When I was young, my mom kept what we called ‘the spanking stick’ in a kitchen drawer. It was a polished piece of wood whose purpose should be obvious from its name. It was about a foot and a half long.
One end was narrower than the other for maybe a third of its length, forming a kind of handle, but even at its widest it wasn’t more than two or three inches. I don’t know where mom got it – perhaps Dad made it in his workshop. Its arrival certainly pre-dated my memory, having been used on both of my brothers’ bottoms before my own.
Mom didn’t use it always for my spankings, and I can attest that her hand on my bared behind was more than sufficient to discourage whatever behaviour she found wrong. But when she took the spanking stick out of the drawer, I knew I was really in trouble.
Its appearance always meant an extra-long session across her knee and a spanking I’d feel for a day or so afterwards. As I got older, the number of my spankings declined, but the frequency of my getting the spanking stick increased.
I remember one particular time, when I was perhaps 10. I don’t recall what I’d done wrong – probably an accumulation of things. It was summer and I was around all day, with lots of time to get on my mom’s nerves.
In any case, mom had me, as usual, across her knee with my pants pulled down. She had just started my spanking – no more than a couple of smacks – when the spanking stick cracked in half.
I remember a feeling of hope that I might just get a hand spanking, but mom was too resourceful. She stood me back up, told me not to move (giving me a hard swat with her hand) and disappeared down the basement stairs.
Hoping against hope that the spanking was finished, I pulled my underpants back up. However, I probably didn’t believe it since I didn’t bother to put my shorts back on. I shuffled over to the stairs and heard her in dad’s tools.
Pretty soon mom came back upstairs with a pair of pliers. She looked at me and said: “I thought I told you to stay put?”
She pointed to the chair and I edged back over, realising my ordeal had just started. She then went to her bedroom and brought back out a small hand mirror. The glass in this mirror had been cracked and was missing a piece in the centre. I (well – dad and I) had bought her a new one for Mother’s Day or her birthday, I forget which.
Mom began to pull the rest of the broken glass out of the mirror with the pliers. I’d occasionally used that hand mirror, in conjunction with a mirror on my closet door, to examine my behind after a spanking but I now realised it was going to have a more direct role in one.
With her improvised paddle now ready, mom pulled my underpants back down and put me across her knee for a second time.
The polished back of the mirror was a little wider and shorter than mom’s spanking stick but I’m sure my bottom couldn’t tell the difference. I guess it just meant that mom had to move it back and forth more and up and down less when spanking me, in order to impart to my bottom the nice, uniform rosy glow I’d noticed in that same mirror on previous occasions.
In any case, I can tell you from that and later spankings that the mirror back was every bit as effective as her old spanking stick had been as a behaviour modifier for a naughty young boy.
Contributor: Tim