Tell Me Yours

(I’ll Tell You Mine)

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

Now it is my turn.

My fiancée Jean and I agreed to share our most embarrassing, real-life experiences as a sign of mutual trust. She started it with a story about the time her mother caught her and Tommy Stewart exploring each other’s naked bodies in her bedroom.

“Are you sure this dredging up the embarrassing past is a good idea?” I asked.

“Oh, come on, John, you can’t back out now. I told you my story, now it’s your turn.”

“All right. Well, this happened when I was sixteen. Some good friends of my folks planned a week in Hawaii and talked my folks into going along. We lived in that house on the cul-de-sac at the time, and my brother Steve, who would have been about twelve then, had a good friend, Jimmy, two doors down. My parents arranged with his parents to have Steve and me stay with them while they were gone. I would rather have stayed at home, but mom worried I would host endless parties in her absence—how well she knows me.

Actually, I didn’t mind all that much. Jimmy’s mother, Mrs. Bradley, was in her early thirties, about ten years younger than mom, and although she gave birth to two children of her own, she was still a real looker. I held a crush on her, I guess. Anyway, mom sold the idea by stressing I could be a help to Mrs. Bradley, assisting her in managing the younger kids.” I paused, collecting my thoughts.

“So that’s it? At sixteen, you nursed a puppy love for the married lady down the block? You’ve got to do better than that.”

“No, no, there’s more. I was just trying to figure out what is important to the story.

“Okay, so we stayed with the Bradleys. Mrs. Bradley had this old wood hairbrush she used to wave at her kids when they got on her nerves, promising to, ‘spank them good,’ if they couldn’t behave. I never saw her use it, but I guess that was part of my attraction to her.”

“What, you liked to get spanked when you were a kid?”

“No, it was just a curiosity, I guess. My mom never spanked, although I knew some other moms in the neighborhood did. I wondered what it would be like to have a woman take me over her knee for a real, pants-down spanking.”

“Well, if you want to be spanked, I can satisfy that curiosity for you,” Jean offered, with a grin.

“Not on your life. I’m not sixteen any more. Now if you don’t stop interrupting, I’ll never get this story out. Where was I?”

“You were wanting to get spanked on your bare bottom by the MILF next door. Sorry, I’ll shut up now.”

I glared at Jean, but she put on this innocent look she has perfected, and I had trouble not cracking up.

“Yes, well, Mrs. Bradley wasn’t a MILF, not in my mind at least. She was… special. I had her up on a pedestal, I guess. Anyway, while we were staying with them, she asked me to always be home by 9:00 in the evening, and this one night it was after 10:00 before I got home. I was only over on the other side of the cul-de-sac, hanging with Ernie. You remember Ernie, my friend with the serious acne problem?”

“Sure. In grade school we called him pimple puss. Well, some of the girls did. I would never… Uhm, go on.”

I shot Jean a disapproving scowl, but she reverted to her, “who-me?” look, so I let it go and continued.

“So, I was hanging with Ernie at his house, not doing much. Playing video games, and talking about girls, and not paying attention to the time. When I got back to the Bradley’s, well after dark, she was pretty mad at me. I already thought she was sure to pull out her trusty hairbrush and apply it to where it would do the most good.

“She was really upset. Apparently, her kids—and my little brother, naturally—had been giving her a bad time that night, and she sent them all to bed a half-hour earlier. She greeted me coming in the door with, ‘Where have you been?’ I didn’t realize I hadn’t told her I would be at Ernie’s.

“I answered with something like, ‘I was just over at Ernie’s. Sorry I’m late.’

“In the back of my mind, I thought I would get my first-ever, real spanking. I remember I had mixed feelings. Part of me was excited at the prospect of finally finding out what it was like, and at the hands of this woman for whom I carried a torch.  Another part of me was already back-pedaling at the thought she was really upset with me—I never wanted her to be angry at me. And, a real spanking from an angry woman might hurt a lot. Not sure which of these conflicting thoughts was dominant, but before I even knew what I was going to say, I blurted out, ‘Are you going to spank me?’

“She got real quiet, just standing there looking at me. Then she said, ‘Why do you think I might spank you, John?’

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘you’re always waving that hairbrush at your own kids, threatening them with a spanking, so I thought…’

“Anyway, she explained she never spanked Jimmy or Mary, they never pushed her that far, and the hairbrush was just a prop she used to get their attention. But then her expression changed, somehow. Almost like she was feeling playful, but still angry, you know? Then she said, ‘Do you think you deserve a spanking, John?’

“Let me tell you, the heat was on then. Do I take the plunge, or don’t I. This was my big chance to see what it was like, perhaps my only chance before I was too old to be spanked. I was pushing that limit hard already.”

“Don’t tell me you chickened out,” Jean said. I could tell she was really getting into this story.

“I think I’ll just leave it there,” I said. “There I was, confronted by an older woman I had a thing for, threatened with a real spanking. That’s embarrassing enough for one night.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Jean said. “I didn’t stop my story before it was over.”

“Yeah, well, you and Tommy were eight years old, just little kids, at the time of your story. I was sixteen, almost seventeen during mine.”

“I swear,” Jean said, getting angry, “if you don’t continue, I’ll go get my hairbrush, and finish the story for you. And, I guarantee you will find the ending both embarrassing and very painful.”

“Alright, no need to get nasty,” I said, trying to calm her down. “So, there we stood, Mrs. Bradley all but offering to spank me, and me trying to decide if that is really what I wanted. Finally, I closed my eyes and said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

“She got real business-like—not at all flirtatious like I always imagined in my fantasies—and she said, ‘Head on down to the rec room, John, while I fetch my hairbrush.’

“My heart must have been beating a million times a minute as I realized the fix I was in, and I started down the basement stairs. Once there, I didn’t have to wait long. She came right behind me.

“As she pulled out a chair to the middle of the room, she told me to drop my pants. That’s when it hit home. She was going to spank me. ‘That’s not really necessary, is it?’ I said, hoping to retain some dignity.

“Then, and I remember her exact words, Mrs. Bradley said, ‘Like I told you already, I’ve never actually spanked anyone, but I am pretty sure the pants have got to come down to get the full effect. And, if we are going to do this, I am going to make sure we both get the full effect.’ She sat down and waived me over to her.

“I reluctantly moved closer, more and more sure this was a really bad idea, and when I was within reach, she grabbed my belt and pulled me in. I panicked when she undid my belt and unzipped my pants. Somehow, in my fantasies, I always kind of skipped this part—the part where the woman yanked down my pants, leaving me on display. At any rate, when I tried to interfere, she slapped my hands away and went right on with the unveiling.”

I could feel my face getting hot in front of Jean. Almost as hot as when Mrs. Bradley skimmed down my pants and shorts to below my knees. Damn, whose idea was this, anyway? This is way more embarrassing than exploring with little Tommy Stewart. Jean was really into it, though, and I dared not stop. It would piss her off if I chickened out after already listening to her story. And, while we loved each other a lot, I learned early on that I did not want to get my fiancée pissed off at me. Why did I select this story to tell? Surely, I could have made up something that would have satisfied the exchange without exposing myself to this level of humiliation. Damn, damn, damn!

“Anyway,” I continued, “before I knew it, I was stripped pretty much from the waist down, and pulled over Mrs. Bradley’s lap. She started with her bare hand, which stung some, but was not too bad, then she finished up with her hairbrush.

“So, that’s my story. Now we’re even. How about we order a pizza?”

“Pizza can wait,” Jean said, “you’re not done yet. How hard did she spank you? How many spanks? Did you cry? Did you try to get off her lap? Spill it, John, spill it all.”

“Oh, come on. I don’t think this is fair. Your story wasn’t nearly this embarrassing.”

“It was for me, but that’s beside the point. You were the one who suggested this exchange, and you are not getting off the hook when you are only half done. I do have an old-fashioned wooden hairbrush, you know.”

I didn’t much want to continue, Jean was getting way too much pleasure out of my embarrassment, but it was obvious she would not let me drop it.

Reluctantly, I continued, “When she spanked me with her hand, she started out kind of gentle. I was surprised at the sharp sound her hand made when it smacked onto my bottom, and it hurt a little, but probably mostly because I tensed up and expected it to hurt.”

I stopped the narrative. “Is this necessary?” I asked Jean, “haven’t you heard enough already?”

“Yes, it is necessary,” Jean answered, “and no, I haven’t heard enough, not ‘til I’ve heard it all. Confession is good for the soul, John, and besides, this is really turning me on. Poor little Johnny, at sixteen, getting his bare bottom smacked, down in the basement of the hot, married lady next door. What could be more delicious? Now go on, unless you’d rather do a reenactment right here and right now?”

This had gotten way out of hand. I could see the… hunger, I guess, in Jean’s eyes. She was like a great-white with blood in the water, and I was the unsuspecting swimmer who cut his foot on a piece of coral. I thought spanking was my secret obsession, not hers. This might prove to be an insight better left undiscovered.

“Like I said,” continuing the story, “the hand spanking didn’t hurt that much, at first. It was kind of like teasing. She spanked me slowly, going from one side to the other, not too hard and not too fast. At least that is how she started. After a minute or so, however, she picked up the pace and also picked up the intensity. After another couple minutes of gradually but relentlessly increasing the impact, I started to feel it as pain, and began to squirm a bit on her lap.

“‘Don’t think you can escape this, Johnny,’ Mrs. Bradley said. I think that was the only time she ever called me Johnny. ‘We are just getting started here. I’ve decided you deserve a real spanking tonight for making me worry about you for most of an hour after the time I told you to be home. Now hold still and take what’s coming to you like a man.’

“She continued to spank me, harder and harder,” I stopped the story, reliving the experience in my mind.

“Go on,” Jean said, “Did you cry?”

I was helpless at this point. Jean had me under as much control as Mrs. Bradly had all those years ago.

“No, not yet. I did reach back and tried to shield my bottom with my hand. She just grabbed my wrist and twisted it up behind my back. After a couple more minutes, I was in real distress, and begged her to stop. I’m not sure she even heard me, because she continued to spank, spreading the spanks all over my ass, and a few inches down on my thighs.”

“That must have smarted,” Jean said, wrapped up in my description. “Then what happened.”

“Then she stopped.”

“No, she didn’t. Go on.”

“She stopped for a moment, and I felt her reach for her hairbrush. I pleaded with her at that point. From all accounts, the hairbrush would sting much more than her hand did. I still wasn’t crying, but tears threatened. It amazed me that the beautiful Mrs. Bradley was so strong, and could be so merciless.

“After the first couple smacks of the hairbrush, I really started to struggle. That damned thing burned like fire. Hardly breaking her rhythm, Mrs. Bradley slid her right knee out from under me, and used it to clamp me in position over her left. For a woman who claimed to have never given a spanking, her technique seemed awfully professional to me.

“By then, I was crying, but she didn’t stop for another good five minutes. Seemed like forever.

“There, are you satisfied? That’s the whole, embarrassing story.”

This is really humiliating, I thought. I should have never brought this topic up. What must Jean be thinking of me now. I could feel tears threatening to form, and if they did, they would no doubt flood down my cheeks just like they had all those years ago. How humiliating would that be?

“That’s probably not the whole story,” Jean said, “There still would have been the post-spanking ritual—the dance of shame, the fruitless rubbing of the red-hot bottom, perhaps your tearful apologies for coming home late, maybe some corner time? And, did she ever spank you again?

“Never mind,” she said, scooting closer and pulling me down into her arms, my blushing cheek tickled by the soft sweater over her breast. “That’s enough for now. You can tell me the rest another time.

“There,” she soothed, adopting a maternal voice, “you were a brave boy, telling me your story. Take a deep breath. You can cry for me if you like. I love your sweet tears. I think you’ve earned a special reward when we go to bed tonight. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said with just the slightest of hitches in my voice. I was finding I really preferred Soothing-Motherly-Jean. She was way better than Pissed-Off-Threatening-With-Bodily-Harm-Jean.

We sat like that for a while, just cuddling, enjoying the intimacy. I didn’t cry. Finally, we ordered a pizza, and later Jean reminded me that she was superb at “special rewards” in the bedroom.

END

Copyright © 2018 by Jonathan Quincy Graves.  All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.