A friend recommended this site to me, and the stories posted here brought back vivid memories of my well-spanked childhood. I decided to share my experiences, and my friend offered to post them for me.
Even though the spanking of children was falling out of favour during the 1980s, that is how my brother Troy and I were raised. Our mom 0was spanked in the 1950s (Dad was not) and it was logical that she became our disciplinarian. She did not work outside the home, and was on the spot whenever our behavior needed correction.
We were never threatened with ‘wait until your father gets home’ – when one of us crossed the line, Mom dealt with it right away. She would stretch us out across her lap, face down and bottom up, and paddle us however harshly she thought our misbehaviour warranted. We’d be sore enough afterwards to think twice before risking a repeat.
To be honest, however, Troy and I could rarely resist the lure of certain types of mischief. Being typical boys, we’d eventually get in trouble again, maybe once a month. I suspect a dozen spankings in a year was about average for both of us.
In general, I was a happy kid, although somewhere around my 10th or 11th year that began to change. Unlike my normally cheerful brother, I would occasionally become sullen and irritable without actually being disobedient. I don’t really know why I acted that way, but at first Mom didn’t know how to deal with it. My moods could sometimes last for days, and I would retreat to my room and brood. That worried Mom and Dad, and made living with me unpleasant.
Finally, Mom decided to do something about it. The next time I became difficult and out of sorts, she hauled me off to the couch in our den and stripped me to my underpants. I knew what was coming. “Why are you going to punish me?” I protested. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Her answer was brief and to the point. “Just because.”
She put me over her knee, pulled down my briefs and began to slap my behind, hard enough to make me kick and squirm. After 15 or 20 spanks, she stopped and began to stroke my back and bottom gently to calm me down. “I’m not angry with you,” she told me, “but I’m tired of the way you’ve been acting. I want my happy boy back again, and maybe this is the way to make it happen.”
She had obviously prepared in advance, and brought out her big, wooden kitchen spoon. After a dozen brisk smacks with that, she paused to pat me again, but soon followed up with a rapid-fire round of ruler, paddle and plastic spatula. I didn’t know what to expect next, and it drove me wild.
For at least the next 10minutes, she alternated between rubbing me gently and whacking my tender bare seat. Finally, she announced: “I hope that’s enough”. She gathered up my clothes. I was exhausted from the spanking, and when she began to dress me, as if I were a little boy again, I let her do it. My bottom was hot and sensitive, which actually felt good – I couldn’t decide if I liked or hated it.
Mom led me to the kitchen, sat me down at the counter and made us both a cup of hot chocolate. She joined me and began to talk, about what I don’t remember, but it wasn’t about the spanking. It was nice just being with her and hearing her gentle voice, and it became a two-way conversation.
For the next few days I was back to normal – then for weeks and even months afterwards too. I didn’t realise it at the time, but Mom’s ‘spanking therapy’ was just what I needed to restore my good humour.
But eventually dark clouds gathered around me again, and I found myself once more stripped and squirming in the den. When I least expected it, after almost a quarter hour of Mom’s creative paddling, I began to cry – not in pain but from a sort of emotional release from the bad mood I had been in. Mom immediately sensed what had happened. She pulled up my underpants, gathered me into her arms, and hugged me to show how much I was loved.
From that time on, Mom’s ‘just because’ spankings were full of surprises and tough enough to leave my seat super sensitive for hours afterward, but they were almost fun too. It hurt and felt good at the same time, and always achieved the same effect – the lifting of my spirits for months afterwards.
Once in our teens, Troy and I no longer needed to be punished much, and never by spanking. My ‘just because’ spankings dwindled too, and only once or twice a year was sufficient to keep me well-adjusted and happy. By the time I was attending our hometown university, going over my Mom’s knee embarrassed me – but on the rare occasions when life was getting me down, I’d need her to spank me. And she’d always agree.
In my senior year, I was going with a wonderful girl named Jennifer who was scheduled to graduate with me in June. We were wonderfully compatible and were planning to get married as soon as we had our degrees. But I still suffered from occasional stresses and strains.
As final exams approached I suffered a crisis of confidence – and one Saturday afternoon, when no one else was home and not expected to return soon, I went to Mom to ask for my special kind of ‘stress relief’. Once I was lying bare over her knee, my bottom rapidly warming from the effects of a kitchen spoon paddling, I expected to be feeling better in a short time.
But after almost 20 minutes I was still restless and agitated – I just couldn’t seem to achieve the kind of release from tension that a blazing bottom usually provided. I drew up my knees to tighten the target, and shamelessly begged Mom for harder and faster strokes from her largest paddle.
Just then, I heard the den door open and Jen walked in. Her mouth dropped open when she realised what was happening. I later learned that she was on her way home from a shopping trip when she decided to stop by to see me. Needless to say, she knew nothing of my ‘therapy’ arrangement with Mom – actually, not even that I was ever spanked while growing up.
Mom was facing away from the door and didn’t see Jen come in. She was striking my upturned rump with a large grooved paddle. It sounded like gunshots, and I knew that all my plans for the future were in jeopardy. I knew that Jennifer would never be able to accept having seen me lying helplessly and childishly bare-bottomed across my mom’s lap – it would destroy all her respect for me.
But having come so far, I desperately needed completion. Mom must have sensed how frantic I was and paddled me fiercely, which burst the emotional dam inside me in a savage eruption of white-hot agony—the worst, best, most exquisite spanking I had ever experienced.
But when I saw the expression on Jen’s face as she turned and fled from the room, I was sure I would never see her again.
For the next several weeks I lived in fear of exposure, expecting her to share with all of our mutual friends what she had witnessed. But, as I later learned, she kept it strictly to herself. Instead, she arranged to meet with Mom in a quiet location and they talked for an hour over coffee.
A few days later, Jen asked me to see her again, and I joined her in a quiet corner of the university library.
She got right to the point. “Your mom explained everything to me,” she said, “all about your childhood and your black moods, and how she has always tried to understand and help you to deal with them. She seems like a really good mother.”
“You must think I’m really weird,” I said. “And weak. You couldn’t possibly respect me after what you saw.”
“You’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever met, Brian, and I love you. I don’t fully understand what goes on inside you, but I have some idea and I’m willing to try to accept it. If you want me to, that is.”
“I can’t even look you in the eye now.”
“Everyone has secrets.”
“Not like this.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said. “I’m a psychology major, remember, and I know a lot about people’s needs and wants. Some are lots worse than yours. I want us to get back together, get married and have a good life together.”
“You say that now,” I said, dispirited. “You’ll change your mind.”
“Won’t you at least give me a chance?”
We talked long into the afternoon, and I began to dare to believe that it might work. But I finally addressed the elephant in the room. “Sometimes I can’t control my moods,” I said. “I may have to go away for a while when that happens.”
“No,” Jen said. “When that happens, we’ll deal with it.”
“How?” I asked.
“The same way your mom has always done.”
I could hardly believe what she was saying. “You can’t mean…”
“Why not? I won’t mind doing it, and it really won’t make me love or respect you any less. I’ll just be grateful that I can take care of something you really need, just as I’m sure you would do for me.”
Well, we’ve been married a long time now – content and successful in separate careers and the parents of two fine, well-adjusted children. I rarely have to ask Jen for one of my infrequent spankings but she always seems to sense when I need one. When a black mood comes on, she puts me over her lap and spanks me until I find relief.
Once in a while, however, my depression can run so deep that I need her to hurt me – really hurt me. Jen (the psychologist) says it’s a deep-seated desire to be punished, although I can’t imagine what for. She hates doing it, but understands that I need it.
She takes me to our bed, lays me face down with my bare bottom elevated by several pillows, and ties my hands behind my back. Then she gives me a long and intense spanking with the grooved paddle that Mom passed on to her. The physical effects last for days – the emotional satisfaction, much longer.
The question will probably always remain open as to whether children should ever be spanked. I don’t claim to have an answer, but I’ve always been glad that I was, and continue to be.