I have various fantasies that are all variations on a general theme of imagining a real memory of times when I was around 11-13 years old where I had been in trouble, or nearly so, or just felt guilty about something — but re- imagining it where that incident turns into the time where I finally got my first ever spanking and finally find out what it’s really like.
I was, for real, at that age both obsessed and terrified by the idea of getting spanked, having never been. Often these scenarios center around my Mom being the one who spanks me, but also sometimes friends’ moms, neighbor women, teachers, librarians. A favorite variation is when I take some small part in bringing about the spanking, but then find out just how much it hurts. A “careful what you wish for” kind of thing.
My favorite single fantasy looks back at a time when I was 12 during the summer, and my Mom had dragged me around shopping at the mall all day and I was super bored. I was acting up with a nasty attitude all day for no reason other to just make my displeasure known. Several times throughout the day Mom had gotten upset and told me to “straighten up or else,” although that was left as a vague threat. That’s the real life part. Nothing really happened and I wasn’t punished.
The fantasy is during the drive home from the mall, Mom lectures me about how severely disappointed she is in my behavior and attitude, and tells me how much I hurt her feelings. I’ve always carried real life guilt from that, and like to imagine I had a real discussion about it so 12-year-old-me could express feeling bad about it. Back to the fantasy, Mom presents me with a question like, “What is it going to take to get through to you? Grounding hasn’t worked, taking away your video games hasn’t worked…. Maybe I should shanked you when you were younger…” And then I sort of meekly blurt out that maybe I did deserve that.
The ensuing conversation goes different ways each time, but it always culminates the same way: we pull into the garage at home and Mom sends me to my room telling me she’ll be up shortly to discuss my behavior further. Somehow I know, nervously, that I might be getting spanked. That feeling of nerves, dread, but also a strange curiosity. Still, not being sure, since she didn’t specially say what this “discussion” would be. But of course, the “discussion” is exactly what I thought it might be. About 15 minutes later, Mom comes in to my room and tells me that she gave some thought to what I said and agreed — I deserved to get a good spanking and she was going to give me one right now.
Now that it’s “really happening” I’m scared, but the die is cast and I can’t turn back now. Mom pulls out my desk chair, sits down, and motions me over to stand in front of her. I’m very very aware of the embarrassment and humiliation aspects at that point. Feeling helpless and panicked as Mo. reached out to unbutton and unzip my pants, pulling them down past my knees. I’m shaking as I stand there in my white Hanes briefs, feeling so embarrassed. Then a new horror of embarrassment as Mom reaches out again, hooks her thumbs into the waistband of my underwear, and slowly pulls them down too. I clinch my eyes in humiliation as I feel her thumbnails drag along my hips and thighs as my underwear is pulled all the way down, past my knees, completely exposing me.
It’s almost a relief when she pulls me across her lap as it at least hides my private parts in the front. But lying there, I feel very aware how exposed and unprotected my bare behind is. I can feel the circulating A/C in the room on my bare cheeks. Ive never missed anything as much as I miss having underwear on. I have the simple thought run through my mind — “oh my god, I’m getting a spanking!”
And upon the exact completion of that thought is when she bri gs down the first spank. It stings far, far more than I ever imagined it would. But I have no time to think deeply because the spanks keep coming, one after another, alternating cheeks. The individual spanks blur into just an overall fire in my behind, hurting and hurting as I cry and sob. Crying harder than I’ve ever cried, even though it’s “just” a hand spanking, and it’s in no way excessive and abusive, just it being my first ever spanking, and feeling guilty, and feeling like I truly deserve it, and feeling really and truly punished.
I don’t even notice it has stopped for a while as I continue to cry over Mom’s lap. Finally I regain some composure and she nudges me to get up. She gently helps me pull my underwear back up — a loving act to help me conceal the me embarrassment she knows I would feel if it weren’t too preoccupied with my stinging bottom. And it is stinging, on fire, still burning. I’m spanked and I know it.
She leaves me to cry myself out for a bit but comes back to talk to me after a few minutes. She explains that I’m forgiven, and that she hated to have to spank me, but feels like it was the only way to help my attitude. Even through I’m butt is still on fire, I find myself somehow implicitly agreeing.
Then the final turn in the conversation is that she begins to opine that now that we finally gone through with it, she thinks her earlier hunch was right — that she she have done this a long time ago. Then, embarrassingly, says that today proves I’m not too old for spankings at 12. And then, ominously, says this won’t be the last time if I don’t “shape up.” And what comes to pass is my behavior does actually improve. Which, in turn, proves to her that a spanking was indeed exactly what I needed. So a few weeks later, we have a serious talk. She tells me that she is now certain that even though I’m a good kid, I need to be punished sometimes and that I need to know that if I step out of line again, spankings are a real possibility, not necessarily every punishment for small things, but certainly for big things and for a bad attitude or a smart mouth.
And that ushers in a full year or two — my 12 and 13 years — where every now and then, say once every couple of months, I find myself pants and underwear pulled down, over Mom’s lap, getting a good bare bottom spanking. And it’s all because of just one time I blurted out “maybe” to an idle thought of hers. My inner guilt made me to it and caused me to be a boy who gets spanked by his Mom.