Spanking Belt Mom

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I grew up from grade school to high school with my good friend Marty. Marty was the class clown at school, but at home his mother Susan was a strict disciplinarian.
As far as I knew, Susan never punished Marty or his younger sister, but I was witness to his younger brother’s punishment.
Susan was a large, imposing woman, with a commanding voice and she had a mean streak in her a mile wide. She was about 40 years old, had long black curly hair and a curvy, large figure.
Several times I watched her chase Marty’s younger brother into the house with a belt, only to see him walking funny the next day. I just knew that I didn’t want to make her mad. Unfortunately for me, I did.
My first incident with her, and one of my most memorable, occurred during the summer of my eighth grade year. Marty was at the pool and I was hanging out at his house. At the time, I was experimenting with cigarettes. I didn’t particularly care for them, but I was willing to keep trying at it.
His younger sister kept bugging me to give her one but I told her she was too young and her mom would be pissed if she found out. She agreed that her mom would skin her alive if she caught her but she wasn’t home and it was only one cigarette.
I finally gave in and she lit up. About two puffs into her smoke, Susan pulled up in the driveway, totally unexpected. We scrambled to hide the evidence but as her mom came in the house, she immediately knew what we were up to.
She was absolutely furious. Susan chewed her ass, then told her she was going to get a good licking for it. She burst into tears, begging her mom not to punish her. I felt really bad as the two argued.
Finally, my guilt got the best of me and I spoke up and admitted to pressuring her to try the smokes. Susan looked surprised but was still red in the face with anger.
She ordered her daughter out of the house. When we were alone, she asked me what we should do about this. I answered that I should get the same punishment as her daughter – after all, fair’s fair. She accepted that and instructed me to go upstairs and wait in her bedroom.
I stood in her room, scared, awaiting my fate. I heard her high heels click on the hardwood floor as she came up the stairs. She walked into the room and closed and locked the door. She didn’t say much, but ordered me to strip off my shorts, underwear too. My bare butt was trying to enjoy the cool air while it lasted.
She watched me get undressed and, satisfied with that, began to unbuckle her belt and pull it slowly through the loops, while she lectured me on the evils of smoking.
My eyes were fixed on her belt. It was a shiny, worn brown leather belt, very wide, and extremely thick. The buckle was big and shiny. The tip of the belt whipped out of the last loop with a snap, and I knew at that point that this was going to be bad.
She doubled the belt over and cracked it several times, making me jump each time. I was ordered to bend over her bed.
She informed me of the ‘rules’ – 50 licks with her belt (doubled over). If, at any time, I fought her or moved, we would start over, and this time she would use the belt like a whip, swinging it fully extended.
She wasted no time as she positioned herself diagonal behind me. Susan told me that she was going to whip me within an inch of my life. And she did.
The first lick came down hard and cracked loudly. It felt like fire across my cheeks and I jumped. The first lick was awful and I had 49 more to go and I wondered if I was going to make it. The second lick took my breath away, landing slightly lower on my bottom. I gripped the bedspread and gritted my teeth.
The crack of the belt echoed off the walls and only made my whipping worse. The third and fourth licks hurt progressively worse, making me jump and gasp. After the first dozen, I couldn’t stand it and started to cry.
After the next dozen, I was wailing and begging for her to stop. Nope, she said, I was going to have my ass blistered that day. She took her time between licks, making sure the pain settled in before the next one. All the while, she lectured me on how bad I was and how I deserved to be whipped.
After about the 40th (I had lost track by this point) I could stand it no longer. Her belt caught me between my thighs. I howled, jumped and covered my thighs, all in one action. I realised my mistake immediately, and so did Susan.
“I warned you about this,” she said, “now you’re really going to get it.” She unfolded her belt and gripped it by the shiny buckle. Without warning she brought it down on my butt. I heard the belt whoosh through the air a split second before it hit me.
The pain was unimaginable – a million times worse than before. There was no pause between licks now. She kept her promise to whip me within an inch of my life. The belt whipped my butt, thighs and lower back.
The worst licks were when the belt tip curled around my hip and snapped. It was like a lightning bolt and she knew it. I took the first 30 without moving too bad but after that, I rolled side to side and writhed in agony.
She walked around the bed, positioning herself precisely, and drew back the belt and swung it with all her might. The whipping was incessant, lick after lick. I couldn’t catch my breath. And neither could she – she whipped me so hard that she was panting and had a light sweat. I wanted to pass out and almost thought that I would.
Mercifully, she reached number 50 and I just lay there sobbing. She ordered my to stand up and face her. I got one final lecture from her as she put her belt back on. As she fed it through the loops in her jeans, I had a new respect for Susan and her belt, which was a little bit more worn after that afternoon.
I couldn’t sit for two days and I walked slowly for a week. Neither Susan nor I ever told my parents. It was our secret.
There were many other instances that her belt got a good workout across my bottom. After that initial encounter, I was treated like one of her own. She definitely never hesitated to yank off her belt, lightning quick, and give me a sound whipping.
I can’t say whether her disciplinary methods made me a better person – but I sure do look at middle aged women wearing thick leather belts a lot differently now.
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Although I got my bottom tanned by Mom growing up, Dad wasn’t above giving me corporal punishment himself. For this job, he kept an old leather tool belt, which was a couple of inches wide and had all its pockets removed.
I am the oldest of four, with a sister two years younger and brothers five and eight years younger. By the time the older of the two boys was born, Mom had stepped aside from her classroom teacher career and was a full-time stay-at-home mother. I would estimate that 90 per cent of our spankings at home came from her.
The overwhelming majority of spankings from Mom even went unreported to Dad and he never knew that most of them had even happened. There was never a ‘wait until your father gets home’ with mom – she took care of business and we all carried on afterwards, and it might never even be on his radar.
Now, Dad did spank, though his tended to be much more impromptu and for ‘line of sight’ type of things, like ‘screwing around’ with his power tools (the older boy), breaking the neighbours’ lawn mower (the younger boy) or running down the battery of his truck by playing with the electric seats (my sister).
On occasion, though, Mom might feel an incident was serious enough that he needed to know about it too. An encounter with Dad was the nuclear option in our house, and on those times when Mom had informed him of some particularly egregious thing we had done, it was after she had already taken us across her knee for a dose of paddle or hairbrush to our bare bottoms. Now, we would be faced with his wrath as well as hers – and his wrath was definitely to be avoided.
Dad’s old leather tool belt was one his own father had worn – and had used to discipline my father and his siblings. It was permanently creased over, firm but supple, and in his hands a truly fearsome implement. He never used it in anger, but it was clear when he did he was not happy with our actions and we definitely would feel the effects for a couple of days afterwards.
He had far less procedure than mom. No corner time before and very rarely after. Most times, he’d go get the strap then have you drop your pants and grab your knees right in the kitchen. As my sister and I got older, he afforded us a bit more modesty and would take us downstairs to the basement rec room or sometimes in warmer weather, out to the detached garage.
I managed to keep my encounters with him rare; not that I was perfectly behaved, but I was better at hiding things from my folks than my sibs were. The last strapping from him came when i was just about 14. Mom caught me sneaking out (actually sneaking back in) from illicitly seeing my new boyfriend.
Following an epic paddling from her, she told my dad when he got home from work. That earned me a trip to the basement, him holding the strap in one hand and my arm in the other. I had to drop my shorts and panties, and bend over the arm of the couch. I got a dozen sound licks on my bare butt and an admonition not to sneak out of the house again, or it would be worse the next time. I never cried from spankings off my Mom once I was past the age of around eight or nine – I was stubborn and never wanted her to have the satisfaction. However, I was always in tears if I was in trouble with Dad, even before the strap fell across my buttocks.
When my little brother was in ninth grade, he broke the window of the school behind our house – he had been flicking rocks with his hockey stick on the way home from practice. He tried to run away, but the pastor of the church spotted him and called our house. Mom was furious with him, especially because of the embarrassment of the pastor calling. I was not living at home by then but I happened to be there visiting when this took place and had a front row seat for the paddling he got from mom before he even changed out of his hockey gear.
My dad came home a short time later. Mom told him what happened and that the head of the volunteer maintenance committee at the school had called. Could he come over and help with clean-up and temporary enclosure until the window could be replaced? My dad’s jaw tightened and he went upstairs.
Moments later, he returned with my little brother in one hand and the strap in the other. “I have to go help fix this window you broke,” he said to my brother. “And we are going to have to pay the insurance deductible on this. Well, we’re going to figure out how you are going to repay us for that, but meantime I’m going to take some of it out of your butt. Drop your pants.”
My brother looked scared and embarrassed in about equal parts. He shucked down his sweat pants and his boxers and I discovered at least one reason for his embarrassment – his penis was noticeably erect, all 3.5in of him standing straight out.
He bent over and grabbed his knees and my dad went to work. He got 12 licks in all, given in rapid fire succession, and Dad covered my brother’s bum from the top to his thighs. My brother toughed it out without crying but it was evident he was in distress. My dad told him to stick his nose in the corner until he got back from the window cleanup and that is where my brother stayed for the next hour, striped bottom on display for everyone to see.
I remember a serious strapping my sis took from Dad in seventh grade when she was caught with cigarettes. Both my parents’ fathers had had serious health issues related to smoking and it was one thing for which my parents had zero tolerance. When Mom found the cigarettes, she paddled my sister in front of the rest of us and left her standing in the corner with her red bottom showing until Dad came home.
When he heard the news, he went upstairs and came back with the strap, called her out and gave her a dozen licks on her bare bottom while she was bent over a kitchen chair. She was howling and sobbing after he was done, hopping up and down and rubbing her crimson behind while flashing her pubic triangle at me and her wide-eyed little brothers. That was a rare time where dad made someone stand in the corner afterward as ‘a lesson to everyone’. It was a very subdued dinner we ate, with my sis with her nose parked in the corner just a few feet away from the table. We shared a room and I saw the the marks from the strap for several days afterwards when she undressed.
A similar fate befell the older of my two younger brothers. When he was in eighth grade, he, one of our cousins who was in his class and another kid were caught drinking behind the maintenance garage during recess at the Catholic school they attended. My cousin had taken these single shot rum bottles from his parents and the three of them were taking swigs from them when they were caught.
This was a big deal, needless to say, and there was an after-school conference with the moms and the principal (a nun). The upshot was that the three of them were given two Saturdays of detention, which meant a half day of tasks like cleaning classrooms and doing yard work around the school. However, that was the least of my brother’s worries.
When they made the short trek home from school, Mom sent him up to change and told him to bring back the paddle and be quick about it. While the rest of us sat at the kitchen table, she made him drop his pants and underwear and go over her knee for a paddling on his bare bottom. She made him stand bare butt in the kitchen in the corner for about a half hour, then sent him to his room, but not before telling him: “I’m sure your father is going to want to deal with you, too.” All of us at the table gulped, because we knew what that meant.
When Dad came in, Mom briefed him on the incident. You could see the colour come to his face – but, to his credit, he waited about 15 minutes before he sent my little brother up to their room to tell his sibling to come down ‘and tell him to bring the strap’.
It was just before dinner and all of us were at the table when my brother came down, strap in hand. My dad pulled a chair from the table and placed it in the middle of the kitchen. Then he took the strap from my brother and told him to get his pants down and bend over. “I am going to show everyone what happens to kids who drink and who embarrass this family,” he said.
I had a profile view of my brother and could see his ‘equipment’ hanging down, and the patch of curly black pubic hair above his penis. My dad drew back the strap and brought it down with a loud crack in the centre of my brother’s bottom. He let out a hiss and I saw him thrust forward, his flaccid penis flopping up and down.
Dad was not as measured or methodical as Mom, and the licks came in a rapid succession – crack, crack, crack! My brother wasn’t counting – but I was, and Dad gave him 18 strokes in all, that left his bottom a criss-cross of angry red horizontal stripes.
My brother was not normally a crier, but he had tears in his eyes and a streak of snot running down his nose when Dad finally exiled him to the corner, where his crimson bottom remained on display while we ate a very quiet and subdued dinner.
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