A very nice true account of getting spanked with a hairbrush while growing up, sent to me by one of my blog readers.
For me, honest to goodness all out spanking and corporal punishment began when I was maybe 12 or 13 years old. Sure, as a child I had the occasional few swats delivered to my backside, generally in a very spontaneous manner. As I recall, more than one time my dress was raised for a swat with a hand from my mother on my panties. It was not formal, it was not all that painful, but it was enough to get my attention. It was not the standard form of discipline in my home, I was typically grounded, or lost privileges of some sort. When I was younger, I was a very social being, so the thought of not getting to play outside was the worst thing possible.
As I approached my teen years, I tended to spend more time in my room, listening to music and reading. Being grounded at this age did not mean quite as much as it did, and certainly was much less of a deterrent. It was around this time that spanking, and I mean full blown tears and screaming sort of spanking, became a reality for me. It did not happen very often, I would guess that I received just less than ten formal spanking in my life from the age of 12 to around 17 or 18. The reason I was spanked so rarely was the fact that my parent’s technique worked very well. So well in fact that if I found myself in just about any situation that may be considered “against the rules”, I questioned whether my behavior could result in me being spanked. If I thought there was any chance of my behavior resulting in a spanking, I tended to not engage in that behavior. I guess that is what you would call effective discipline.
I would say that for each and every formal spanking that I received, it was deserved. There was no doubt that I had indeed done something wrong. They did not spank for any little offense, and tended to cut me quite a bit of slack. I can recall several things that I was spanked for over the years. The most common thread was something that I had been warned about several times. Another common theme was me “not contributing” to the running of the household, which basically meant I was slacking on my chores. It took probably a couple of weeks of reminders for things like chores, before it turned into a spanking, but when a spanking was announced…look out.
In general, I was not part of the initial conversation in which it was decided that I was to be spanked. I got the sense that these conversations took place at night, after I had gone to bed. My father worked a very early shift, so on most days of the week; he was already at work when I got up. I typically had breakfast with my mother, and generally liked this part of the day. There were times, like if I had committed some major offense (skipping school and such), that I might have a feeling that a spanking was on the horizon. There were other times, such as being reminded too many times in a month to take out the trash, that the announcement of a spanking caught me completely off guard. I am not sure how much thought my mom put into it, but she was really good at being very sweet while delivering the most devastating news. We could just be sitting there having a nice breakfast together, before school, and out of the blue she would say something like, “your father and I spent quite some time last night discussing your recent trend regarding household contributions, and I am sorry to say that you will be getting a spanking tonight”.
I cannot recall a time in which I was not informed well in advance that I was to be spanked. I am almost sure that this was very much the point, and I think this was my mom’s doing. I never really knew her mother, but I have heard enough to know that my mom grew up in a very strict household and her and my aunts and uncles had their bottoms blistered on a very regular basis. While my dad always administered the discipline, I think just about every aspect of the punishment came directly from my mom, and most likely her experiences growing up.
Once the spanking announcement had been made, there was really no discussion about it. I knew there would be a detailed lecture that evening before I was punished. I also knew that there was no getting out of it…a promise of a spanking was always kept, if it was announced it was reality. There was also never any anger when she told me. If it was not for what was going on inside my head, it would be like there was nothing at all wrong. The problem was, I knew what this meant. A spanking was not a little event, which I was just glad to have behind me so I could go on with day. I had friends who were thankful they were spanked instead of being grounded because they could just “get it over with”. Clearly, their spankings were much different than mine. My parents made spankings count. Each one was an event that lived with me for a very long time. It was effective enough that I would do everything in my power to make sure I was never spanked again. I did a fairly good job, but I was a teen and my attention span lasted only so long. But they were effective enough that I cannot recall a year in which I was spanked more than twice. I honestly think that after my very 1stformal spanking, that I went at least an entire year without getting in trouble again.
So, as sweet as possible I would be told that I was to be spanked, and then I just had to go about my normal routine. It was easier during the school year; there were enough distractions at school, that for at least a minute at a time, I could forget that I was going to get the spanking of my life that night. During the summer it was harder. I would keep that discomfort in the pit of my stomach for the entire day. It was hard to try to go out and be with friends, it was hard to get lost in a book, or just put on the headphones. For the most part, I would have about 10 hours to contemplate my fate. However hard it was, I would make it through my day, and eventually my dad would come home from work. Until just a few minutes before the spanking, nothing would change from our routine. My dad would relax, my mom would be fixing dinner, I would set the table…it was like any other night in our lives. On more than one occasion I actually thought that maybe that had forgotten that I was going to be spanked, it was just business as usual. Even during dinner, it was almost taboo to talk about what was to come, we treated it like any other day. But I knew sometime after dinner, generally after the dishes had been cleared from the table and put into the dishwasher, that I would here the call from my mom, “honey, will you please join us in the living room”.
I always tried, but it was generally hard to hold back the tears. I knew what the results of this were going to be and there is just no way to suck it up and be brave. I give my parents credit; the lectures were always very nice. There was always much talk about helping me to become a better and more effective person. I cannot recall a time that a voice was ever raised, regardless of the circumstances. There was never a situation in which I did not know what I was being punished for. There was also never a situation in which I did not, at least on some level, knew that I had done something wrong. However, regardless of how bad the offense was, the severity of the punishment always exceeded the crime. They felt that if they were going to take the time to actually spank me, they were going to make it count. This once again I feel goes back to how my mom was disciplined growing up. The lecture would go for at least 30 minutes, I would tell them how very sorry I was for my behavior, and we would all agree that this was being done for my general growth and development. They would tell me that they have always been proud of me, but clearly I required some additional guidance at times, but this was normal and that I was just learning the lessons of life.
At some point, my mom would begin to wrap up the conversation and ask my dad if he had anything else to add. I would also be asked if I had anything additional to say. Eventually, she would get up from the couch and go to their bedroom to get the hairbrush, well calling it a hairbrush is a bit of an overstatement. It was an oversized wooden hairbrush that was missing at least half of the bristles. It was clear that this brush had probably not touched hair in a few decades. I never had the courage to ask, but I am pretty sure my mom’s own butt had felt the hairbrush when she was a child. My dad would get up and grab a chair from the kitchen table and move it into the open space between the dining area and the family room. While I would have been in tears for most of the lecture, this is the point in which the sobbing would begin. I knew exactly what I was about to feel and there was nothing pleasant about it. I would generally bury my face in my hands and just wait.
I would hear my mom coming back down the stairs, my dad would take a seat in the kitchen chair, my heart would be close to exploding at this point. One of them would say, “Let’s get this over with”, or my mom’s favorite, “it is time to put this behind us”. The brush would be handed to my dad and I would be called over. While I was always spanked on the bare bottom, I was allowed a little privacy. I was expected to lower my pants, or raise my dress or skirt, and then I went over my dad’s knees. Once I was over his knees he would lower my panties to just below my butt. At no time during any spanking I ever received did I ever expose the front of my crotch.
My mom would lean against the back if the couch and watch every second of the punishment. She felt it was a family affair and that it was important for all of us to be a part of it. The reason the sobbing was so out of control at this point was a result of what was about to follow. Experience has taught my dad that I was not able to hold still for any part of my spanking, it just hurt too much. Before he started, he would swing his right leg
over the back of my legs and fold my right arm behind my back. Sometimes I would hear him say “here we go”, or sometimes it would just begin. The first swat would take my breath away and actually stop the crying for just a second. I do not want people to get the sense that my parents were abusive, I was indeed in trouble, but I know that he was hitting me as hard as he could. They felt that this was to be a learning experience and there was no holding back. There was no stopping to lecture, there were no swats that punctuated each word he was saying… there were not even any words. My butt was spanked long and hard covering just about every inch from the top of my butt to the top of my thighs. I was hit hard enough that every single swat created a purple bull’s eye. The goal of the spanking seemed to be to make sure that my entire bottom was covered with the little purple circles. While my dad always administered the spankings, my mom generally told him when it was enough. Although on a couple of occasions, he stopped, and she told him that she felt I needed just a little more. I never really fully stopped crying during the spanking, but at some point I would always begin to relax a little. At some point my body would just give up a little. The beginning was always worse than the end, those first couple of dozen…well there really are not words to describe how much they hurt. I would generally get to the point of crying so hard that there was really not even a sound. I could not say for certain how long my spankings lasted, nor how many swats I got with the brush. It all tended to get a little blurry and time did not make much sense, it is kind of hard to put into words. If I had to guess, I would say that I was typically spanked for 2 or so minutes. It seemed that I was swatted pretty fast, so I would guess the typical spanking involved more than 100 swats, but it is really hard to quantify.
Without warning it would stop. I would feel my panties being pulled back up, and that was my cue to stand and raise my pants and cover myself back up. My mom was always quick with the first hug and an apology that this had to take place. I would then get the “I hope that we never have to do this again” speech from my mom. My dad had very little to say when we were through, but would generally offer a nice hug. Afterwards, I was basically free to do whatever it is I wanted. This typically involved me going to my room and continuing to cry for quite some time. As far as the pain went, right after the spanking was not as bad as during the spanking. But I knew from experience that the worst was yet to come. I am pretty confident that this was the entire point of the spanking in my parent’s eyes. If they just wanted to bring my butt pain, get me crying, and teach me a quick lesson, that was all accomplished in the 1st dozen swats. But I think the goal was for me to feel the pain of my lesson for a long time to come. Over the next couple of hours the pain that I felt began to build. My butt was always very hard to the touch after a spanking. It was always very sore, but maybe just a little numb. From the ending of the spanking, until I went to bed, it just hurt more and more. During the spanking it would best be described as stinging a lot, but after it was a much deeper pain. I would most often find myself sleeping on my belly the night after a spanking.
The next morning is when the next phase of my punishment would begin. Getting out of bed and walking was almost a chore, my butt muscles would be so incredibly sore. It was like I had become a little old lady over night. I would almost limp my way into my bathroom. Sitting to pee was a rude reminder of my infractions and the consequences. I am not exaggerating about how much it hurt, in the fact that on more than one occasion, I burst back into tears as a result of sitting on the toilet. Sometimes I would look at my butt in the mirror, other times I would not. It was always black and blue, and I mean every inch of my butt. I knew during those times when I looked at it, I could put a stop to my spankings. All it would take was to show any adult other than my parents, the condition of my bottom, and they would probably be brought up on charges by the State. This was the early to mid 80’s and while spanking was not illegal, it was not as widely used as in my parent’s day. But I loved my parents and I knew they meant well and wanted the very best for me, they just happened to have, while rare, a very severe style of discipline. So I just dealt with my reality, an incredibly sore butt that would stay that way for 2-3 days. School was as bad as it got and 8 hours in hard wooden desks was often more than I could stand. While I hated the waiting around to get spanked during the summer, I much preferred the days after to be during the summer. I could at least spend the next couple of days on my belly and not sitting. I think my mom got at least a little enjoyment over the fact that my butt was so sore. She could not but help throw out the occasional comment when I was squirming at my seat at during meals. I think most of this came from the fact that I am pretty sure she had the same experiences growing up, so she knew what it felt like.
I can honestly say that the spankings I received growing up, especially those with the hairbrush greatly influenced my behavior. They made me behave better and to try my very best to not get into trouble. The spankings were severe but always justified.