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Date Posted:13:40:03 08/12/21 Thu In reply to:
's message, "A thing of beauty" on 13:22:15 08/11/21 Wed
I passed my mother in height shortly after turning 13 and it did nothing to discourage her from continuing to put me over her lap for bare bottom spankings for several more years. The process was very similar to what you described, Mark, although my mom usually started out with her hand before switching over to her demon hairbrush.
Like your son, as much as I knew the tears were inevitable, I always made it a point to resist crying for as long as possible . irrational? I suppose, but it was my attempt to preserve some measure of independence and “manly pride.”
Her procedure was almost to a T what you described, including holding my free hand behind my back. It wasn’t so much to keep me from using the hand to try and protect my bottom as it was a way to limit the amount of bucking on her knees. It allowed me free rein to squirm to my hearts content — and I took full advantage of that allowance — but kept my humping inclinations in check.
>Our 17yo son has put on a spurt of growth in the last
>couple of years, and he has now passed my 5' 11”
>height. You might think this would daunt his mother
>when it comes to taking the boy over her knee for a
>spanking. Not a bit of it. Irene is just 5' 5” (or
>as she tells me, 5' 6” on a good day). I can only
>conclude that he is conditioned to obeying his mother
>when she feels the need to discipline him.
>His crime was disobedience and thoughtless behaviour.
>Supposed to come straight home after football
>practice. He decided he had better things to do, and
>not so much as a text or messaging to let us know. Two
>and a half hours later before we saw him. It was a
>roast dinner, and my wife likes everyone to be present
>for these meals, as he well knows.
>Now Irene sits on the sofa at a slight angle, and our
>rebellious son is draped over her lap, trousers and
>underpants round his knees. She has the hairbrush in
>one hand, the other holds his right wrist behind his
>back. He is going nowhere.
>His sister and I sit opposite each other in the
>armchairs, and we are both captivated by the panorama
>unfolding before us. Our son, to his credit, did not
>argue when told to bend over his mother's knee, after
>baring his bottom. He knows better.
>The brush now rests on his alabaster white buttocks.
>Then it is gently stroking the surface area, as if
>defining the spanking zone. My wife raises the brush,
>not particularly high, and with an accomplished poise,
>borne of much experience, starts to spank the boy's
>bare bottom. More of a flick of the wrist than a
>straight arm. Badminton, not tennis.
>The spanking is a thing of beauty, despite the
>emotional intensity that exists between mother and son
>at such times. Poetry in motion. The spank speed is
>steady at a good pace, and the teen is striving to
>demonstrate he is not really feeling it. Why he
>bothers, I do not know. The outcome is predictable
>enough. Merely a matter of time before the tear
>floodgates open. Two or three spanks to one cheek,
>before repeating to the other.
>His sister's eyes do not leave the bare bottom of her
>brother, now a dark pink, rosy almost. My wife does
>not alter the pace of the hairbrushing one iota, even
>as his whimpers become audible. Only when he has been
>soundly spanked and tears are flowing, and he lies
>spent across his mother's knee, does she relent.
>The hairbrush is held out to me. Put this back on my
>dressing table please, Mark. It is phrased as a polite
>request, but we both know it is a command. I make for
>the lounge door. A scolding for the boy and a dozen or
>so hand spanks as a “warm down” follow. Number two
>son is now being helped to his feet, and bounces from
>foot to foot in a rather ungainly manner. Hands
>clasped to a raging hot, smarting bottom.
>He blurts out he is so sorry, Mum, before rushing over
>and throwing his arms round her neck. There are tears
>in both their eyes now, and Irene embraces and soothes
>Tactfully (for me), I decide to leave the room, and
>return the brush to its resting place. It certainly
>deserves a rest. My daughter follows me upstairs, and
>stands at the bedroom door as I approach the dressing
>table. That was a really good spanking, spoilt by that
>yucky clingy cuddle after, she tells me.
>“You often cling to me like that after a sound
>spanking,” I remind her.
>“I DO not!” she protests indignantly.
>I start tapping my left palm with the hairbrush.
>“Shall we see who is right then?” I tease her
>“Leggings and knickers down, young lady, and over my
>The retort is most unladylike and she storms off in a
>No hugs for Dad today then.
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