Big girls do cry

When I was 17, I received special permission to attend a girlfriend’s birthday that would get me home past my normal curfew. My parents gave me permission because my friend’s father would be home to supervise us and it was only a few blocks away from my house. 

Her father was a physician and that night he was called away on an emergency, which left us girls alone. That led to trouble, as we sampled what wasn’t even a shot of whisky from the bar before I went home. 

I got home and quietly went to bed without waking up my mother, and thought everything was fine. But about 20 minutes later, the phone rang – which was highly unusual at that time of night. My friend’s father had returned home and notice that the level of the whisky bottle was lower than he remembered it.

He confronted his daughter, who confessed and in turn was forced to rat me out. So her dad called my mother to advise her of the situation. 

My mother barged into my room, pulled me out of bed and demanded to know if I had been drinking. I explained that I only had a ‘taste’ – but that was one taste too much for my mother. 

She pulled my nightgown up over my head and off, then grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to her room. There, I watched her pick up from her dresser the big wooden hairbrush she had used to spank me with when I was a little girl.

I freaked out – it had been years since I had been disciplined in this way, and seeing the look on my mother’s face, and the brush in her hand, had me pleading not to be spanked like a little girl again. 

My mother ignored my protestations. She sat down at her dressing table and pulled me across her lap. My begging and pleading was not having any effect and my words were silenced as she tapped the brush on my bare butt. 

The first smack to my bottom was a complete shock – my whole body stiffened. I had forgotten how much that brush hurt. It only took a few more swats before I was desperately promising to be a good girl and the first tears rolled down my cheeks. 

I began to kick and my hand shot back instinctively to protect my upturned butt.  My mother gave out a loud sigh, grabbed my wrist and pinned my arm into the small of my back. Then I felt her leg being put over over one of mine and I began to frantically plead that I had learned my lesson. My mother merely tapped the brush on my already sore bottom and said: “Now – let’s start over.”

The smacks started again. Mom laid about six consecutive whacks on one spot of my rump before moving on to another location. My bottom was on fire and my free arm was flailing in the air, as tears and snot rolled down my face and dropped on to the floor. 

My screaming and crying woke up my brothers and sisters and when I glanced at the door with teary eyes, I saw them all standing there watching me getting spanked. I could not believe how much it hurt and thought I was going to die at any second. The spanking finished with a series of long, hard quick smacks on my ‘sit spots’, which sent me through the roof. 

My mother pushed me off her lap and my hands quickly went to my backside, as I tried to rub the sting out of my bottom, dancing from one foot to another. Then my mother grabbed me again and turned me around to show my brothers and sisters my red, bruised bottom. “This is what happens when you are caught drinking,” she told them. 

Now incredibly embarrassed, I ran past my brothers and sisters back to my room. I closed the door and immediately looked at my bottom in the mirror. It was dark red, with some bruises, and was throbbing with pain. 

I plopped face down on my bed and cried myself to sleep. From that point on, I realised that 17 was still a spanking age and that my mother’s hairbrush still had no problem to reducing me to a crying little girl.

Contributor: Jeanne 

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