I don’t know how my parents put up with me when I was a child – I was a real little brat. In fact, sometimes they didn’t put up with me.
My brother’s Bobby’s eighth birthday party was one of those times. I was six and jealous as could be. To express this I reached new heights of obnoxiousness, whining and playing for attention and generally getting on everyone’s nerves.
My brother and his friends kept complaining but my mother wasn’t having any luck in making me behave. When the cake came out, my brother blew out the candles and everyone cheered.
Then someone said: “It’s time for a birthday spanking!” With lots of laughter all around, Bobby ended up bent over the table. Everyone counted out the eight ceremonial whacks – not too hard, of course – plus one for good luck.
Unable to contain myself, I grabbed the spatula my mother had brought out to serve the cake and started to smack Bobby’s butt with it, crying out ‘he’s 10, he’s 10!’, just as an excuse to keep hitting him.
But that spatula hurt. My brother jumped up yelling and pushed me away. I threw the spatula at him. That was when my mother intervened. “How old would you like to be, James?” she asked sweetly. “I’m 10! I’m 10!” I cried, totally hysterical by now. “Very well, then,” she said.
She pulled out a chair and sat down. Before I knew it, she had yanked my pants down and tossed me face down across her lap. I wriggled but she held me securely and pulled my underpants down, too. “Birthday spanking for James!” she announced.
Once again, everyone called out the whacks. One, two, all the way up to 10 – then one for good luck. But this time, of course, I wasn’t laughing, although everyone else was. The ‘birthday’ spanks she gave me rang out loud and hard. By the end, my bottom was as red as the red party balloons strung around the room and I was bawling even louder than I’d whined earlier.
When she had finished spanking me, I pulled up my pants and ran off to my room. That was easily the worst birthday spanking I ever experienced!