Missing at the beach

One summer day, our family – myself, my husband and our children Susana and Julio – went to the beach. We all had a lovely afternoon but when it was time to go home, suddenly we couldn’t find Julio, who was 11 years old at the time.

Naturally very worried about our missing child, we scoured the beach and the immediate surroundings for some time before my husband – thank heaven – discovered him some way down the coast, busy collecting crabs.

Naturally, his father was very angry with him, as was I. “Don’t you realise what a scare you gave us?” I asked him. “Very bad things can happen when children go missing!” My son at least had the good grace to look embarrassed and penitential. He lowered his gaze and said quite humbly: “I’m very sorry, Mom.”

Well, that wasn’t going to wash with me. “You’ll be even more sorry when I get you home,” I said, “someone will be going to bed with a very sore bottom tonight!”

Julio’s face went white and he began to protest. I was in no mood to be swayed. “Would you rather I gave you your punishment right now, in front of all these people, on your bare bottom?” He shook his head vigorously.

I opened the back door of the car. “In. Now. Both of you.” Susanna climbed on to the back seat and as Julio followed his sister, I couldn’t resist landing a firm smack on his clothed bottom, to give him something to feel and think about on the drive home.

It seemed even that wasn’t enough for him to learn his lesson, however, and as we drove away he piped up again: “Mom, please don’t hit me! I’ll never wander off again without permission, I promise!” I turned round in the front seat with a look of grim determination on my face. “I’m sure you won’t,” I said, “and I mean to make sure of it when we get home. Now be quiet and think about what you’ve done, and what you’re about to get.”

Both children were silent for the rest of the journey. Susana could see I was in a bad mood and didn’t want to be drawn into the eye of the storm. Julio looked a bit tearful and wriggled a bit on his newly-smacked bottom, obviously thinking about the ‘real thing’ coming at the end of our journey.

Once we were back in the house, I lost no time in dealing with my child. “Pants and underpants down, now,” I said. Julio tried one last protest: “Please, Mom…”

His father interrupted him. “Julio, obey your mother and take your punishment. Or would you rather I fetched the belt and dealt with that bottom of yours instead?” My husband rarely administered corporal punishment in our house, considering it a mother’s job, but he wasn’t above using that belt when needed and both children had felt it before now.

I’m sure memories of his most recent encounter with it prompted Julio, eyes now wet with tears and blushing at his loss of privacy, to take down his trousers and underpants, revealing a white bottom with just a faint pink mark on one cheek where I had smacked him entering the car.

I took a seat on a dining room chair and beckoned my son over to me. Cupping his hands in front of his privates, he came to me obediently and I bent him over my knee. I then spanked very thoroughly indeed, first one buttock then the next, with the occasional ‘mid hit’ across his bottom cleavage. He cried and kicked, of course, but I didn’t stop until his buttocks were a bright crimson.

Job done, I put him in the corner with his smacked bottom on display, hands on head and an order not to rub his behind unless he wanted to go over my knee for a second time.

I released him once dinner was ready, accepted an apology with a kiss and a cuddle, then pulled his clothes back up and we sat down for dinner – albeit one family member was sitting on a rather warmer bottom than the other three!

Contributor: Laura

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