By Slap Happy
Nearly four years since I last posted here, I’m back with a sequel the story I wrote before. This has been floating around in my head for quite a while now, but I’ve finally found the inclination to write it down. So here goes … It had been about a fortnight since I had allowed my mother to administer her own distinctive brand of corporal punishment on me for the first time since I was a child. I had replayed the events of that day over in my head many times since. While there had been no further punishments (indeed, I had been on my best behaviour and was also a lot more careful and thoughtful about things), an odd kind of tension had prevailed. I think we both knew that it was only a matter of time before she would have occasion to bare my bottom and smack it again. A change had also occurred in our relationship dynamic. Mom was somewhat more commanding in the way she spoke to me, and I was a little more respectful and quick to obey. Still, things were getting back to normal when Fate struck a rather cruel blow. One morning, I woke up to discover, to my utter dismay and horror, that I had wet the bed! Now, I was no stranger to enuresis, to give bedwetting its official medical name. I had gone through quite a bedwetting phase at the age of six or seven, and past the age of twenty, I had wet my bed about half a dozen times over the course of a decade and a half. That was less than one enuretic episode per year on average, but still far more than most normal healthy adult males in their twenties or thirties would experience. My previous incidents of “adult bedwetting” had tended to be serendipitous in their timing, in that my sheets usually needed changing anyway, and I would also generally be due for fresh pyjamas. This time however, my timing could not have been worse, because my mother had changed the sheets only the day before, and my pyjamas were clean on too! “Oh fuck,” I murmured as I surveyed the damage. The nice clean sheets were now soaked in my urine, and my pyjama pants were also wet through. Mom was going to be pissed about all that piss! I slowly extracted myself from the bed. There was nothing for it but to take off my pyjama bottoms. My legs felt all sticky with semi-dried urine. I needed a wash. Holding my pee-soaked pyjamas in front of me, I crept into the bathroom, where I threw the pyjama pants into the laundry hamper and ran some hot water. Then I used that and some soap to clean up. Following that, I returned to my bedroom to get dressed. Just as I was coming out of my room, feeling somewhat cleaner and drier, my mother emerged from her room, dressed in her usual shapeless long nightie. “Is everything all right?” she asked. “I heard you in the bathroom before.” Normally I didn’t perform my main bathroom morning routine until after breakfast. “Not entirely,” I answered. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you feeling well or something?” she inquired with concern. “I’m fine,” I assured her. “But, uh, I had a bit of an accident before.” Her concern was replaced by suspicion. “What sort of accident?” she asked. “I kind of wet myself,” I confessed sheepishly. “The pyjamas are in the hamper now.” “Oh my God, you haven’t wet the bed as well, have you?” she cried, sounding both horrified and a little angry. “I only changed all your sheets yesterday!” “I’m afraid I have,” I said quietly. “I’m really sorry. But I couldn’t help it. It just happened!” Mom pushed past me and stormed into my room. “My God, what a mess!” I heard her exclaim. When she re-emerged, storm clouds were gathering on her face. “I worked really hard yesterday to sort your bed out, and now you go and do this!” she shouted. Then, lowering her voice somewhat and addressing me in a more commanding tone, she snapped, “Go into the spare bedroom and wait there for me!” “But I haven’t even had breakfast yet!” I protested. It was the first time I’d attempted to argue with her since that red-letter (or should I say red-bottom!) day two weeks earlier. “I don’t care!” she retorted. “Get in there NOW!” I got in there and sat down on the chair at the end of the bed. This was, of course, where all the punishment had taken place a fortnight ago. Was my mother proposing to spank me for wetting the bed? Actually, it wouldn’t be the first time. She’d done it several times during my childhood bedwetting phase, although she had been much more understanding when I had done it as an adult. But then again, I’d never timed it so poorly before. As I sat there, I heard my mother moving around out in the hall. A strange mixture of emotions coursed through me. One part of me felt angry that she was maybe going to spank me for something I had no control over. Sure, it must be frustrating for her to have to deal with all that mess so soon after putting clean sheets on my bed, but shit (or in this case, piss) happens. I never liked injustice. But another part of me felt thrilled and excited at the prospect of a fresh punishment session with my mother, even if it wasn’t as fair as last time. Anyway, part of our deal two weeks ago was that we would discuss any prospective spanking first. So it wasn’t as though I was really a victim of injustice if I allowed it to happen. Some little while passed. My stomach growled. I felt hungry and thirsty. What was taking her so long? At last, she entered the room. But she was no longer in her nightie. She was now in day clothes, and she had also brushed her hair. So she had taken the time to get dressed and cleaned up a bit first. Well, that was probably fair enough. She sat at the end of the bed, facing me in the chair. Her face had a very serious expression, but she appeared composed. “I’ve taken all the sheets off your bed and put them out to be washed,” she began. Ah, so she had also been sorting my soiled sheets out as well as getting dressed. No wonder it had been such a long wait. “Now I want to have a talk with you.” Only a talk? Well, that was a bit boring, unless it was to discuss my punishment for wetting the bed. “I suppose you think that I want to smack your bottom for wetting the bed,” she remarked, almost as if reading my mind. “That had kind of occurred to me,” I affirmed. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do, but first there’s something else I want to discuss.” “OK.” “I have been doing a lot of thinking over the past two weeks,” my mother said. “And although we agreed that I wouldn’t smack you again unless you consented to it first, I’m afraid that just doesn’t work for me. If I’m going to smack your bottom or slap your face again, it has to be when I decide it.” I didn’t know quite what to say to this, so I just grunted “Hmm,” in reply. Mom continued, “I think you need some proper discipline in your life again. Spare the rod and spoil the child, and I’ve spoilt you for far too long. That has to stop. So I propose that from now on, I will once again smack your bottom or face whenever I think you need it. Starting from today.” I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. “But,” I began to object. Mom held up a hand for silence. “However, just for today, I am going to give you a choice in the matter. You can walk out of here, and I won’t smack you today or ever again. But if you do, things are still going to change. You’re well into your thirties, and yet you still live with your father and me, you don’t pay any board, and we take care of your meals, laundry and bed. While you don’t smoke or drink, and you do have your freelance work that you earn money for, you still behave quite irresponsibly sometimes. And this is what I mean about having spoilt you for too long. Well, that all stops today if you refuse my discipline. You will start paying board and learning some practical life skills. In short, you will start to finally grow up.” Ouch. That hurt almost more than if she’d actually hit me. It hurt because it was true. While I was a mature adult in some respects, I was pretty bloody immature in others, especially the way I continued to depend on my parents for many things when I should be standing on my own two feet. It really was pretty disgraceful. But I had to learn more about the alternative. “So what happens if I [i]do[/i] agree to your discipline?” I asked. “Then you can continue to live under this roof rent-free, and with your laundry, cooking and so on still being taken care of,” replied Mom. “But if you want to continue living like a dependent child, then you will also have to accept being punished like one.” “So what will that entail exactly?” I wanted to know. “I need to make an informed decision here.” “Well, you will need to start amartening your act up in certain areas. For example, when I ask you to do something, I will expect you to do it and not dilly-dally. If you take longer than five minutes to do a thing I ask you, that means an instant smacked bottom. Sometimes, the punishment will be more serious if something is repeated. For example, if you answer me back one time, I might give you a smack on the hand. Do it another time, and I will slap your face. Do it a third time, and we will be coming in here for a hiding with your pants down. Every time that you disobey me, or don’t obey me quickly enough, or disrepect me, I will smack you for it. The same applies if you do something stupid or careless.” As she said these fateful words, all with an air of quiet but firm authority, I realised I was getting hard, so I crossed my legs and folded my hands carefully on my lap to ensure it wasn’t conspicuous. Not that it would have been all that obvious anyway, but better to safe than sorry. “So I would have to live with this and accept whatever you choose to dish out,” I mused. “That’s right,” replied Mom with a nod. “You will obey and respect me, or suffer the consequences. I will decide those consequences. Whatever I decide, you will accept. Even if perhaps I punish you unfairly, although I will try to be fair and consistent. But perhaps sometimes, if I’m having a bad day, I might smack you for something I would let you get away with on another day. Maybe I might even give you an occasional “maintenance spanking” to remind you who’s in charge. You will have to live with that. But it’s your choice to make. Choose to grow up and start taking responsibility for your own life, or choose to keep depending on us, and on me in particular, and accept a much stricter regime from now on. Believe me, I intend to be [i]very[/i] strict with you.” I nearly came at this last sentence, but managed to control myself. The choice was clear. I knew what I should do. Grow the hell up. Start paying my own way and taking responsibility. Get a place of my own. Perhaps get a full-time job too. My lifestyle of carefree irresponsibility had gone on far too long. But deep down, that wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t so much that I was scared of responsibility, although in truth, I was somewhat. It was that, more than anything, I wanted to submit. I wanted to put myself back under my mother’s authority and allow her to smack my bottom like a naughty child whenever she deemed it necessary. I wanted to surrender control to her and feel the thrill that every submissive knows when they relinquish control to another person. Of course, I had contemplated this very thought two weeks earlier, but than I had been worried that it would cross a line. In a way, what Mom was proposing [i]was[/i] crossing a line. She wanted to treat me in a manner that no grown man should have to accept from his mother. Still, she was giving me an opportunity to opt out. And she did have a point. It was time for me to pay my way in my parents’ home – either financially or through old-fashioned discipline. This was, like the original punishment of two weeks ago, long overdue. Suddenly my mother stood and took a step towards me. “It’s time for you to make your decision,” she said quietly. Slowly she extended her left hand outwards, while her right hand went upwards until it was poised in a “ready to smack” position. “Your first punishment for wetting your bed will be a slap in the face, followed by my taking your pants down and walloping your backside,” she said ominously. “But before slapping you, I will need you to give me your glasses. However, you can, if you wish, get up and leave this room right now. In that case, I won’t hit you at all, but it means that you will have chosen to start growing up properly. Now, either take off your glasses and give them to me, or stand up and walk out of here.” So there it was. The moment of truth was upon me. It was either grow up, or, well, bottoms up. My “big head” (i.e. my brain) urged me to get out of there, but my “little head” (my penis) was telling me equally forcefully that submitting to my mother’s discipline was the way to go. Well, you know how it is with us guys. When our brains are telling us one thing and our dicks are telling us another, the dick wins the argument just about every time. So it was with me. I removed my glasses. Just for a moment, I hesitated before pressing them into my mother’s waiting left hand. Was I absolutely sure about this? Yes I was. It was going to change my life in a pretty big way, but the same would have been true if I’d opted out of this. So I placed the glasses in Mom’s hand and let go my grip on them – simultaneously handing her control. Now she could do what she liked with me. It was terrifying and incredibly thrilling at the same time. “You can take these glasses back and still leave, even now,” said Mom rather surprisingly. Wow. She was still prepared to give me one last chance. “As soon as I have slapped you though, that’s it. Accept this slap, and you also accept all other smacks and slaps that come after it.” “Go ahead and slap me,” I said, my voice shaking a little. “And then smack my bottom as much as you want for wetting my bed. I hereby agree to let you discipline me and to take whatever punishment I may earn for any acts of disobedience, disrespect, neglect and so forth. So shall it be until the day I finally do move out.” “Very well then”, said Mom softly. And with that, her right hand came down and struck me across my left cheek with a resounding SLAP. I was now officially past the point of no return, as my reddening cheek bore somewhat painful witness to. Following the slap, Mom handed me back my glasses. “You can put these back on,” she said. “I’m not going to slap you any more for wetting your bed, but I [i]am[/i] now going to give you a good smacked bottom! So get your pants down and bend over the bed!” I duly got up out of the chair, walked over to one side of the bed, lowered my pants and underpants, and bent over. Mom then gave me about 30 good hand spanks. After that, she finally let me go and get my breakfast. For the rest of that day, I actually wasn’t punished too much more, but late at night, I took about ten minutes to come up to bed after she had called me. As I reached the top of the stairs and entered the kitchen, Mom was waiting for me. She reminded me that I should have obeyed within five minutes, and ordered me to drop my pants right there in the kitchen and bend over. On that occasion, she only gave me about ten smacks on my bottom, but it showed me clearly just what I could expect if I failed to obey her now. Neither of us really talked to my dad about this new regime. If he was aware of anything different, he didn’t let on. Mom never punished me in front of him. So it as basically our little secret. However, even if she sometimes had to delay a smacking because of him being there, I always got my “just desserts” in the end. And if I actually committed a smacking offence in front of him (like answering her back), all it took was a stern look and perhaps a small gesture (like her gently smacking her leg) to let me know I was in for it later. While the overwhelming majority of her punishments were fair and deserved, a small number were not. The most memorable “unfair” hiding occurred one day when she went for a doctor’s appointment and had a rather stressful time of it (she had to wait a long time and then the doctor was rather snappy with her, plus afterwards she narrowly avoided a nasty car accident). On arriving back home, she promptly dragged me into the spare bedroom, made me drop my trousers and gave me quite a fearful spanking. But then, to my surprise, she burst into tears and admitted that I hadn’t deserved it, but she’d had such a rotten afternoon and just needed to get all the frustration and stress of it out of her system. I told her I had no hard feelings about it, and reminded her that I agreed to let her smack me even if she did it unfairly now and then. I also added that even though it was best if she punished me mainly for disobedience and other rule violations, it was OK if she sometimes wanted to smack me “just because”, although I’d prefer she didn’t do too much of that. She gave me a hug then, and just for a moment, we were on equal terms, with her showing a rare instance of vulnerability. But she soon returned to her more authoritarian self. Every now and then, she would give me a spanking for no other reason than to remind me of her authority over me. This usually happened when I’d been fairly good and hadn’t required too much smacking recently. She’d take me into the spare bedroom, make me take my pants down and bend over, and give me 20-30 swats. These generally weren’t as hard as when she was punishing me properly, and actually made me feel pretty damn good afterwards. On my next birthday after the new regime had started, she gave me a birthday spanking, something that had never occurred when I was a child. This too was rather more pleasant than punitive. In many ways, this new lifestyle (or rather, return to an old lifestyle) was actually good for me. Somewhat ironically, I became more responsible and grown-up as a result. But the thrill of submission never died, and I got plenty of good fantasy mileage out of it all. However, at no stage did my relationship with my mother ever become sexual. Yes, her dominant discipline turned me on immensely, but it was my private thing. If she was ever aroused by it, she never let on. She never wore any “special clothing” to spank or slap me. I never saw the slightest hint that she was in any way enjoying it, but I’m sure that at some level, she was. It simply wasn’t in my mother’s nature to be open about her sexuality. Consequently, she never knew anything about what really made me tick, because I just felt I couldn’t share anything like that with her. Still, I knew in my heart of hearts that my submission to her would continue until either she died or I got my act together, moved out and found another dominant Lady to satisfy my submissive desires (and hopefully add in some sexual pleasure as well!) And I was just fine with that. THE END
Submitting to My Mother
Female Led Relationships - F/m Fiction, Male Chastity, Feminization Stories, Female Domination Erotica, Femdom Photographs