When I was a kid, my mom always spanked me the same way – bent over the couch, knees on floor and my pants and undies at my ankles. Then she would take a belt to my bared backside until I cried and begged for it to end, while promising to be good forever.
That alone was bad enough. But if I was at all disrespectful of her authority in any way, she would go further. I would be stripped naked, put over her lap like a small child and hand spanked until I was screaming from the pain and humiliation of such a childish punishment.
Using her hand, she was able to aim precisely at my lower buttocks and upper thighs, all the while roundly scolding me. And believe it or not, I was all of 16 years old when I last got spanked.
I went to a party, and had a generous curfew of 1am. I abused that trust by rolling home at 2.30 in the morning. In hindsight, Mom must have been really worried but when she asked me why I was late, instead of bothering to at least try and make up an excuse, however lame, I told her rather arrogantly that I had been having too good of a time.
My goodness, did she explode! “You may think you’re acting all grown-up but let me tell you, young man, I won’t tolerate disrespect like that in my own home. You know what’s coming – go to your room, take off all your clothes and wait for me. I’ll be up to punish you in a minute.”
My bottom was already aching as I heard her climb the stairs. She came into my room and sat me on the bed beside her – she was calmer now, but still very angry.
“You know, John, I’m happy you’ve arrived home safely, because I had been imagining all sorts of horrible things that could have happened to you.” To my surprise, I burst into tears when she said that – I felt so guilty I had let my mother worry like that.
She put an arm kindly around my bare shoulders and drew me close. “You’re crying because your conscience is bothering you, isn’t it?” she asked. I nodded through the tears. “Well, a long, hard spanking is going to help me with that.” It felt like someone else answering but I heard myself just saying: “Yes, please, Mom.”
I stood up and made as if to bend over her knee, but she held up a hand. “We’re not going to do it like that. Lie down on your bed on your back.”
I obeyed, and then she took my legs in her left hand and drew them up above my head. Then she began to spank. The amount of flesh exposed meant she could give me a really thorough sore bottom and thighs, and I was mortified that my genitals were exposed for her to see as she corrected me.
The spanking she gave me that day hurt more than any other I had had before, and lasted longer too, but I knew I deserved it and bore Mom no ill will afterwards. I got a hug and a kiss afterwards to show I was forgiven – but that didn’t stop my backside being sore for days afterwards.
The next day my girlfriend of the time asked me why I was walking awkwardly, and I was forced to confess that I had been punished. She made me show her my sore bottom – she rubbed it and give me a nice kiss there, which did feel better. Needless to say, I never disrespected my mom again.
As a footnote, many years later I asked my mother why she had stopped putting me over her knee. She blushed a little but then said that the time before when she had spanked me, she had discovered a little dribble of pre-cum on her dress afterwards. It was only then that she appreciated what a ‘big boy’ I was getting and realised that putting me across her lap was now too sexual a position for a growing child.
Contributor: John