to deceive me again. Now, bed immediately and remember, I love you more than you could understand.”

I couldn’t bear to replace my shorts or underpants, so I picked them up and made my way slowly back to my bedroom, bottom throbbing. That night, I slept naked on top of the bedclothes. Even rubbing my thoroughly-spanked bottom hurt, and two days later I was still feeling the effects of the beating Mum had given me.

When we spoke about it all again the next morning, Mum told me she had cried when she went to bed. I felt awful about that. She told me she had been certain the spanking was necessary, and later on I told her I agreed that I had deserved it.

Strangely enough, that sorest of bottoms did make me buck my ideas up – I didn’t fancy feeling that hairbrush ever again.

My memory of the very last time my mother smacked my bottom is somewhat happier. It was pure fun, short and sweet. I was 15 by then and ‘accidentally’ sprayed her with a garden hose! She screamed and ran for the house, threatening revenge.

When I went back in myself, Mum suddenly appeared and grabbed my ear. Leading me to the good old kitchen table chair, she sat down and without any resistance from me whatsoever put me in that oh-so-familiar position. We were both giggling.”You didn’t think I would let you get away with that, did you?” she asked as she smacked the seat of my shorts. It didn’t hurt at all – unlike our previous encounter!

All the characters in my stories are sadly no longer with us. Aunt Jean died some years ago – the smoking and drinking eventually got her – and Uncle Harry followed her not long after. My mum went fairly recently, peacefully in her sleep.

As for me, I have been lucky to find a wife who has carried out the spanking duties for the past 24 years. Always for fun, never for punishment and sex follows every time. Mind you, she can smack hard!

Contributor: Lee

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