thetransition

Paris Annette Morreau
All rights reserved. This story, or parts thereof,
may not be reproduced in any form without permission

*******************************************************

Jane rounded the corner at the beginning of the last
leg of her morning run. She looked at the church she used as a
marker. One mile to go. She noticed a bride standing at the
entrance. A man Jane assumed to be the bride's father crooked
his elbow. He leaned toward her and whispered something to her.
The young woman looked back at him, smiled and took his arm. As
they walked into the church, Jane looked away.

      "Happily ever after," she said aloud and realized her tone
was snippy. "Happily ever after," she repeated quietly, wishing
it for the young couple even knowing full well her life would not
be anything like a fairy tale.

     Jane thought back to her own wedding as she ran past the
church. She had been full of hopes and dreams and so much
happiness as she walked down that aisle. She knew, of course,
that real life was not a fairy tale but she could not have
foreseen how difficult it would be to retain her own identity and
grow as an individual while maintaining a relationship with a
person who wished to do the same. She glanced both ways before
running across the street. Discussions, sharing, arguments,
tears, compromises and lovemaking marked the first year or two.
Even after each had accepted the other's quirks, marriage was
nothing like riding off to the castle on the back of Prince
Charming's horse.

And then came Paul. As far as she and her husband were
concerned, they held in their arms the only perfect child ever
born in the entire universe. He would be polite and well
behaved, he would grow up happy and healthy. He and his parents
would have a close, warm and loving relationship. They would
live happily .... yeah, right, Jane thought as she ran past the
park. That was all before he threw his first breath-holding,
leg-kicking tantrum because his mother wouldn't let him suck
on a marble. She had thought about discipline, of course, but
had never actually envisioned her perfect child doing anything
that would require punishment. She never saw herself spanking
that chubby little bottom let alone how often she ended up having
to do just that. There were rules, boundaries, consistent
enforcement. It was all so much work.

      And speaking of work, Jane thought, as she headed home,
beginning the last quarter mile of her run, she had given Paul a
list of vhores to do this week, just as she had every week. There
were certain tasks he was to complete each day, but everything
had to be done by Saturday. He had not done any of his work
during the week though Jane had "reminded" him every day.
Instead, he left them, as usual, for today. Completing those
chores was how he earned his allowance. Over the past several
weeks he had put no effort at all into getting his work done, but
had put enormous effort in his attempt to get his mother to give
him his allowance anyway. She had not and would not, but the
nagging and the battles were taking their toll. How had things
gone so wrong?

      On his 13th birthday, Jane told Paul that she had decided
not to spank him anymore. She made sure he understood that no
more spankings did not mean an end to discipline. It was just
that failure to obey the rules would result in a different kind
of discipline. She had thought that he would soon be an adult
and enter a world away from parental control and that he would
need to understand that the choices he made would have
ramifications. She had thought she would teach him the natural
consequences of his actions. She had thought there would be
rewards for a job well done and for good behavior. She had
thought there would be unpleasant consequences for tasks done
poorly and for bad behavior. She had thought it was a good idea.
So far, it was just more work - for her.

      Paul started out fairly well. He obeyed his parents most
of the time and did what he was supposed to do. When he did not,
a simple, single reminder was all it took. After a few months,
though, he obeyed less and more reminders were needed. Perhaps
he had initially obeyed out of habit but, without the promise of
a spanking, he did not feel the need to continue the practice.
Worse, over the last several months he had begun to talk back to
her, murmur smart aleck remarks as he walked away. She talked to
him, his father talked to him. They grounded him, reasoned with
him, scolded him for his backtalk and discourtesy. All were met
with promises of improved behavior and he did behave for a few
days. The last time she talked to him about his actions, he
stood in front of her with his arms folded across his chest and a
look of what Jane could only describe as bored contempt. She
grounded him for a week, he dropped his arms to his sides and
stomped out of the den and into his room. Except for meals eaten
in silence, she didn't see him at all.

      Jane knew it would take some time to get her son used
to another form of discipline and to teach him what she thought
he needed to know. But he was 14 now and his behavior had only
gotten worse. Even his language, nearly pristine just a few
months ago, was nothing short of foul when he thought she was out
of earshot. What are the natural consequences in the real world
for using bad language? None, from what she could see. She had
witnessed women who looked as if they could be her kindly old
grandmother give the finger to a driver on the freeway and mouthe
the most horrifying obscenities. How could she teach her son
that he would not succeed in the world if he used such language
when all around him adults were doing exactly that? And what
about his chores? In the real world, he would be fired for not
doing his job, not scolded, nagged and threatened with not being
allowed to go somewhere with his friends.

Both she and her husband had worked hard for well over
a year to get their son through the transition from spanking to
more natural and adult discipline but, so far, their efforts were
to no avail. Paul's behavior had only gotten worse and "work"
had been replaced in his vocabulary by some shockingly vile
expressions.

      Jane rounded the corner onto the street where she lived and
ran toward her house. Maybe she would have another talk with
Paul. Or her husband. Or try to find someone who had been
successful in getting through that transition. She slowed down
as she entered the driveway of her home and stopped just outside
her front door. She cooled down and stretched before opening the
door.

      Jane stepped into the entryway, her clothes clinging damply
to her. She ran her fingers through her hair to get it off her
face. She started up the staircase, looking forward to a long
shower, when she happened to glance into the living room. Videos
Paul had watched the night before were stacked on the coffee
table. His shirt was on the sofa. He had obviously kicked off
his shoes: one was on the floor, one on a chair across the room.
His books from school were still scattered exactly where they
were the day before. Despite his promises, Paul had obviously
not picked up after himself. Jane took a deep breath.

      "Transition," she whispered to herself as she closed her
eyes. "Maybe he was busy doing his other chores and has just not
gotten to his room yet," she murmured, giving her son the benefit
of the doubt. She took a step toward the kitchen and stopped.
"Maybe I'll just take that shower first," she decided, still
talking to herself. "That will give me a chance to unwind.
Maybe he heard me come in and he'll know that he has to finish
his chores pdq. That is, just in case he hasn't done them. Yet.
Just in case," she muttered as she trotted up the stairs.

      Jane stripped off her damp clothes and stepped into a
steaming shower. She let the hard force of the hot water massage
her back and cascade off her shoulders. Her dark hair fell to
the middle of her back. She let hot water stream over it before
washing it. She put a generous dollop of shower gel on a loofah
and began to scrub her body. Despite her best efforts to put her
troublesome son out of her mind, she remembered the last time she
had spanked him. She smiled and giggled out loud at the memory.

      It was the morning of Paul's 13th birthday. She sat on his
bed waiting for him to get out of the shower. When he walked
into his room wearing just a t-shirt and a pair of briefs, he was
surprised to see his mother. She looked at his wet hair hanging
on his forehead.

    "You didn't dry your hair again," she said quietly.

      "Are you waiting for me?" he asked, ignoring her statement.
"Why?" he wondered aloud, more than asked, and quickly went down
a mental list of possible infractions he may have committed,
wondering along the way how she had found out.

      She smiled. "I'm going to spank you," she said cheerfully.

      Paul's eyes widened as his mouth dropped open. She had
found out! About something. He couldn't think of what he had
done.

      "Whyyyy?" he asked again.

      "Because it's your birthday, of course! For what other
reason would I spank you today? Hmmmm?"

      "Nothing," Paul said as he shook his head, relieved it
wasn't anything serious. "I don't want a birthday spanking, Mom,
that's for kids."

      "Well, I think you may be right that spanking is for
kids."

      "Really!?" Paul asked, shocked at his mother's response.

      "Yes. So, today, I will give you your last spanking. A
spanking that will celebrate the end of your childhood and the
beginning of your spankless adolescence," Jane said, trying to
blink away tears that her little boy wasn't a little boy anymore.
"That doesn't mean you won't be disciplined, young man," she
tried to say firmly. "You will be. It will be different, but
you won't like it any more than you do a spanking. So, you'd
better behave. I hope you've learned something from all those
spankings I've given you."

Paul nodded, having not heard a single word after "last
spanking" and frowned at the tears he saw in his mother's eyes.
What's her problem, he wondered. Moms are so weird.

      Come on, now, over mommy's knees," Jane said, patting her
lap. "For the last time," she choked back a sob for the end of
her son's boyhood.

      Paul smiled, blushed, and with a short laugh, put himself
over his mother's knee.

      Jane patted her son's bottom and then quickly pulled
down his briefs.

      "Hey!" Paul shouted. "Not bare! I didn't do anything!" he
cried.

      "I've never spanked you any other way. Since this is your
last spanking, I'm certainly not going to stop now," she said.
"Okay! Ready? Here we go," she teased.

      SPANK! "My baby is a year old and he's walking!"

      SPANK! "My little boy is two and he's talking. His first
word is 'no.' Naughty boy!"

      SPANK! "My little boy is a tantrum-throwing three year old
and means 'no' when he says it."

      SPANK! "My little boy is four and in pre-school. He still
thinks his mommy is the smartest person in the world."

      SPANK! "My little boy is five and in kindergarten and
drawing pictures for mommy."

      SPANK! "My little boy is six and in first grade and is
printing his name. He's in love with his teacher."

      SPANK! "My little boy is seven and in second grade and is
learning to read. He's so smart!"

      "Mawwwwm!" Paul howled. "Do we have to go through this?"
he asked, embarrassed at what his mother remembered and held
dear.

      SPANK! "Yes we do and that spank doesn't count."

      "Noooo! That's not fairrrrr!"

      SPANK! "Do you want some more that don't count or do you
want to continue our trip down memory lane?"

      "I'll take the trip," Paul grumbled.

      SPANK! "My little boy is eight and in third grade. He is
very loud when he plays with other little boys. He thinks he is
smarter than they are and he terrorizes the girls by chasing
them and lifting their skirts. Spank. That's an extra one for
being such a terror."

      SPANK! My little boy is nine and in fourth grade. He is
learning his multiplication tables and how to play the violin."
Spank - "an extra one for all the violin practice I listened to."

      SPANK! My little boy is ten and in the fifth grade. He
has a crush on a little blonde girl and he doesn't call me mommy
anymore. I should give you an extra spank for that one, too.

      "Mommy, Mommy, no!" Paul cried.

      Jane giggled. "Nice save, sweetie."

      SPANK! "My little boy is 11 and in the sixth grade. He
will graduate from elementary school."

      SPANK! "My little boy is 12 and in junior high! No more
pictures drawn for mommy. And what a miracle! He suddenly knows
everything there is to know and tells me about it every day.
Mommy is not the smartest person in the world anymore; Paul is."

      "You're smart, too," Paul said.

      SPANK! "My son is 13 today. He's not a little boy
anymore."

      Jane glided her hand over her son's pink and stinging
bottom. Paul never even said 'ow'. It wasn't that she wanted to
spank him, she assured herself. She just didn't want him to be
all grown up and not her little boy any more.

      "Okay. That's it. You can get up."

      Paul pushed himself off his mother's lap and quickly pulled
up his briefs. He rubbed his bottom and frowned.

      Jane laughed. "Happy birthday, sweetie," she said and
burst into tears.



      Jane rinsed the soapy gel off her body, tears in her
eyes from the memory. How had such a sweet little boy turned
into such a terror in just a year and a half? She knew that at
least part of the answer was that he was a teenager, a dreadful
time for both teen and parent. But the rest of it was simply
that the other forms of discipline she had used had not been
effective. What else could she do, she wondered as she stepped
out of the shower.

      "Well, first things first," Jane said to herself. "Let's
see if he completed those chores and then we'll take it from
there."

      Jane sighed as she dried herself, toweling off the memory.
She slipped into a pair of trim white cotton shorts, black
t-shirt and a pair of sandals. She looked into the mirror and
ran her hands through her dark hair, still damp from the shower,
pushing it away from her face and behind her ears.

      "Ready?" she asked her reflection. "Let's go see what
he's been up to."

      She trotted down the stairs and glanced into the living
room. Nothing had been touched. She walked through the kitchen
into the laundry room. Paul's dirty clothes were piled on the
floor where he had left them three days before. Jane walked back
into the kitchen and looked at the dirty dishes in the sink. She
stared at them while she thought about what she would say to her
son. The words in her head were calm and reasonable. Satisfied
at last with the conversation he imagined, Jane walked through
the house into the den where she found Paul, staring at the
silent television while talking on the phone and listening one of
his more vile CDs, some alternative rock group, he had once
tried to explain to her. An alternative to what, she had asked,
music?

      "Paul?" Jane said quietly while looking at him.

      Paul stared at the television, apparently listening to his
friend and obviously ignoring his mother.

      "Paul? Listen to me!"

      Paul looked at his mother.

      "You've been promising all week that you would do your
chores. You assured me ...

      "Yeah, yeah, I know," Paul said.

      "...again that you would finish them ...." Jane continued,

      "I know, and then he, like, just dove, for it and caught
it!" Paul said looking at his mother.

      "before I came ... what?" Jane asked.

      "But that's not the all time greatest moment," Paul
continued as he turned his attention back to the television.
"The best, greatest, all time ..."

      "Paul!" Jane cried. "You listen to me! I told you to ..."

      "All right! Jeeze! I'm talking! Give me a minute!" Paul
wailed. "My moooom," he whined to his friend.

      "I've given you a week!" Jane cried, the conversation she
had with the sink full of dirty dishes now forgotten. "And not
just this week, but every week. We go through the same thing.
Say goodbye to your friend right how and get to work," she
insisted.

"Shhhii," Paul sighed with theatrical disgust.

      "You say you'll do your chores, you don't do them, you put
them off, and put them off until the last day and then you try to
get out of it altogether.

      "She's at it again," Paul complained to his friend. "Never
gives me any peace."

      "Paul! Hang up that phone right this minute!" Jane ordered
her son. "I want those chores done now! I'm not going to go
through this again."

      "In a second!" Paul shouted at his mother. "I'm almost
done. Maaaan!"

      "Now!"

      "All riiiiiight!" he yelled. "Did you see the way he ..."

      Jane grabbed the phone out of her son's hand and put it to
her ear.

      "Paul has to hang up now, " she said politely to her son's
friend and clicked off the phone.

      "Heyyyyy! What'd you do that for?"

      Jane gave her son a look he hadn't seen in more than a
year.

      "Turn off the television," Jane quietly ordered.

      Paul sighed, picked up the remote and clicked off the
power.

      "Turn off the stereo," Jane quietly demanded.

      Paul didn't have a remote for that. He pulled himself off
the sofa with great effort, sauntered across the room and flicked
off the switch. He turned to his mother with an insolent look.

      "Get into the kitchen," Jane said pointing the way. "Now!"

      Paul turned and walked a few steps.

      "Bitch," he muttered.

      "What!? Jane breathed in shock. "What did you say?"

      Paul stopped short and turned to face his mother.

      "Which, uh," Paul stammered, his eyes wide, full of both
regret and guilt, "I said which, um, you know, which chores do
you want me to do first?"


      Jane shook her head.

      "No. I'm not buying it this time. That is not what you
said. Tell me, Paul," Jane insisted.

      "I didn't mean it, Mom, honest," Paul said sincerely. "It
just, I mean, I meant to ..., it just sort of slipped out."

      "Tell me."

      "Please, Mom, can't we just forget it? I'll do my chores
now," Paul offered and started to leave the room.

      Jane grabbed his arm. "I said tell me," Jane demanded,
looking directly into her son's dark eyes.

      Paul looked remorsefully at his mother. "I said 'bitch,'"
he quietly confessed. "But I didn't mean it. Honest, I didn't,
Mom, really. It slipped out."

      "I'm going to see to it that it never slips out again,"
Jane promised as she pulled her son out of the den. "I thought
you were old enough to behave yourself, to take responsibility
for your actions, but apparently I was wrong,"Jane chided as she
pulled her son toward the kitchen. "You have proved me that you
cannot be relied upon to do the work for which you earn an
alowance, and tat you attempt to wriggle out of your chores every
single week. Your bhavior has not improved; in fact, it's gotten
worse. You are less responsible now than you were when you were
12," she scolded. "But at least when you were 12, you were not
swearing at me."

      "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I'll never say it again,"
Paul promised.

      Jane pulled her son over to the sink filled with dirty
dishes. Paul quickly turned on the water, motivated now to clean.

      "You are right that you will never say it again. I'm going
to see to it," Jane promised.

      She depressed the lever on a plastic bottle and a dollop of
lemon-scented liquid soap poured onto her fingertips. She turned
to her sn and smeared the soap onto his mouth.

           "Uhhhh!" Paul shouted, inadvertently opening his mouth
as he turned his head.

           Jane held the back of Paul's neck and pushed her soapy
fingertips inside her son's mouth where she spread the thick,
slippery liquid oer her son's tongue.

      "By the time I've finished with you, a dirty word won't be
able to survive in your mouth."

      "Sppthhhht!" Paul sputtered and tried to move his head away
from his mother.

           Jane held firmly and swabbed the entire inside of her
son's mouth with the slick soap. She reached back to the faucet
and filled her cpped hand with water. Paul threw his head back,
sputtering and spitting the vile soap.

      "Blaaaah!" Paul cried opening his mouth.

      Jane poured the water from her hand into her son's mouth.

      "Aaaack!" Paul pushed his tongue out, dripping thick
bubbling soap.

      "Is your mouth clean enough now?" Jane asked angrily.
      Paul nodded his head. "Aaaaack, bththth."

      "Rinse your mouth out with water," Jane directed.

      Paul lurched forward and put his mouth under the faucet,
filled it with cold water and spit bubbles over and over again.
Jane stood next to him, hands on her hips.

      Jane turned off the water. Paul lifted his head, soap all
over his mouth.

      "Mom! I'm not done yet. I still have soap in my mouth!"

      "Good! Maybe that will keep your tongue clean," she said.
"If there happens to be next time, I will use a brush loaded with
soap to scrub your dirty mouth," she warned.

      Paul looked at his mother while he continued to try to
push the soap out of his mouth with his tongue.

      "And speaking of a brush," Jane said, "It's been far too
long since I used one on your bottom. "

       Paul's eyes grew wide and he put his tongue back into
his mouth. He shook his head.

       "No! You said you'd never spank me again."

      "I have tried so hard over the last year and a half to
get you through the transition from spanking to more adult
discipline. To teach you natural consequences so you would learn
how to get along in the world. But it has not worked. Your
behavior has only gotten worse, you've become less and less
responsible and now this, ...this language you're using, and that
awful name you called me! I don't deserve to be treated that way
by you. Not by anyone, but especially not by you," Jane pointed
to her son. "And it ends right here and now."

Having made her decision, Jane pulled a chair away from the
kitchen table. She looked at her son for several seconds. Paul
gulped, swallowing the foul soap. Jane sat down on the chair,
took her son's wrist and pulled him over her lap.

      "Mom, no!" Paul cried. "I swear I'll never do it again."

      Jane pulled her son's shorts down.

      "It just slipped! I didn't mean it."

      Jane slipped her fingers into the waistband of her son's
briefs.

      "I swear I'll do my chores. You'll never have to remind me
again," Paul vowed.

      Jane pulled her son's briefs down, uncovering his bottom.

      "I'll do extra chores. And I'll do stuff every single
day," Paul promised.

       Jane pushed her son's briefs down his thighs to his knees
and then place her hand on his bare bottom.

       "You're right about all of that," Jane quietly agreed.

       For the first time since his 13th birthday, Jane lifted
her hand and smacked one side of her son's small, chubby bottom.
She quickly followed with another sharp spank to the other side.
Two pale pink prints immediately appeared. She was surprised to
feel a slight sting in her palm. Despite all the spankings she
had given her son. She had forgotten that sting over the last
year and a half., She raised her hand again.

      Paul's bottom was arched high over his mother's lap. His
legs were stretched out behind him. He struggled to keep his
bare toes from sliding on the floor. The position seemed at once
familiar and strange; the spanks seemed both more biting and less
painful than he had remembered. The embarrassment, he realized,
was worse. It had been such a long time since his last and, he
thought final, spanking. Over time, he had begun to like pushing
a little bit. Maybe not doing just one thing he was told until
he had been reminded many times. Then a few sassy retorts,
murmured softly as he walked away. After that, talking back a
little, but right out loud. It had taken most of a year, but he
finally believed he would never be spanked again. He had started
to think that this must be what it felt like to be a man. He
could do whatever he wanted and there was nothing anyone could do
about it. Now his bare bottom was hot and stinging from his
mother's strong hand spanking heartily back and forth. He
didn't even know any girls who still got spanked and here he was,
a guy, 14, and over his mother's knees like a kid. And his
mother was bringing down spank after sharp spank on his taut
bottom. Any second now he knew he was going to screech. If I
had just not called her that name, he thought as another biting
spank landed on his bottom, I wouldn't be in this position.

       "I've been so patient with you," Jane scolded as she
spanked the right side of her son's bottom over and over again.
"I've tried so hard to do what I thought was best for you. To
let you really grow up and learn from your own mistakes and not
treat you like a child."

      She spanked to over to the other side of her son's bottom
and spanked one plump spot again and again.

      Paul winced and stiffened, but kept quiet. He would not
cry out.

       "But you just refused to learn, didn't you?" Jane chided,
spanking the middle of the fleshy arch. She raised her hand
higher and brought it down faster and harder.

      "Uhhhhhh!" Paul howled involuntarily. He clamped his mouth
shut and blushed. "Mmmmm!" he growled through closed lips.

       "You evaded your chores, made excuses and procrastinated,"
Jane rebuked while she spanked down to the tender flesh at the
tops of her son's thighs. "And then that naughty language!" Jane
cried, giving her son an extra hard spank on the underside of one
cheek.

      "Uhhhhh!" Paul shrieked.

      "I gave you every chance. I talked to you, reasoned with
you, explained to you and you, you... SPANK! "Deliberately."
SPANK! "Ignored." SPANK! "Me." SPANK!

       "Stooooop!" Paul begged as his feet did a mad dance on
the floor.

       "And I knew I heard that language, that muttering you were
doing when you walked away from me. I should have spanked your
bottom SPANK! "Right" SPANK! "Then." SPANK! "And." SPANK!
"There." SPANK!

       "I'm sorrryyyy!" Paul cried out and burst into tears.
"I'll be gooood," he sobbed.

       Jane held her son firmly even as he tried to wiggle his
bottom away from the hot spanks. She placed her hand on his
bottom once more.

       "I've heard your promises before," Jane said softly. "I
know you mean them when you make them, but you do not keep them.
This time, I intend to ensure that you will."

       Even though his bottom was blazing and pulsating, Paul
was grateful that his mother's hand was resting on his bottom
rather than spanking it. His shoulders slumped and he cried.

      Jane reached back to the kitchen counter and picked up a
wooden spoon. It was not a brush, but it would do the job. She
doubted Paul had a preference.

      "I had firmly believed I would never have to spank you
again. I was certain you would be a good boy," Jane lectured.
"You must have forgotten all the lessons you learned over my
knee. I intend to make you remember this time by giving you a
spanking you will never forget."

       Jane raised the wooden spoon and smacked it down with
force on Paul's right chub. She quickly raised it and smacked it
down again onto the same spot.

      Now marked as a target, she gave it several hearty spanks.

      "Uhhhhhhoowwwww!" Paul howled.

      Jane moved to her son's left cheek and brought the spoon
down sharply. She aimed it at the small, oval mark it left and
spanked that spot over and over again.

      Paul arched his back and wailed at the assault that started
as a sting and evolved into a burn. Jane put thespoon back on
the counter. She stared at the dark red, oval spots on her son's
bottom. She placed her hand across his thighs, refusing to rub
the burn out of his cheeks. She held her son like that until his
cries quieted.

       "Am I ever going to have to spank you again?" Jane quietly
asked.

       Paul shook his head. "No," he whimpered.

       "Are you going to be responsible for doing your chores
without any reminders from me?" Jane asked.

      "Yes, Mom," Paul whispered.

      Jane glided her hand up her son's legs. She moved it
slowly and gently over his hot bottom.

      "Are you going to remove those naughty words from your
vocabulary?" she asked, stroking Paul's fiery cheeks.

      "Mmm Hmm. Yes. I'm sorry. I'll never say those words
again. I'll never call you any bad names."

       Jane reached down and pulled her son's briefs up his legs
and over his bottom again.

           "Stand up," Jane directed.

       Paul eased himself off his mother's lap, his tear-stained
face as red as his bottom. He glanced at her before looking at
the floor. Jane reached down and pulled up her son's shorts. She
stood up and wrapped her arms around him.

      "I truly hope I never have to spank you again," Jane
murmured.    "I know it's hard for you to understand now, but one
day you will be all grown up, a man, and you will have to know
how to behave and to be responsible. When you are an adult, no
one will spank you when you're naughty," Jane advised. "You have
to learn now. Okay?"

       Paul nodded and hugged his mother tightly.

       Jane hugged him back. Yes, she thought, one day he'll
be a man. But that's just an older version of a little boy.