“That’s not how it works, Mom. Jeeze, even a little kid could figure this stuff out.”

I had come to visit my mother for the weekend and while I was there, she asked me to set up her new television for her. I was trying to explain switching between sources and got a bit frustrated.

“Watch your tongue! You’re still not too old, you know.” Mom looked seriously annoyed, and her tone told me to not anger her further.

“Fine. I’m going for a walk.”

I left without another word and walked around the neighbourhood where I had grown up. So many memories, most of them happy. My mother had been loving and generous and fun, but she also had a hard line that I learned not to cross. She never hesitated to put me over her knee, pants down, and blister my bottom with her hand and hairbrush when I deserved it.

Thoughts of those punishments got me thinking about how, every January, she would take me to the local pharmacy to buy a new hairbrush, one meant just for spanking. She always made a point of telling the cashier, a close friend of hers, exactly what it was for. Believe me, that alone was enough to keep me well-behaved, at least for the first few weeks. Inevitably, good intentions gave way to bad behaviour, and I would find myself crying in the corner, hot red bottom on display, while my mom phoned her friend to tell her how that year’s brush had performed.

On an impulse, I walked two blocks over to the pharmacy and went in. Nothing had changed in the years I’d been away, including the display of brushes and combs. Standing there, I remembered how my mother would examine the brushes, gripping each tightly and giving it little swishes through the air, until she found one that felt just right. She would then hand me the brush and some money and tell me to go pay for it.

Red-faced, I would approach the cash and silently lay the brush down for the cashier to ring up, my mother standing behind me. The cashier would pick up the brush and give me a nasty grin before addressing my mother.

“Time for a new brush already? Wear out the last one on his naughty bottom? I tell you, if he were mine, I’d go through more than one brush a year. And likely a strap or two as well!”

“He’s not a bad boy,” my mother would say, “just a naughty one.” With that, I would pay for the brush, take the newly purchased implement of correction from the cashier, and hand it to my mother.

On impulse, I picked one of the wooden brushes from where it was hanging and marched to the cash. A girl I didn’t recognize was there, and she rang up my purchase without comment, though I was sure she looked at me appraisingly. Probably just my imagination.

I hurried home before I could change my mind.

“Mom? Mom! Where are you?” I walked through the house and eventually found my mother in her home office, just finishing a telephone call. She assured whoever was on the line she would call them back as soon as possible, then hung up and looked at me.

“What is it, Michael?”

“Mom, what did you mean when said ‘You’re not too old’?”

“I was upset at how you spoke to me and a little angry, to be honest. What I meant was you’re not too old to be taught to show me some respect by going over my knee for a good long spanking. Nonsense, of course, you’re far too old to be punished like a little boy.”

“Would you? Please?”

“Would I what?”

I swallowed hard and stared at the floor, barely able to get the words out. “Spank me. Please,” I whispered.

“Spank you? Like a little boy? Over my knee? What’s this all about, Michael? Talk to me.”

I explained that I had thought about my rudeness during my walk and how deeply I regretted it. I went on to describe my memories of past spankings and our annual trips to the pharmacy. As much as I dreaded being spanked, I also took great comfort in knowing how much I was loved. The spankings were meant to punish, yes, but also guide and nurture. I never went over my mother’s knee without feeling loved and safe, even if it meant sobbing in pain and contrition.

I shyly handed the new hairbrush to my mother.

“At least your friend wasn’t on the cash. That would have been mortifying.”

“I must confess, Michael, there have been a few times in recent years I would have liked nothing more than to put you over my knee and give you the spanking you deserved. I think we both would have benefitted. You especially.”

My mother looked thoughtful as she silently mused over the situation. I waited nervously, half hoping she would decline, half wishing she wouldn’t.

“This isn’t something sexual, is it, Michael?” she asked, not unkindly. “Does the thought of being naked over my knee, getting spanked, arouse you?”

“No! Maybe. I don’t know. Forget I said anything. Sorry I brought it up.” I felt my face burn with mortification. The truth was that there had been some nights where I had relieved my tension while thinking of past spankings. The fact my mother even asked the question illustrated how well she knew me.

“No, Michael, it’s out now, we must deal with it," my mother said firmly. “If I’m to agree to this, we need some rules. I’m not going to start only to have you decide two minutes in that you’ve changed your mind. And it won’t be a one-time thing, either. If you want me to spank you like I used to, then it also means I decide why, when, and how hard. Understood?”

Her tone transported me back through the years to when I was a boy being scolded before going over her knee. In retrospect, I’m sure that was exactly what she intended.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“And it won’t just be a spanking, Michael. It also means corner time, early bedtimes, and even washing your mouth out with soap, if I feel it’s warranted. I won’t tolerate bad language in my house.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter if you become aroused or not. The important thing is you’ll be getting punished and I don’t imagine you’ll be feeling particularly frisky once my hairbrush begins warming your bottom. I won’t be angry if you have an erection, but I won’t address it either. And heaven help you if you make a mess on my lap!”

The enormous embarrassment I felt at her words was compounded by my substantial erection. It had grown harder as she lectured me, until it was straining against the front of my pants, the fact of which she could hardly be unaware.

“Go up to my bedroom and take off everything below the waist. Fold your clothes neatly, put them on the chair, then stand facing the wall until I call you. Now!”

I scurried upstairs and did exactly as I had been told. My mouth was dry, my heart was racing, and my penis was harder than it ever had been. What was wrong with me, that not only the thought of a spanking excited me but that one from my own mother made me practically delirious?

I heard my mother enter the room and rustle about, then the sound of her sitting on the bed.

“Come here, Michael,” she said sternly.

I turned and saw my mother sitting there, holding the hairbrush. This was going to happen! I felt my heart hammering inside my chest.

My mother looked at me and took in the sight of my engorged penis. A drop of clear fluid glistened at the tip and my testicles were drawn tight against its base.

“Hmm,” she murmured. She stood and removed her dress, leaving her in sheer black pantyhose, a black brassiere, and black heels. The sight was more than I could bear, and a groan escaped my lips.

She handed me her dress with instructions to hang it properly, then sat back down. I did as instructed, my penis bobbing ludicrously as I crossed the room. Dress hung, I returned to stand by her, awaiting further orders.

She placed both feet firmly on the ground, the heels elevating her lap. She parted her knees slightly, then simply said, “Get over my knee.”

Quaking with equal parts fear and desire, I lowered myself across her lap. My erection slid between her satiny thighs, and she closed her legs, trapping it. The pantyhose caressed my penis and impossibly I grew even harder.

“You were very rude to me this afternoon, Michael, and you must be punished. I’m going to give you a long, hard spanking, so maybe next time you’ll think twice before speaking to me like that.”

The hairbrush came down on my bare bottom and I jerked as though electrified. Spank after spank rained down and I was soon gasping and owing. My mother tightened her grip and continued to spank. Tears began to form in my eyes, then run freely down my face. I began sobbing, begging for her to stop.

“Please, Mom, please, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Oh, I know you will, I’ll see to it,” she said as she continued to spank.

“Mom! Mommy! I’m sorry Mommy, I’ll be a good boy for you, please Mommy, please, oh it hurts!”

Mommy’s hairbrush kept spanking, my bottom now ablaze, my face wet with tears. Exhausted, I lay limply across her knee, accepting her punishment as I cried.

At last, the spanking ended. Mommy gently stroked my hair as I lay there catching my breath, then guided me to sit on the bed beside her. My erection had long since deflated, though I could see traces of its fluids on her thighs. She held me close and kissed away my tears.

“Thank you, Mommy. I love you.” I managed.

“I love you too, Michael, very, very much, but we’re not done. I want you to stand in the corner for thirty minutes. I’ll tell you when you can come out. And no rubbing or you’ll go right back over my knee.” She gave me a final kiss, this one a soft, lingering, warm one on my lips.

I stood and walked shakily to the corner to begin my penance. My penis had twitched when Mommy kissed me and was working itself up to another full-blown erection.

“By the way, I knew you’d been to the pharmacy before you came home. The girl on the cash is my friend’s daughter. She recognized you and phoned her mother, who called me. I was surprised to hear you’d bought a hairbrush and she made me promise to call her to let her know what it was all about. Shall I say hello from you?” Mommy laughed as she headed downstairs.