Crossing the line

My last whacking from Mum was memorable for all the wrong reasons – especially as I was no longer a schoolboy but had started my first job in an office.

Mum and Dad bought me an old BSA Bantam 125 motorbike to make my commute easier. I was so proud of it and back then you could ride such a bike without any training or passing a test.

One day, I was running late and the lollipop lady, Mrs Jones (name changed, as she is still alive), had the traffic stopped. I weaved past the traffic and got to the front as the children were nearing the pavement. I decided it was safe to go even though the stop sign was still displayed. As I pulled away, Mrs Jones turned to walk to the pavement and I just avoided her before accelerating away. I realised I was in the wrong, but dismissed the thought.

After work I put my motorbike away and went in through the front door. Dad was working away but I could hear voices in the lounge. As I entered, Mum shouted my full name loudly. My immediate thought was that I was in big trouble, Mum only called me like that if I had misbehaved badly. I opened the door and saw Mum, Mrs Jones – and a policeman. Mrs Jones had obviously recognised me. I suppose I should have known this, as I had passed her every day on the way to school for years. 

Mum asked me if I knew why they were there and I said ‘yes’. Mum explained that Mrs Jones had a quiet word with the policeman who was in the school that morning. They had agreed to not pursue the matter formally but to speak to her. If they felt I had been suitably punished, then the matter would be dropped.

The policeman then gave me a long lecture about the dangers of my  riding and told me that I was lucky not to be prosecuted. Mrs Jones explained that her husband had died in a road accident and she was furious about my riding, so wanted to see me punished severely. It was at this point that I began to fear the worst.

Mum then pronounced my punishment. I was to be banned from using my bike for a week, making my commute harder and more expensive due to bus fares. I also had to catch a very early bus so it would be a long day. She then confirmed my fear by telling me I was going to be whacked.

I protested, but it was pointed out that I was lucky not to be going to court – it was only due to Mrs Jones’s kind nature that she came to see Mum. I pleaded that I was too old, but that got me nowhere too. Mum then disappeared before returning with a leather strap like the one Aunt Pat used. She said that Aunt Pat had given it to her many years earlier but she had not felt comfortable using it. Today was different.

I was ordered to strip while Mum drew the curtains. I knew it was pointless arguing and obeyed. I tried my best to hide my genitals from Mrs Jones. That idea went out of the window, though, as Mum made me face my accuser while she got a chair from the kitchen. The chair was then placed so that my bottom would be facing Mrs Jones and the policeman, and I was instructed to bend over it. 

Mum stood alongside me and I felt the strap touch my buttocks. It soon lashed down hard and Mum continued at a steady pace, causing me to cry. Then she hesitated, and I was hopeful that the punishment was over. No such luck – Mum handed the strap to Mrs Jones, who needed no encouragement. She whacked just as hard and much faster, causing me to yelp as each stroke landed.

After about eight whacks she stopped and I rubbed my bum quickly. I was ordered to get back in position by Mum, and Mrs Jones handed the strap to the policeman. I was told that if I had gone to court, I would have got at least three points on my licence so I was to receive three whacks from the officer.

He was very enthusiastic and whacked me much harder than the women, making me yelp even louder. Finally, Mum took the strap and told me to stand and apologise to Mrs Jones. I did as requested, and hoped I could leave. But no – Mum ordered me to stand in the corner facing them, hands on my head, while they finished their tea and cake. I was so embarrassed and they seemed to take forever as they chatted a lot.

I noticed that Mrs Jones kept glancing at my cock and grinning, making me become hard. Strangely, no one commented on my erection, despite it being very obvious that Mrs Jones was staring at it. Eventually she and the policeman left and Mum told me to go to my bedroom. I did not bother to dress and rushed to the bathroom on the way. Needless to say, I relieved myself on my bed while Mum got dinner downstairs. 

The week seemed very long and I certainly learned from the experience. I rode the motorbike with much more care after that. The whacking had been my most embarrassing and painful – Mum very rarely spanked me and it was usually either her hand or a wooden spoon.

About a month later, I bumped into the Mrs Jones in town. She was really friendly and we went for a  coffee. We had quite a laugh about the whacking and we seemed to be getting on well, considering that she was twice my age. Mrs Jones did admit that seeing my erection had got her excited. I cheekily suggested that I was free and single but she declined my offer, saying it would be inappropriate. 

That was my last whacking from Mum, but not my final dose of corporal punishment. I had to stay away for three months on a training course and got a few whackings there – but that’s a story for another time.

Contributor: Peter

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