At age 11, I sat at the edge of the overstuffed couch which my mom said was burgundy but I thought was just red, staring at the door and waited for my mom to come back inside. I could see her through the front window, her arms crossed, face stern and yet apologetic as she listened to the ranting next door neighbor Mrs. Canton. I heard words, mostly from Mrs. Canton. My mom simply nodded, responded softly ever so often and closed her eyes and looked up at the sky once during the conversation. Mrs. Canton was mad. Everyone in the neighborhood could hear that. I had made her that way though I hadn’t meant to.

The dirt and grass on the knees of my dark blue jeans paid tribute to the reason Mrs. Canton was mad. I looked down at my dirty hands and wiped them on my jeans, maybe thinking I could hide the evidence, though I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I wiped at my tummy. It was summer and I usually wore no shirt. Sometimes I didn’t wear shoes, but after cutting my foot on a piece of glass last summer my mom made me.

I stood up, noticing that dirt had collected around the top of my jeans. I sucked in my belly and brushed at the dirt, but quickly clamored to keep the stuff from hitting the floor. Mom was already mad; I didn’t need to add more trouble.

Several kids had decided to play ball in the back yard, but when mom told Teddy, my older brother by 3 years, to mow the lawn, we were all forced to go to the front. I knew that mom had told us not to play in the front because Mrs. Canton’s prized flowers were so very close to our house and she was always afraid we’d mess them up. But Mom was washing clothes and I didn’t think we’d mess them up and I was the oldest of the group. It was a mistake, I knew now.

My mom raised her hands, scowled and said something aloud, “What am I supposed to do? I guess we do need a fence!” Mrs. Canton jabbed her finger back and spouted a few words I wasn’t supposed to say or even hear. That aggravated my mom and she turned towards the house. I quickly sat back on the couch, reached to the floor and pushed dirt under it.

I was caught in the moment, remembering seeing the ball floating in the cloudless sky and the sun high and in my eyes. I was going to miss it. I ran with all I could muster, keeping my eyes on the small object getting closer and closer as I ran. I heard my sister yell, but didn’t hear her words. My focus was on the ball and the catch of the game. It came spiraling down now, I could see the threads spinning in a blur in the glow of the sunlight, and as I stretched my glove just out to where I thought the ball was going to end up, I could feel the adrenaline of the catch and the moment surging through the ends of my fingers and every extended muscle in my skinny, 11 and a half year old body.

I landed and skidded across dirt, my right arm and glove stretching for the ball. It landed and I clutched triumphantly, holding the ball in the end of the glove with a smile on my face.

That’s when I noticed I wasn’t in just grass. There were petals in my glove, in my face, scattered and broken all around my landing. I had landed in flowers and I knew that my knees had dug deep into the earth as I skidded to halt. I rolled quickly, staring at the path of destruction behind and all around me. I looked up and saw my siblings and friends frozen in disbelief and I knew with no doubt that I was in a great deal of trouble. The loud and high pitched squeals coming from behind me confirmed it.

Mrs. Canton was fast. I got up and stared down at the swath of broken flowers, all petals and color mixed with twisted green stems and dirt, but before I could react, the woman’s fingernails were digging into my arm and jerking me to the ends of my toes, a singular blur of disbelief and the feel of woman’s free hand swatting my butt and yelling stuff I could now not recall.

My mom had come to the rescue, but rescue was a loose term. I knew I was in trouble. I knew that once the heated conversation in the front lawn was over, my butt was going to be feeling another type of heat. And probably, once my dad came home I’d get it again.

It became quiet for a moment, then I heard my mom’s fatigued voice telling my siblings to get in the back yard. My body tensed. I could feel a knot tightening in my stomach. When the screen door squeaked I stood quickly, wringing my fingers, not sure how I was going to explain myself and knowing with every tensed limb that nothing was going to make a difference.

“What in the world…” My mothers eyes flared, “…what have I told you?!”

“N…” I stammered, looking at the floor, at her feet, my lips trembling, “Not to play near her flowers.”

“And you did anyway?!”

I shifted my weight to my right leg, “S…ssorry”.

“Sorry’s not going to do it this time buddy-boy,” Mom glowered, hands on her hips, “We’re going to have to pay for the damage and put up a fence, and you know how that makes me feel.”

I knew. Dad and mom had fought about that before, my dad was for doing it and my mom saying that it would be a ‘blight’ or something. I didn’t know what blight was, but I knew that my mom didn’t like it.

“Well, I’m sure your dads got a few things to add, but I’m going to put my two cents in first.” She looked at me, unblinking stern eyes, “Go get the paddle.”

“I…” I whimpered, and then pled, “I’m sorry mom.”

“Too late,” she shook her head and grabbed at my arm, pushing me towards the kitchen.

The paddle was a wooden spatula. My dad preferred using a belt, a leather belt handed down from his dad. My mom would use whatever she felt would work and recently it had become the spatula. I remember the last encounter I had had with the spatula about two weeks ago, around the last week of school. I went to school with a throbbing and sore backside.

I found the ‘paddle’ in the bottom drawer near the sink. I held it, staring through developing tears and wishing I hadn’t gotten myself into this situation.

“Hurry it up.” My mom called.

Handing the spatula out to her, I felt my tummy clench. My mom wasted no time, grabbed me by the arm and spinning me over the end of the burgundy couch. I felt a sharp stroke against my right cheek, then another on the left. I hollered, clenching at the slick material of the couch.

“You’ve been told!” My mom bellowed, and then smacked my butt just above the leg line.

Suddenly I felt her hand on my shoulder again, and for a split second I thought the spanking was over. I reached back to massage my butt, but then felt her hands on the front of my pants, grabbing at the snap.

“You need to feel this.” She stated and pulled apart the snap. I felt pressure against my stiffening penis as she tugged at the zipper. “You don’t seem to learn otherwise.”

“Mom…” I pled, grabbing at the side of the couch as I felt my zipper coming down and the pressure of her hands on my front pushed me back, “Mommy I’m sorry, please don’t”.

The words fell on deaf ears as I felt her fingers grabbing at the sides of my pants and tugging them and my cotton briefs from hips. With my pants at my kneecaps, I stared in disbelief as my mom grabbed at the waistband of my briefs and pulled them the rest of the way down, exposing my now stiffened penis jutting from me like a minuscule javelin. I was embarrassed and scared but mostly I didn’t want my bare butt beaten with the spatula. I knew how it hurt. Two weeks ago hadn’t been that too long ago, and then it was only on my underpants. Now, here it would be on my bare bottom and my mom was angry and determined and I knew that it was going to burn like nothing I had felt before.

“No…please…” I cried, holding the couch in desperation. I felt her grab my shoulders and turn me, but I resisted, grabbing the couch and holding my butt clenched against the side of it like it were life and death, “I’m sorry!”.

“Get your butt over the couch right this second!” My mom bellowed, then grabbed at my arms.

“No, please!” I clenched, saw my tiny member bounce between my rigid legs, but then felt the strength of her body as she grabbed my arms and forced me over the end of the couch. The end of my penis jabbed at the couch. I collapsed to the floor and squirmed away in desperation and barely heard my mothers call, “Teddy!”

Teddy was in the kitchen. He clamored to the room, took in the scene and quickly grabbed under my arm pits, dragging me over the end of the couch.

“No! NO!” I bellowed, kicking, feeling my brother’s fingers clenching my arms and my small body being hefted over the end of the couch until my toes barely touched the floor and my butt was straight up in the air and exposed. My mom took a firm grip of the back of my legs and I was completely pinned.

“Please…” I screamed, my face in the couch and slobbering against it, squirming against their grip. Suddenly I felt a sharp slap from the spatula explode against my right buttock.

“AIE!” I squealed and pulled futilely at my brother’s firm grasp. Another slap stung the same cheek. I stiffened, yowled, and squirmed desperately.

My mother smacked my left cheek sharply, pausing to let the pain of the stroke sink into my squirming flesh. My hips slipped from the edge of the couch with all the squirming, but my mother didn’t falter. She slapped the center of my bottom, and then smacked the left almost in retort. I was screaming loudly now, pleading and squealing as my mother slapped my bare cheeks with sharp determination, raising a burn on both sides that caused me to writhe in the pain of it. I was in a great deal of agony after almost a dozen strokes, feeling the wood sting and burn with each smack like a million needles piercing the flesh of my bottom all at once.

“Are you going to learn to pay attention when I say not to do something!?” Mom yelled above my screams.

”Ye…” I faltered between heavy breaths and clenched my butt as the spatula impacted again, “YES! Please! YES!” I screamed, writhing against the couch.

The next stroke burned my upper leg, just below my right button. “AIE! OW! AIE!” I squealed and twisted madly. The misdirected swat seemed intentional as another blow struck the opposite leg, more sharply and more pronounced. I squealed in the agony of the pain searing up my legs and through the rest of me. I bounced against the couch, my penis jabbing the fabric wildly as I struggled to control the seething in my backside.

My mother ignored my pleas and smacked my bare backside fiercely, bringing each stroke down with more of a determination then the one prior. I squealed and pled breathlessly as the pain built with each sharp stroke.

“You ARE going to obey me!” My mothers voice was a distant sound against the squeals and pleas coming from my throat and the sharp slapping of wood against bare boy flesh.

“YE..” “AEI…I WILL I WILL”

“Are you sure?”

“I AM” “I AM I AM I WILL!”

And with that, the spanking ended. I could hear my mother’s voice over my squalling, “You’d better not rub your butt or I’ll do this all over again.” And I knew she would. Teddy released my arms and I felt my mothers legs pull back. “Go stand with your hands on your head until I tell you otherwise.”

I lay slumped over the couch for a brief moment, feeling the throb pulse in my backside, but knowing I couldn’t rub it out. I slowly lifted my sweaty body from the couch and shuffled over to a corner of the room, wiped my face with trembling fingers, then put my hands on my head, with pants and briefs at my ankles. I clenched and unclenched my butt cheeks in the hopes of quelling the burn, but the pain hung on with an all too familiar throb.

My small boyish penis was flaccid now, slumped over my balls and between tightly clenched legs. When I thought of the past few moments and recalled the struggle and the smack of the spatula against my bare skin, my small organ jumped to life, finally pointing upwards…

“Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” Melissa, the youngest squealed, rushing to the front door. My stomach clenched and my penis fell flat once again as I heard the screen door squeak open…

By

Ricky Scarma