The mess in the bathroom

The following story was definitely not my finest hour – but it was also a lesson learned and never forgotten.

When I was growing up, my dad would go to work every other Saturday morning. He was a mechanic and worked in a unit on a local industrial site. When I was old enough, I was allowed to go along, provided I behaved. 

We would leave early, usually when it was dark. We would stop off on the way at a greasy spoon cafe and have an enormous bacon roll and mug of tea. I loved it. Dad knew most of the men in the cafe and the other units, so it was all great fun.

Dad would give me a job to do which kept me occupied while he worked on a car. We were home by lunchtime, so I had the rest of the weekend to play.

Most of the time growing up I was pretty well behaved. I can remember mum threatening me with the normal kind of threats most kids were used to, such as ‘carry on like that if you want a smacked bottom’ or ‘if you are not careful I’ll wear my slipper out on your backside’. Her most common threat was: “Your feet won’t touch the ground!” I never really understood that one as a boy –I assume it meant that if I was placed over her knee, I wouldn’t be able to touch the floor.

I used to get a casual whack now and then in passing – if I’d been told off and was ordered to my room, I was often helped on my way with a smack or two to my bottom. But up until the reason for this contribution I’d never had a real, sound spanking. I should add that Dad never touched me my whole life, and never even raised his voice – all matters to do with domestic discipline fell to Mum.

One thing she really hated was mess of any kind in the bathroom. After washing your hands or face, there was a cloth for drying round the sink. There were no excuses – a towel left on the floor was virtually a hanging offence! This rule applied to all of us, including Dad! 

On the morning in question, I was due to go off to work with Dad as normal. It was early and just getting light. I rolled out of bed, half asleep, got dressed and wandered into the bathroom. Dad asked me to get a move on as he had a busy morning, so I did. I sort of mopped up a bit but hurried downstairs so I didn’t hold Dad up.

We were just getting in the car outside when Mum appeared. She pulled me out of the car, told Dad I wasn’t going and frog-marched me indoors. I asked mum over and over what I had done, but she didn’t speak. My coat and shoes were removed, mum kicked off her shoes and put her slippers on, and half dragged, half pushed me up to the bathroom. She was fuming.

I was stood in front of the sink. My toothbrush lay in a small puddle on the sink – it should have been in the cup. The cap was not back on the toothpaste tube properly, which was also lying in water. The cleaning cloth was sopping wet and dripping down the side of the sink. I had mopped round, but failed to wring the cloth out.

“Clean it up now!” Mum said angrily, pointing at the sink. I could sense I was in big trouble – denial was out of the question. I said I was sorry but tears were close, mostly because Dad had gone to work without me. As I started to clean up, Mum stood over me, hands on hips and watching every move. Every time I looked up, there she was in the mirror, glaring.

When I had finally cleaned up and the sink looked how I should have been left it, I looked up at my Mum’s face in the mirror and apologised again. She replied simply: “When I’m done with you, you will really be sorry! Don’t you ever leave this bathroom in a mess again, do you hear me?” This sounded serious. She hissed those last words, with real anger.

I was cold with nerves, I nodded and tears welled up. Before I could say ‘sorry’ yet again,Mmum took my arm and walked me across the landing to her bedroom. She pulled out the padded stool from under her dressing table and I sensed real fear. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew it wasn’t going to be good. For all Mum’s threats, I’d never actually been properly spanked.

She pulled my jumper up and over my head. Then down came my trousers. I started to cry and repeatedly said ”I’m sorry, Mum!” She didn’t speak, but took off her dressing gown and hung it on the hook on the back of the door. I followed her there and back with my eyes, my trousers around my ankles, standing there in only my vest and underpants.

Mum sat on the stool in her T-shirt, shorts and slippers. Pulling me towards her and across her knees, she said: “You’ve had enough warnings –perhaps this will remind you to clean up the bathroom in future.”

Down came my underpants, and Mum tucked me in and held me tight. She moved me forward a bit, moved around herself a little. There was a delay for a couple of seconds then smack – the first of many!

I will never forget that spanking as long as I live. I had accepted the inevitable, I was already in tears but I think the shock of those first few smacks briefly brought me out of my misery. They hurt, but then there was a short period where I lay there just accepting the punishment.

It took a few more slaps before I started to become really vocal and animated. It felt like an eternity, and it was excruciatingly painful. Mum didn’t say a lot but she didn’t relent at all – she spanked me soundly until I was blubbering and mumbling incoherent nonsense. I had run out ‘sorrys’, I had begged and pleaded. Eventually, after what seemed like forever, she stopped. 

Mum yanked me up and with a hand under my armpit she virtually dragged me back to the bathroom. I had trouble keeping up because my trousers were dragging from one foot. My underpants were around my ankles so I couldn’t walk properly. Add to that my blurred vision due to the tears, and the fact that my brain wouldn’t work. I only had the use of one hand, which was both holding my stinging bum, and trying to wipe tears away. 

We arrived back in the bathroom. “That is how you leave the sink!” Mum said angrily, pointing at the sink I’d cleaned before my spanking. “And this is what happens if you don’t!” She reached for a plastic long-handled bath brush. Sitting on the edge of the large wicker washing basket she pulled me in so I was at an angle across one leg and a hip. I got six hard swats on my already red bare bottom. These took my pain to a whole new level – I didn’t know anything could hurt that much!

I screamed at every swat, and howled and sobbed in between. Mum dragged me to my feet, propelled me to my bedroom and pushed me inside. I was shoved onto my bed and held down with a hand on my back. An unexpected barrage of more even harder swats landed from the bath brush which she’d brought with her. I screamed and screamed, only realising she had finished when I heard my bedroom door slam shut.

I lay on my bed and sobbed my heart out. The hand spanking had hurt and more than made Mum’s point – but that brush was sheer agony. By the time Mum came back, I had hardly moved. She stood looking at me for a minute, then told me to stand up. Groggily, I complied. I was hungry, thirsty, in pain – and very, very sorry. Mum had brought a sandwich and a glass of milk with her – I assume it was lunchtime.

She bent down and put her face right next to mine. Then she said sternly: “If you ever leave that bathroom in a mess again, I will put you back across my knee and spank you so very hard it will make today seem like a little bit of fun! Now, eat that and get yourself cleaned up but stay in here – I do not want you anywhere near me today. And before you go to bed tonight, I’m going to spank you again for ruining my bloody morning!” I could feel her anger.

I ate slowly, standing up because my bottom was far too sore to sit on. I finished the milk and cleaned myself up. I curled up on my bed and cried on and off. I was dreading bedtime – I couldn’t believe Mum would spank me again. Dad eventually came back from work but he didn’t come and see me.

Mum was true to her word. That evening she brought me some toast and a drink. “Eat that up, then get into your pyjamas – I’ll be back up to see you before bedtime.” I was terrified that she would use that long handled bath brush again.

When Mum did come back, I begged her not to spank me and said I was truly sorry for leaving the bathroom in a mess. For a moment, I thought I’d escaped the promised bedtime punishment.

Sadly, I was wrong. Mum turned me around and pulled down my pyjama trousers to inspect my bottom. I didn’t have a mirror in my room, so I hadn’t been able to examine it myself, but it certainly felt very tender.

After a brief inspection, Mum was obviously satisfied that my buttocks were capable of taking another dose. She sat on the end of my bed, turned me around and pulled me forward and across her knees once again.

After no more than a handful of smacks she stopped. I thought we were done – I was wrong! Mum evidently wasn’t happy with my position – she stood me up, shifted herself, crossed her legs and pulled me back across her knee.

The hand spanking which followed was brisk, with many of the smacks aimed at the backs of my thighs. I’m guessing my new elevated position was because most of my bottom was already very sore – Mum had raised me to access the lower area of my bum and upper thighs. The spanking didn’t last so long this time, but was still extremely painful, particularly for a boy with an already very sore behind!

There was a pause and I felt Mum’s hand running lightly over my glowing bum – I suppose she was inspecting the damage. Then a final round of slow, well-spaced and carefully placed hard smacks finished off a truly awful day. I blubbed like a baby. I didn’t fight, plead or even apologise during this spanking – I just hung limply over Mum’s raised knee and accepted my punishment as best I could.

When the spanking finally finished, I was left hanging there in place for what seemed like a long time, although maybe my memory is playing tricks on me. I seem to remember Mum tapping her fingers on my sore bottom, as if deciding whether to carry on or stop. Maybe she was just letting me suffer a little more by wondering whether she was going to inflict further punishment?

Finally she stood me up, asked me to say sorry (which I did through huge gulps and sobs), then warned me again: “If there is a next time, it will be far worse than today!” The threat felt very real. She tucked me into bed. “You and I will have a fresh start tomorrow – but God help you if I ever find that bathroom in such a mess again. Now, go to sleep!” 

My bottom and thighs burned and stung beyond description, and it was hell trying to get comfortable in bed, let alone sleep. Those words about the next time being far worse stuck in my head. I didn’t think it was possible that anything could be worse than that day, but I certainly didn’t want to find out!

Life returned to normal, and I grew up mostly avoiding serious trouble. I did find myself across Mum’s knee a few times after that initial spanking, but these were more spur of the moment smackings and none were on the bare bum – it was just a case of being tugged across Mum’s knee, then 20 or so smacks across the seat of my shorts (or, on one occasion, swimming, These punishments were just enough to make a point, and nowhere near the severity of the first.

Growing up, I found thinking about my spankings strangely exciting. None were much fun at the time, but they turned into my fantasy, and became my ‘thing’. But that first spanking taught me a lesson I never forgot – and I never, ever, leave any bathroom in a mess!

Contributor: Graham

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