For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated with spanking. I would come up with plans in my head to somehow get a spanking from my mum or grandma but would never follow through. The most I got was a playful ‘I’ll smack your bottom for you, young man!’
I was obsessed with the subject, always asking questions about spanking. One day, I went in the kitchen and Mum was washing the dishes. She was wearing a summer dress and I admired her for a minute, imaging myself draped over her legs getting some good hard smacks. With this in mind, and hearing grandma in the past talk about how she used to ‘tan her backside’, I asked Mum what it was like to get your bottom smacked and if she had ever asked for one.
She smirked slighty, dried her hands and sat down at a kitchen chair, motioning me to sit at the table with her. “Why do you keep asking about this? Do you want a smacked bottom yourself? Is that what it is?”
Mum was a pretty good mind-reader. I went beetroot red and looked down, and she knew right away it wasn’t an idle question. To be honest, I didn’t really know myself – it’s just that, as I say, I’d always had this interest about spanking. It was embarrassing and difficult for me to talk about but Mum gently coaxed it out of me.
Eventually, she said: “Well, maybe a trip over my knee will cure your curiosity and put an end to all those questions. If you still want a smacked bottom, I’ll take you into my room after dinner – but I’m warning you it won’t be fun and there will probably be tears. You think about it, sweetheart.”
She opened her arms for a hug, and as we embraced she patted my bottom. “You’re a good boy – but sometimes even good boys need a spanking.” She kissed me on the cheek and sent me on my way with two firm smacks to the seat of my trousers.
When dinner was over, Mum asked me, very quietly so no-one else could hear, if I had changed my mind. I shook my head no and she got to her feet. She then told the rest of the family she was going to take me upstairs for a spanking. They were to clean up the kitchen, put the dishes in the dishwasher and she’d let them know when it was OK to come up. Until then, they were to remain downstairs.
Mum firmly took my hand and led me upstairs. I stared at her legs as I followed behind – I was both nervous and excited. Up in her room, Mum sat on the bed and began to unzip my trousers. She told me quietly but firmly: “You’ve made your decision – now I’m going to give you a smacked bottom.
“I’m afraid this is going to hurt, but no matter how much kicking and crying, the spanking will only end when I decide. Do you understand me?” I nodded, and she added: “I love you very much. Now, come here to me.”
She placed me carefully over her knee, and I felt her cool hands on my bottom as she pulled my underpants down. Then she began to smack.
At first, it was everything I’d imagined and hoped for, and I was enjoying every second of it. The sound of the slaps, the feel of my mum’s hand against my bare bottom, lying over her attractive legs with my feet dangling in the air like a naughty little boy.
However, it wasn’t long before my bottom started to really sting. I winced but Mum carried on regardless. Now my bottom was really starting to burn and my eyes were filling with tears. The smacks from Mum’s now very warm hand continued, and by now I was crying and kicking my feet. I knew it was no use asking her to stop, because I was getting what she promised.
The sound of efficient smacking echoed around the room as I cried. To my incredible relief, Mum finally put an end to my punishment. I lay limp over her knee as she rubbed my bottom better. She told me how proud of me she was of me, and even though my backside was throbbing I was still happy it had happened at last.
After a few minutes she asked: “Are you ready to get up now?” “Yes, Mum.” She helped me to my feet and we cuddled for a while. Then she told me: “If you ever need to be spanked again, all you have to do is ask!” I blushed again – I’d had quite enough for the time being.
However, that was the first of many trips over my mum’s knee over the next few years. At my aunt’s 50th birthday party (I was 16 at the time), Mum got pretty drunk. At one point she staggered over to me, squeezed my bum and whispered that she should take me home and ‘take these pants down’ for drinking under-age.
She followed the remark with a slap so sharp, I looked around the room to check that no-one had seen. Of course, she was only joking around but it got me, shall we say, in the mood, and that night I once more went to bed with Mum’s hand print across my behind.