As a child growing up in the 70s, I was spanked by my mother and my baby-sitters.
I grew up in a small beach town. One day, when I was 10, my mom caught me on the beach with fire crackers. She immediately led me by the arm back to our house – I knew I was going to get a bare bottom spanking, and I remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach.
As we came into the house mom led me into the bathroom. I was already crying as mom started to unsnap my jean shorts, then proceeded to pull down my white briefs. She then placed me completely over her knee.
The first spank landed on my small bottom and it stung bad – after 12 or 13 slaps I was begging her to stop and was crying hard. Finally, after about 25 slaps on my bare bottom, she pulled me up. I pulled up my underwear and shorts as my mom gave me a stern look.
Needless to say, I did not play with with any fireworks for a while.
In the spring of 1975, my brother and I were living with my Aunt Rita, as my parents were in Italy on extended business. I was 10 and my brother was seven. My Aunt Rita was a no-nonsense type of person and believed in spanking naughty boys when needed.
When spankings were given, my aunt would take a boy at a time into her sitting room. Once there, the boy’s pants and underwear were taken down as he cried for mercy.
My aunt would then put the boy over her lap and start spanking right away – the child would be bawling and bawling as my aunt reddened his bare bottom with her hand.
I still remember the dread I felt as my aunt took me into her sitting room, and the embarrassment as she started to undo my belt.
Needless to say, I behaved most of the time.