Growing up in the 90s, it was not uncommon for a misbehaving boy or girl to find themselves over a knee, with their helpless bottom facing the wrath of an angry parent.
In my house, Mom and Dad were both strict disciplinarians and equally harsh spankers. I was the middle child, with a sister two years older, and another sister three years younger. All three of us were reluctantly quite experienced at taking a spanking by the time we grew up and moved out.
Spankings always occurred at home and were usually done in the privacy of our bedrooms. Mom’s favourite instrument of punishment was her hairbrush. It was a wooden, oval shaped brush with a broad back. It was wide enough that a single whack would cover most of the cheek of the unfortunate individual on the receiving end. Dad would use his hand for less severe infractions, and his belt for more egregious transgressions.
There was a usual ritual to receiving a spanking that we became quite adept at following. Disobedience during the spanking ritual was not advised. I learned over the years that I was far better off doing as I was expected. Non-compliance would always lead to a more severe punishment and an extra sore bottom.
The first act in the ritual was the sentencing. I always knew I went too far when I received the sentence: “That’s it – you just earned a spanking. Go to your room and get ready.”
Once the pronouncement was read, the punishment was sealed. The individual receiving the judgement was going to get a spanking, and there was nothing they could do to avoid it.
The second act in the ritual was the waiting. The soon-to-be-spanked individual was expected to sit on their bed and wait obediently for their fate. This was supposed to be a period of contemplation. It could last anywhere from several minutes to an hour. It was an agonising experience, stuck between wanting the event to be over and dreading the moment the door opened.
The third act was the positioning and lecture. This act involved being placed in the position in which the spanking would occur, and then enduring a lecture explaining why you were about to be spanked.
The most momentous part of this act was when you found out if the spanking would be on the bare bottom. It was usually confirmed early in the act – Mom or Dad would come in and tell you how many layers they wanted you to drop, and then how they wanted you positioned.
Mom would always have us bend over her lap while she sat on our bed. With Dad, I always prayed he would have me over his knee. If he told me to bend over the bed, it meant I was getting the belt. The belt on our bare bottoms was the ultimate punishment in our house, and was reserved for the worst offences.
The fourth act was the spanking itself. We were expected to take our spankings without resistance and with minimal protest. I always tried my best to comply with these directives. However, once the implement began to crash onto my defenseless bottom, I would invariably plead for mercy.
Sometimes the burning, stinging pain would reach a level where I couldn’t help myself. Desperate for a short reprieve, I’d reach back and clutch my bottom in my hands. I was never trying to be insubordinate – it’s just that my bottom hurt so much. My parents were never sympathetic about this – if I didn’t quickly remove my hands to allow the spanking to continue, I could expect a longer or harder chastisement.
The final act of the spanking ritual was the post-spanking lecture and aftercare. We would remain in position, our freshly spanked, glowing red butts still under threat of a further spanking while we answered the post spanking questions. Questions like: “Did you learn your lesson?” “Are you going to misbehave again?” “Do I need to spank you more?” Of course, the answer to this last question was always an emphatic ‘no’.
When the lecture and interrogation had ended, we would be left alone to reflect. I’d usually lie on my bed while gingerly trying to rub the sting out of my bottom. Sometimes, I’d check the damage in my corner mirror. I would often be shocked at the red, inflamed image of my young behind staring back at me.
My sisters shared a room next to me. Their spanking ritual was the same as mine, but would sometimes be done together. There were a few occasions when all three of us misbehaved and we were spanked for the same offence.
One of these occasions I remember particularly well. We were all out at the store with our mother. My older sister, Emily, was around 13 at the time and kept complaining about the length of time we were shopping. She had become a bit of a brat around this age.
My younger sister, Sarah, and myself kept arguing about something trivial. Finally, Mom had had enough. All three of us were informed that we’d be getting spanked at home, and that she would make our butts ‘redder than a cherry’.
Once home, the usual ritual began. Emily and Sarah were sent to their room, and I was sent alone to mine. For whatever reason, Mom decided to step into my sisters’ room first. Maybe she figured she could take care of two bottoms in one room before finishing off with mine. Our rooms were directly next to each other and our walls were not very thick, so I could usually hear the events in their room fairly easily.
I remember hearing the sound of muffled voices, followed by the unmistakable sound of my mom’s brush striking a bare bottom. After several loud whacks echoed through the house, the sound of the brush was accompanied by the sound of Sarah crying. The brush must have connected with her poor rear around a dozen times. I felt bad for her, but was more concerned with what was coming for my own behind.
Emily was next. She lasted a little longer before I heard the cries, but inevitably they came. Mom always made sure to leave an impression. The brush struck Emily’s bottom at least twice as many times as it did Sarah’s and the smacks were even louder. After a brief pause, the sound of the brush resuming its mission continued. Emily must have received over 30 whacks with that terrible brush. After the last smack found its mark, and the crying subdued, the house became quiet again – and I knew that my time was almost up.
Several minutes later, Mom entered my room, brush in hand. As expected, she ordered me to bare my bottom and bend over her lap. I only half-listened to her lecture. My mind was preoccupied with thoughts of her brush striking my bare butt. I knew my sisters were in their room, tending to their spanked behinds. They would surely be able to hear my spanking like I heard theirs. I told myself I’d take this punishment quietly, so they wouldn’t hear my cries.
In retrospect, the idea that I’d take a spanking from Mom quietly was laughable. I must have forgotten what it felt like when that wood slammed onto my bare skin. It only took several swats before I was pleading for her to stop, and several more swats before I was choking back tears. It wasn’t long until I was a bawling mess, completely indifferent to the fact that my sisters could hear my crying. My thoughts were completely focused on my burning bottom, hoping for a quick end.
By the time the end did come, it felt like my butt had been attacked by a swarm of hornets. I remained in position, pathetically draped over her lap like a wet noodle, while she asked me the usual questions. I answered them in the expected way. What was I going to say? That I didn’t learn my lesson and needed her to continue beating on my butt? One wrong response and that brush would come flying back down onto my sore, chastised behind!
After Mom left the room, I walked over to the mirror to check the damage. Through tear drenched eyes, I remember the shocking image of my butt staring back at me. My entire bottom was bright red and encompassed with puffy welts. Mom had kept her promise – my butt was as red as a cherry.
Later that evening, Sarah told me that Emily had got extra whacks for back-talking after her spanking had ended. All three of us had very sore bottoms that evening, but I could tell Emily was really feeling it, despite her attempt to appear cool and apathetic. Her red eyes and constant shifting in her chair gave it away. Mom had really left an impact where she wouldn’t soon forget it!
That wasn’t the first or the last time we were spanked. It wasn’t the worst spanking I ever received, either. As I said, our parents were strict disciplinarians. It was rare in our house for a week to go by without someone’s bottom being warmed.
Contributor: Matthew