Mum steps up to spank

There was a time, pre-internet, when a difficult family issue was either dealt with in-house, or maybe discussed with a family member or friend. The reason I’m writing is because we no longer have to struggle alone with our little problems – the internet can help.

The Maman site in particular has given me a little comfort, and peace of mind. I have therefore decided to contribute my own memories and experiences in the hope that maybe they will offer a little comfort to others like me. So, instead of struggling alone, someone, somewhere may find this contribution helpful. My contribution is not unique – far from it, reading back over other stories – but it is comforting to know that others have had similar experiences. 

Children, I have learned, go through phases. A certain type of food, a certain game will be of great importance to them, but briefly. They inevitably move on. Sometimes it can be something that has eaten away at them for a while. To refuse or deny such a request, when it eventually comes, can be as devastating as that first teenage heartbreak – and we’ve all been there! 

When I was a little girl, I was smacked at home and school. I didn’t enjoy it. Every single smack was delivered by a woman, never a man. I had one male teacher, and he was a great teacher. He was my favourite because he had that natural air of authority about him. I kept my feelings to myself, but I often wondered what it would be like to be smacked by a man. I imagined it would feel quite different. A strong, silent type of man, turning you over his knee for a few, very hard smacks, with his large hand.

The women teachers seemed quite spiteful, and gave the naughty child the full length of their tongue before administering the spanking. I clearly remember some of those punishments dragging on for some time before the distraught child would walk shamefaced back to their seat. I am loathe to suggest such a thing, but I have a nagging thought that some of those junior school female teachers rather enjoyed dishing out a good spanking.

In the odd moment, I did wonder why Dad never smacked me at home. Why was it always Mum? There were moments when I did cuddle up to my daddy at home, dreaming he could smack me instead of Mum, but never in a million years would I have dared ask him for a spanking. The thought of actually asking was unthinkable – it takes a lot of courage to ask an adult if they would mind giving you, a child, a smacked bottom to cure your curiosity. Remember this sentence! Going back to the analogy of that first teen heartbreak, do you remember trying to build the confidence to ask someone out, and that awful moment of rejection?

At home, Mum would smack on the spot. There was no waiting, no delay, no being sent to your room or a long lecture. It was a generally a few sharp slaps to my exposed legs, and the same threat always followed: “There’ll be plenty more, and far worse, if you don’t behave!” I never did find out what ‘worse’ was – smacked legs stung enough, thank you very much.

At senior school, it was all a bit more detached. Normally you were sent to a senior teacher and taken to an office, where (other than detentions) the cane was the only option. But at least it was done in private.

Mostly, teachers generally caned children of the same sex. However, there were a few examples of women caning boys – interestingly they changed their modus operandi for boys and caned them on their backsides. Nine times out of ten, however, it was one or two strokes per hand.

When the women caned the boys, it was supposed to be the regulation one or two per hand, but more often than not the boys reported they had received six strokes on the bum. This was always over school trousers, but any accounts of these punishments we got to hear about confirmed that it hurt like hell. Boys tend not to admit they cried but if my memory is right, the only time a boy I knew had been caned, he certainly had red eyes and walked stiffly afterwards for a while. To my knowledge, male teachers never caned girls. I myself was never caned, however, so I have no experience to speak from.

As I grew older, the feeling of wanting a smacked bottom from a man waned. By the time I was dating, other things were more important – going out, dancing, having a good time, oh yes and willies! I didn’t really connect spanking and sex, and my interest in having my bottom smacked by a man lay dormant. 

So I married a nice fella, we had a boy and a girl and settled into the most normal of domestic lifestyles. Fundamentally, I was perfectly happy. Sex was pretty vanilla, but enjoyable. I may have re-visited my childhood fantasy now and then when masturbating alone, but it was just that – a fantasy.

My daughter had her moments. Most of those were in her early teens. Our son was generally well behaved. Even in the subjects that he struggled with at school, his reports were always positive. He never really gave me any cause for concern.

We never smacked either. I suppose I would have put money on my daughter being the most likely of the two to deserve it Another mother may well have resorted to a spanking, particularly in those early teen years, but I didn’t.

So – having said all that – you can imagine the shock I got one afternoon, walking in on my son (who I didn’t realise was even in his room) to find him crying.

Of course, as a boy he was very embarrassed at being caught crying, which didn’t help. After asking why the tears, I decided to walk away and come back later when he had recovered his composure.

As I was leaving his room he mumbled something that I didn’t quite catch. I asked him to repeat himself, and was surprised by both his honesty and the subject (remember how I felt about such courage?)

“I can’t stop thinking about being spanked,” he said. Now I had a little experience here, I had fantasised about that male teacher in my school days, but it hadn’t been a problem – as I said, it was just a passing childhood curiosity.

After a few more questions, my son finally spilled the beans. He had a crush on a teacher at school; a female, senior teacher. Rumour had it she had spanked a boy after school, even though corporal punishment had recently been banned. She had offered the boy a spanking rather than a letter to his parents advising of a two-week suspension. The boy opted for corporal punishment as this would have been, apparently, far less of a punishment than he would have expected at home.

The boy in question had apparently told his peers that the teacher had put him across her knee and spanked him so soundly on his bare bottom that he had cried his eyes out. I wasn’t completely sure this was true, but of course I had no way of finding out the truth. Had that teacher been reported or found out, she may well have lost her job. If anything, I would have thought she may have slippered the boy bending over a chair or desk, or at a real stretch used the cane.

I doubted the bare bottom element – perhaps this was just my son’s twist on the tale, or maybe the boy in question had exaggerated his punishment. Indeed, perhaps the whole thing had another pubescent boy’s sexual fantasy?

As my son and I talked, he began to open up more to me. He told me that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. This particular teacher taught him English and history, and he felt his work was suffering because he couldn’t get the thought of being spanked by her out of his head. He added that he didn’t understand these feelings because he had never been smacked in his whole life.

I suppose I had an inkling where this was heading. What I had fantasised over as a girl, but never in a million years would have been brave enough to request, or talk about, was about to be requested of me – the irony was not lost.

“Will you do it?” There it was. “Spank you?” I asked, knowing full well that’s what he meant. “Yes, Mum. If you do it, at least I won’t be sitting there wondering what it feels like.”

At this point I started to wonder if this was a whole made up story, just an elaborate way of asking for a spanking. Perhaps he thought it might be fun, maybe the thought excited him?

I sat down next to my son, put my arm around him and we had a little heart-to-heart. I asked him to be honest and tell me whether he had in fact concocted a story in order to satisfy his curiosity. He assured me the story about the boy at school was true. He did, however, admit that he had tried to talk to me about spanking before but had chickened out. It seems my son just had the same curiosity as me, but had actually found the courage to ask.

 I imagined how devastated I would have felt had I approached my dad to ask for a smacked bottom, only to be told: “Don’t be so silly – of course I won’t smack you.” I didn’t want to damage my son’s self-confidence. 

So there we were, sat on his bed, mum and son, having a real watershed moment. I asked what he expected from a spanking, but he didn’t know. He just wanted to be spanked – he hoped it would stop him thinking about it. I had my doubts about that, as you can imagine.

The easy option here would have veeb to walk away and tell my child to pull himself together. Having read this far, I hope readers will understand why I didn’t. I love my son, I wanted to help and although I did try, I knew in my heart that talking wasn’t going to solve this problem.

I offered a few smacks, as a bit of fun, as a try-out. I said we could do that here and now. He nodded, but asked if I could maybe do it so it stung a bit. A halfway house option – enough to sting but not a punishment. I understood that – given the choice as a little girl, that would have been my preference too.

So we came to an agreement: I would spank him, but he was to promise me faithfully that if he felt the subject was still affecting his school work or concentration, he must come and tell me. He promised hand-on-heart that he would.

I told him to wait in his room for a minute, as I needed to check we wouldn’t be disturbed – I could only imagine my son’s horror and embarrassment if his dad or (worse) his sister were to walk in and find him across my knee getting his bottom smacked.

So I checked. My husband was on the front drive, conveniently vacuuming the car, so he wouldn’t hear anything. My daughter – as usual – was chatting on the phone to a friend.

I returned to my son’s room – he was sat on his bed looking for all the world like acondemned man. I explained now was as good a time as any, as everyone seemed busy, and would be none the wiser. He nodded and stood up. To lighten the mood, I joked that if he preferred we could wait until dinner time, and I would give him his spanking in the dining room where his dad and sister could watch. His eyes widened and he shook his head. “Can we do it now please, Mum?” He looked extremely nervous.

In another attempt to lighten the mood, I asked: “Is your bedroom chair under that pile of clothes?” He nodded and moved the pile to the bed – typical boy! I pulled the chair to the centre of his room, sat down, got comfortable and smiled at him.  He looked ashen and appeared shaky. I told him I would stop as soon as he reached the point where he found it uncomfortable. I reminded him this was not a punishment, but an attempt to help him overcome his curiosity. 

He seemed strangely reticent in that moment, as if he was having second thoughts. I double-checked that he wanted to carry on by asking him to undo his jeans. I noticed his fingers shook as he did. Without me asking, he pushed them down to his knees.

“Come on then – over you go, bottoms up” I encouraged with a smile, patting my hands on my knees. I reached for his hand and helped him settle over my lap. His toes and fingers just reached the carpet. He was trembling, I reassured him he could get up or call stop at any time, but he shook his head and said: “Just do it, Mum.” 

I slipped my hand around his waist, pulled his underwear up tight, patted his bottom really gently, then slowly began to smack from cheek to cheek. His underwear had pulled up enough that most of his bottom was fully exposed. I only mention this because it was good to see how my hand was affecting his bum. Even after just a few smacks that had no weight behind them, it began to go pink, which surprised me. He never made a sound, just lay still, but trembling. I smacked very slowly, and after roughly ten smacks I put a tiny bit more effort into it. My son remained quiet and still.

I’d given him around 25 mild smacks before I asked: “Want me to stop?”

“No, Mum.” OK – that was clear, and he had shown no signs of struggling or distress, so I carried on. It was no big deal – in fact, it was all quite easy. I can’t say it was an unpleasant experience for me. Indeed, I felt a strange bonding with my son – it had been years since I had him in this position, and then only to change his nappy.

I resumed the smacking, but a bit harder. Slow, carefully placed smacks – one side then the other. My son’s bottom – at least the lower parts that I could see – was now an even light pink. After ten of these harder smacks, I felt we had reached the point where he now knew properly what it felt like to be spanked.

There was no sign of sexual activity that I could feel, although his willy would have been tightly wrapped in his underwear. I suspect that the fact he was so nervou, would also have affected any sexual feelings he may have had at the outset.

“Had enough yet?” “It’s starting to sting a bit, Mum.” “Do you want to get up?” “No, Mum – not yet.” “OK – a few more, then we stop. Ready?” “Yes, Mum.”  

I tightened my arm around him, prepared myself, and smacked him with about the same severity but a touch quicker. He straightened a bit, and I heard an intake of breath. I smiled to myself at the reaction. A few more like that and he actually started to move around – his hips wiggled and his toes tapped on the floor, and his head moved side to side gently. In a wicked little moment, I admit I enjoyed myself and carried on longer than intended mostly, because I was enjoying my son’s reaction. At last, he was wriggling like a proper naughty boy – but he never asked me to stop.

It was a bit naughty of me, but after all it wasn’t a punishment, and I was happy that he was at last feeling enough sting to make him wriggle. Never once did he cry out or make a sound other than a slight intake of breath. If I had detected the slightest amount of distress, I would have stopped immediately.

My son’s bottom was now a slightly darker pink, but no more than that. He was breathing a little heavier than normal, so I stopped and he slid back to his knees. He put his arms and head on my lap, buried his face and sobbed his heart out. The only words I understood was the much-repeated ‘thank you’. It was an emotional outpouring, not a reaction to what was a very mild spanking. I stroked his hair and, after quite some time, a very wet face looked up at me. “Feeling better?” I asked, smiling. He nodded. “Yes – thank you, Mum.”  

I stood up. “Now, I’m holding you to that promise. We can talk any time you like but I want to know how you keep the next time you have a lesson with this teacher, OK?” He promised.

“Right – now, go and wash your face before your sister sees you like that.” I rubbed his head gently, looked him in the eye and checked he was OK. He was. Then, just for fun, I added: “If I ever have to put you across my knee again, it’ll be on the bare bottom and far worse than this time, you naughty boy!” A flashback to my mum’s threat! At last I forced a smile from him, albeit a rather water one. I knew then he was OK, and I left him kneeling by the chair and went downstairs.

Others may disagree, but I felt I had done the right thing. I felt rather strange inside, a feeling I find difficult to describe. It had been quite the afternoon, and I had yet to tell my husband. 

My son later told me that he felt much better in himself. He admitted that there was still a degree of curiosity as to what a spanking from his teacher would be like, but at least now he knew what it felt like to have his bottom smacked. It no longer ate away at him all day – the boil had been lanced!

Following all this, at a time when we had the house to ourselves, I took a brave pill (i.e., a large glass of wine!) and confessed my own childhood curiosity to my husband. Hubby, bless him, didn’t really get it but duly obliged and finally, like my son, I knew what it was like to be given a smacked bottom. The spanking was mild but, for me at least, very sexual. I loved it, and made that very clear to my husband in the intercourse which followed.

Later, in private and hidden away from everyone in the bathroom, I had the same reaction as my son. I cried. It was the first cry I’d had in a long while, so I understood why my son had cried afterwards. It was the emotion, not the pain of the spanking.

My son’s grades improved at school, and he changed within himself. He became more cheerful and spent more time with us in the family lounge than up in his room alone. We became closer. He told me he was he was really worried about how much it would hurt when I agreed to spank him. He feared that if it hurt too much he might cry, and was embarrassed by that thought. He hadn’t expected to cry so openly afterwards, but explained that he couldn’t help himself. Strangely (and I’m not complaining), he took to giving me a hug now and then for no apparent reason.

Of course there was a little teasing – you would expect that! I would ask if he remembered what happened the last time he had to move that pile of clothes off his chair – those clothes soon found their way into the laundry basket! My favourite tease – which never failed to work – was: “I do hope there’s a sprinkle around the toilet seat. I’m just in the mood to turn a teenage bottom bright red!” We always had a dry toilet seat, strangely enough! For the record, despite my teasing I never spanked him again, whether for fun or punishment.

As for me, I still request the occasional gentle spanking from Hubby. The irony that it took my son’s request in order for me to find the courage to ask for one myself, is never lost. I always enjoy the experience very much.

I have no regrets. Rightly or wrongly, I spanked my son because I wanted him to feel that he could come to me and talk. The difficult teen years were approaching, and I didn’t want to damage his self-esteem or confidence by refusing to help when he needed me. When his heart would inevitably get broken by a girl – and it did, –I wanted him to know I could be counted on and trusted. I didn’t want him to feel rejected. 

At the end of the day, it’s just a few smacks on a bottom – but they can mean the difference between a very happy child, or a devastated one.

Contributor: Paula

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