The Music – 2-Escalation

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

Part 1 

Part 2 — Escalation

After years as a fantasy spanko, I discovered the trigger guaranteed to cause my mother to take me over her knee.  In the evenings, if I set the volume of my music where I liked it while I studied, a spanking was assured.  My behavior around my mother otherwise became much more respectful and obedient.  Overall a good kid, I committed the transgressions typical of a teenager.  But, except for my loud music, none of them rose to the level that warranted corporal punishment.

My mother and I established a pattern.  For several months, every seven to ten days, my teenage hormones overpowered my better judgment, and I bumped the volume of my music up to its proper listening level.  Within minutes, mom would storm into my room, throw me over her knee and deliver a sound spanking to the seat of my pajama-clad bottom.  With time, her spankings became more severe in both intensity and duration, and they always left me in tears, hopping from foot to foot and rubbing my poor inflamed bottom while she looked on with satisfaction and amusement.

There was just one thing missing from my fantasy.  None of these spankings were delivered to my bare bottom.  In my dreams, and in the stories I read on the web, spankings were always bare bottom spankings.  The spanker always stripped the poor miscreant from the waist down, adding to both the embarrassment and the intensity of the ordeal.  I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like.  Was I being denied the full experience?  The question nagged at me, but the spankings I received were pretty intense.  I was not sure I could stand to have the experience made even more so.

After months of thinking and worrying about it, I developed a plan for a bare bottom spanking and screwed up enough courage to make a move.  The butterflies were back; I had not been this nervous before a spanking since the first time.  It was a Friday night.  Mom had not spanked me for more than two weeks.  I changed into my pajamas, and sat at my desk staring at a school book (I’m not even sure which one), building my courage and resolve.

Finally, afraid to act, but even more afraid I wouldn’t act, I reached over and cranked up the volume—too high, even for me.  I did not have long to wait.  In short order, my mother stormed into my room, clicked off my music, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up out of my chair.  As she did so, I hooked the thumb of my free hand into the waistband of my pajamas.  With a flailing motion, making it appear accidental, I lowered my pajama bottoms by about four inches.

When mother sat on my bed and pulled me across her lap, the waistband of my pajamas crossed the center point of my bottom on one side.  There was a definite pause, then she briskly pulled my pajamas down to my knees.  The deed was done.  The stage was set.  The actors in place, and the music… replaced with a tension-filled silence.

I then received the most severe spanking of my life so far.  While I always believed the thin cotton of my pajamas could not have made much of a difference, I immediately discovered I had been very, very mistaken.  The direct contact of hard hand against naked flesh of a bare bottom spanking was far more intense.

Within a few spanks, I squirmed, kicked and cried out.  Mom seemed to take advantage of the situation to spank especially hard.  The spanks were not as rapid as in sessions past, but they kept on landing.  Soon, through my tears, I begged my mother to stop.  I promised to be a good boy.  I promised not to do it again.  I pleaded, I sobbed, nothing deterred my mother from delivering a long, thorough lesson.  She spanked, and spanked and spanked, sometimes concentrating on one cheek until I begged her to change, sometimes concentrating on the other, sometimes applying her large firm hand to the bottom center of both cheeks where they curve under to join the thighs.  She did not neglect the tops of my thighs, even they were spanked down a good six inches.

The bare bottom spanking continued without respite until I lay, weakly sobbing, across her lap, spent by the pain, the emotion and the duration of the ordeal.  Finally, my mother tapered off with a few well-placed spanks, then held me across her lap, her overheated hand resting on the glowing red inferno of my bottom while I gradually regained control of my tears and my gasping breath.

When she judged I could stand, she helped me to my feet.  I then put on a show like no other, dancing around the room, my pajamas at my ankles, rubbing my bottom cheeks, trying to put out the fire.  Mom just sat and watched with a look of approval and a glint of amused speculation on her face.  After I regained control, and eased my pajamas back up over my swollen, flaming bottom, she put me to bed, turned off the light and walked out of the room.

I lay in bed for some time, berating myself for being so stupid.  Never again would I invite such a bare bottom spanking.  Never again would I deliberately expose myself to such an intensely painful experience.  My fantasy had been for a good, hard, bare bottom spanking, and that is just what I received.  I could truthfully tell myself I had done it, and I would never, ever need to do it again.

Once my tears subsided, I climbed out of bed—not without a few stifled groans when I put weight on my bottom as I placed my feet on the floor—and snuck into my bathroom to survey the damage.  I was used to seeing my bottom colored deep pink bordering on red after a spanking, but this was different.  The color was a dark intense red, tending toward purple in places, especially under the lower curves of my buttocks where my mother paid special attention.

I slept with difficulty that night, although exhausted, and in the morning, the evidence of the previous night’s ordeal remained.  I felt no mere tingling when I sat on the edge of the bed to get up, it hurt.  In the mirror, I saw faint bruises.  No doubt about it, this had been a real punishment spanking.  One I had no desire to repeat.

Life went back to normal after that, except I was extra careful not to incur the wrath of my mother.  I waited almost a month before once again trying my trick with loud music, and when mom came into my room, I made damn sure my hand moved nowhere near the waistband of my pajamas.  I may be into this spanking thing, but I’m not into stupid, and one of those bare bottom barn-burners was more than enough for me, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, mom had met my raise and called my bluff.  After she pulled me over her knee, her fingers moved without hesitation to my pajamas and yanked them down to my knees.  Within moments the sound of hard hand striking bare flesh of a bare bottom spanking echoed off the walls of my bedroom, soon accompanied by the wailing and pleading of a very sorry, very repentant young man.

END of Part 2

Part 3 

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.