I want to see your spanking story to this scene.
Mon fessée avec La Pagaie
In our home that consistency is bedtime.
Sports, homework, after school activities, bible study- Maman says all of it has its place to keep me on track. “It’s a tough life she has, and we’re tough on her. She’s so sweet… But she will learn to mind, Par Dieu…” Ma Mére mentioned, mildly bragging with pride in her voice.
Bedtime is our consistency. Sometimes a swat on my derrière can be delivered on the spot, or a quick leathering can be given in short order; but when real discipline is to be served, I always taste it at bedtime.
In our home, pour une fessée, we use a paddle. Its a sign of ma Mère’s authority. At a glance, La Pagaie is nothing intimidating to those who haven’t felt its heavy oak sting.
La Pagaie hangs on the inside of my door. It’s absence from its place of oppression is an intrusion on the day. An ever-lasting cloud that hangs over me until bedtime.
The absence of La Pagaie’s overwatch of my room becomes a portent when when its instead found hanging in the hallway.
When I walk up the creaky, old stairs opposite my room at the end of the hall, the small outline of La Pagaie is a sentence passed down from the highest authority in the home.
In those moments, I feel small. The day becomes exhaustingly long no matter the time, and the hallway to my room (and towards La Pagaie) becomes a highway.
When bedtime slowly creeps in, the sun having set, I walk with a light touch on the hardwood, La Pagaie looming larger and larger as I close the distance with my fate.
I cross the threshold into my room and quickly close the door. The whole home knows.
I quickly undress and put on my nightie and panties- full well knowing neither will protect my bottom. I solemnly await ma Mère.
At precisely 8:45, my heart races. The door clicks and slowly swings open, ma belle mère floats into the room with her own night gown, her long brown hair flowing and the brown paddle in her hand ready for its purpose.
I know my sin, but she minces no words. “Honore ta mère.” Simple, strict, but serene. A motherly firmness. A refusal to accept a malcontent; a trigger pulled to a tantrum.
I croak out, “Je suis tellement désolé, Maman.”
A simple gesture commands me, and I obey. A wash of emotions comes over me- fear, anger, and sheer sadness. I hold my breath.
I bend over my bed, laying out so my derrière is rounded as a full moon.
I feel the wood of La Pagaie against my nightie. I feel the hard wood board leave my bottom, only for the two to be reintroduced at break-neck speed.
The swat hurts.
Badly.
“Par Dieu!”
I gasp, only to rapidly feel the paddle lift and fall, a quick march’s pace dictating the devastation of my derrière.
I rapidly lose count by cinq, as swats fall like rain. Tears well and then stream like the Siene. I grip my sheets, small cries echoing out.
Suddenly, a flow of cool air hits my stung skin- nearly a breath of fresh air to my scorched derrière.
La Pagaie introduces itself to the thin fabric of my panties, the cadence picked up with vigor…
And with some noticibly harder swats.
The sting builds and I clench, tensing my body as the searing pain builds- swats punctuating sobs.
Finally, the rapid fall of La Pagaie ends my pennace.
Maman gives me a moment, rubbing the small of my back, and I push myself off onto the floor while she sits, holding my hands as I sob to her.
“Shhh Mon chou,” she says sweetly. “C’est terminé, c’est terminé.”
She leans to me and we embrace.“Je’t'aime mon chouchou,” she says with conviction.
“Je’t’aime maman,” I sob, collecting my thoughts as adrenaline pumps through me.
She kisses me, and I rise through her arms to climb into bed. Ma Mère collects la Pagaie, and blows a kiss as she leaves my room, turning off the lights.
I cuddle into my sheets, not ready to have the cold fabric touch my hot derrière.
My eyes grow heavy, and I feel the weight of the world lift, forgiven and feeling lighter.
Mon fessée avec La Pagaie est terminée.
