One day, I wanted to ask Petra something. An expected grant payment hadn’t come into my bank account and I needed to delay paying my rent for a couple of weeks until I had the money.Rather nervous about having to ask this, I went to the living room, where Petra usually was at that time of day. The door of this room was closed and I was about to knock politely when I heard clapping sounds and crying coming from inside. I hesitated and was about to go away for a while, but Petra must have heard me outside and called out: “Come right in!”I opened the door and was greeted by the sight of Stefan, the eldest boy, draped over his mother’s knee. Petra had a hairbrush in her hand and the boy’s buttocks were red from the spanking he was in the middle of receiving.
I experienced a whole mixture of emotions and I felt myself blushing, but Petra was very matter-of-fact about the punishment. She said: “Stefan is getting his bottom smacked with the hairbrush because he has been very naughty at school. Sit down while I finish spanking him, then we’ll talk.”
Needless to say, I didn’t need any second bidding. I sat down, Petra scolded Stefan a little then went back to work. The whole experience of watching an attractive woman administer such a thorough spanking was both fascinating and exciting to me. A big part of me wished I could trade places with Stefan and receive a good, motherly spanking across Petra’s warm lap. It was something I had experienced myself often as a youngster, and I kind of missed it.
When she had finally finished, Petra put Stefan in a corner to ‘think about’ his behaviour. Petra asked me what I wanted. I stammered through my explanation and blushed again as I lodged my request.
“Very well,” Petra said at last, “but this must be the one and only time, do you understand?” It felt like I was being lectured like a little boy now. “I won’t throw you out, Jurgen, but as you have just seen, I don’t stand for any nonsense!”
That night, I found myself unable to sleep. The memory of Petra spanking Stefan replayed in my mind over and over, vivid and impossible to shake. I kept thinking about the matter-of-fact way she handled the situation, the strange mix of embarrassment and fascination I’d felt, and the longing it stirred up from my own childhood. No matter how I tried to distract myself, the scene lingered, keeping me wide awake long into the night.
(pause) Eventually, exhaustion overtook me and I drifted into a restless sleep. In my dream, I found myself once again in Petra’s living room. The space was quiet and sunlit, but in the center stood an armless wooden chair, looking oddly significant. My heart pounded as Petra entered, her expression both stern and caring. She sat on the chair and patted her lap, instructing me in a calm, no-nonsense voice to come over and place myself across her knee.
My hands trembled as I approached, feeling like a nervous schoolboy. The room seemed to shrink around me as I stood beside her, hesitating. Petra’s gentle but firm encouragement left no room for argument. I awkwardly bent over her lap, feeling the cool air on my skin and the warmth of her presence. The embarrassment was overwhelming—my face burned, and I was acutely aware of how exposed and vulnerable I felt. Yet, beneath the shame, there was a strange comfort in surrendering to her motherly authority.
Petra picked up the hairbrush, her demeanor unwavering but not unkind. She adjusted me slightly, making sure I was properly positioned, and then began. The first smack landed with a sharp sting, followed by another and another, each one echoing through the room. The sensation was vivid and impossible to ignore—a jolly good smacked bottom, just as I’d received in my own childhood. The pain was real, but so was the sense of being cared for, of boundaries being set with a firm but loving hand.
As the spanking continued, I felt a rush of emotions—embarrassment, relief, even a strange gratitude. Petra’s voice was gentle but resolute as she reminded me of the importance of responsibility, her words mingling with the rhythmic sound of the hairbrush. The experience was so real, so intense, that it blurred the line between dream and memory. When it was finally over, I was left with a deep sense of comfort and a lingering warmth, both physical and emotional.
(pause) When I awoke, my heart was pounding and the memory of the dream lingered, blurring the line between past and present, reality and imagination. The vividness of the experience stayed with me, a strange mix of embarrassment and comfort that I couldn’t quite shake.
