I have a tale to tell, according to my new partner at least! She introduced me to the Maman site after a conversation about spanking.
I’ll set the scene as quickly as I can. I had no sexual interest in spanking as a young man, although I was smacked as a toddler – by and large, these were the acceptable-at-the-time smacks to hand and or leg when deemed appropriate. My one and only ‘real’ spanking is why my now girlfriend insists I write to you.
In the early 1970s, a new kind of school was being built – the comprehensive. We had a huge comprehensive school in our town, specifically for children like me, maybe not academically up to grammar school level but not a complete hopeless case either.
These new-fangled comprehensives offered a whole new type of education, including practical subjects that had never been taught before, except maybe in girls-only schools. The subject relevant to my tale is domestic science, or cookery. A mixed class of 11-year-old boys and girls learning basic food skills – what could possibly go wrong?
One of the first things we were taught to make (cook seems a bit of a stretch!) were chocolate Rice Krispies or Cornflake cakes. Simply melt the chocolate, add the cereal, pop them in a small paper ramekin then into the fridge to cool – voila!
My story really begins with my friend Malcolm and I deciding to repeat the lesson at home. I am a bit foggy here but it may have been his mother’s birthday or possibly Mother’s Day that brought this idea to the fore. Again, not sure why his mum wasn’t home, but I am guessing we chose to make these cakes while she was out as a surprise. She certainly got one of those!
Although we didn’t realise at the time because we were so engrossed in our well-meaning cookery session, we had made a hell of a mess in the kitchen. This was made clear when Malcolm slipped on something whilst carrying a large mixing bowl full to the brim closer to the tray of waiting ramekins. Down he went, the bowl smashed and there was chocolate mixture everywhere.
Once we realised we had messed up and our cake mixture was unable to be saved, we set about cleaning up as best we could. Somehow the family cat got involved, a stunning cream Persian pedigree that objected to me trying to pick it up and ran through the chocolate mess. slipping and sliding and getting covered in chocolate in the process. I was trying to carry the cat over the mess to avoid exactly that, and she looked a right state!
Malcolm got a pan and brush to sweep up the broken glass, which spread the gooey, chocolate mess even further around the floor. It looked like a whirlwind had been through – two 11-year-old boys, a cat and a kitchen covered in all sorts. Who knew that a bowl of melted chocolate could spread so far and wide?
When Malcolm’s mum entered the kitchen she stood absolutely dumbstruck by the mess that greeted her. “What in God’s name have you done?” she asked eventually, without actually looking at either of us. We both answered at the same time with different answers. I think it was Malcolm who said: “It was going to be a surprise!” Well, you could say that again.
Malcolm’s mum then noticed the cat, sitting on a stool, and her hands went to her face in disbelief. Slowly, she raised an arm, pointed at us two boys, and said quietly” “Stay there – do not touch anything or move!” I don’t think we realised quite how much trouble we were in at that moment.
In those days the telephone was fixed to a point, usually in the hallway, so no wandering about. We heard Malcolm’s mum talking and I was eventually called to the telephone myself. When I put my ear to the receiver, I heard my mother’s voice say: “You do exactly as Mrs Ford says, and you’ll get more from me when you get home.” This didn’t sound good!
With the call ended, Malcolm’s mum marched her son out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I was told to touch nothing and do nothing, except sit and wait.
Within minutes it was crystal clear what was happening. The sounds of a sound, bare bottom spanking filled the house, and the cries of my friend Malcolm became more and more desperate, then almost hysterical, until there was nothing but a garbled, nonsensical babble, and the cracks and pops of something hard colliding with a bare bottom, drifting down the stairs.
It began to dawn on me that as my mother had promised me ‘more’ when I got home, this meant Mrs Ford was going to be giving me the same treatment very soon. Running home seemed a bit pointless, because I was in trouble there – but I didn’t much fancy what was going on upstairs either.
In the end, the decision was made for me. Malcolm’s mum appeared at the top of the stairs and simply said: “You – upstairs!”
About two minutes later my shorts and underpants had been put down and I had been wrestled across her knee, held in a vice-like grip. There was no sign of Malcolm – he must have been in his room crying out his own spanking.
I then found out why my friend had made such a noise, as I was introduced to Mrs Ford’s hairbrush. I tensed, gasped, pointed my toes, gaped my mouth open and shut, wide eyed at the intense burning pain I was experiencing, and that was just in the first 30 or so seconds. I couldn’t move, was barely able to catch my breath, and simply couldn’t process or comprehend the level of pain being inflicted on my young bottom. Eventually it all flooded out, and I screamed, begged, hollered, and begged and screamed some more.
Like most children who are being spanked, the length of time it took was irrelevant – I have no idea, looking back. Malcolm had certainly been upstairs a while before I was called, so I’d hazard a guess that my own spanking lasted somewhere around four or five minutes. That is a long time to suffer the wrath of a very angry mum wielding a solid hairbrush!
When I was eventually pushed from Mrs Ford’s lap, I lay at her feet for some time, clasping my scorched buttocks and unable to speak. After a while, she hauled me back to my feet and between us we managed to get me dressed again. Shortly afterwards, still crying, I found myself being pushed out through the front door and told to go straight home.
When I got there, both my parents were waiting for me. On seeing them I burst into a fresh, prolonged bout of tears, which they duly ignored. Mum half-pushed, half-dragged me upstairs to my bedroom. Once there, she pulled down my shorts and pants (an act which hurt like hell even of itself) and spun me around to look at my burning bottom.
Her verdict? “I’ll give it a day or two before I deal with you myself. Until then, you stay in this room and you only come down for meals, understood? Now go to bed.”
She left me alone and slammed the door. I crawled into bed, unable to really comprehend the spanking I had received from another mother, the pain produced or the promised maternal spanking to come. I know we had made a mess, but even so… After a bit, lying in bed with a sore bum, I remember being surprised to find I had an erection. I was relatively young, in pain and upset, so why did I have a stiffy?
Two days into my ‘confinement to barracks’, Mum took me by surprised. I was lying face down on my bed, reading a comic, when the door burst open. “Up!” she ordered. I stood, my shorts and pants were removed, and my bottom passed her inspection. I was deemed fit to be spanked!
Mum led me by the wrist to her own room. By now I was wearing only a T-shirt and socks, and the dressing table stool on which Mum customarily sat to smack my bottom was already in position and waiting for me. I was turned over mum’s left high, face almost touching the carpet, then I felt her other leg slide over my own two, so I couldn’t wriggle about. Despite my fear, the feel of Mum’s nylon tights on my bare legs felt nice – this was a new experience.
The pleasure didn’t last long, and my spanking began immediately. After a couple of smacks I worked out that Mum was using her slipper. At first it didn’t pain me anywhere near as much as Mrs Ford’s hairbrush, but after a few more smacks it began to hurt in a different way. This was a lighter burn, but nevertheless a very painful one and most unwelcome, especially as the hairbrush had left my bottom quite bruised.
The other difference was the feel of the nylon on my mother’s legs, and mortified I realised I was experiencing another erection. I was across my mother’s knee being methodically and very painfully slippered. Why was my penis doing this? I wasn’t enjoying myself, that’s for sure!
The tears flowed – I didn’t beg and howl quite so much but I struggled helplessly and repeatedly apologised over and over, but still that damn erection stayed solid. I knew that if it hadn’t subsided by the time my spanking was finished Mum was going to see it. As I mentioned, I only had a T-shirts and socks on, so hiding it was impossible.
But as much as I fretted, as hard as mum spanked me, the bloody thing remained. Even though I was being spanked, I still had the wherewithal to worry about mum seeing or probably feeling my stiff little penis. It was inexplicable – I really didn’t understand why the arousal refused to go away.
Mum stopped, and I was at least relieved that my spanking was over – that slipper was really having a devastating effect on my bare bottom. But I was wrong. Mum hadn’t finished at all. She lifted my legs, brought her other leg back under me, slipped her arm around my waist and with me now across her lap like a naughty toddler, she vigorously applied her hand to my bare bottom, which stung indescribably.
This hard, fast hand spanking across my mother’s knee was more than I could bear. I kicked and wriggled and squirmed and then…it happened. My erection had been rubbing wildly against her tights, there was a brief, wonderful feeling as I emptied my balls. Then extreme embarrassment – the unthinkable had happened!
Without a word, Mum slipped me back over the one knee, put her other leg back over mine, retrieved the slipper and resumed the spanking for perhaps another two minutes. By the time it was over I was exhausted, mortified, embarrassed, confused and thoroughly, thoroughly spanked. I sobbed like a baby, mostly due to the spanking but partly I suspect from the embarrassment. My throat was sore – not as sore as my poor bum though!
Looking back, I can only deduce that mum had realised I had an erection and thought I was enjoying being spanked. So in order to get rid of my erection to make sure I took no pleasure from my punishment, mum trapped my willy between her thighs, and hand spanked me because she could do that quicker than with the slipper. That hand spanking was extremely painful – yet again, a different type of sting than the hairbrush or slipper. Then, having finished me off, mum resumed my slipper spanking safe in the knowledge that I wasn’t ‘enjoying myself’, if that makes sense.
I was taken back to my room with a glowing red bottom, and a withered, sticky willy. The door slammed behind me. I could barely look at my mum for days. We never spoke of what happened, Mum never spanked me again, or even mentioned the possibility of a spanking.
I found out from Malcolm, the next time we spoke, that he was given a dose of the belt as his second punishment. He explained that the mixing bowl we used was not a mixing bowl, it was a crystal fruit bowl given to his parents as a wedding gift. The cat also needed expensive grooming for several weeks to get rid of all the chocolate in its fur, and his mum spent hours that afternoon and evening trying to clean up the chocolatey mess we had created. I kept very quiet about the ‘incident’ across my mum’s knee, just telling Malcolm that I received a very long, sound slippering as my second punishment.
All in all it was quite a time. I did apologise to Malcolm’s mum, with a little prompting from my own mother. She accepted that we boys had meant well, but warned me that if I so much as looked at her kitchen, I wouldn’t sit down in a month of Sundays.
So to my girlfriend. We were having a play fight and she sat on me and slapped my bum. When I rolled over I was stiff, which didn’t go unnoticed. We then got into this conversation, she teased me about being a ‘kinky boy’ and asking whether I wanted to have my bottom smacked.
I then told her the story above. We decided to experiment, and for the first time as an adult I received a sexual spanking. My girlfriend wore stockings and heels, positioned me across her knees and smacked me soundly with her hand.
In no time at all, up came my willy. I swore – and still do – that I don’t fantasise about this stuff. It bloody well hurts! However, it would appear that if my bum gets smacked I get a hard-on. This naturally pleases my girlfriend, as she rather enjoys the role play that inevitably leads to a smacked bum for me and of course, sex. I’m a mature adult now, but still don’t really understand why I get an erection when I don’t fantasise about being spanked.
Contributor: Stuart