Fantasy, realized

(Another guest blog) A friend of mine wrote the fantasy below, and we had the chance to enact on Saturday night. He was a tough customer — even with the hairbrush, the strap and his own belt he remained pretty quiet. It wasn’t until he lent me an extra thick London Tanner‘s strap that I got through to him. At least I hope so …

In this role play, I imagine myself as a college-aged young man, who, after a couple of semesters away from home, has returned to his mother’s abode; perhaps for a summer, or perhaps being suspended for academic reasons. I imagine the “mother” in this situation is of the old-fashioned variety. I have to say, though I find many aspects of the 1950s abhorrent, the style of dress is a big turn on, as well as the fact that spankings were very common! Anyway, I of course think myself a fully independent man, able to make whatever decisions on what I do and when I do it.

I find myself fully enjoying homemade meals and clean laundry, but find myself rather annoyed with mom, who keeps setting ridiculous rules. Setting curfews, insisting my room stay as neat as when I wasn’t home, insisting that I be home for dinner. When I raise objection she just gives me that no nonsense look and states that I am living under her roof and that I will obey her rules.

As time goes by, this gets more annoying and arguments have flared up. Well, arguments from my side of the struggle that is. There is no arguing with mom. As far as she is concerned, I am her boy, and everything is in place for my own well-being and for the orderliness of her household. She even threatens me with grounding and once even states that I appear to be in need of a sore red bottom that will leave me with something to think about. That leaves me not only annoyed, but also embarrassed with a peculiar nervous rush. I remember the sound spankings I received from her as I grew up. Spankings that left me very contrite indeed! Of course, I shrug off these feelings, knowing she is just bluffing and relieving her own frustrations at the situation by making such absurd statements.

I am out one night with friends. We go to a local bar. Good times are had. I don’t remember how many drinks I had, but I am feeling good! I meet a nice girl and even get her number. I would have tried to hook up with her that night, but there’s no way I can take her to my mom’s house.

I leave the festivities and pull up into the driveway. The living room light is on! Whatever, I think to myself. She shouldn’t be waiting up for me anyway. I am not a child and I am tired of being treated like one. The door opens and I feel that nervous rush again. I walk through the door and she grabs my arm.

“You smell like cigarettes and alcohol,” she states, in a tone I remember from my childhood. “And you are two-and-a-half hours past your curfew!”

I do not know what gets into me at that point, but I feel like a rebellious 15-year-old and I snap at her. “I am not your little boy anymore and I can do whatever the fuck I want!”

I immediately regret yelling and swearing at her, but my mother barely reacts. She simply looks at me and tells me to go to bed. “You are drunk and disobedient, and I will speak with you in the morning.”

Again, I feel half my age and skulk off to bed. When I awake, I feel like I partied the night before, but nothing like the hangovers I had experienced partying up at school. I think to myself, let me jump in the shower before I see Mom. At least that way I won’t smell like booze and tobacco when I see her. I make it to the bathroom and shower, leave the bathroom wrapped in my towel. As I pass the living room back to my room I stop in my wet tracks. My heart races and my stomach flips. On the old oak coffee table sits three items of Mom’s I recognize all too well: A heavy wooden hairbrush, a razor strap and a stout switch. In the center of the room is a large straight-back chair sitting in front of a full-length vanity mirror. I remember as recently as my mid-teens being over her knee and looking over my shoulder at that very mirror to see the shades of crimson my backside was turning as I howled that I would behave.

I think to myself, she can’t be serious. At that moment I hear over my shoulder, “It is time for that ‘talk’ I promised we would have, young man.”

Yes, she is very serious indeed.

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