Head of the household

I wonder how many of your readers are, like myself, in a domestic discipline relationship? I can vividly remember the day I got my first inkling that my own parents were, in fact, in such a relationship.

I was 12 years old at the time. It was a boring winter’s day and myself, my sister and my mother had been stuck in the house all day because of the bad weather. My father was out at work.

At about 4pm, Mummy decided to have a glass of wine – this led to another and she became engrossed in watching a TV show and wasn’t paying much attention to either of us children.

At the time I was really interested in cooking, and me and my sister (who was 10 at the time) decided we would do some baking, because Mummy was busy and we had nothing to do. Suffice to say the baking was not a success, and my sister and I ended up having a flour fight instead. Needless to say, this left both kitchen and children in one hell of a mess.

We were in the middle of all this when my father suddenly arrived home. Daddy roared at us to clean up the mess, adding: “Once you’ve done that, go to your room and wait for me.”

We knew that meant a smacked bottom each, and it was two sad and frightened little girls who went upstairs after we had cleaned up our mess. When we got to the bedroom we shared, we both went to stand in the corner and took our knickers down ready, as we had been taught to do.

Our home was a very loving one, but there was never any doubt that our father was the head of the household, and misbehaviour or disrespect was always punished with a long, hard spanking from him. There was quite a lot of ritual involved in this – both a hairbrush and a wooden spoon were kept in our dresser drawer for smacking our bottoms, and Daddy would decide which he was going to use depending on the seriousness of our misbehaviour.

As expected, after about 15 minutes we heard our father’s footsteps coming down the hallway. He entered and sat on the end of the bed, then called me over to him first. Panties around my knees, I waddled over to him, both embarrassed and my head down in shame. I got a long lecture about respect and what he expected from me now I was a ‘big girl’. He added: “You know better than to make such a mess in the kitchen and to waste all those ingredients. You are going to be thoroughly spanked, young lady!”

With that, Daddy went across to the dresser and took out the spanking spoon. Then I was put across his knee, my skirt flipped up to reveal my bare bottom, and he began the punishment. Within seconds, I was wailing and begging him to stop. I probably got about 30 hard smacks with the spoon, certainly enough to leave my bottom bright red with white oval marks all over it.

Towards the end of the spanking, Daddy would occasionally stop for a moment and so and ask if I was sorry, and was going to be a good girl. When he was satisfied that I had indeed learned my lesson, he finished me off with 10 hard smacks to the back of my legs. These always hurt the most and sometimes left bruises.

When Daddy had finished with me, my sister got exactly the same treatment – over Daddy’s knee, bottom bared and a very hard spanking with the spoon. After we had both been done, we were put to bed without supper but with very red bottoms and crying our little hearts out. Daddy put away the spanking spoon – but left with the hairbrush he also reserved for our bottoms.

Later that night, I had to get up for a wee. As I crossed the landing, my young bottom still buzzing under my nightie, I heard muffled cries coming from downstairs. Curious, I crept over to the top of the stairs and peeked down through the rails into the lounge below.

To my amazement, I saw my mother placed across her husband’s knee in exactly the same fashion as his two children had been just hours earlier. Mummy’s large white bottom was completely bare – her knickers were around her ankles – and she was getting spanked just like a naughty little girl.

Daddy was using the hairbrush on her, and her buttocks wobbled and grew redder and redder with every strike of the brush. It was a slower but much harder spanking than we girls got and Daddy was lecturing her the whole time, saying she had been utterly irresponsible and failed to discipline her children. Mummy was crying steadily – I couldn’t hear what she was saying in reply because she had her face in a cushion, into which she screamed every time the brush connected with her buttocks. Finally, she was sent to the corner and told to think about her behaviour. She hobbled over obediently, clutching her bright red bottom.

I stood there with very conflicting emotions. On the one hand, I felt sorry that Mummy had been thoroughly spanked and made to stand in the corner like a naughty child. On the other, I found it strangely comforting and thrilling at the same time to see her being disciplined. Knowing that Daddy was in charge and that even my own mother wasn’t exempt from a well-smacked bottom gave me a strong sense of peace.

As I say, this was the first time I realised that my parents were in a domestic discipline relationship, although of course I didn’t know the term at that age. It became apparent over the ensuing years that this was a dynamic which ran through every aspect of their lives together. They had a strong love and respect for each other, which I partly credit to the boundaries and discipline such a dynamic brings when practiced with love.

It took me a long time to find a husband who could give me the same type of relationship as my parents had but I now have a husband/daddy whom I adore, but who will also never hesitate to take me over his knee for a hard spanking on my bare bottom whenever I step out of line.

Contributor: Kate

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