Spanking Memories: Lin Mayrie
By Lin Mayrie  
Edited by Yu May

[Note from Yu Mau: This AI generated concept image based on Lin Mayrie’s description of her memories of being spanked. Lin says this image almost perfectly described how her mother usually spanked her, although the pose doesn’t exactly match this particular memory. When adapting Lin Mayrie’s memory into a narrative format, I took minor creative liberties to flesh out the spanking scene, and edited her account for the purpose of giving her memory a better narrative flow.]

I still remember the day Mom caught me with my boyfriend in my bedroom like it was yesterday. I was fourteen, feeling bold and grown-up, in ways I clearly wasn't ready for. No one was home when we got there after school—we told ourselves we were just going to do homework, but one thing led to another. After I changed into my pajamas, we started cuddling on my bed. What started as kissing turned into fondling, until I was on my knees performing oral sex on him right there on my bed. 

My door flew open without warning. Mom stood in the doorway, frozen for half a second before her fury took over.

She didn't scream right away. She just pointed at the boy and said, "Out. Now." 

He scrambled, red-faced, grabbing his things. She marched him straight to the front door and threw him out, slamming it behind him. 

Then, Mom called my dad from the home phone. As I tried to pull my clothes back together, I overheard her telling the whole story to Dad, my face burned hot. I could almost see the disappointed look on his face.

Finally, Mom said goodbye to Dad, then turned to me.

I was already crying, but she didn't give me time to explain or beg. She grabbed my arm and said, "Get on your bed. On your stomach." Her voice was low, controlled, the kind that made my stomach drop worse than any yelling ever could.

I obeyed. I always obeyed when it came to this. My spankings were usually carried out in the living room, on the designated “spanking couch,” but this time I was spanked in my bedroom. Maybe it was because Mom wanted me to think about what I had done in this room. 

I rolled onto my stomach on top of the covers, my heart hammering. She stepped over to my dresser, and I heard the soft clack as she picked up my hairbrush—the wooden one with the flat back that I'd always hated. She didn't usually use it, but I knew tonight was different. “No, no, no! Please, not the hairbrush! Just spank me with your hand!”

She came back to the side of the bed, standing above me. One hand pressed firmly into the small of my back, pinning me in place. “No. This is not an argument, Lin Mayrie. You’re getting a hairbrush spanking, and that’s that.”

I was small, and she was a strong woman; my squirming did nothing. With her other hand she pulled down my pajama pants to my knees, exposing my panties. No lecture first, and no slow build up.

The first smack landed hard across both my cheeks. Then another, and another. She didn't count. She never did. It was steady, deliberate, the hairbrush cracking down again and again until the sting built to a fire. I cried almost immediately—big, messy sobs I couldn't hold back. I was always a crybaby during a spanking.

Through my tears I heard her voice, calm but cutting. "I'm not raising a slut, Linda." The word hit harder than the brush. 

I begged, "I'm sorry, Mommy, I'm sorry," over and over, my face buried in the pillow.

She kept going, delivering swats harder and faster. "Do you know how it makes your father feel, knowing his daughter is acting like this?" 

I couldn't answer. I just cried harder. 

She landed two of the worst whacks yet, one on each of my cheeks, and paused to tug down my panties with one clean motion. By now, my pajama pants had started to flop off my feet from my useless kicking.

“Lin Mayrie, you will never have a boy in the house again, unless someone was home. No exceptions.” 

The brush kept falling until my bottom was swollen and blazing—I remember I couldn't sit properly for two days afterward.

When she finally stopped, the room was quiet except for my hiccupping sobs. She set the hairbrush back on the dresser, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me into her arms. I curled against her, still bare from the waist down, crying into her shoulder while she held me tight. No final lecture, just quiet comfort until my breathing slowed.

After I started to control my breathing from the initial shock and pain, the memory that I had been spanked with my personal hairbrush struck me like a ton of bricks, and I started whimpering with embarrassment at the thought. “M-my hairbrush…h-hurts…”

Mom cooed softly, but there was definitely a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "Well, what did you think was going to happen?" It was what she always said at the end of a spanking. Her words hurt, but at least I was able to take some solace in her gentle hug.

Then I remembered how Mom had already told Dad everything. Whenever it was time for me or my sister to get a spanking, Mom didn't want Dad to have to be in the room for it. Sometimes Dad spanked us, but I think he didn’t like seeing us spanked, even if he agreed we needed one.

I tried sitting on a cushion during dinner that night, and even that was too much to endure. My older sister found the whole thing hilarious. She'd been the one to teach me how to do what I'd been caught doing, so she teased me mercilessly. She whispered in my ear, "You're such an idiot for doing that in the house."

I was furious that she’d gotten away with doing exactly the same thing I did, but I was too embarrassed to rat her out. I didn’t want to even think about giving a boy a blowjob ever again, let alone discuss it. We were usually spanked in private, except for the one time we both got in trouble and were spanked together on the spanking couch in the living room.

The next morning, I stood there in the kitchen, eating cereal standing up because sitting was impossible. Mom kissed my forehead, a small gesture that said everything was going to be okay. She didn't bring it up again after that, not really. But I never forgot.  

The embarrassment didn't stop with my immediate family. Aunt Susan visited the next day, and Mom told her the entire story right in front of me. I stared at my feet while they talked about my "behavior" like I wasn't there. 

Aunt Susan looked at me with raised eyebrows and said, "My, my, my, Linda. You should be ashamed, young lady. I hope you remember that spanking for a long time."

I blushed big time. All I could manage was a quiet, "Yes, Auntie Susan."

But I didn’t feel any resentment. I loved both my parents. My Mom and Dad were great to me and my sister. But they also believed in spanking, so we just got spanked when we earned it. 

Dad didn't speak to me for two whole days after the incident. That silence hurt worse than the spanking itself. 

But finally, two days later, he grabbed me in the hallway and hugged me tight, whispering. “I can’t stay mad at you, Lin,” I broke down crying all over again.

The End