Another fine original spanking story from one of our favorite writers (and past story writing contest winner), UK Laureate – enjoy this well-spun tale, titled ‘Mother-in-law’s Visit’. – Dana
We’d been married a little under a year, long enough, sadly, for the initial euphoria to wear off. In truth the last few months had been tough. Rachel had become moody and withdrawn. I had a strong feeling that it was me who was upsetting her. It was clear she didn’t like my weekly night out with the boys even though this had been part of my routine both before and since I knew her. I’d also picked up a few comments about not pulling my weight around the house. So when she told me that her mother was coming to stay I had mixed feelings. On the one hand Sylvia, Mrs Johnson, was not my favourite person; on the other, it occurred to me that perhaps having her mother around and chatting to her might help Rachel cheer up and realise that it was she, not me, who was being a tad unreasonable.
On the day Mrs Johnson was due to arrive I was the butt of considerable humour from the guys at work, who, whilst sympathetic, also took great delight in reminding me of the reality of the situation. A lot of mother-in-law jokes – not exactly original but amusing nonetheless – were rolled out and that lightened my mood as I made my way home.
“Hello, Stephen,” Sylvia said somewhat coldly and in her usual formal manner. Everybody else knew me as Steve but Mrs Johnson insisted on using the name as written on my birth certificate. It had always been the case, but even so, I sensed that her manner was especially terse. Perhaps she was equally unenthusiastic about seeing me as I was to see her. However, we managed to get through dinner and the rest of the evening making uninspiring but polite small-talk.
“How was the old dragon?” my mate Tony asked me when I got to work the next day. “Didn’t eat you alive, then” he smirked. “Never mind, mate, there’s time yet for her to sort you out. She’s staying three more days yet isn’t she?”
Tony knew perfectly well how long she was staying, as I’d repeatedly bemoaned the fact of a four day visit, but he took great delight in reminding me of the fact. I didn’t realise at the time just how prophetic his words about her ‘sorting me out’ would prove to be.
That evening when I arrived home Rachel and her mother were sitting side by side on the sofa. Mrs Johnson had an especially sour look on her face and Rachel was distinctly cool. Immediately I sensed from the atmosphere that something had occurred between them.
“I hope you two have had a nice day,” I said as cheerily as I could muster in an attempt to lighten the darkness. “What have you been up to?”
“We’ve been talking, Stephen,” Mrs Johnson replied crisply, “and I have to say I haven’t much liked what Rachel has been telling me. I’ll readily admit that I’ve always had doubts about you and whether you were a suitable husband for my daughter, and what I’ve heard today has confirmed my worst suspicions. It is clear you are an immature young man who has not begun to appreciate the responsibilities and behaviour conducive to being a good husband. Furthermore, it is clear from your selfish behaviour that you are entirely lacking in self-discipline, which I regard as highly reprehensible.”
“What?” I uttered in amazement as she paused for breath. “What’s all that about? That was quite a tirade. It’s also one-sided and unfair. There’s two sides to every story, you know.”
“How dare you answer me back,” Mrs Johnson snapped angrily. “The impertinence of that outburst simply proves how right I am. For your information, Stephen, I have heard Rachel’s side of the story and that’s quite sufficient for me. There is no reason to doubt what she has said. I’m telling you now, young man, that I will not stand by and let your self-centred and neglectful behaviour continue any longer. Rachel has had enough of it, and so have I.”
I looked at Rachel, who had sat silently during her mother’s tirade. “Come on, sweetheart, I know I’m not perfect, but you don’t believe what your mother has said, do you?”
“Actually, I’m afraid I do, Steve. I had high hopes for our marriage but the past year has been a big disappointment. I’ve tried to tell you but you haven’t seemed able to listen or understand. That’s why I needed to have a real heart-to-heart with my mother today. The fact is I simply can’t go on as we are.”
To say that her words were a disappointment to me would be an understatement. Although I knew she was unhappy, I hadn’t realised her disappointment in me had reached this level. “I’m really sorry you feel that way. I promise I’ll do better in future,” I ventured. “Now, what’s for dinner?”
There was a pregnant silence as the two women exchanged a knowing look.
“Dinner can wait, Steve,” said Rachel. “Mother has something more to say to you.”
“Indeed I have,” Mrs Johnson said firmly. “I’m not impressed by your casual promise to do better in future. In my experience these matters are not that simple. As I said before, it is clear that you are immature and lack the self-discipline required. When that is the case discipline has to be imposed by someone else – in this case, me. I know only too well from bringing up three children that when a boy – and essentially that is what you still are – misbehaves, the required course of action is that he receives a very sound spanking to make him realise the error of his ways and help pull him back in line.
Rachel and I have agreed that such a course of action is entirely appropriate for you. Get your pants down. I’m going to put you across my knee right here and now.”
“What!” I exclaimed in total amazement. “This is some kind of joke, isn’t it? Not exactly a funny one, but OK, you’ve both made your point. C’mon, Rachel, you and I can talk about this later.”
“Yes, we will talk about it later,” Rachel replied quietly, “but what mother said is not a joke, and I’m quite certain you will find you have nothing to laugh at. Do as mother says.”
I stood, gob-smacked, for several seconds, looking at Rachel and her mother. “Hurry up, Stephen,” Mrs Johnson rapped, “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
My mind now was becoming frozen with confusion. I could hardly believe it but it did seem as though both Rachel and her mother were deadly serious, that they had agreed that I should be spanked by my mother-in-law as though I were a naughty child. But the fact was, even as a child, I had never had a spanking. I knew of it happening to other kids, but it was not something my parents believed in. Now here I was, a grown man, facing the prospect of a bottom-warmer. It all seemed quite surreal.
“On second thoughts,” said Mrs Johnson, interrupting my wandering brain, “we won’t just have your pants down, we’ll have you stripped off entirely. Come along, get undressed.”
At last it dawned on me that there was no escape. The stern look on both women’s faces and the authoritarian tone of Mrs Johnson’s voice made it clear that my only choice was to submit to their wishes. Nervously, tentatively, I undid my belt and slowly removed my clothes until I was standing naked in front of them, feeling stupid and humiliated.
“That’s better,” said Mrs Johnson, “now, over my knee.” Before I had time to resist she grabbed my manhood roughly and pulled me towards her.
Helpless and shocked I arranged myself across her lap somewhat ungracefully. Actually, while my body was draped across Mrs Johnson, my head was in Rachel’s lap, and I felt her put her hands on my head, holding it down firmly.
There was a moment’s pause and then… slap! I felt Mrs Johnson’s hand land sharply on my butt. But barely had I time to register the fact when another meaty smack landed. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! The blows continued to rain down in quick succession.
The first few were not too bad, though it was clear Mrs Johnson had a hard hand and, as she had admitted earlier, was well practised in spanking boys’ backsides. Mostly the blows alternated, first the right cheek, then the left, but on other occasions she concentrated on walloping the same spot several times over, which caused the pain to rise more quickly.
She continued to smack briskly and as she continued it seemed as though the blows were landing with greater power. I could feel the heat in my butt and the smacks were becoming ever more painful. I had long lost count of how many she had given, concentrating solely on dealing with the pain. Every now and then she paused for a while and I thought she was finished, only for her to begin again with renewed gusto.
How long this went on I have no idea. Time seemed irrelevant. I was conscious only of my vulnerability as I lay with my wife holding my head while her mother walloped my bottom. In many ways it still felt surreal, but the increasing pain in my backside made it only too real!
Finally the spanking ended, and I heard Mrs Johnson telling me to get up. In a semi-daze I stumbled to my feet, covering my nakedness with one hand while using the other to rub my butt.
“Hands on your head,” Mrs Johnson bellowed. “If you rub your bottom any more I shall have you back over my knee for a second dose.”
By now my will to do anything other than she commanded had entirely gone, and without further thought I obeyed her instruction.
Then it was Rachel issuing the instructions. “Go and stand in the corner, Steve, where you will stay for the next half-hour or so while I get dinner. And keep your hands on your head. Mother will be staying in the room to make sure that you do. You can use the time to think about the error of your ways and what you need to do to save our marriage.”
During the rest of the evening nothing more was said about my behaviour. Rachel was still a bit cool, in a reserved sort of way, but somehow she seemed more confident and assured. When we went to bed, the first time we had had on our own, I tried speaking about the earlier events but she said it was too soon to discuss matters, put the light out and turned away from me.
Needless to say, when the mother-in-law comments and jokes were made at work the next day, I tried to ignore them as much as I could. It was just as well my mates didn’t know the truth – and I certainly wasn’t going to tell them! The shock of what had happened was still very much with me, and I couldn’t help wondering how things would pan out during the remainder of Mrs Johnson’s visit, and beyond.
In the event the evenings of days three and four passed fairly normally. Rachel was definitely more cheerful and even her mother’s demeanour and attitude towards me was somewhat lighter. I breathed a sigh of relief as I went to bed on day four, knowing that Mrs Johnson was returning home the next morning. Then another surprise happened.
Rachel waited until I had undressed, then told me that her mother wanted a word and disappeared out of the room. Next moment, in walked Mrs Johnson. To my amazement she was wearing a black cami-basque with suspenders and stockings. Not only had I never seen her in such attire, of course, but also it was suddenly apparent that she was – or could be – a highly attractive woman! The confusion caused by this revelation was quickly increased as I noticed she was carrying a hairbrush and two small paddles.
It seemed she had noticed the look of appreciation on my face at her attire. “Don’t get any silly ideas, Stephen,” she said firmly, “I’m certainly not here for a romantic assignation. Perish the very thought! No, what I am here for is to give you another spanking. As you know I’m going home tomorrow, and I want to be sure that my message about changing your ways has been thoroughly comprehended – though of course I can always return if that proves not to be the case. For more severe spankings I have always found the hairbrush and paddle to be rather effective, so it occurred to me I should give you a foretaste of what is in store if it should be necessary for me to visit you again for further instruction. I want you to kneel on the bed on all fours.” She placed the two paddles on the bedside cupboard, keeping hold of the hairbrush.
The experience of earlier in the week had taught me it was pointless to argue. Meekly I positioned myself as instructed. Standing at the side of the bed she proceeded to pummel my backside, counting aloud as she did so. Thirty-six was reached in double-quick, but very painful, time.
Glancing to the side I saw her put down the hairbrush and pick up the small wooden paddle. Without further ado or any words being spoken, another thirty-six swats landed on my increasingly sore butt. By halfway through I was unable to absorb the pain without uttering grunts and some louder ‘aaghs’ and it was a huge relief when the allotted number was complete. But I was pretty certain that the third implement, a larger leather paddle, had not been brought simply for show – and I was not wrong. She picked it up and walked to the other side of the bed. Turning my head I watched as she knelt on the bed beside me.
“That’s better, I think I can spank a bit harder this way round. And this time you will count aloud. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mrs Johnson, quite clear,” I found myself saying.
Thwack! Her words about swatting harder had been no understatement. The force of the stroke and the intense pain it produced took me quite by surprise and I emitted a loud yell. In the shock of the moment I quite forgot what she had said about counting aloud.
She waited a few seconds before speaking. “Very well, since you cannot obey simple instructions, I shall start again. And be warned, every time you forget, I will begin again from the start.
Thwack! Another vicious swat landed, equally as painful as the first, but this time I was more ready for it. “One”, I said loudly.
Thwack! “Two”. Thwack! “Three”. Thwack! “Four”.
Despite what she thought of my behaviour, I’m not stupid and I can count to ten and beyond without any trouble. Or so I thought. When number ten landed on what I’m sure was the exactly same spot as numbers eight and nine, the pain was acute and I cried out, conscious only of how much my butt was hurting. Several seconds went by as I tried to deal with the pain.
“Very well, I did warn you. We shall have to begin again.”
Oh no! As soon as she spoke I realised my mistake. “I’m sorry,” I spluttered, “that one hurt so much I forgot.”
“No excuses,” she said curtly. “Nine to be repeated. You will begin counting again after number ten.”
It was soon apparent why I was not required to count the nine again – there was no time. Whereas previously the swats had been measured, with a few seconds gap between each, this time they rained down like machine-gun fire. How I stayed in position I don’t quite know – the pain was excruciating. A brief and welcome pause indicated that the punishment for my forgetfulness had been completed. Nonetheless, I was very conscious that there were still many more swats to come.
And come they did, every one as hard as before, every one increasing the burning pain in my now very tender bottom. Somehow I remembered to announce the appropriate number, though I must admit that many were uttered in a voice that also expressed the extreme discomfort I was feeling.
“I think you may feel it worth avoiding the requirement for me to come and stay again, don’t you, Stephen,” Mrs Johnson enquired after the final swat.
“Yes, Mrs Johnson,” I replied. For once she and I were in total agreement.
I was feeling distinctly contrite when Rachel came back to the room. She grimaced as she saw the state of my backside. “Wow,” she said, “I could hear from the next room that you were getting one of mother’s extra special wallopings but that is some colour. I think perhaps I should rub some cold cream on it.”
I was grateful, if slightly surprised, for her sympathy and practical remedy. And when she had finished we had the best cuddle I had known for many months. The warmth of her affection matched the warmth in my butt.
“From now on we begin again,” she said softly. “Let’s make sure I don’t have to ask mother to come and stay again.”
UKL – 2012
This story was inspired by these photos I found on the net (sircane.tumblr.com):
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