Seeing and getting, part IV

I mentioned previously how my mother broke a wooden hairbrush across my backside while thrashing me at the age of 14.

At the time, I believed the spanking would be my last – but I actually got one more after that which I will come to in a moment.

Mother’s main spanking implement of choice during our younger years was the slipper. It had a hard rubber sole and was very effective when laid across small bare bottoms.

As we children got older, she also introduced the hairbrush. The first one she used was made of plastic and the first time I was about to be spanked with it, I remember thinking that it wouldn’t be that bad. Well, how wrong can you be?

Time and again during my boyhood, I found my bare bottom upturned across Mother’s knee for a thorough dose of her brush. Every now and again the plastic brushes would snap during the spanking – Mother would then take great delight in showing me the replacement she purchased a few days later.

Whenever mother mentioned the phrases ‘smacked bum’, ‘a thrashing’, ‘a good hiding’ or ‘a sort out’ in general conversation with me, I would go instantly shy, get butterflies and try to avoid any conversation. I would want to hide under the nearest rock, being so headstrong and cocksure of myself, any suggestion of such a juvenile punishment would massively knock my ego, especially after the age of 11 or 12.

Although in some ways I always enjoyed the thought of a good hiding, I hated the reality. It was not just the intense pain of the punishment, but also the exposure and the humiliation of being seen bare below the waist, especially as I was a very late developer.

Being 13 , headstrong with a massive ego but not a single pube in sight was mortifying for me. So I did my very best to hide my smoothness. Kids can be cruel, and I was worried that I would be laughed at if my siblings found out and told my friends – my ego would have been destroyed.

Furthermore, I felt somehow superior at home and did not want my mother seeing my nakedness. I always felt relieved when she pulled my pants down once I was already over her knee. There were times that I was made to pull them down whilst standing in front of her while she sat in her rocking chair, or she would yank them down herself.

On those occasions, I could not jump over her knee fast enough to hide my embarrassment, hoping I had been too quick for her to notice my lack of hair. Although once the hiding started, Mother always made sure that modesty went out of the window. I would be kicking, squirming and struggling, and my privacy would be the very least of my problems.

Whenever I was to have a hiding, it was always bare bottom , and learning my fate would instantly make me feel funny and put butterflies in my stomach. However, hearing the words ‘get them down’ was much, much worse.

Knowing that I was about to be exposed would get the butterflies doing somersaults and send a strange tingling sensation to my willy, which felt like I was almost going to pee myself (although I never did). It was upon hearing those words, regardless of how old I was, that I would instantly start to protest, plead and cry – hoping Mother would change her mind. Needless to say, she never did. 

Something tells me that mother knew about my shame, although it was probably a much bigger deal for me than it was for her. I think she may have enjoyed my embarrassment in a motherly way and probably played on it, although I may be wrong.

I remember one day after school when I was about 13 , Mother had been out that day shopping and had bought a new hairbrush – but this time it was a wooden one. It was oval in shape with a flat back and on the front the bristles were attached to a red rubber cushjion.

“I’ve already tried this on the palm of my hand to see how much it hurts,” she told me. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it.

Again, I tried to avoid engaging in the conversation, as I felt uneasy. All I managed was a nervous laugh. She then told me that she had been in a charity shop earlier and found an interesting stick which my father could use to punish me ‘properly’. She described the stick in some detail and then came out with a phrase I have never forgotten. “Birch that boy!”

At the time, I had no idea what a birch was. Now, of course, I know that whatever it was my mother was describing, it was certainly not a birch. Thankfully, Mother went on to tell me that she had not purchased the stick after all, as she felt the shop owner might have suspected what she wanted it for. Thank God there was no internet shopping at the time!

The year between 13 and 14 was probably my worse year for thrashings, though looking back now I would be the first to agree that I was a difficult teenager. At that age, all I wanted to do was fit in, abd I had a big ego and a reputation to uphold amongst my circle of friends.

I have mentioned in my first post how we lived pretty much just above the breadline. We didn’t want for much but times were hard and anything we did have, we had to work for. Us children never had pocket money of the cuff so had to do chores around the home to earn spending money and even get a paper round, which I did. However, it was hard work trying to keep up with my friends, who always seemed to have a lot more and plenty of money for sweets and pop.

It was at that point I started stealing. My father would empty his pockets at bedtime and leave a pile of loose change on the side. I would sneak downstairs in the early hours and take a pound.

Now, a pound may not seem much but when this was happening daily for probably three or four months, it soon added up and of course a pound went a lot further in the 90s than it does today. Living just above the bread line and  being part of a large family, this money was definitely needed – and missed.

My stealing suddenly came to an abrupt end when I was well and truly caught red-handed with my hand pretty much in the cookie jar. I had absolutely no defence whatsoever and no excuse. My stomach sank and I could feel the blood rushing to my head – I knew I was in serious trouble.

At this point, I expected the hiding of my life – but instead and to my horror, my parents instead called the police. It was early evening when I was caught and I waited nervously for what seemed like forever for the police to arrive. When they finally did, it had gone 10pm and it was well past my bedtime.

Two officers arrived and spoke to my parents in the kitchen before coming to talk to me, in a bid to put the fear of God in me and keep me on the straight and narrow. They told me what could happen if I continued and asked who my friends were in school – it appears they were also well known to the police, and the officers told my parents that I was in with the wrong crowd. They said they would contact the school, and also told my parents (off the record) that I could benefit from a good hiding.

When the police finally left, I thought I was properly in for it. But instead, Mother calmly said that I was grounded until further notice and that neither she nor Father wanted to see me or hear from me for a while. She added that she would be visiting my school the next day to speak to my head of year.

Then Mother added: “For the next week, you are to come straight home from school. Your evening meal will be ready for you, then you are to have a shower, get into your pyjamas and I want you in bed by five. And if you make a fuss about it, God help you!”

The following week was extremely lonely and shaming. Being nearly 14 and in bed way before my much younger siblings was extremely humbling, especially when friends knocked the door asking for me. I heard Mother tell them that I had been sent to bed.

I got many hidings as a teenager – but this was the one I always felt I truly deserved but never got. I still feel guilty about it today.

It’s funny how the mind plays tricks. I mentioned in my first contribution that the last hiding I remembered at home was over my mother’s knee at almost 15, bare bottom, being thrashed with a hairbrush that my sister had kindly fetched for her. The thrashing was for fighting and hitting my sister and it was very intense.

However, I now recall that I received another sore bottom after that one. Once again, I had been a handful for quite some time, with lots of back chat and getting too big for my boots. Well, I must have mouthed off once too often – Mother was at her wits’ end with my attitude and finally snapped.

“Right!” she shouted, ”You’re for it, my lad!” She headed to the bathroom. That meant only one thing – she was fetching the brush. I instantly ran upstairs to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. It must have been winter as it was early evening and dark.

Mother ran up the stairs and tried to force her way into my room – I sat behind the door and tried to keep her at bay. pushing the door shut with all my might. But Mother was a strong woman – and even stronger when in a rage. She soon overpowered me and pushed her way in.

Having done so, she slapped me hard across the face. I called her a ‘bitch’ as I hit the floor, crying not from the slap but just in the moment.

Mother quickly pounced on top of me as I lay there flat on my stomach. She sat on my lower back, then lowered my trousers and pants. The hairbrush rained down blow after blow after blow on my naked buttocks and all I could do was kick my legs, squirm and attempt to break free. Strangely, though, I was also worried about throwing Mother off me and hurting her. She was sat in such a way that my hands were also trapped, preventing me from reaching back to protect my arse.

By the time she was done I had kicked my trousers and pants down to my ankles, and was breathless from the screaming and struggling. I was also very sore!

Later that evening, when things had calmed down, Mother sat me down for a talk. She asked why I was behaving the way I was, and asked whether everything was OK. It was almost as if she had a tick list , question after question. Are you being bullied? Worried about school, exams, health?

She even asked if I was worried about being slow in my sexual development (she had seen me enough times with my pants down to be aware of this). Mother tried to reassure me that my voice would soon break, I would grow hair down there and my willy would turn browner. I cringed at this – but I will never forget that conversation. I was very embarrassed that she had noticed my situation but it was obviously a much bigger deal to me than it was to her.

This good, long chat changed my attitude. I matured and Mother and I pretty much became best friends. To this day, I love my mum more than anything and I’m very lucky to still have her around.

Contributor: Mark

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