The Music – 3-Loss of Control

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

Part 1  Part 2 

Part 3 — Loss of Control

“After you finish your dinner, I’d like you to go take a shower, put on your pajamas, and report to me in the family room for a spanking.”

My fork froze in space, halfway to my mouth.  I had just turned eighteen.  My mother has been spanking me every three or four weeks for the past two years, but until now, I arranged for all of my spankings by deliberately playing music in my bedroom at a volume level mom declared unacceptable.  Never before had she initiated a spanking.

“A spanking?” I asked.

“Yes, I think you’re due.  You’ve been getting a smart mouth lately, and I’m not at all pleased by your behavior.  I think a good session over my knee is called for.”

“But mom…” I started to complain.

“Just do as you’re told, young man,” she interrupted.  “You’ve been acting far too rebellious lately, and I won’t have it.”

I could see in her eyes and the set of her jaw that she meant what she said.  A spanking promised was a spanking guaranteed.  Any arguments I might make at this point would only make her angrier and more determined to see it through.

It had been almost a month since my last bare-bottomed session over her knee.  At a certain level, I craved a spanking now and then.  Spankings had been part of my fantasy life for years and a frequent masturbatory theme.  Still, I feared the loss of control inherent in this unexpected pronouncement.  I’m small for my age, and in all of our previous sessions, my mother demonstrated conclusively that she possessed the physical strength to place me in the desired position, and to keep me there as long as she wished.  Initiating a spanking had been my doing, but the execution of the spanking was entirely up to her.

My dinner turned into a hardened lump in my stomach, and I lowered my fork back to my plate.  I looked at the few scraps of food remaining and knew I could not force any more down my now dry and constricting throat.

“Excuse me,” I said, as I pushed myself back from the table.  I could feel mom’s eyes on me as I headed for the stairs and my room.

I took a long slow shower, not in any hurry to face the music awaiting me downstairs, but not daring to drag it out too long and further incur my mother’s wrath.  After my shower, I toweled myself off as I walked back into my room.  There, on the bed, lay a small package tied up with a bow.  I pulled a note out from under the ribbon and read: “Open this late birthday present and bring it with you.”

My fingers trembled as I untied the bow and lifted the cover off of the box.  A set of pale blue pajamas were on top, with something else hidden beneath them.  The pajamas were a lightweight cotton, the top buttoned up the front, and the bottoms like Bermuda shorts with an elastic waistband.  They looked childish to me, not the sort that a man of my age would choose to wear.

What caught my breath was the item under the pajamas—a shiny, new paddle nestled in a bed of tissue paper.  I put the pajamas on the bed and picked up the paddle.  It was beautifully made, laminated of thin layers of dark and light hardwoods.  It’s shape was oval, with a working surface 8 inches long, 4 inches wide at its widest point and a 5-inch handle built up with additional layers of wood to comfortably accommodate my mother’s large hand.  The edges were beveled and the whole thing was sanded and polished ‘til it gleamed under my overhead light.

The paddle was three-eighths of an inch thick, and solid but not heavy–built so the spanker could wield it and achieve a high velocity in the shorter strokes the over-the-knee spanking position dictated.  It looked like it would sting on contact, and I applied an experimental swat to the front of my thigh to test it.  The resounding smack echoed around my bedroom, and I cringed, hoping my mother had not heard.  I rubbed at a reddening spot on my thigh.  It stung plenty.

Realizing I had already taken longer than I should, I donned my new pajamas, and carrying the paddle in both hands, headed for the stairs.

When I entered the family room, I found mom seated in a straight-backed, armless chair she placed in the center of the room.  My face flushed with embarrassment as I saw her eyes go to the red spot on my thigh and a small satisfied smile form on her lips.

“Come over here by my right side,” she said, indicating a spot next to her, “and hand me the paddle.”

I did as she directed and waited for her next order.  This new situation in which she compelled me to report to her for a spanking she initiated, instead of her coming to me to deliver a spanking I intentionally triggered, added immeasurably to the dread I felt.  My hands were perspiring, my mouth was dry, and my butt cheeks clenched and unclenched in anticipation of the suffering to coming.  I’ve been a spanko for at least ten years, but while my imagination and certain parts of my body were committed to the lifestyle, my butt cheeks seemed to consider it very unfair that they were made to suffer.

Taking the paddle, mom said, “I decided that at eighteen, you’ve outgrown my hand, so I purchased this little aid at a website specializing in such things.  They also have a very nice selection of heavy, leather straps.  If this paddle proves insufficient to get the desired results, we may try one of those next.”

With those ominous words still working through my overwrought brain, she reached for the waistband of my pajama bottoms and whisked them down to my ankles.  By the time I realized that I stood naked below the waist and on display before my mother, she had already reached for my left arm and was pulling me over her knees.

“Give me your right hand,” she commanded, “I don’t want it interfering.”  I reached back, and she grasped my wrist and forced it up the small of my back as she continued, “You realize, I hope, that this should not be necessary.  A boy your age, bordering on manhood, should not require discipline of this sort from his mother.  If, however, you continue to mouth off, to treat me disrespectfully, and to ignore simple rules of proper conduct, then you can expect to be treated like the little boy such actions prove you are.  I’ve been much too lax with you in the past, but let this spanking serve notice that those days are over.”

At the conclusion of this foreboding pronouncement, I sensed the paddle rise high above my vulnerably exposed and well positioned bottom, and an instant later it came crashing down.

I heard a loud WHAP!  echo around the room and gasped as a fiery sting spread from the peak of my right cheek.  WHAP!  Brought a second gasp as a similar burn spread from the other side.  This felt very different from mom’s hand.  With just her hand, the impact of each spank seemed harder, and the spanks hurt, but they never stung with the fire the paddle was producing.  Nervous before this spanking began, I was terrified now.  My bottom burned from the first two spanks, and I knew there were many, many yet to come.

WHAP!  WHAP!  WHAP!  My mother established a steady rhythm, painting the entire surface of my bottom, moving the point of impact around randomly.

WHAP!  WHAP!  WHAP!  The level of my distress elevated rapidly.  With each spank, my body jerked, my legs kicked, and a steady high moan escaped my open lips.

WHAP!  WHAP!  WHAP!  WHAP!  All delivered to the same spot on the underside of my right cheek.  “No, no!” I cried, “Please mother, no more there, please!”  WHAP!  WHAP!  WHAP!

WHAP!  WHAP!  WHAP!  WHAP!  All delivered to the corresponding spot on the underside of my left cheek.  “I’m sorry,” I cried.  “I’ll be good.  I’ll be good!”  WHAP!  WHAP!  WHAP!

The spanking went on for an eternity.  I totally lost control.

Finally, I realized it had stopped.  My mother rubbed my bottom lightly, judging the heat the paddling produced.  She need not have done so; I could have told her through my sniffles that my cheeks generated enough heat to melt lead.

When she helped me to my feet, I performed the most frantic spanking dance to date.  I was unencumbered by my pajama bottoms, which had long ago been kicked off to sail across the room and land on the couch.

After about two minutes of watching my capering, crying, and rubbing, mom ordered me to stop my nonsense, retrieve my pajama bottoms and put them on.  Then she said, “I hope this has been effective.  I hope we will not have to repeat this lesson any time soon.  But I warn you, my boy, if you need another, I am more than willing and capable of delivering it.  Off to bed with you.”

END of Part 3

Part 4 

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.