A SINGLE IMAGE THAT SPEAKS VOLUMES
From the very first time that I saw it years ago, I look at this photo and I see the full depth and breadth of my spanking submissiveness. For the record, I’m not ashamed to be male, not at all. I’ve worked out in weight rooms, taken pride in the results. But what’s the first thing I imagine having done to me by a willing woman? I imagine her taking down my pants.
I think back to when I was 14, and my mother found a spanking book I’d forgotten in the bathroom. Privately to my face, she asked me if I felt I’d “missed out by never getting a bare bottom spanking.” Without question, we both knew the honest answer, but I was too embarrassed to admit it and my mum couldn’t bring herself to show that maybe she’d missed out just as much by never giving me that bottom warming.
To one degree or another, any female spanking me has played the role of my mother in that instance. After all, it was my mum who taught me how to wash, how to groom, how to dress myself, appreciating the importance of making a good impression. My bottom had been her domain until it was proudly mine; the foundation of my personal autonomy.
Yes, I owed all that to Mum. But naughtiness had a way (in my imagined boyhood) of abruptly dismantling my shrine to juvenile independence. All of a sudden, my pants reverted to her control, her fingers now unbuckling, unbuttoning and unzipping my pretension of early manhood. Horrible enough to have them so methodically taken down. But with my underpants to follow, the shame defied description!
So, here we have Mummy proceeding to pull down her bad boy’s pants for a spanking. One of this photo’s best attributes is the line it so successfully treads between fantasy and reality. The boy could be anyone. We see all of him that matters. His submissiveness is manifest.
And in a traditional domestic scenario, Mummy happens to have company at this worst of all possible moments for her naughty young man. A neighbour lady, perhaps with children of her own; maybe even a boy she’s had to put over her knee from time to time. Her mind is certainly fixed on the scene unfolding right in front of her. Who did this bad boy think he was, foolishly presuming he was too big to be spanked? Silly child. He’ll be getting his bare bottom paddled soon enough.
There’s any number of relationships you can apply to what you’re looking at. In my own case, I’d given my mother ample cause to pull down my pants and spank my bare bottom, but she never did. What if it wasn’t a neighbour lady watching my shaming but my oldest sister, the other figure of female authority in my actual boyhood (the one I’d had to answer to, in Mummy’s absence, when I was caught stealing change from my sisters’ coat pockets)?
Your imagination is your only limit. Mine absolutely thrives on what I’m seeing here. Not to be yelled at; not to be made a sissy; not to be some berated whipping boy. Simply to be subject to having my bottom soundly spanked when I’d been naughty. So please take your seat because the show’s about to start.