Truly an own goal

I had been saving my pocket money forever, and finally the big day arrived – I had enough money for a new football. It had a black and white hexagons design, with the names of famous footballers on the white sections. It wasn’t proper leather, but leather effect, and I carried it home from town proudly.

I changed into my footie kit and left home to find my mates for a maiden kick-about to show off my new, prized possession. As I stepped into the alleyway at the back of our house which gave access to the garages, I came face to face with some older boys. I knew them, but they playfully nicked my new ball and threw it back and forth over my head to each other. It was just mucking about – I knew they would give it back.

When they had done teasing me, one kicked the ball straight up quite high and they ran off up the alley, laughing. The ball came down, hit a kerb stone and bounced off at an angle over our neighbour’s hedge. There was a funny noise and then an angry shout of ‘oi!’ 

Our neighbour opened his gate and grabbed me by the arm – he was soaking wet. I was dragged into the garden to be shown where my football had landed, right in his pond where he had been working. His wife came out of the garden toolshed looking very cross and handed her husband something. Before I could say a word, he stuck a screwdriver into my ball and it deflated. I was beyond distraught.

I tried to explain what had happened but the man wouldn’t listen. Meanwhile, his wife walked through their house and round to our house to complain about me.

My mum opened the door and got a full-on tirade about how much damage I had caused to the pond, fish, plants etc Her husband got soaked, and so on.

Mum came through the house to our back garden and found me coming down the path, crying, with my deflated ball in my hand. The man next door glared over the fence at us.

I was angrily ordered inside. Mum snatched what remained of my new football and threw it in the dustbin. I was sent to my room in tears. The back door of our house slammed and it went quiet. I sat on my bed, crying. Moments later, the back door slammed again. I had not been given the chance to explain what happened, but by the sound of it Mum was in no mood to listen.

I sat awaiting my fate. This was the middle of the summer school holiday. I was almost certainly looking at being kept inside with no TV for up to a week. That had always been my usual punishment. For lesser offences I would be kept in for a day or two, and my parents would find things for me to do, so no free time for playing with my toys.

There was noise from downstairs, I could hear mum talking to someone, her voice slightly raised. It went quiet again, the wait was awful. Suddenly, I heard my mum shout my name from downstairs – it made me jump! My presence was required, in the kitchen, now! 

Slowly, I slunk downstairs to hear what was to become of me. I wiped my face on the backs of my hands and faced my mum. She was seething, I could tell. Without me offering any defence, we went straight to the verdict. I tried to tell mum but she shushed me and said she had heard enough. 

Mum told me she had spoken to my father, who was furious with me. Mum said Dad had instructed her to give me a sound spanking and that if I complained, he would thrash me himself with a thick leather belt as soon as he got home!

I had never been spanked, never mind thrashed – I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, I didn’t even kick the ball. I was in shock – I was to be spanked!

I think it was about then I noticed that a chair had been pulled out from the table, with an extra cushion on it. Mum sat down on it and told me that if I didn’t get my shorts off right then, she would simply inform my father and let him deal with me later. This was like a bad dream, a real nightmare. Crying, trembling, feeling hopeless I dropped my footie shorts and faced my mother.

“Across my knee, young man,” she commanded. “This has been coming a while!” Thinking back, that comment implied this wasn’t just about the ball in the pond. It seemed a strange thing for Mum to say, but looking back maybe I had run up a few smaller offences and this had pushed her over the edge.

Awkwardly, I placed my hand on mum’s nearest thigh, and in a flash she manoeuvred me over her left knee and tugged my underpants down to my knees. She then gripped me firmly around the waist. I had never been in this situation before and had no real understanding of what was about to happen. My face was level with her ankle, and my arms dangled in front of me. I felt Mum shift and adjust herself, and I remember feeling very scared.

Suddenly, there was pain – sharp, stinging, pain all across my little boy’s bum. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. It took a few smacks to sink in but Mum wasn’t smacking with her hand – she was using something else, and it hurt a lot! I tried to twist and look, and naturally tried to protect my stinging rear. Mum stopped, pushed my arm into the small of my back and then locked her arm back around my waist so my arm was trapped under hers. With only my left hand available I waved that up and down in a vain attempt to stop the pain – it didn’t help.

There was little, if any, movement in my legs as Mum had those trapped too with her right leg. I begged and pleaded and became quite desperate as the searing pain increased with every smack. I clearly remember repeating ‘it wasn’t me’ – not that Mum took any notice.

Looking back, there was a point where, had Mum stopped, the smacking would still have taught me a lesson. I would not have wanted to repeat the performance ever again. My bottom stung more than enough at that moment. But Mum carried on – and on.

I remember the tipping point, the unbearable pain, that I had no choice but to endure. The burning, stinging sensation got hotter and hotter and I felt the surrender coming.

My strength had gone, the pain in my bottom was all-consuming, nothing else mattered. I took a last breath, flopped exhausted and gave in. How I cried! I had never cried like that before or since. Huge gulps of air, a snotty nose, dry rasping throat, and my shoulder hurt as Mum leaned on my trapped arm and continued the onslaught. It was, and remains, the single most painful event of my life to date!

I have no idea how long the spanking lasted. I had no sense even of the end – I just remember Mum eventually releasing me and half dragging me by the arm upstairs, smacking my still-bare buttocks hard with her hand at every step.

I was propelled toward my bed with a final almighty smack from her hand. I vaguely remember my bedroom door being slammed shut and mum shouting: “Stay there – don’t you dare come downstairs!”

My hands reached around to inspect my scorched bum – it actually hurt to touch it. I lay face down and cupped my buttocks very carefully, trying to regain my senses. I was disorientated and in shock at how much a spanking could hurt. I squirmed and writhed in pure agony for some time. 

It was only later, on inspection in the mirror, that I worked out that the implement mum used was a wooden spoon. She must have hidden it under the extra cushion and then reached for it once she had me in position. My backside was a mass of red, pink and purple spoon shapes, mostly covering the centre of each cheek and the crease where your bum joins your thigh.  

I must have eventually drifted off to sleep because I woke to find my father sitting on the bed. I instantly burst into tears and begged him not to thrash me. He quietened me down and assured me he was going to do no such thing. I was asked if I wanted to come down for dinner but I declined, curled up and slept on top of my bed, half dressed, all night.

It took days for me to fully recover physically. My bum felt skinned and bruised, my shoulder ached and I felt terribly hard done by.  

I never spoke to our neighbours again, and I never let on to the two bigger boys that they had caused my suffering. It took a few days but I eventually gave Mum my side of the story. I’m not sure she believed me – there was never any sense of regret or apology.

It remained the only spanking of my life, until very recently.

The reason I find myself reading and hopefully contributing to these pages is my new partner. She confessed to a life-long spanking fetish that had never been fulfilled. Her previous partner was not interested and although she dropped hints, he never indulged her. All her life she had wanted to smack a bottom – any bottom, male or female. She was, it’s fair to say, rather frustrated!

I recounted my one and only experience of childhood spanking to her, and she shyly admitted that the story really turned her on.

Not long afterwards, for only the second time in my life, I found myself across a woman’s knees. My girlfriend scolded me for being naughty. My crime: breaking a window with a football. My punishment was a hand spanking that was very slow and gentle to start, but finished with enthusiasm. Sex followed. She came as I entered her, and again two minutes later with a huge groan. The reaction made me feel like a love god!

All in all, it was certainly a much nicer experience than the spanking I received as a boy. We use spanking for foreplay regularly now, and it’s not so bad when you know what’s coming after!

My father became ill, and we all knew he was dying. I took him for a trip down memory lane one weekend, visited several places he had known in his life. During a short rest on a bench, I found the courage to ask him if he ever intended to thrash me with his belt on that awful day.

His answer was, that the threat had been a ploy by Mum. She thought I would be more compliant and accept my spanking with less fuss, rather than face a belting. Dad added that he and Mum had had words about the spanking she administered that day after he saw the state of my bottom. After Dad died, I decided not to mention the incident ever again to my mother.

Consensual spanking in the bedroom between adults, as I now know, is fun. However, reading back over my contribution I cannot help but feel my words have not done justice to that spanking Mum gave me that day. It was truly that painful, made even worse by the fact that I had not kicked the ball or even got to show my mates the new football of which I was so proud!

Contributor: Trevor

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