The Music
By Jonathan Quincy Graves
Part 1 – How It Began
It all started when I was sixteen, a typical smart-mouth teenager and frequent challenge to my mother. My father died when I was seven, and mom did not remarry. I didn’t think of myself in these terms, but I guess I typified the spoiled, only child.
Most evenings I changed into my pajamas (my mother insisted I wear pajamas) and played my music in my room while I studied and did my homework. I owned a good speaker system, and got terrific bass effects with the volume up high. Mom hated my music, and constantly told me to turn it down, but it was meant to be played loud.
I guess mom had enough, because one evening she stormed into my room, turned the volume way down, and said, “If you don’t keep this volume low, I will put you over my knee for a good spanking.” Then she walked back out of my room, closing my door firmly behind her.
I was stunned. She’d never spanked me before, other than the occasional swat to the seat of my britches when I was little, but spanking fantasies had long played a prominent role in my daydreams. Occasionally, I imagined myself upended over mom’s lap for a good spanking session. More often, over the capable knees of a particular, really hot teacher. Given my mother’s history of permissiveness, I never thought she would threaten me this explicitly in real life.
I must have sat there for a good twenty minutes, wondering what it would be like to be soundly spanked by my mother. All thoughts of algebra scrubbed from my mind. The music playing quietly in the background seemed to thump with the beat of my heart, and my stomach and points south were tied in knots.
What would it be like? Did I dare to find out? I wanted to know, didn’t I? The challenge had been made, the gauntlet thrown down, I only had to pick it up by raising the volume, and the fantasies I lived with for years would finally come true. I would know what a real spanking was like. If I did not accept the challenge, would there ever be another opportunity? Would I grow old, wondering like so many others who posted to the websites where I lurked, what a real spanking was all about?
The pressure to act intensified until I had to take the chance. I reached over and raised the volume to my music—just a little at first, still not sure this was the smartest thing I’d ever done, and more than a little scared. I was smart enough to know that fantasies are one thing, but reality could very well be quite different. A real spanking, for example, would likely hurt.
I’d not received my growth spurt yet and stood 5 feet 3 inches tall and skinny to boot. In contrast, mom is a big-boned woman, with heavy breasts and broad hips. She outweighs me by at least 60 pounds, and has more than enough strength to make good on her threat. If she did, I couldn’t stop her if I discovered that spanking reality differed substantially from spanking fantasy. With all the force of the raging hormones of a sixteen-year-old boy, I had to find out.
I waited for a few minutes, still unable to turn back to my algebra book, then reached over and nudged the slide up another increment, the volume still well below where I usually set it—the bass just on the edge of kicking back in. It barely resonated with the butterflies in my gut. When this garnered no reaction after several long minutes, I reached over again and set the volume up where it belonged. I held my breath.
Suddenly, the door flew open and mother stormed back into the room. She went directly to my stereo and flicked it off. Then, without saying a word, she strode over to my desk, took me by the arm, pulled me up from my chair and marched me over to my bed where she sat and threw me across her lap.
With her left hand on my hip and her elbow in the small of my back, she held me tight against her and forced my head toward the floor. With no preamble, she applied hard, rapid spanks to the seat of my pajamas. Although I knew it was coming, had in fact forced the issue, her decisive action startled me.
Mom has big strong hands, and she applied one with considerable force to my bottom. In no time, I was kicking and crying out. I apologized profusely and begged her to stop but she did not stop. The reality, much more intense than my imagination led me to believe, brought on tears in short order. Her big, hard hand easily covered each of my bottom cheeks, and she spanked back and forth at a steady, rapid pace, occasionally delivering a spank that covered the bottom of both cheeks at the same time. She applied at least thirty firm swats to my gyrating bottom.
The whole spanking couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, but it seemed much longer. The pain built quickly, and I was frantic for it to end. When she finished, she raised me back to my feet where I danced around, rubbing my inflamed bottom through my cotton pajamas. My mother looked on for a minute, a self-satisfied expression on her face. Finally, she rose pulled back the covers and said, “Get to bed.” She watched me climb in and pull up the covers, then walked out of the room, extinguishing my light as she left.
I lay there in the dark for several minutes, trying to regain control of my tears, and reliving in my mind what happened. It took place so quickly, I was still in a state of shock. She spanked me. She’d never done that before, never even threatened before, but now… My fantasies came true, and as I lay there, I did not know what to think. Other than the abrupt efficiency with which the deed was done, and the shear intensity of the experience, it was very much like the spankings I had so long wished for, but even more so.
I laid there in the dark for about twenty minutes after I heard her heavy tread descend the stairs, then got up and stole into my bathroom. With the door closed, I turned on the light, lowered my pajama bottoms and looked back over my shoulder to see the damage in the mirror. My bottom had lost its innocent pink shade replaced by an angry red. No sign of bruising, and the red was not very dark, but there was no doubt my bottom had been spanked. The contrast with the color of the surrounding flesh was distinct.
I slept restlessly that night, thoughts of spanking running rampant through my brain. By morning, the color of my bottom returned to its normal shade, and the twinge of pain I thought I felt when I rubbed it was difficult to separate from imagination. Mother acted as if nothing untoward happened the night before, and life continued unchanged, although, I was perhaps a little more courteous to her and I did not play my music loudly that night as I tried to study.
As the week progressed, I spent more and more time merging the spanking I received with the fantasy life I envisioned. My first spanking was so quick and intense, and I was so startled by it, that I wanted to relive the experience and pay more attention to capture its subtle nuances. Subtle is not the right word. There was nothing subtle about the way my mother flipped me over her knee. But, even at sixteen, I was a spanko and as the days passed my hormonal level rose and I needed to go through the experience again.
After five days of rising tension, I committed to seeing if the same actions on my part would cause the same reaction on mom’s. After I completed my homework, I bumped the volume of my music up to its proper level and sat at my desk pretending to read my history book, trying not to watch the door. The adrenaline that comes from fear coursed through my veins, and, while part of me hoped my mother would once again respond to the challenge, another part of me feared that response.
It took less than five minutes, and mother was suddenly there pulling me up from my chair and pulling me down over her knee as she sat on my bed. The spanking this time was the same as the first—rapid, intense, but perhaps a little harder and a little longer than the first.
As before, no words, other than my pleas for mercy, were uttered until mother stood me up and watched me do the spanking dance, the same expression of satisfaction, with a trace of amusement on her lips. Once again, she ordered me to bed and left the room. As on the first night, I cried in my bed for a while then stole into my bathroom to peruse the damage.
END of Part 1
Copyright © 2006 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved. Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.
A good beginning Jon.