I Was Spanked As A Teen
Pantyhose Down!
When I was a girl I received my share of spankings, along with my two younger sisters. I think the worst ones were those I got as a teenager, when I was at my most mischievous. My sisters and I were not really “bad” girls, but we got into plenty of trouble by doing things that were just plain stupid—and we paid the price.
Mom's weapon of choice was a flat wooden-backed oval hairbrush that she purchased from the Fuller Brush Man and which was used exclusively for tanning our hides. The spanking procedure was to march the condemned girl into the bathroom, then call in her sisters to witness the punishment. Mom began the ritual by folding up the girl's skirt and slip, clipping them up with four clothespins at the waist in back, then skinning down her panties to her knees.
Having my panties peeled down was embarrassing, as you may imagine. But there was another feature that made me feel stupidly foolish at that moment—having my pantyhose peeled down before Mom lowered my underpants.
As a pre-teen I wore knee socks with my skirts, as did my two sisters. But once I entered high school I began to put on the more mature nylons. In the 1970's all the girls wore pantyhose—the only women who wore garter-stockings were my Mom and those of her own age. Needless to say, those pantyhose were a sign of maturity, and to have them pulled down to my knees so that I could have my bare heinie tanned like a naughty little girl was a definite incongruity!
"Cross my garters, young lady!” Mom commanded after she had sat down on the wide rim of the tub and hiked up her dress to show her girdle and hitched-up stockings.
Over I went, with my panties and hose rolled down around my knees. After a short lecture, Mom passed sentence of how many spanks I was to receive—usually an average of fifty, or more for serious crimes. Then she began the tanning while I counted out each spank, loud and clear. And if I missed the count, it was woe to my thighs, because that called for four extra whacks on the fleshy parts of my upper legs.
My sisters called me “The Kicker” because of the way I jumped around on Mom's girdle. My panties and nylons, which had been around my knees, worked their way down my calves until they hung around my wildly-kicking ankles. My little sister Audrey said I resembled a frog kicking its way through the water. By the time Mom ended the spanking my pantyhose had turned themselves inside-out and slipped off my feet. When finally I was helped off the parental lap the only part of my hose still in place were the feet. The panty part was trailing on the floor.
Now it was off to the corner to do what we called the Hour of Shame—sixty long and tedious minutes in the living room corner, nose to the wall and arms at sides, my spanked cheeks and thighs on full display. I was not allowed to speak or be spoken to during this time, while a kitchen timer slowly ticked away my minutes in the corner.
At long last the timer bell rang loudly, and Mom came into the living room to unpin my slip and skirt and drape them down over my still-sizzling heinie. After a few soothing words, Mom told me to get upstairs to bed.
Climbing the long staircase to my room was not easy with my panties still down around my ankles, trapping them together, so that I hopped more than trudged up the stairs. My inside-out pantyhose were trailing behind me like the bandages of an unraveling mummy. I moved as slowly as a mummy too, taking the steps one at a time, finally reaching the confines of my room where I eased out of my skirts, pulled my feet out of my pantyhose, and put on only my pajama tops, leaving my roasted bottom exposed to the air to cool off. Then I stretched myself face-down on the bed and cried into my pillow.
The maturity of being able to wear pantyhose like a lady was thrown to the winds as they were pulled down for a very immature spanking! Somehow it made me want to wear knee socks again.
When I was a girl I received my share of spankings, along with my two younger sisters. I think the worst ones were those I got as a teenager, when I was at my most mischievous. My sisters and I were not really “bad” girls, but we got into plenty of trouble by doing things that were just plain stupid—and we paid the price.
Mom's weapon of choice was a flat wooden-backed oval hairbrush that she purchased from the Fuller Brush Man and which was used exclusively for tanning our hides. The spanking procedure was to march the condemned girl into the bathroom, then call in her sisters to witness the punishment. Mom began the ritual by folding up the girl's skirt and slip, clipping them up with four clothespins at the waist in back, then skinning down her panties to her knees.
Having my panties peeled down was embarrassing, as you may imagine. But there was another feature that made me feel stupidly foolish at that moment—having my pantyhose peeled down before Mom lowered my underpants.
[image/video - please log in to see this content]
As a pre-teen I wore knee socks with my skirts, as did my two sisters. But once I entered high school I began to put on the more mature nylons. In the 1970's all the girls wore pantyhose—the only women who wore garter-stockings were my Mom and those of her own age. Needless to say, those pantyhose were a sign of maturity, and to have them pulled down to my knees so that I could have my bare heinie tanned like a naughty little girl was a definite incongruity!
"Cross my garters, young lady!” Mom commanded after she had sat down on the wide rim of the tub and hiked up her dress to show her girdle and hitched-up stockings.
[image/video - please log in to see this content]
Over I went, with my panties and hose rolled down around my knees. After a short lecture, Mom passed sentence of how many spanks I was to receive—usually an average of fifty, or more for serious crimes. Then she began the tanning while I counted out each spank, loud and clear. And if I missed the count, it was woe to my thighs, because that called for four extra whacks on the fleshy parts of my upper legs.
My sisters called me “The Kicker” because of the way I jumped around on Mom's girdle. My panties and nylons, which had been around my knees, worked their way down my calves until they hung around my wildly-kicking ankles. My little sister Audrey said I resembled a frog kicking its way through the water. By the time Mom ended the spanking my pantyhose had turned themselves inside-out and slipped off my feet. When finally I was helped off the parental lap the only part of my hose still in place were the feet. The panty part was trailing on the floor.
Now it was off to the corner to do what we called the Hour of Shame—sixty long and tedious minutes in the living room corner, nose to the wall and arms at sides, my spanked cheeks and thighs on full display. I was not allowed to speak or be spoken to during this time, while a kitchen timer slowly ticked away my minutes in the corner.
At long last the timer bell rang loudly, and Mom came into the living room to unpin my slip and skirt and drape them down over my still-sizzling heinie. After a few soothing words, Mom told me to get upstairs to bed.
Climbing the long staircase to my room was not easy with my panties still down around my ankles, trapping them together, so that I hopped more than trudged up the stairs. My inside-out pantyhose were trailing behind me like the bandages of an unraveling mummy. I moved as slowly as a mummy too, taking the steps one at a time, finally reaching the confines of my room where I eased out of my skirts, pulled my feet out of my pantyhose, and put on only my pajama tops, leaving my roasted bottom exposed to the air to cool off. Then I stretched myself face-down on the bed and cried into my pillow.
The maturity of being able to wear pantyhose like a lady was thrown to the winds as they were pulled down for a very immature spanking! Somehow it made me want to wear knee socks again.
