My dad was constantly out of town, so mom was the primary caregiver. This, of course, also meant she was the primary disciplinarian. Frequently, my mother would use whatever was in reach to spank me, but her preferred method was bare, over her lap, with her hand. Much like the boy on this page. In fact, I do not think mom would disagree with me if I was to tell you that when I was the around the age of our child actor, we looked very much the same.

I guess I was probably about seven or eight years old when I received the spanking you will read about now. I was just minding my own business enjoying a late episode of "Charlie's Angels" when mom uttered the words every kid loves to hear, "It's time to get ready for bed, Chandler."

Pouting, "Aw Mom, can't I just finish the show?"

With firm resolve she would be obeyed, or else, "Son, don't make mother tell you twice, and don't make a mess in the bathroom again either."

Head down, but getting up nonetheless, "Okay."

So, without further ado, I went to my bedroom, got undressed, and walked in the restroom buck naked. Next, I had to adjust the temperature of the water--somewhere between the ideal temperature for me and the one my mother would always tell me was the only way I would ever get clean. I always wondered what she thought I would get into that required being melted off my skin. (Not really but, hey, this is a kid's perspective.)

I let the water fill to almost overflowing and then jumped in...which was my first mistake. Water splashed every place and sloshed over the sides of the tub on to the rug. Oops! Oh well, I'll just clean it up before she comes to check the place out. Then, as little kids do, I began to play, and the water began to sway, and slosh, and spill, and it wasn't long before I had to actually turn on the water to replace what had spilled. But, hey, I wasn't thinking about the mess; I just wanted me ship to win the battle.

When mom came in, I knew I was in trouble. Her eyes shot fire and, if the water hadn't been hot enough to melt the dirt off me, all that remained was now incinerated. "Chandler! I told you not to make a mess! You finish your bath! clean this mess up! and don't worry about getting dressed, no sir, you just take your little ass in your bedroom."

"Moooommmmm, I pleaded, starting to whimper, then... "Don't you 'mom' me, you know better than this _s_h_i_t_. You're getting your bottom spanked good with my hand. Now do as your told, before I change my mind and use the belt." During all of the commotion, my ship got sank, and now I was thoroughly depressed.

I finished bathing, cleaned up the mess--and, boy, what a mess! Then I wrapped myself in the towel and went to my bedroom. It didn't take long before mom appeared, dried me off better, lay me across her lap and began to spank me. It was the exception not the rule for there to be any lecture with my mother, just a fast-paced, long, hard, spanking.

When I was bent over something else besides her lap, perhaps she would have me count the licks, but when I was going to be across her knees there was no counting. If she ever gave me the same amount twice, I never noticed the continuity. Mother looked for results: a red, swollen, almost-but-not-quiteblue bottom + crying and squirming caused by evident discomfort