I can’t believe I’m standing here again, waiting to go across Mom’s knee again. For the hairbrush again. Standing here with my pants and underpants pulled down again. Listening to another angry scolding again. About to bend over her lap and present my bare bottom for punishment again. Sixteen years old, and waiting for my mother to give me another bare bottom spanking.
Every single time I get up from Mom’s lap, I promise myself that I’m never going to do anything to ever have to go back over her knee again. How many times have I promised myself that? Way too many to count! I’m so upset with myself that I have foolishly gotten myself into this awful situation again. So embarrassed that I’ve earned another spanking. And so embarrassed, of course, to once again be standing in front of my mother with my underpants pulled down, everything that’s supposed to be private right out in the open, so shamefully on display again.
I hear myself begging Mom not to spank me. To give me another chance. Assuring her that I’ll never do it again. That I’ll be a good boy. That I just really don’t want a spanking. But, of course I know it will do no good. I’m already bared for my punishment. Mom is already sitting there holding that awful hairbrush. I know I’m going to be going over her knee. That there is nothing I can say or do that is going to keep me from getting this spanking. My underpants aren’t going to be coming back up until I’ve been over Mom’s knee and gotten my spanking from the hairbrush. Until I’m a very well spanked boy. Until I’ve been sobbing uncontrollably for a while. Until my bottom is on fire.
No matter how many times I’ve gone across Mom’s lap, it never gets any less scary. As usual, my heart is racing, my breathing shallow and rapid. I feel that usual prickly sensation all over as I look at the hairbrush in Mom’s hand. The lap where I will be lying to receive my punishment from that hairbrush she’s holding. I’ve been across that lap so many times. Way too many times. And I know all too well how that hairbrush feels when it’s spanking my bare bottom. I know how horribly it hurts. How it burns and stings unbearably as it steadily spanks my bottom. And how horribly shameful it feels to be lying across my mother’s lap getting a bare bottom spanking at my age! And all too well aware that I have nobody but myself to blame for being over her knee again.
I knew better, but I did it anyway. I knew what the consequences would be if Mom found out what I did, and she always seems to find out when I do something wrong. It hurts to disappoint her again too. I know that she has no desire to hurt me, that she is only doing her maternal duty when she holds me accountable when I misbehave. She doesn’t like to have to punish me, but she doesn’t hesitate to do so when I misbehave. She takes my punishments seriously, and makes sure that I do too. She firmly believes that a spanking has to be serious enough to teach me my lesson, otherwise it’s not going to do any good. And that necessarily means that the time I’m about to spend across her lap is going to be extremely unpleasant for me.
My tummy is doing flips as she directs me into my familiar punishment position across her lap. I feel a tingling in my bare bottom as it comes to rest over her knee, perfectly positioned for my punishment. Presented for its date with Mom’s hairbrush. So completely vulnerable. I take in the embarrassment of feeling my bare front down there pressed against her lap. My pants and underpants tangled around my knees and ankles. First tears cloud my view of the floor. The all too familiar pattern of the carpet that I have studied from this same vantage point on far too many unhappy occasions.
And then the preliminaries are over. I inhale deeply as Mom picks up the hairbrush and prepares to start administering my spanking. The first spank explodes into my bare bottom, sounding like a firecracker as it echoes through the house. The reality of a spanking is always much worse than I remember or even fear. But I have no time to react to that first fiery spank before the next one bites into my tender, helpless bottom. Steadily and rapidly, the spanks just keep falling. As the hairbrush revisits spots it has already punished, I howl with misery. Panic sets in, but I have no control at all over my punishment. No one counts the spanks. Mom’s firm intention is to give me a good, sound spanking, not a certain number of spanks. And by the time that I am finally allowed to get up from Mom’s lap, I will definitely be a very well spanked boy, who will once again be promising himself that he will never do anything to earn another trip across her knee. But we are not nearly at the point that Mom will set the hairbrush aside and struggle to my feet on wobbly knees. I’ve got a lot more of the hairbrush coming before that time comes. A lot more sobbing and bawling and howling to do while I continue to lie across my mother’s lap taking my punishment. I will be hoarse from all my bawling and howling and pleading before my punishment is finally over. Will I actually learn my lesson this time? Will I finally keep my promise to myself to behave better so that I don’t have to go back over Mom’s knee? At the moment, I’m absolutely sure of it. But, I’m absolutely sure of it every time I’m getting the hairbrush.
