A Spanking in the Family Room.


by Matthew Sheffields <Matthewsheffields@yahoo.com>

Some spankings, or forms of nudity, ie., being stripped against one's will stand out in one's mind with a clarity that is frightening. Seven going on eight years later and they are as clear today as if it happened yesterday. Such as one of my last spankings.

Do you know what it's like to be fifteen and a half (I had a cheaters permit, easy to remember) and being ordered into the family room, where all spankings took place in our house, followed by a Father who's expression would have caused Saddam to take a step back? Well, I do. It is a feeling that defies words and is maybe best summed up in feelings. Like that of my legs feelings like weights had been attached. The crisp click of my fathers work shoes across the wood floor as he 'marched' behind me, clicks that seemingly echoed up my spine. And worst of all the expressions upon my mother's and brother's faces as I turned the corner.

My mother's face was one of exasperation, however it is my brother's expression that I shall never forget, one of amusement, and how at that moment I truly hated him. He was spending his first summer back home since entering college and it had been well over eighteen months since his last spanking and the sight of me, his younger brother, being brought into the family room for what was obviously a spanking somehow became a source of entertainment, if not downright delight for him.

Now in my family all spankings were very ritualized affairs and the procedure never changed regardless of which parent was to spank, and although I had received my last maternal spanking a couple of months before, I was yet unaware of the fact. First I had to go and stand by the chair (we called it the spanking chair, think old fashion and straight back) while the brush was retrieved from the drawer. I remember that even though it was a warm summers night, warm enough that all I had on was a pair of baggy shorts and briefs, yet I suddenly had goosebumps.

As my father sat down and positioned herself in the chair I remember looking at the floor and feeling a flush of pure heat spreading across my face, already I had visualized what was to occur. Next came a part I took for granted growing up but which many seemingly find unusual today, but it was my Dad whom always reached over and undid my shorts for me. Yes, this was highly embarrassing and made me feel so childish but in fairness had he waited on me we would still be there today. Then with a simple tug from him, watched as they feel to the floor.

The part that always caused me the greatest distress during the spanking also occurred at this moment however, where after grabbing the elastic in my waistband he would have to bend to pull them down leaving him with a point blank view of my package. I hated that! Hated! As much as I hated the fact that this time after pulling them down I was told to step out of them. (He knew, we all knew that they would get kicked off anyway so why wait?)

I can't explain the emotions that swept through me at these times, the best I can do is to say visualize and then try to empathize. But there I was, fifteen and a half, naked and exposed with my hands at my sides. This too was part of the punishment. And when commenting later on how this bothered me the response was always the same. "You should have thought of that before hand now shouldn't you have young man?" And do not think that the audience being made up of family members made this display any easier, for it sure didn't!

Funny how short the lectures seemed when not my own and how long and stern when I was the one in this position. This eternity passed, as it always did, and finally it was time to go over his lap and for the first time it was an awkward process. I had finally grown tall enough that I no longer fit easily over his knee and it took several moments of adjusting to find the right spot.

Then, as always, it was time for the actual spanking itself. Unless you have gotten the hairbrush you have no idea what a terrible instrument of pain it actually is in the hands of a pro. Something that my parents were are. My Dad would always take his time and swing at a slow almost rhythmic pace allowing the brush to do the work for him. While no singular stroke was especially hard, the accumative effect was like being seared with an iron. The sting that one stroke left was added onto by the next stroke doubling the sting of the first and adding a new sensation with the second and by the time enough strokes have been landed one upon the other? Well, dude? You are in some serious pain!

Without going into great detail I think it is obvious what effect this had on me. At first I started out as many teens, kids did I am sure. With the pleas of forgiveness, explaining to one and all within ear shot, but especially him, that I had learned my lesson so please stop! It never took long before these pleas turned into high pitched begs, a sure sign that soon I would be in nothing but tears. As was once again he didn't stop until I was kicking and doing nothing but crying.

When the last stroke was placed and he put down the brush I am not sure but an educated guess would be a full minute before this detail started to enter my consciousness. Nevertheless and false pride be _d_a_m_n_ed, it took several minutes of crying before I made the attempt to stand up.

Now was the time that I would always recall in great detail and with horror late at night. The sight I had to be presenting once on my feet again. My own mental picture of myself, the cool and detached dude, clashed against the visual I saw. Me, 'dancing' a boyish dance with large tears running down my face and an open mouth that was gasping both for air and to try and stop my crying, while my hands furiously rubbed by ass. Which in my mind, and in reality as well, caused my genitals to be pushed forward, as if demanding to be inspected and examined, and somehow it always seemed to me as if they were all but flapping in everyone's face.

Once I was under some semblance of control again that silliest of questions would be asked. "Well, do you think you learned your lesson?" If you don't think I all but screamed a "Yes Sir!!" your crazy! Crazier than I can even comprehend, much less detail. At which point I was allowed to get redressed. Punishment and spanking over.


More stories by Matthew Sheffields