Spanked Red Bottom

Spanked Red Bottom
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The following is a true story, which I would love to share with your readers. It happened to me in the early 1980s. My parents divorced when I was seven years old. My Mom had been a stay-at-home mother since I was born, but after the divorce she went back to work and needed to find someone to watch me over the summer.
So she arranged for my Aunt Janice (who was actually her first cousin) to take care of me. Aunt Janice was an attractive woman of around 40 at the time. She had a husband and a couple of teenage kids of her own, but when I stayed at her house it was usually just her and me.
Aunt Janice always acted very friendly and upbeat when my mother was around, but with children she was very stern and strict. The first day that I was at her house, she sat me down to give me a long list of rules – the most important one being: “Do as you’re told, and don’t talk back.”
Aunt Janice then informed me that she had an understanding with my mother that so long as she was taking care of me, she could punish me any way she saw fit. I was a quiet boy, and usually obedient, so I didn’t get punished much at home or at school. I wondered what kinds of punishments Aunt Janice might use. However, I was determined to follow her rules so as not to have to find out.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before an issue came up that got me in trouble. I was a shy, slightly anxious kid, and for some reason I had this weird fear of using the bathroom while away from home. I was shy about asking, and I felt self-conscious about the idea that someone might overhear me in the bathroom.
If I needed to use the bathroom at Aunt Janice’s, I would usually wait until she was in the basement doing laundry or upstairs doing housework. But around the third or fourth day that she was watching me, the first incident occurred. I was playing outside in the back yard and Aunt Janice was watching me from the kitchen table. I felt a very strong urge to pee but was too shy to go back inside and explain that I needed to use the bathroom.
After maybe an hour of trying to hold it, I ended up wetting my pants. I tried to hide my accident for a while, but when Aunt Janice came to check on me and saw that I had wet myself, she angrily ordered me inside. She threw my pants and underwear in the laundry and gave me a bath. While I was in the tub, she told me that I would be getting punished for wetting myself.
After drying me off and getting me into a change of clothes, she took me to the kitchen and told me to wait there. She brought a small wooden chair out of the closet and placed it facing a corner. “This is my naughty chair,” she informed me. “Any time you do something wrong, you will sit in this chair and face the corner until I tell you that you can get out.” She then marched me over to the corner and placed me in the chair.
I continued to have wetting accidents once or twice a week over the next couple of weeks. With each incident, my time in the naughty chair increased. Aunt Janice also introduced other punishments – no TV, no toys, no dessert, no going outside – to try to break me of the habit.
Around the third week, after discovering that I had wet my pants while watching TV and left a stain on the couch, she had had enough. After changing me once more, she sat me down and said: “Michael, I have tried every other punishment I can think of with you, and they are clearly not working. There is only one option left – a spanking!”
I felt my heart skip a beat when I heard that word. My mom had swatted me on the behind a couple of times, but had never taken me over her knee for a formal punishment.
My mental image of a spanking, which mostly came from TV shows and movies, was of a child draped over a grown-up’s lap, getting his bottom smacked with a hairbrush or a paddle until it was red and sore. Upon being told that I was going to get spanked, I was very frightened – but also a little curious, and maybe a little excited too, to find out how it would feel to be punished in that way.
Aunt Janice took me intto the kitchen, where she retrieved a wooden spoon from a drawer. She took one of the chairs from the kitchen table, placed it in the middle of the room, sat down, and motioned for me to come near.
When I was face-to-face with her, she asked me: “Does your mother spank you?” I shook my head. “Well, she should,” Aunt Janice replied. “Do you know what a spanking is? Do you understand what I am going to do?” I nodded. “Good – now take down your pants.”
I hesitated a little, but after she gave me a stern look I complied, dropping my pants to my ankles but leaving my underwear on. I was afraid Aunt Janice would tell me to lower my underwear as well, but instead she patted her lap to indicate that it was time for me to lie across it.
I did so then, once I was over her knee, my heart skipped another beat as I felt her peel back my underwear to bare my bottom. Then the wooden spoon was brought down on my bottom for the first time, with a loud smack. I winced at the sting. Aunt Janice raised the spoon again and administered another smack, and this time I let out a whimper.
She proceeded to give me about ten or 12 good, hard spanks – and by the end, I was really in tears.I was allowed to pull my pants up and rub my bottom for a few moments, then I was sent to the naughty chair.
After that first spanking, I made more of an effort to overcome my habit of wetting my pants – but I was not successful right away. I continued to have accidents about once a week, and each one resulted in a stinging, red bottom and a trip to the naughty chair.
Aunt Janice was a consistent believer in spanking children ‘the old-fashioned way’ – over the knee, on the bare bottom. She was also very creative in her choice of implements – I remember being spanked at different times with a wooden ruler, a spatula, and a fly swatter. I even got spanked once with a plastic toy shovel, the kind kids play with at the beach.
However, my story ends on a positive note. On my last day at Aunt Janice’s house that summer, she pointed out to me that I had managed to go a full two weeks without once wetting my pants. She even gave me a hug and told me she was proud of me. Then she added: “I guess all those spankings did you some good!”
All Maman stories are copyright, unauthorised reproduction may lead to legal action.
Maman is an adult website containing recollections of corporal punishment experienced during the contributors' childhoods. By proceeding, you are asserting that you are over the age of majority for the country in which you reside, and you further agree to the use of cookies on this website. Note that although this website contains only legal content, Maman is nevertheless a fetish site and should be considered Not Safe For Work (NSFW). Maman does not advocate corporal punishment for today's children. If you are a minor or likely to be upset by the subject matter, please do not proceed any further.

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Date: Fri, 15 Jul 2005 14:59:21 -0000 From: "billj1945" < billj1945@yahoo.com > Subject: My true life spanking story, sorry, quite long Lies and Deceptions.... Fifty years ago, hard spankings were not too common in our house. A swat on the bottom was a very common attention getter, but receiving one of Mom's hairbrush spankings was a rare and fearful event. Listening to my sister's cries during a hairbrush spanking emphasized my mother's resolve to punish effectively when necessary. It also emphasized my resolve to do whatever was necessary to avoid the same fate. I was successful at avoiding her ultimate sanction until one night when I was about 8 years old. I must have pushed her too far one night at bedtime and she announced that I was going to have my first taste of her hairbrush. She must have decided that her credibility needed a bit of reinforcement even though I was pretty good, most of the time. I begged my mother for another chance remembering my sister's cries, but she was determined to finally give me a first hand introduction to what she called a "good hairbrush spanking" I was brought over to a low chair and made to kneel in front of it with my torso supported on the seat. She then walked to my dresser, picked up my heavy plastic hairbrush and walked back to where I was kneeling. All of this seemed to take place in stop-action photography. Finally she told me that if I was going to ignore her instructions in the future then I could expect another spanking just like what I was going to receive now. With that she bent over, placed a hand on my back and began spanking my p.j. clad bottom. When the first spank hit, my bottom exploded in pain and I cried out in pain. I could not believe anything could be so painful. Instinctively, I attempted to crawl forward away from the horrible spanks. Frustration! I was blocked by the front of the chair and the back of the chair. Worse yet, the spanks came swiftly, one over the other. I was screaming for her to stop, and miraculously, she stopped. The spanking probably took less than 30 seconds, but I thought it took forever. Again I was warned about ignoring her instructions and sent to bed. I never wanted to have a repeat of that spanking and I was quite successful until one day during summer vacation when I was about 10… I was eating my breakfast and thinking about adventures on a large vacant lot with my friends that day. I was anxious to finish and charge outside when Mom asked if I had made my bed and picked up my room. She was a bit of a neat-nick and did not like a messy house. I usually did so daily, but not always. We kids slept upstairs and our parents downstairs, so there was not a daily inspection. I wanted to go NOW and not dally about making my bed. I thought that I could stall her and so I said "No, but I will later". She was doing the dishes and said "Good". I thought that an unusual response in as much I was hoping for "Ok." I finished breakfast and was out of the house like a shot. After a morning of adventure, my stomach told me it was about lunch time and so I went home to eat lunch. Running into the kitchen, I did not see my mother and casually wondered where she was. She must have heard the screen door close, because I heard her call me from up stairs. I ran up to see what she wanted and found a frowning mother standing in the middle of my messy room with hands on her hips asking, "Why is your room a mess? Did you not tell me that your bed was made and the room picked up?" Then I saw my hairbrush lying on my bed and I knew that I was in trouble, bad trouble. "Have I not caught you telling me a lie?" she asked. She was a stickler for truth, and telling a lie was one of the major offenses. I started an explanation that I had told her "No" but that she must have heard a "yes", and no, I would not lie about something (inconsequential) like making my bed. Of course, that also implied that I would lie about something more substantial. There was some justification for her catching on to this inconsistency. I had become fairly slick about twisting the facts (just a bit) to get out of a jam. Not my best trait, but quite effective at deflecting trouble. My stomach began to churn and my knees began to wobble as it became obvious that my pleadings were going nowhere. I remembered her ability to turn my bottom into a burning flame with me crying so hard I could not breathe. Panic set in as I recognized the start of a "pre-spanking lecture" and again tried with a cracking voice to tell my side of the story. No chance. I shook during the rest of the lecture and pleaded for mercy when instructed to drop my jeans and bend over the bed. It is difficult to unbuckle, unbutton and unzip with shaking hands and a mad mother demanding faster response. Next was a string of commands to reposition myself on the edge of the bed with my bottom presented just so for her attentions. How horrible to be made to cooperate and present myself for spanking! How unfair. She could place me however and wherever she pleased. Why do I have to help? My bottom was now right where she wanted it. It was pointed up and vulnerable. It was only a matter of time now. Nothing could save it from the pain of a mad-mother spanking. Lying on my bed awaiting my fate, the dreaded hairbrush was now only inches from my face. I did not hear another word she said during the final lecture. My entire attention was focused on the hairbrush and the torture it could inflict. Time was now warped by fear and adrenalin. Ever so slowly (it seemed) Mom sat beside me on the bed, reached back and picked up the hairbrush. She placed her hand on my back and rhetorically asked if I was ready. I was paralyzed with fear, and could nether move nor speak. It seemed that I was going to have to wait forever dreading a spanking that was now only moments away. Suddenly, the hairbrush met my bottom with a crack. Fire burned, my back arched, and I sucked in my breath as the pain consumed me. Before my back could relax another spank impacted my bottom, and another, and another. After what seemed to be an eternity I was able to cry out scream for mercy and magically the spanking stopped. I had only lasted a few moments. I was hurting, crying, but recovering quickly. In a minute I was only sobbing slowly and what I sensed as the "post-spanking lecture" began. By the time the lecture was over, I was pleased that I had in fact survived and quite well, thank you. The relief I felt was amazing. I was completely unprepared for what happened next. She reached for the hairbrush and began spanking me again. Instantly my bottom was rekindled to a red-hot flame as rapid, hard spanks rained down, never ending. Time slowed again as I became two people, one receiving a painful spanking, the other seeming to be only an observer of the proceedings. It seemed to go on forever and I could not understand how I could stand another spank, but come they did, and faster than I could contemplate. I seemed to be one with the spanking, my whole existence was pain, paralysis, crying, and trying to breathe. Finally she did stop, but now I needed several minutes to recover and even then I was still gasping and crying. This session had lasted much longer than the first installment. It had been fast, hard, long, and totally unexpected. I felt deceived and victimized so I blurted out, "Why did you spank me again?" She simply said, "I thought you needed more" as she left the room. I was sentenced to my room for the afternoon, and began to recover from my adrenalin high. I felt sorry for myself, railed about my unjust spanking, and resented her refusal to listen to my side. As I became more calm, I did realize that I knew that I had slipped one past her while she was washing the dishes. Her response was appropriate for a "yes I did clean my room". I also realized that I knew I had been successful, too successful. She had expected a yes even though I had said no. I had not lied, but I had to admit to myself that If she had heard "no" I would have bee
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