Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
It all started with a hopeful “I want to help, Mommy!” This year, Timmy begged to bake Christmas cookies, promising to be “extra good” and “follow the recipe like a big boy.” I caved, of course, because what ABDL mother says no to his twinkling eyes right before Christmas?
Big mistake. Within ten minutes, flour was airborne like a blizzard, egg whites were splattered on the ceiling fan (yes, really), and the kitchen resembled a combat zone where sugar and chaos had declared a truce. I stood there, flour-dusted and blinking, as Timmy beamed. He was soooo proud of himself.
“I want to help, Mommy!”
“Timmy, sweetheart,” I said, wiping frosting from the living room curtains, “do you even remember the rules about helping in the kitchen?” He wiggled, barefoot and glitter-coated, with his ABDL grin widening. “Rules are for people who don’t know the real joy of messes, Mommy! Plus, you said if I got messy, I’d earn a spanking!”
The audacity! The nerve of him, mocking my own “consequences” like a fool. I loved him, of course, but I also needed to uphold the structure of our household. So there I was, in my apron, hands on my hips, trying to sound stern while my laughter threatened to bubble over. “To the timeout corner, young man,” I declared, though it came out more like a squeak. Timmy squealed, clapping his hands, as if he’d won a game show. “Yay! Spanking time!”
He waddled ahead, waddling his bottom at me. A literal waddle, thanks to the cookie dough stuck to his legs. I followed, my heart thumping with equal parts irritation and affection. The timeout corner had become our unique tradition. A chair and a view of the disaster he’d caused. Perfect.
I crouched behind him, with my hands on his shoulders as he wriggled like a bowl of Jell-O. “You know the routine, right?” I whispered, trying to sound maternal but failing spectacularly as I bit back a grin. He nodded, already lifting his overalls with that mix of anticipation and faux-resignation only an ABDL can master. “Yes, Mommy. Naughty boy gets punished.”
His bare bottom was cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the heat of my sweaty hand. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that this wasn’t about anger. It was about boundaries, about consequences, about the absurdity of life with a partner who’d once tried to bake a gingerbread house and ended up gluing his hand to the roof.
The first swat landed with a soft thwack, and Timmy yelped. “Ow! Mommy, too hard!” he whined, though his giggles betrayed him. I continued, my hand alternating between firm and playful. Each thwack was met with a mix of yelps, laughter, and the occasional “I love you, Mommy!” between breaths. “Naughty boys don’t get to eat the cookies,” I chided, though I knew full well we’d be sharing a plate of mangled sugar cookies by midnight.
He squirmed and his bottom cheeks wiggled like they had a mind of their own. I couldn’t help but press a kiss to his cheek. “Sorry, Mommy,” he mumbled, already plotting his next “art project.”
After five swats (and a promise to clean up with “no magic glitter this time”), I helped him up, smoothing his hair and wiping frosting from his nose.
Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
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