Sent to Grandma’s for a Spanking – True Story

Describing his parents as “too squeamish to spank” they would routinely send David to his grandmother for some old fashioned discipline. Immediately upon his arrival, she wasted no time taking down his trousers and briefs. 

Awhile ago I saw a question posted on the Blurtit website which asked the following poser – Have You Ever Been Spanked by Your Grandma? The question was raised by what I presume was a young American gentleman who had recently received a bare bottom paddling from his very athletic grandmother. It set me reminiscing about my own experiences which I recount for you here.

Whenever I behaved badly, my mum and dad were too squeamish to spank me so they would send me to my grandmother who would administer the actual punishment. These spankings continued well into my teenage years with my last being at the age of about eighteen or nineteen.

I would take the evening train from Hough Green to Huyton (changing at Edge Hill) for a forty-six-minute journey filled with trepidation. In one such typical punishment, on arriving at Grammy’s house she would be wearing grey slacks, a yellow cardigan with her short blonde hair in an updo wave. She wasted no time and ordered me to stand on the pouffe, eyeing me up and saying meditatively, “You’re a slim lad.” She then pushed down on my neck so that as my head went down low my bottom came up high. Once in this humiliating position, I placed my hands on my knees. But my embarrassment only became worse with the perfected skill of Grammy tucking a thumb into the waistband of my baggy lounge yoga trousers as she pulled them all the way down before stripping my briefs down to my knees. Grammy would then swing her hand back from behind her shoulder; she was a short, stocky woman so her palm landed with considerable impact.

Grammy drew back her work-hardened hand and methodically tanned each cheek: these were real rump-reddening spankings I received. She was diabetic and sometimes forgetful if her insulin levels were playing up and if she lost her count would restart the proceedings from the beginning, so these punishments could continue for quite some time. Standing balanced on the pouffe and bending forward, my bare crimson bottom up in the air, I couldn’t dodge or otherwise try to evade each fiery burst of pain. Smack! Smack! Smack! “That’s for lying!” she said once done (this being my offence of the moment) and admiring her handiwork. By the time I got the 21.33 back home again I would be standing up, not sitting down.

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