Mommy Must Spank

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

I’m about to tell you a story that makes me very embarrassed. In fact, it makes me absolutely blush with shame. And to give you a hint about the kind of man I am, those emotions make me instantaneously hard...down there, I mean. I am writing this recounting of how it is between me and my Mommy because that is what she told me to do. She loves to do that: to make me turn bright red with those feelings, since I am very fair complected and I flush quite vividly when I am caught in a feeling I would rather hide (or am turned on, which is often the same thing).She always delights in fondling the evidence of how directly the wiring is between my shame centers and my...well, my c**k. Mommy has instructed me to use frank (she actually said ‘filthy’) language in telling my story, even though that goes totally against my natural tendency and lifelong training. I was brought up to be a good boy, and good boys don’t use such words. But my new Mommy has very different ideas about almost all such things that the woman who brought me into this world and raised me all by herself did.

I distinguish the two by referring to the woman to whom I was born as Mother. The emotions I feel around that rather impersonal title are consistent with the very unemotional atmosphere (well, except for her cold constant anger) in which she did her duty of bringing up the product of her worst mistake ever. She often said that, especially when I was displeasing to her, which was frequent no matter how hard I tried. My embittered Mother would often recount the circumstances of my conception while I was trying to collect myself while doing my corner time after her latest energetic attempt to help me to be a better boy.

This is how the story went. A very handsome and charming frat boy had been flirting with her for months. This was not behavior that a very prim and proper college librarian ten years his senior was used to. She later found out that he was trying to collect on a hundred dollar bet with his frat brothers, in which he claimed he could seduce any woman on campus. His sneering buddies chose her, someone whom they deemed was the least likely target of opportunity to respond even to my Father’s legendary charms to which even the most prudish coeds had proven uniformly susceptible. And Mother held out for a long time, going home alone to her sterile little bungalow just off campus night after night with notes, gifts, and flowers. But finally, his smiling and apparently earnest persistence hanging around her desk chatting her up wore down her disbelief and then her resistance, and she agreed to a date.

Now my Mother was hardly a party girl, and had tasted alcohol just a few times in her life (other than the Holy Communion wine that she drank a sip of every Sunday at Mass).But she felt so won over by the seemingly endless attention from his big blue eyes looking at her, as an envious fellow old-maid librarian put it, like she was ‘the future Mother of his unborn child’. This part of the story was always recounted with particular bitterness, since there was a special irony in that prediction given that I came to pass.

So she actually felt like celebrating when he took her to the nicest restaurant in the small college town. A glass or two of champagne hardly seemed like it would hurt, especially when he explained that he felt like celebrating their relationship (for reasons she would not have fathomed). What she failed to take into account was that her Irish heritage made her uniquely susceptible to alcohol, just as her prim Mother had always warned her. And my Mother loved the feeling of getting tipsy, her usual social reserve tumbling down. So when he put an arm around her going back to the car, she melted into his embrace, feeling like the luckiest woman in the world.

My Father suggested that they go back to his room to listen to records, and her defenses were down enough that this seemed like a fine idea. He lived in a single on the bottom floor of the frat house, whose members were apparently absent at the football game going on across campus. She had no idea how unlikely that the building would seem this deserted on a busy Saturday evening. But as I say, her senses were dulled by the champagne coupled with her, as she bitterly put it, pathetic eagerness to be loved by a man far beyond her mousy status.

And once in his room, which was a surprisingly neat small space, nothing seemed more natural than to sit on his bedspread and accept his offer of a Coke. After all, she was thirsty from the scallops at dinner, which had been a bit salty. Her gallant escort sauntered out to bring back the tall frosty beverage, which tasted a bit funny to her. She asked, and her date earnestly explained that the beverage came from their own dispenser, which sometimes added an aftertaste that they all got used to. Of course, the truth was that her drink was spiked with vodka, but the adulterant actually ensured its own consumption: the more she drank, the looser she became.

Eventually, my prudish Mother was feeling quite giggly, and also more than a bit welcoming of the friendly petting of her hair and face by the handsome frat boy cuddling her on his bed. She had never felt so relaxed, or, frankly, so turned on, as cuddling led to kissing, initially quite chaste. But no librarian would have failed to read the sexy parts that often appeared even in ‘great’ literature, so my virginal Mother had some sense of how to proceed. She felt a weak sense of protest when my Father’s hands found her small breasts, but the deliciousness of the sensations he evoked soon caused her to relent and relax. Unhooking her brassiere only seemed like a small step, and his hands did feel so much nicer on her bare bosom than through layers of clothing.

My Father’s questing lips soon found their way down to the region his hands had pioneered, to apparent enthusiasm from his now thoroughly drunk date. And the feelings between her legs as he kissed and then, well, suckled her n*****s like a baby, were quite nice, if a bit alarming. He apparently sensed this development, because while his mouth stayed occupied with her breasts, his hands found her rather small bottom, which liked being fondled quite well, as it turned out. This seemed quite naturally to lead to her skinny legs being parted, and the surprisingly yummy sensation of having her inner thighs stroked. She had opted away from panty hose on that warm early fall evening, so her legs were bare, and apparently quite hungry for the touch of a handsome younger man.

From there, as the alcohol really hit home, my Mother’s memory of my conception is something of a blur to her. She recalls enjoying the feeling of my Father’s hands on her crotch through her chaste white cotton panties, which she is ashamed to admit were probably quite damp by that point. And she thinks sometime around then she probably had, well, an orgasm, like the ones the nuns warned her about at boarding school when they chided the girls about playing with themselves.

By this point in her story, I would have been quite uncomfortable with the detailed discussion of what my Father had done to my Mother’s private parts. But then again, I was always quite uncomfortable already, given that I was naked from the waist down and had a very sore and throbbing pair of buttocks as I did my usual post-punishment corner time, sporting my usual post-spanking erection. Mother always commented on this with some disgust, describing me as just like my Father with my disgusting little hard p***s always convinced it was all about him. In fact, of course, this scenario was all about her, and her need to take out her rage on his progeny’s rear end. So my discomfort, whether it was the throbbing of my ass cheeks, the shame about my hard-on, or my mortification about hearing the gory details of her one s****l experience, was frankly beside the point. Actually, it might have been necessary to the point, come to think of it.

So from earliest memory, I would be regaled by the rest of the sordid story of my entry into this vale of tears. She would bitterly recount how her panties eventually came down, and how his mouth found her privates, and both thrilled and horrified her by licking and kissing there until she had yet another of those forbidden spasms that shook her whole body. By then, she was naked, and too drunk to care, except that what was happening made her feel better than she ever had in her life. So when he took out his p***s, she touched it with only some reluctance, finding it rather icky but at the same time sort of...interesting.

And then things get even hazier, as the full kick of the vodka in her Coke now registered on her unaccustomed brain. Resistance was futile, and she doubts she even protested, especially when he rubbed it on her down there in a manner that felt very good, in an evil sort of way. He just kept doing that, moving it up and down in her slit, as she called it, until she grabbed his hunky frat boy ass and pulled him inside her.

So yes, it was her own damned fault, as she often bitterly repeated during her frequent tirades of retelling the story of my less-than-immaculate conception. She got tempted, and she was the one who invited him in, even though it hurt like Hell, the first thrust. But then, it started feeling better, and even better still as his mouth found hers. It tasted funny, and she realized that was because he had been kissing her...down there...but she was too drunk to care. His hands were cupping her ass, and they were kissing, and pretty soon she was having another of those disgusting paroxysms, and then he was shouting and red faced and she could feel something pumping inside her. And then it all faded to black.

My Mother knows that she threw up some time later, and that some sorority girls helped clean her up in a filthy bathroom at the frat house. They must have gotten her dressed and taken her home, and she dimly recalls thanking them before passing out in her own bed. She awakened the next morning still a bit of a mess, with blood on her panties (mixed with other God-awful unidentified substances) and a terrible headache. Her hangover was so bad she never touched another drop of alcohol in her life. And when he never called, and never even came into the library again, she realized she had been had in the worst possible way. One of the sorority girls finally took pity on her and told her about the hundred dollar bet. A Polaroid had been taken of her naked on his bed, a large bloodstain between her thighs and leering frat boys tonguing both of her n*****s and the sides of her privates. It was posted in the inner sanctum of the frat house, conclusive proof of her slutty self-abandonment for all the world to see.

My Mother abruptly quit her job and sold her bungalow, unable to face the sight of a single smirking undergrad for another second. She found a much safer job as the librarian of a small Catholic college a thousand miles away from the scene of her day of infamy. But a month after her abrupt mood, her menstrual blood failed to flow, and soon she was sickened by the realization that her one night of depravity in an otherwise pure life had resulted in yours truly. Of course, she confessed all of this to her new priest, who consoled her with great kindness, and helped her to decide that I was meant to be in this world, regardless of the unfortunate nature of my conception.

But it was no easy road for either of us. A fiction was developed for public consumption that my Father had been a soldier in Vietnam who had died heroically in combat, leaving behind his poor struggling widow and orphan. Her considerable energies were turned toward making certain that I turned out as differently from my Father as was humanly possible. Of course, the fact that as I grew older, I resembled him more and more uncannily hardly helped matters. So no matter how hard I tried to be as good as she wanted me to be, the older I grew, the more painful my almost daily trips over her lap with my pants down and my poor bottom cheeks doing a long minuet with the hard wooden back of her hairbrush.

My spankings were conducted quite ritually. They would happen after she gave me my bath each night. In fact, I eventually wondered if seeing me naked in the tub might have brought up uncomfortable feelings for her, especially when I started getting aroused by her washing my bottom and genitals quite thoroughly with her soapy washcloth. She would pat me dry with a big fluffy towel, and then take me over her bony knees, saying, “It’s time for your spanking, bad boy...so take your medicine like a little man, or else I’ll double the dose!”

She always seemed sort of excited at this point, her usually pale face flushed and her blue eyes fierce. I was usually crying right from the start, though that didn’t seem to affect her one way or the other. She was going to whale on my buttocks until she had her fill, and no reaction, or lack thereof, on my part seemed to make one iota of difference. I would try to hold still, but the sting and resulting fire building in my poor buns was too much, and I would start to kick. Then she would pin my legs between hers, and hold my right hand at the small of my back with her left, and then her targets were unable to be spared a single bit until she was finished with me.

It seems that kids can get used to almost anything, and that was true of my nightly spankings from my Mother. She was otherwise pleasant to me, if a bit distant and unaffectionate, and my bath and spanking were often the only times she touched me during an entire day. So I worked very hard in school, at which I was quite excellent, which pleased her greatly. She also was a bit of an exercise nut, so from earliest memory we did endless pushups and sit-ups and chin-ups early every morning before a long run together. I desperately wanted to earn her praise in any way, and if I could do more of any exercise, or outrun her, she seemed to like that. As a result, I became very fit as well as very studious.

My spankings, and our morning exercise routine, all came to a halt when my Mother contracted breast cancer. I was suddenly transformed into her nurse instead of her project. But her aversion to her own body meant that that cancer was detected only once it had spread into her bones and she broke a leg running. She barely survived to see me graduate, and I was left with sole ownership of her condo and several hundred thousand dollars of savings and life insurance proceeds, with no one to guide me after a lifetime under her strict supervision.

Well, I had been admitted to the very same middling-level Jesuit college in whose library Mother had worked for my entire life. And indeed, the priest who was both her confessor and my own throughout my life since First Communion took me under his wing, to my unending gratitude. He mentored me through an undergraduate degree in a double major of History and Philosophy, gently exploring whether I had a calling to the priesthood along the way. I couldn’t find it in me to give up the possibility of a married life, though, even as I remained extremely complicated regarding my sexuality.

Now, to be quite clear, I am in no way gay. Never have had a single fantasy about having s*x with a male of any age, and never was treated in any way other than totally respectfully by a priest (or nun, for that matter). So this is not going to be a book about the aftermath of religiously-sanctioned (or abetted, or ignored) child molestation. That’s not saying that something like that couldn’t have happened to my Mother. I have no clue about how she got to be the way she was other than her oft-repeated tale of the date rape that ended up with me as its nine-month aftermath. But I’m not looking for scapegoats here, just telling my story as my Mommy has commanded me, no matter how embarrassing it is.

One thing I realized early on at college was that I had an intense preoccupation with justice. It really mattered to me when people were treated unfairly, and I was big enough (I topped out at 6 feet two inches) and strong enough (220 pounds of solid muscle) to even use physical intimidation when I came upon bullying of any sort. My own early experiences with being a weird studious Mama’s boy led to a good deal of teasing at school. There, my obvious interest in pleasing teachers (usually women who were far easier to win over than Mother) hardly endeared me to my classmates. Mother caught wind that I was being bullied, and enrolled me at a local aikido studio when I was in third grade. Soon I was enabled to rather nonviolently guide anyone who attempted to bully me to the ground, where I would calmly restrain them until they agreed to be let up peacefully. I still practice at the dojo to this day, where I am now one of the senior black belts, and martial arts have been a key source of self-esteem throughout my life.

If a young man with interests in history and philosophy is deeply concerned with injustice, then no profession beckons more seductively than the law. Northwestern was the best school to which my undergraduate mentors had connections, and my perfect grades and LSAT scores ensured my admission there. Law Review was a snap, and valedictorian was in the bag by the time I left to clerk for the Ninth District Federal Court justice whose crusading advocacy of the powerless provoked my admiration. From there, a job as an associate at a DC public interest law firm followed as night the day, and partner track was easily achieved by virtue of very hard work. And my own Federal Judgeship followed once a liberal administration was installed in Washington, back on my old favorite, the 9th Circuit in San Francisco. I was the youngest Judge at the bench at age forty, and professionally, the sky seemed the limit, with the Supreme Court well within my grasp if the cards fell right.

But I digressed from beginning my discussion of my love life, I’m sure not accidentally. That has always been a tough one for me. I don’t think it’s possible to have a Mother like mine and come out at all normal in one’s relationships towards women. I had always known I was heterosexual, often having fantasies and wet dreams in which the protagonists were pretty, slender women, usually brunette like my Mother, always small-breasted and boyishly buttocked as was she. This is, I know from extensive reading in the psychosexual literature, hardly unusual. But what was more than a bit mortifying to me, and which I could never imagine sharing with another human, let alone a girlfriend, was the nature of my fantasy life. For from earliest memory, I had m*********d myself to sleep each night (lying in my lonely bed on my throbbing rear end until Mother’s death) to thoughts of these fantasy women spanking the daylights out of me until I orgasmed.

Now, no one had ever been told about my nightly trips over my Mother’s unfriendly lap, and I saw no reason to unburden my soul about the details of my masturbatory fantasies either. My confessor never asked, though he assigned me nominal penances each week for the sin of self-abuse. I read about women whom one could pay to deliver erotic spankings, but my future legal career seemed to preclude taking such risks, so that idea died early. Once the Internet appeared, I would spend spare moments in my otherwise frantically busy schedule looking online for women who might play that role for me. But once again, my innate caution carried the day, and I faltered at the risks. And indeed, the background check for taking the Federal bench would undoubtedly have uncovered that particular piece of dirt in my otherwise immaculate life-resume.

This doesn’t mean I was a virgin, mind you. I was relieved of that burden when I was a college sophomore by a kind older woman who was the divorced mother of one of my students at the aikido dojo. She also happened to live at the same condo complex as the home my Mother had left me, and struck up a friendship out by the pool. I was exceedingly shy, resistance to questing glances from attractive women having been scorched from my quivering buttocks on countless occasions before Mother’s illness some years earlier.

Elaine fit the profile: petite and brunette, though I never detected an iota of interest in inflicting other than pleasurable sensation on my body. She was the first woman to tell me I was handsome, and to openly appreciate my body (which she characterized as resembling that of Michelangelo’s David, but with a much bigger c**k). And for the next two and a half years, she would knock on my door several times a week and lead me into my bedroom and f**k me senseless. Her libido was amazing, as is often the case for women in their late thirties (like my Mommy, come to think of it). So I was given a long and very careful course in how to please a woman – how to kiss her, touch every part of her body (including every one of her erogenous zones), bring her to endless orgasms (which pleased me as much as it did her), and use my eight inch c**k in whichever orifice she wished until I came.

I’m sure I would happily have married Elaine if she’d asked. This would have pleased her greatly if she was convinced I was into it, but she and I both knew that my future was elsewhere. And the truth was, more than anything, I was rather passively going along with her program, and felt not much more than genuine affection towards her. I think if I’d shown any inkling of being in love with her, she probably would have followed me to Chicago, and this story never would have been told. But she asked me point blank about my real feelings near the end of my senior year, and as my Mother always taught me, I was scrupulously honest. She cried, and I felt terrible, and she broke up with me right after graduation. So I moved to Northwestern with a mild sadness, a sizeable bank account and stock portfolio from selling my Mother’s condo, a complete erotic education (at least for everything society considered normal), and not a single attachment in the world.

So as anyone who watches television can tell you, the legal world is a hotbed of s****l hanky panky. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration in reality, since the huge volumes of work that the law requires could hardly get done if everyone was screwing everyone else as often as Hollywood finds necessary to capture viewers’ eyeballs. But I was a handsome young man, and there was no shortage of biddable young women (and not a few older ones) who were more than happy to welcome me into their beds. Sometimes this was in hopes of a satisfying romp, which I had been well-trained to provide by Elaine. But most often, women pursued me in hopes that a man as nice and handsome and successful and...well...feminine as me would become their sensitive life partner. These I routinely disappointed, since I remained impervious to the slightest hint of falling in love with them. They became friends at best, but often left embittered. This finally reached a point about the time I left DC that I would only have s*x if both the woman and I agreed it was just for fun.

And the deeper hidden truth was that while s*x was enjoyable and I liked getting my partners off (perhaps even more than my own orgasms, to be totally honest), something was missing. And that missing part is what totally dominated my fantasy life, and what I thought about in order to get and stay hard during normal s*x regardless of how attractive my partner, and what I absolutely had to think about in order to climax. And that would be having my bare buttocks thoroughly spanked by a trim brunette woman with small firm breasts and a tight boyish ass.