The Music – 4-French Impact

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 

Part 4 – French Impact

For the first fifteen years of my life, I can only describe my mother’s approach to child rearing as “permissive.”  Oh, I received the occasional lecture, and disapproving glare, but real discipline just never happened.  Then, to satisfy my secret desires for spanking, I forced the issue by doing the one thing she could not stand.  I played my music (which she hates) at a high-volume level (the level at which it’s intended).  This, despite her repeated warnings, and, more important, because she threatened me with a spanking.

Since then, spanking has become part of the routine in our house.  Mother’s approach has gradually changed from permissive to that of loving but very strict and controlling parent.  She has taken an active interest in every aspect of my life.  I got mostly A’s in high school thanks to her positive encouragement and her liberal application of a hardwood paddle to my bare bottom.

When I reached college age, mom enrolled me in the local university, where she works in Administration.  She continued to monitor my behavior and performance, and addressed failures in either area with the same solution.  Good, hard spankings occurred on at least a monthly basis.

Recently, I screwed up big time.  I had a major paper due for my sophomore French class, but spent the night before at a party on fraternity row and failed to complete it.  This mistake was more than enough to catch my mother’s attention, as my French teacher—an attractive woman in her late 20s—is a good friend of my mother.  To compound the error, when asked in class why I had not completed the paper, I responded with a flip response in an attempt at humor.  I don’t quite remember what I said—it was one of those cases where you don’t know what the words will be until you hear them come out of your mouth.  Once that happens, your only options are to either apologize and restate your answer, or try to maintain your dignity in front of your fellow classmates and in the process dig yourself in deeper.  Well, give me the award for miner of the year.  I dug a hole the legendary Dick Fosbury could not have jumped out of.  The teacher was not amused, and in fact felt that I deliberately tried to make her look bad in front of the class.

By that evening, a Friday, a full report reached my mother, and she was fuming.  She told me that I was grounded until further notice (grounded at 19 years old, hard to believe, but she had the strength of will to enforce it).  Mom sent me to my bedroom without dinner, and promised that there would be additional punishment the next day.

Saturday morning, I dressed and headed to the kitchen to apologize to mother.  There was no doubt in my mind that I was in the wrong, and I just wanted to clear the air as soon as possible.  Mom proceeded to lecture me for the next ten minutes.  In summary form, she pointed out the irresponsibility of attending the party when I knew I had school work to do—true.  She pointed out the disrespect I had shown my teacher—true.  She pointed out the damage I may have done to my teacher’s standing in her own classroom—true.  And finally, she reminded me of the consequences in our house for being irresponsible, showing disrespect, and thoughtlessly damaging others—invariably true.

I was given dry toast and a glass of orange juice and ordered to return to my room, change out of my clothes, put on my light-weight blue pajamas and wait.  At two o’clock, I could expect to be spanked.  “And,” she added as I left the room, “do not turn on your stereo or play games on your computer.  I recommend instead that you finish your French paper, and it better be an ‘A’ effort.”

The next six hours were pure torture.  I tried to immerse myself in my work, writing the best damned French paper (meilleur article français) ever produce by a student, but my eyes kept drifting over to the clock.  My mind kept calculating the minutes remaining until I received what was bound to be the hardest spanking ever.

By one-thirty, I was a total wreck.  I could think of nothing but the pain that would soon rain upon my bottom.  I gave up on my efforts to check and improve the French paper, and just lay back on my bed staring at the ceiling, trying not to even see the damned clock.  I have a deep-seated need to be spanked—spanking plays a dominant role in my fantasy life—but the time leading up to a major spanking, and the time spent actually being spanked, are pure hell.  My mother spanks long; she spanks hard, and it is only when the actual spanking is in the past or in the indefinite but remote future that the prospect of spanking resonates with my hormones.  The spanking pending was far too imminent and promised to be far too intense for me to take any fantasy pleasure from it now.

Fifteen minutes before two, I heard a car pull into our drive, followed by the ring of our doorbell.  My mother answered the door, and I just made out the muffled voices of females greeting each other.  My immediate hope was that, whoever it was, stay for a good long time.  This spanking was inevitable, and although I longed to have it behind me, I also wanted to delay it as long as possible.

My prayer seemed to be answered.  Mom did not call me downstairs at two o’clock, or five minutes after, or ten minutes after.  At two-fifteen, her commanding voice echoed up the stairs, “Roger, come down to the living room for your spanking.”

In my overwrought state, I hadn’t heard her guest leave, but apparently, she had, and my temporary stay of execution ended.  Reluctantly, I got off my bed, took a deep breath, and proceeded down the stairs to face my doom.  When I entered the family room, I was shocked to see not only my mother, sitting in the chair she reserves for punishment, but also my French teacher, sitting on the couch facing said chair.

I halted in mid-stride, and stared, my mouth open.  Miss. Peltier is petite where my mother is large.  She wore a white blouse, tailored to flatter her average bosom, and a light gray wool skirt.  In another setting, I might have hit on her, despite our eight- or nine-year difference in age.  In this setting, all I could think was how childish I must appear to her in my short, pale-blue pajamas, and how even more childish I would soon appear as she watched my mother paddle my upturned bottom.  That was what was about to happen.  Mom had the paddle in hand and wore a firm, determined look on her face.

I looked at mother and opened my mouth to complain, to beg for mercy, to do anything that would save me from what I knew was coming.  Before I could get a sound to pass my constricting vocal chords, she commanded, “Don’t dawdle.  Come in here.

“Before we proceed with this spanking, I think you should apologize to Miss. Peltier for your actions yesterday.  Don’t you agree?”

Thoughts of escape turned to ash in my mouth, and all I could say was, “Yes, ma’am.”

Turning to Miss. Peltier, I dropped my gaze and said, “I’m sorry, Miss. Peltier, for not finishing my paper on time, and for disrupting your class.  Please forgive me.”

“We’ll discuss forgiveness later,” my mother interjected.  “Now it’s time for retribution.  You know the routine; come here,” she ordered, indicating the usual place to the right of her lap.

I complied, trying to avoid Miss. Peltier’s eyes while doing so.  When I was in position, mom reached for the waistband of my pajamas.  For the first time ever, I beat her to it in an effort to prevent my disrobing in front of my teacher.  “No, please, mother,” I pleaded.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” mom responded.  “If you are embarrassed to be exposed in front of Miss. Peltier today, just think of the embarrassment you put her through yesterday.  Now move your hands so I can pull down your pajamas, or I will ask her to assist me.”

That threat was more than enough to make me comply, and I quickly moved my hands to my sides.  My mother pulled my pajama bottoms to my ankles, but instead of pulling me across her lap, she looked up at me and said, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?  Here you are, a grown man about to be spanked by his mother for actions that might only be expected from a little boy.  I hope you learn from this experience. I intend to do everything possible to make it instructive.

“Now get over my lap,” she said after a pause to let her words sink in, and she took hold of my arm and pulled me across her ample thighs.

In my new position—bared bottom high on my mother’s lap, head near the floor—my line of sight went right to the delicate ankles, shapely calves and gorgeous knees of Miss. Peltier sitting only six feet away.  Under any other conditions, and in retrospective memory, the sight was erotic, but at the time, and in my terrorized state, it had no erotic effect on me whatsoever.  To the contrary, it only made me more miserable and embarrassed.  This was not fun-and-games we were playing at here, this was punishment, and the most intense portion of it was about to begin.

“Give me your hand,” my mother commanded.  I did so, and she took my wrist and forced it up the small of my back to its traditional punishment position.

“He sometimes has difficulty controlling himself, Marie, and reaches back to cover his naughty bottom during his spankings, so I have found it best to eliminate the temptation for him right from the start.”

If my face could have turned any redder from embarrassment, it would have.  But this was only the beginning.  As soon as I was positioned and constrained, mom raised the paddle high and brought it down with a hard stinging WHAP! to my naked backside.

What followed was the longest, hardest, most thorough spanking I’d received in many months.  Initially concerned about displaying a lack of manliness in front of Miss. Peltier, I soon lost all concern for her presence as my mother reduced me to the squirming, kicking, crying little boy I always became over her knees.

The spanking was long, the spanking was hard, and the spanking was very effective.  It was minutes after it ended before I realized it was over.  Mother put down the paddle and cupped my bruised and inflamed bottom with her large right hand.

Finally, she helped me up, and I entertained the two women with a very frantic spanking dance—hopping from foot to foot and trying to rub the fire from my bottom—with no thought whatever of the fact that I was naked from the waist down.

“He does rather carry on when he’s punished,” Marie Peltier remarked through my sobs and sniffles.

“Yes, he is still much the little boy,” my mother responded.

“That’s enough of that,” mom said.  “Let’s see if you cannot offer a more sincere apology to Miss. Peltier now that you have been properly motivated.  And I would make it believable, were I you.  She may count it in your favor when she takes you over her knee for a good leathering with the tawse.”

END of Part 4

Part 5

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.