mylastspanking

I recently saw an issue of Woman To Woman and for the first
time happily realized that I am not the only "spankophile" out
there. I have been turned on by spanking ever since I can
remember. I never told anyone, fearing that I was the only one
and that no one else would understand.

     Of course, I never found my childhood spankings the least
bit arousing. My mother really knew how to spank and all I could
feel was a fire on my bare bottom with every smack of her hard
hand. She spanked me for the last time when I was 12.

I was in my teens, about 15 I think, when I had my first
"stirring". I was a Sophomore in a Catholic girls' school and
had been in love with one of the parish priests since I was 12.
Unlike the other priests, he was friendly and funny and loved to
talk to the girls. Though I was shy, and wouldn't speak to an
adult unless spoken to, I found it unusually easy to be talkative
and even downright sassy with him. He just laughed at me and
teased me, which encouraged me to continue. One day I was just
being pouty and he told me I needed a spanking. My heart began
to beat wildly, I felt hot from head to toe and I felt little
tickles in my body that I'd never felt before.
Thereafter, whenever anyone mentioned spanking, or if I read
about it (Ann Landers' column was a great source) or saw it, I
got weak in the knees. But, I'm way ahead of myself. What I
want to tell you is about the last time I was spanked by my
mother.

     Usually it's the first time some important event happens
that makes someone remember. For me, it was my last spanking,
not my first, that I remember most vividly. Of course, I didn't
know at the time it was going to be my last, but each time I was
tempted to do something I knew would get me into trouble, I
remembered that last spanking and walked the straight and narrow.
I also knew that my mother would not spank me after my 13th
birthday. That was the limit for her. During the teen years,
she thought other discipline was more appropriate and more
effective. So, I tried hard to get through the rest of my 12th
year without another spanking. I later realized that a spanking
would have been preferable to some of the disciplinary things she
came up with during my adolescence.

Anyway, my last spanking. There was a movie I wanted to see
which, unfortunately, had an R rating. Fortunately, one of my
girlfriends had an 18-year-old sister who had agreed to take us
to see the film. I very sweetly asked my father (always a better
chance I'd get what I wanted from him than from my mother) if I
could go without bothering to tell him what movie I wanted to
see. I might have led him to believe it was a G rated Disney
movie, without actually coming straight out and saying so. I was
pretty good at that. When he gave me his permission, I ran to my
room to get ready. Since I knew I was going to an adult film, I
wanted to look more adult. Of course, I wasn't very well
developed at the age of 12, but decided to make the most of what
I had by stuffing my small bra and wearing a tight t-shirt. I
also put on the shortest skirt I owned and rolled the waistband
up a couple of times. From my 15-year-old sister I borrowed
(well, I would have asked her if she'd been home) a pair of
sandals with two inch heels. I also "borrowed" her eye make up
and applied both black eyeliner and mascara lavishly. I coated
my lips with at least three layers of red lipstick, teased out my
hair and I was ready to go.

     I got all of the way to the front door when my mother called
out to me from the kitchen. I knew my father had told her I was
going to a movie. I shouted "what?" back at her. That's all it
took for her to come after me. She asked me what I thought I was
doing yelling at her the way I had. "I'm sorry," I said, trying
to keep my face turned from her, which only made her angrier.
She also noticed my short skirt. "You're not going to wear
that." she told me. "You've outgrown it. It's too short."

     "It is not!" I told her, forgetting about my face and
looking at her. I could tell from the look on her face and her
bulging eyes that I'd make a mistake by looking at her.

     "What are you doing with all of the black stuff all over
your eyes? You're not going anywhere looking like that. Go wash
your face." She was horrified.

     "No!" I shouted at her. I told her I couldn't go to "that"
movie looking like a child.

     "What movie?" she asked and I realized I'd made a second
mistake. I tried to bluff my way through it, but my mother
wasn't buying it. Finally, I had to admit that I was going to
see an R rated movie.

     "No, you're not," is what my mother very sternly told me
after she'd put her hands on her hips. That was always a bad
sign.

     I threw my purse onto the floor. I stamped my foot. I
crossed my arms over my chest. "I'm going!" I had insisted.
"Daddy said I could and I don't care what you say."

     "You don't?" she asked.

     "No," I said, to her absolute astonishment. "I'm going
whether you like it or not," I shouted at her.

     By this time, my father had arrived to find out what all of
the fuss was about. He frowned when he saw my face and then he
smiled and even chuckled a little bit. Did I mention I was a
Daddy's Girl? For my deceit and my small tantrum, my mother told
my father to spank me. My father gave me a single light swat on
my skirt-covered bottom and said "no" as sternly as he could. I
burst into tears and collapsed onto the floor in one of the
greatest performances never recorded on the silver screen. Daddy
scooped me up and carried me into the living room, held me on his
lap and rocked me. My mother stomped out of the room. When I
looked at my father, there were tears running down his face.
Needless to say, my mother was infuriated and disgusted with both
of us. That was the only time I had ever heard her ask my father
to discipline me or any of my sisters.

     A few minutes later, my mother was back. "Get off Daddy's
lap right this minute," she told me. I looked at her. She held
the hairbrush of my nightmares and the most intense look of anger
I'd ever seen. I looked up at my father, held on to him tightly
and looked back at my mother. She threw my father a glance that
would freeze water. Or boil it, one of the two.

     She reached out and took my arm and dragged me off my
father's lap. My father looked heartbroken, but resigned. My
mother half pulled me and half dragged me into my room. She sat
down on my bed and hauled me over lap. My skirt was up and my
panties down in about a second. She started spanking with her
hand. Whoever said women are the weaker sex was never spanked by
my mother. I never saw muscles rippling in her arms, but she was
strong and she spanked hard. Right smack in the middle of my
bottom over and over again. She hardly had enough time to raise
her hand all of the way up before it was smacking my bottom
again. My legs trembled and jerked involuntarily. I burst into
tears, real ones this time.

     I've seen some of my friends get spanked and I've seen my
sisters get spanked. Some parents spank all over the bottom.
Not my mother. One spot. Right in the middle. I can't even
describe the burn. But long before she picked up the hairbrush,
I was screaming and kicking. I don't remember thinking anything.
I could only feel my skin burning beyond anything I'd felt
before. And then she picked up the hairbrush. She smacked me
with that thing over and over again. She must have seen how red
my bottom was and she must have guessed how much it burned,
because for the first and only time, she spanked me with that
hairbrush a little lower than the middle of my bottom. It was
down towards the tops of my legs. It wasn't more than a smack or
two before I wished she was spanking me in the middle again. I'd
never been spanked there before, not even by her hand. And that
hairbrush, I'm sure, is a lethal weapon.

     I kicked my legs all over the place. Before she stopped, I
had screamed until I was so hoarse no sound would come out
anymore. I cried so hard, my eyes burned and my nose was so
stuffy, I could hardly breathe. When my mother was finished
spanking me, she pulled me up off her lap. I stood in front of
her sobbing and rubbing my bottom while looking at her.

     "You get those clothes off," she ordered me in her quiet
voice. "And you wash your face."

     She told me that in case I hadn't figured it out, I was not
going to the movies and that I was going to stay in my room until
she told me I could come out. I began undressing before she even
left the room. I put on a short cotton nightgown, the coolest
thing I could think of. I went into the bathroom and washed my
face. I went back to my bed, lay face down, and cried myself to
sleep.

     When I woke up, my mother was sitting on my bed looking
guilty and red-eyed. She held her arms out to me. I turned
over, my bottom still aching, and hugged her. We didn't say a
word to one another. We never talked about that spanking,
either. Now, as an adult, I can see that she gave that spanking
as much to my father as she did to me. And that was why she
looked so guilty. My father is a wonderful man. He's sweet,
sensitive, funny and easy to love. He simply never had the
strength and inner resolve it takes to discipline. It was all up
to my mother, and my sisters and I thought of her as the "bad
guy". Now that we're grown up, and my sisters have children of
their own, we realize what it had taken for her to do all of the
disciplining. And what it had taken from her.