I found the Maman site over the recent Christmas break, which was a nice little bonus. I thought I might try and join the ranks by contributing my own unique experiences of childhood spanking.
I have recalled a conversation I had with my mum fairly accurately – although it’s been a while, you will get the gist. Mum taught me a valuable life lesson – experience life to the full, talking helps, be open and honest, don’t bottle up. It has stood me in good stead ever since.
Like many other Maman contributors I was a normal child but with a strong interest in all things spanking. I was (I like to think!) a mostly well-behaved, popular boy. I considered myself the class clown, always trying to make people laugh without ever being naughty, at least not deliberately. A cheerful, happy boy – at least on the outside.
However, I had a guilty secret. Some of my bluster was to disguise my increasingly strong desire to experience a spanking. I started a secret collection. I cut out every image of spankings I could find in comics, books and newspapers etc. I slipped each cutting carefully into a large hard-backed world atlas, that had a pocket inside the cover sleeve.
I discovered I could smack my own bottom. This had to be carefully planned, as the sound of a spanking isn’t easily explained away. I started to become reclusive, hiding myself away, absorbed in my private world of spanking cartoon cuttings. I tried spanking myself under the bedcovers, hoping they would muffle the sound of the smacks.
If Mum was out hanging washing on the line and my older brother was out, I would quickly slip my jeans down and smack my bottom with whatever tool was available. The most common instrument to hand would be my own slipper. I loved the sting. Afterwards, I would stand in a corner of my room, jeans around my knees and hands on head, listening for Mum in case she came upstairs. I felt very naughty doing this, which of course added to my excitement.
As far as I could recall, my parents had never even threatened me with a spanking, let alone actually administer one. So my secret stash fed my hunger, and where possible I would try to copy a story in my head during a self spanking session. I was around seven or eight years old at this time.
Generally, life was OK – I had plenty of friends and to the outside world I think I appeared perfectly normal. But inside I ached, especially when I heard news of a real spanking a mate had received. At the earliest opportunity, I would recreate their spanking at home using my stash of cuttings and smacking my own bottom.
One day, while Mum was outside talking to our neighbour over the fence, I spotted a wooden spoon in the kitchen and flicked it a few times experimentally against my bum. Wow, it stung much better than my slipper! The spoon quickly became my instrument of choice for self-spanking, although it was tricky to purloin from the kitchen and return, which was frustrating.
One day, I noticed my father and older brother were busy outside loading things into the car. I was a bit miffed that I had not been included in whatever it was going on and went to join in.
It was then that Mum cut me off at the pass. She told me that my dad and brother were going to help an uncle replace his old shed. I created a bit of a fuss but Mum bent down and gently explained that she wanted me to stay home because there was something very important she wanted me to help her with. I was a bit grumpy, but accepted her explanation.
So off went my dad and brother, leaving me alone with Mum. She instructed me to follow her and we went into the dining room. I was told to wait for a minute – and imagine my feelings when Mum returned with my atlas. I went cold! The pit of my stomach flipped, the colour must have drained from my face, my whole world stopped. Mum had found my stash!
Without saying a word, she carefully laid the book in front of me on the table. I was rooted to the spot, as I watched – almost in slow motion – as my secret world was exposed. Mum opened the cover, took out all my cartoon spanking cuttings and laid them on the table bedside the atlas.
Turning a chair around, Mum sat facing me. She was close enough for our knees to almost be touching. Still no words had been spoken. Finally, she smiled at me, then asked: “Tony, why have you kept these particular cartoons?”
What could I do? Well, my immediate reaction was to cry. I sat looking at my now-exposed secret world and huge, silent tears flowed down my face.
Mum leaned forward and held my hand. “Hey, hey, hey – don’t cry. You’re not in any trouble. I’m not cross, I just want to talk to you about it. Do you have an interest in this? Is that why you keep them?”
She took my hand in hers and my tears fell down on us both. I couldn’t look at her.
“Tony – you’re not in trouble, darling. But I think you will find it’s better to discuss these feelings with me rather than hide yourself away. Come on now, dry those eyes.” A fresh tissue was produced and I wiped my eyes. I burned with shame, and I still hadn’t spoken.
I tried to gather my thoughts and put together some reasonable explanation for my collection. It did occur to me that at least Mum had waited to speak to me alone, rather than when Dad (or, even worse, my brother) was at home. I was grateful for small mercies.
“You have an interest in this, yes?” Mum took my hand again, rubbed and patted it, almost like it was sore and she was comforting me. I nodded.
“You like the thought of having your bottom smacked?” Mum asked quietly. I nodded, more silent tears.
Mum leaned forward again with soothing words of comfort and wiped my face. “Come on now, no more tears Tony – it’s just me and you here. You don’t need to be embarrassed, darling, it’s really not a big deal.” Easy for her to say! My secret was exposed, my private world laid bare.
Mum shuffled forward, wiped my face again, then put her finger under my chin and gently raised my face of shame until our eyes met. She smiled. “There – that’s better!”
Her warm hand cupped the side of my face and she said, “I’m your mum. Whenever you need to talk, you come to me. Hiding away, looking at these cuttings in secret, won’t do you any good at all. Much better to talk with me and I am always here for you. My love for you is unconditional.”
Mum scooped up my treasured cuttings, tore them up and screwed them all up into a ball. “Go and throw these in the bin!” Mum indicated towards the kitchen.
I took the cuttings and walked slowly to the kitchen, dumped my whole world in the bin and returned to the dining room where Mum was waiting.
As I approached she held out her hand and took mine, pulling me gently around in front of her. Not a word was said. Mum looked kindly at me for a few seconds, then pulled me a little closer.
Reaching for my jeans, she said quietly: “Life is best experienced for real, with friends and family. Skulking about with those cuttings will not do you any favours at all.” As she spoke the words, my jeans and my underpants were helped down to my ankles. “So if you want to know what its like to have your bottom smacked, I’ll smack it for you, OK?” I was in such a bemused state I could only manage a barely audible ‘yes mum’ and a nod.
She looked into my eyes, touched my face, smiled and said: “Tell me when you’ve had enough.” She guided me slowly and lovingly across her knees. It was quite a beautiful moment, truth be told. I lay motionless, Mum’s left hand in the small of my back, the right resting on my bare bottom.
“Right then – here we go. Don’t forget, I’ll stop when you ask me to.”I lay still and concentrated on the feel of Mum;s hand as it very gently began to smack me. It felt so nice, soft, warm; and the smacks caused the mildest of stings. I loved it.
My cuttings came to mind, my own self-inflicted smacks with slipper and spoon – none of these could compare with ther warmth of my mother’s thighs, the familiar feel of her hand and the mild tingling sting building in my bottom. It was the first time I’d felt the sting of a spanking not caused by my own hand.
Mum spoke but I didn’t catch what she said because I was crying now – tears of relief, my frustration being released. I was across my mums knees having my bottom smacked. I zoned back to reality.
“Did you hear what I said, Tony?” “No Mum.” “I said, I’m going to smack a bit harder now.” And she did – not too hard, but these smacks were applied firmly, and brought a new level of sting. I had never smacked myself to this point before, and Mum’s hand stung more than any of my self-inflicted spankings.
I recall smiling, and how that smile slowly faded as the reality of the spanking began to take effect. I wanted to see how long it would take before I began to feel like a proper naughty boy being spanked by his mummy. As the sting increase,d I began to move around – the first signs that I was finding the spanking uncomfortable.
I started to pull faces, mum was smacking quite hard now and my bum felt decidedly tender. Mum carried on, steadily smacking my bottom in silence, a regular tempo and intensity to the smacks. Never quicker, never slower, just a steady, uniform spanking. Side to side, smacking the plump centre of each bottom cheek to the top of my thighs. Mum, it turned out, was very good at spanking!
I pointed my toes, and shut my eyes as the spanking continued. Mum didn’t speak, my breathing started to become laboured, and I huffed and puffed. I squirmed as I tried to hold out, just a bit longer, just a bit more, just a few smacks more. If I could just hold on so I could feel like a real naughty boy being spanked but oh, how it stung!
Looking back, it was at this point, had the spanking been a real punishment, that genuine tears would have begun. It really was stinging!
I struggled, took a deep breath and reached my limit. My hand automatically flew back to protect my stinging bottom. I made a fist and gritted my teeth, but it was no good – I couldn’t hold out any longer. A few more smacks and I would have started to break down into real tears. I cried out in some distress: “Please, Mum, stop!”
Finally, the stinging in my bottom was enough to force me to surrender. But almost instantly I regretted my call – I had so wanted for it to go beyond bearable, to be spanked to tears, to be spanked by Mum until she alone decided when it should stop, not me.
But this was not a punishment. This was a lesson –a good one, too. It was so much better than any self-spanking or looking at my cuttings. It did bloomin’ well sting, though!
True to her word, mum stopped as soon as I asked. “There you are – now you’ve experienced a real smacked bottom. Now you don’t have to look at those cuttings and wonder what it feels like.
“Wasn’t such a big deal, now, was it?” Mum asked gently patting my burning bottom with the fingers of her spanking hand. I spoke for the first time. “No Mum – it really stung, though.”
“Good! Now, if you ever want me to do that again, you just come and ask, and I will. And do you know why that is?” I shook my head. “Because I’m your mum, and it’s really not a big deal to smack your bottom for you. And I would much rather you come talk to me than sneak around with silly cartoon cuttings. OK?” “Yes Mum.” I had finally had my bottom smacked. And if I’m honest, to this little boy it really was a big deal!
Mum returned me to my feet, bent forward and pulled my underpants and jeans back up. I felt my bum burning inside my jeans.
She stood up and repeated: “Tony, if you ask me, I’ll smack it. Don’t sneak around. If you want to try smacking again, just say.” But there was something else I wanted, at least I found my voice. “Mum, can you stand me in the corner, please?” This additional sanction often happened in my cuttings, and I usually sent myself to the corner after a self-inflicted spanking
Mum just smiled and nodded. She was so understanding, so kind and warm. “Of course! Come with me.”
I followed her into the kitchen, and put me in the corner. “Stand there. Hands on head, face the corner. No talking or moving until I say!” I stood in silence – sent to the corner with my smacked bottom glowing inside my jeans. I would have preferred my bare bottom to have still been on show, if I was totally honest, but I stood still as Mum had ordered.
While I did so, I reviewed the lesson I had just received. Talk to Mum, don’t sneak around, experience the real thing rather than wonder what it’s like whilst looking at comics and cuttings. I stood still, experiencing the sensation of a very real, well-smacked bottom, and waited.
After 10 minutes or so – which honestly seemed like forever – I was allowed out of the corner. “Now – did that teach you a lesson?” Mum asked. “Yes mum.” “Good.”
I flung my arms around her and stood there, hugging her as hard as I could. “Now, that’s more like it!” she said. “That’s better than sneaking around and hiding cuttings, isn’t it?”
Tears flowed as I buried my face in Mum’s dress. I remember apologising to her, for nothing in particular – just saying sorry over and over again. She knelt down so her face was next to mine again. “Tony, darling, you have nothing to apologise for. Do you feel better for having your bottom smacked and a few minutes in the corner?” Through my tears I confirmed that I did, and thanked her profusely.
“Right – go dry those eyes and wash your face, and we’ll have a drink and a biscuit and talk about what just happened, OK?” I nodded. And we did – and I promised to talk to Mum if I had any life issues in future. She was there for me every time. It was the best of lessons. Sitting alone in my room with my cuttings was a thing of the past, and I never spanked myself again either.
Did I ask mum for another spanking? Just once. Did I get one? Yes.
There were several other times I thought about asking for a smacked bottom but stopped short, remembering just how much a real spanking stung. I suppose the ultimate would have been for Mum to spank me until she decided it was over, rather than me. However I didn’t, because my real life experience had taught me that spankings were painful.
Had I still had my collection of cuttings, I would have taken the easy route and looked at those. But, as many of your readers will testify, spanking yourself isn’t the same as someone else giving you one. You call time and stop far sooner than any real spanking would finish.
I found that when I became frustrated at certain times, talking to Mum helped enormously. That was the lesson I took and passed on to my own children.
There was, as I say, only one other spanking. I was curious to see if Mum was serious. I decided to test her, to see if she was as good as her word. I simply asked her one evening if she meant it, when she had told me, just ask. She confirmed she did. So I asked if mum would mind putting me across her knee before bedtime and standing me in the corner for 10 minutes. I promised I wouldn’t cheat, or rub my smacked bottom. I would stand still for ten minutes, then take myself off to bed.
Mum said one word. “Promise?” I nodded. “Very well – I’ll come up at bedtime.” She did, and she sat on the bed and prepared to smack my bum.
I wasn’t very comfortable, my legs were sliding, so I asked Mum if we could use a chair as I was sliding off her lap. I was helped up, mum then fetched a stool from her bedroom and placed that in the middle of my room.
“Let’s try this,” she said, sitting. Without waiting for invitation, I placed myself across mum’s knees and remarked that it was much better. “Might as well be as comfortable as you can,” Mum said, “you’re going to here for quite some time!” That was slightly exciting and concerning at the same time.
Mum took her time. She marched me up the hill, then marched me back down two or three times. Each time we reached the top of the hill, I was on the brink of asking her to stop only to find she had eased off. The first time we reached the top of the hill, my hand went back for protection – I didn’t get it back until the spanking had finished.
She smacked slower this time, but firmly. In fact, Mu, stopped literally just as I was about to ask her to stop. Maybe my body language gave me away? I was breathing hard and squirming, grunting and sucking in air through my teeth. It was certainly a very good spanking.
“There we go – nice and pink all over. Up you get, Tony – all done!” Such a wonderful attitude – I felt very lucky to have such an understanding mother.
Mum took my hand and stood me in the corner, placed my hands on my head and said very quietly up close to my ear: “Ten minutes then straight to bed – and no rubbing it better.”
I nodded my reply, saying: “Promise.” And off she went. I waited a while, turned to check my clock then, when I had completed my 10 minutes, I rubbed my still smarting, well smacked bottom and went straight to bed.
Mum had been right – this was more satisfying than self-spanking with cartoon cuttings for company. I think it was also more relaxing (if that’s the right word!) because I wasn’t having to sneak around worrying I might get caught. It was all out in the open, and I was much happier in myself for that very reason.
Real life is so much better than cartoon cuttings. More painful, too – but you have to break eggs if you want an omelette, right?
Mum is still with us. We have had a warm, open relationship ever since that day she discovered my secret stash. After that second spanking, we never mentioned the subject again until my wife and I had our children.
I asked Mum then how she felt about using spanking for discipline. “I’d think very carefully, Tony. Remember, one day those children will grow up. If you smack them, you’d better have a very good reason and explain your actions carefully, otherwise you run the risk of your children growing up to resent you.” Wise words.
She smiled at me and added: “I only smacked you when you asked me to, never for punishment – remember?” How could I possibly forget!
As I was leaving Mum’s that day with our eldest child, I plucked up a bit of courage and asked her if she had enjoyed our little games when I was a boy. Her only answer was: “Drive carefully, Tony. Let me know when you get home.” As I turned to close the gate, Mum was smiling broadly.