Subject: Story: The Discipline Direction (Sp,
F/m, non-cons) Kfr
Date: 27 Aug 1996 15:54:31 -0400
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction depicting a teenager being spanked. If you are not of legal age and unsure about your reactions, discuss it with your parents before reading. Any similarity between characters depicted in this story and persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
As I entered my room to wait for my mother, I could hear her voice coming from the hallway as she chatted on the phone. Through my open window the aromas of autumn drifted in on the breeze, lending an unmistakeable old-fashioned touch to the scene.
Hi, Mary. Oh, okay I guess, how are you doing? Good. I was just getting ready to give that boy of mine a spanking. No, nothing in particular. Just out of line a bit. Laughing, she said, Too big? That s what he said, too, but you know how I feel about it.
She was talking to her friend Mary about spanking me. I blushed, completely humiliated by the fact that someone else would know about my predicament. Eavesdropping, I strained harder to hear, even though it was discomfiting.
How? mom was saying. Well, you know, I just get him over my knee and use the hairbrush until I think he s learned his lesson. Don t be silly, of course I take his pants down, and believe me, there s always plenty of kicking and crying before I m through with him!
Oh, great! I thought miserably. Now she s giving a play-by-play description! Totally mortified, I couldn t stand to hear any more. Flopping down on the bed, I waited in abject dismay for the inevitable to happen. Rather than cool her off, the phone conversation with her friend seemed to be deepening mom s resolve to do a thorough job. As the walls of my room closed in on me, I replayed the scene that had started all of this, just fifteen minutes previously.
What have I told you about that? mom s voice knifed me in the back.
I was standing next to the refrigerator, the door open, drinking directly from the milk carton when mom had come into the kitchen. A small dribble of milk trickled down my chin as I hurriedly put the carton down, and I realized it was too late to escape a scolding for my behavior. My mother looked more than a little annoyed at me, which was probably the cumulative result of my typical thoughtless teen-age conduct of late. Arms folded across her chest, her right foot tapping the floor, she stewed for a moment or two, then, instead of a tirade, she asked a simple question.
How long has it been since you had a good spanking?
The words hung in the air before me, both embarrassing and chilling me at the same time. A cold glass of water in the face couldn t have gotten my attention more completely. It was a question with no correct answer, and I knew it. Licking my lips to remove the tell-tale traces of milk, I searched for something to say that wouldn t get me in trouble. True to form, as mom knew I would, I replied with the typical adolescent,
I don t know.
Shifting from foot to foot, uneasy, squirming inside, I felt like the chess player confronted with mate in two moves. Mom s eyes smoldered with a suppressed anger. A whiff of her favorite perfume, fragrant but understated, reached my nostrils as she stepped closer to confront me. Letting me hang there for what seemed like minutes, but was probably seconds, she then stated firmly,
Well, young man, that tells me two things.
I waited for the revelation of her discovery, while she eyed me with the look of a jaguar sizing up a rabbit.
First, she said matter-of-factly, it s apparently been far too long since you ve had your bottom warmed.
I colored deeply, conjuring up a picture in my mind of the last spanking I d had, some months ago. She had warmed it well, too, her large and solid wooden hairbrush smacking my upturned bare bottom very, very thoroughly. This gave the lie to her next point.
And second, she continued, her predatory glare deepening, I apparently didn t do a good enough job.
There was a finality to that statement that denied any chance of appeal or rebuttal, so I just stood there, waiting for her conclusion, breathing harder now as I anticipated what would follow. An electric current seemed to be flowing through my skin, creating goose bumps and making me tremble slightly. Having let her point sink in, she declared firmly,
You can rest assured that I won t make that mistake again, and I intend to correct the situation, right now. Placing her hands on her hips, she stared me straight in the eyes and ordered,
You can just march off to your room and wait, while I get my hairbrush. I think a long, hard dose of it on your naughty bare bottom is in order, and believe me, young man, I m going to see to it that you remember this spanking for a long time.
But, mom! I reasoned, whining just a little, I m too big to be spanked. I m almost fifteen! No dice. She wasn t buying it. Better try apologizing. I m sorry, really! I ll try to do better, I promise! No sale. As if rooted to the spot, I tried the delaying tactic, waiting. Her right forefinger pointed the way, unsympathetically as she intoned sternly,
No arguments, mister. Just march, and I mean now, or I ll take the strap to you after I m finished with the hairbrush!
Checkmate. I d only had a strapping once before, when I d deliberately disobeyed her, and I had no desire to renew acquaintances with the nasty piece of leather hanging in our cellar stairway. Hanging my head like a condemned criminal, I moped off to my room, complaining to myself all the way that it wasn t fair. As I passed through the hall, the phone rang. Picking it up, I found it was one of my mother s friends, and turned to call her. She, however, was right behind me, and took the receiver, pointing sternly towards my room. Maybe, I thought hopefully, she ll get involved with the phone call and forget about me.
Heels clicked past my door, on the way to my mother s bedroom. She had finished talking to her friend, and would soon be coming for me. My pulse quickened, my breathing accelerated, knowing that a class-A spanking was in the offing, minutes away. A faint aroma of burning leaves wafted in through the curtains, reminding me that something else, much more dear to me, would be on fire before long. Too soon, the clicking returned, bringing my mother with it. Her right hand held her old-fashioned wooden hairbrush, an English beauty that looked more to me like a paddle with bristles. Tapping it in her palm, she stood next to my bed, looking down at me. Sit up. She ordered, her eyes boring into me.
I hardly know what to do with you anymore. Her voice held a touch of exasperation. You act as if you re trying to anger me, doing just what you shouldn t, disappointing me at every turn, regardless of my scolding and lecturing.
Chagrined as well as fearful, I sat glumly looking up at her, not venturing any comment. She was a fairly large woman, more than capable of handling me, even if I were to resist. Glancing down, I regarded her right foot tapping the floor again as I avoided her gaze. She continued scolding me,
When I said I was through making mistakes with you, I meant it. From now on you re going to get a good, hard spanking once a week.
My head jolted upright, my mouth hanging open, not quite believing what I d heard.
That s right, she confirmed, once a week. I m going to keep a record of your behavior, and every Sunday afternoon you ll get over my knee for a sound spanking on your bare bottom with this hairbrush. She brandished the brush for effect, concluding, Your conduct will determine just how long and hard you get spanked, and I promise that you won t enjoy a minute of it. In six months or so, we ll see just how well behaved you ve become, and then I ll decide whether to continue the program. Understand?
My eyes beginning to smart from the prospect of being regularly spanked, as well as having my Sunday afternoons ruined, I nodded, a lump in my throat.
Good. I don t like to have to discipline you this way, but you ve really left me no choice. mom said, more gently now, but still stern. With a small sigh, she went on, Now for the business at hand. Tapping the brush into her left palm, she stated firmly, Get up. I got off the bed, slowly, allowing her to sit where I had just been. Looking up at me, she ordered Take your pants down, and your underpants. Coloring bright red, I hesitatingly unbuckled my jeans and let them drop, then blushing even harder, pushed my underpants down just past my bottom. Avoiding her gaze, I was mortified when she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of my briefs and tugged them down to my ankles, saying, We ll need these ALL the way down. Mommy s hairbrush is going to get used very thoroughly, and we don t want anything in the way, now do we? The scent of her perfume came stronger now, as her emotions rose. There was a familiarity to it that made me feel warm and comfortable inside, yet here she was, about to blister my bottom.
By the time she was through preparing me, I was shaking like a leaf and ready to cry at any moment.
Turn over my knee. The order came simply, as she guided me across her ample lap. It was softer and more comfortable than I remembered, her firm thighs forming a more than adequate platform for the task ahead. She began with five crisp spanks, alternating cheeks. For just a moment I was speechless at the sting of it, which was much more intense than I recalled. Five more spanks, even harder, found my tongue, and I yelped my dismay. As she spanked, mom added comments, like From now on..,(smack, smack) I expect you to (smack, whack, crack, smack) behave like you ve been told to,(smack, whack, smack), or so help me, (whack, smack, whack, smack, SMACK) you ll get this hairbrush (whack, whack, whack) on your naughty..(smack), bare..(whack), bottom..(SMACK) every..(smack) single..(whap) day, (whack) until you can t..(smack) sit.. (whack) down! These little punctuated commentaries were generally followed by a prolonged series of brisk and sharp spanks, the hairbrush seeking out and finding the tenderest spots, its recurrent visitation prompting wails of lament and remorse from me, to no avail. After several dozen spanks, I was vainly attempting to protect my bottom with my free hand, which annoyed my mother as she fought to hold it away from my smarting bottom. At the same time, she was losing her seat on the bed. Finally, irritated that she couldn t do a proper job, she stood me up, getting to her feet herself. Dragging me by the arm, she hauled me stumbling and hopping, hobbled by my pants out into the living room, where she spun the straight-backed chair out from under the desk. Sitting down, she pushed up her sleeves, then hiked up her skirt and opened her legs, guiding me between them and turning me down across her left knee. Throwing her right calf across my lower legs, she pulled my right wrist up behind my back, thus positioning me so I couldn t escape or interfere with the remainder of the spanking. As the spanking resumed, I twisted around, seeing through tear-blurred eyes a timeless vignette in the full-length mirror on the closet door: a resolute and determined mother, her errant son over her knee, having his bare bottom thoroughly blistered with her hairbrush. For many long minutes the only sounds that could be heard were my howls and pleas for her to stop, punctuated by the crisp, staccato cracking sounds of the hairbrush as it stung its way from my bottom to mid-thigh, retracing its journey again and again, leaving in its wake the cherry-red evidence of its passage.
Mom had been right, as usual. I remember that spanking, almost six months ago, as if it were yesterday. No trip over mom s knee is pleasant, especially since I m a typical teenager, and just can t seem to get it together where behavior is concerned. Each week on Sunday afternoon I ve been paying the piper, sometimes a heavy price, sometimes not so bad. But this week is going to be no fun at all, because my conduct has been way below average, and tomorrow is Sunday.