Probably the worst strapping I ever received was when I was 13 and staying with my aunt, while I was visiting the neighbourhood I use to live in. Our family and my aunts lived in the same building in the city from the time I was born until about 10 or 11, and were very close.
My father and uncle worked long hours and so the raising of my siblings and myself and my cousins was largely done by my mother and aunt. We were often left in the charge of my aunt, and my cousins likewise with my mother. Discipline was administered by whoever was in charge, and it often meant spankings on the bare backside.
I was the oldest in my family but my cousin Mary was seven years older than me. Because of this, she was left in charge of us from time to time, and she did hand out the occasional spanking.
Getting spankings in front of each other was nothing unusual – and taken for granted – for both boys and girls. It was either done with the spanker’s hand, over the knee, or as we got closer to 10 or 11 it was given face down on the bed with the strap.
If you were being put over the knee, you would be pulled to the side of a chair, have your pants and underwater taken down and then be lowered over the knee for the spanking. Your begging, and the spanking which inevitably followed, would be heard throughout the apartment – and most likely be seen by someone, because doors were usually ajar.
As you got older, we would be told to get ready for the strap, which meant going to your room, getting undressed, lying face down on the bed and waiting for your mother, aunt or older cousin to come in with the strap. Having the other kids pass by your door as you were getting undressed was embarrassing, but was soon a matter of indifference once the actual strapping started.
The spankings and strappings from my cousin were the worst, because being younger, I guess she had to show that she wasn’t going to be lenient. “Mary, please, I’m sorry. I’ll be good – please give me another chance” and other such appeals were commonly heard.
Mary would always start by telling us not to expect anything less than what our parents would give us, which would be followed by the strap going up in the air and then coming with enough of a snap to sting and burn, resulting into the usual promises to be good.
As I said, our family moved out to the country when I reached 10 or 11, so we lost contact for the most part except for occasional visits. I tried to keep contact with my friends from the city but it was hard.
When I was 13, I was told I could visit one of my friends and to get in touch with Aunt Helen to see if I could stay with her for a couple of weeks. My aunt said it would be no problem so I made my plans, and when summer vacation started my dad drove me into the city.
I had gotten bigger since I was 11 and more mature physically, so the way I interacted with my aunt had changed a little without my really being aware of it. I guess I was more confident of myself, and maybe a little cocky, so when she told me to be back in time for dinner I said ‘sure’ in a way that was a little different than before. She give me a kind of puzzled look but I didn’t pay that much attention.
I talked to my aunt in the way I would speak to a neighbour instead of someone who was like a second mother to me – I certainly would never have dared to use that tone when I was younger, and in her charge.
About a week went by when I was out with my friend in one of the stores just looking around. We were in the water pistol days and saw some really nice ones, but didn’t have the money to buy one. We both made the decision to put one under our shirt and not pay for it, which of course led to us getting caught. We thought we were slick, but obviously only too obvious.
The manager made phone calls to both our houses, and soon my friend’s mom and Aunt Helen were at the store. The former wasted no time in letting him know what he was in for when they got home, and apologised to the manager.
My aunt told the manager she would take care of the problem, but in such a calm way that I imagined she would simply call my mom when we got home.
We left the store and walked back together. Tears welled up in my friend’s eyes as his mother went into great detail about how he was going to get the strap used on his bare backside, up one side and down the other, and how he wouldn’t be sitting for a week.
My aunt, by contrast, was quiet until we left them at their house and began the short walk home. Then she turned to me and, without even raising her voice, she dropped the bomb. “I hope you realise that when we get home, I intend to treat you like a son.”
I didn’t answer, so then she asked: “What would I do to a son?” I remained silent “I’m waiting,” Aunt Helen said. There was no other answer. “You would give him a good licking with your strap across his bare backside.”
I must have frozen in my tracks because my aunt took me by the arm and gave me a good shove forward. My head was spinning because I knew exactly what she would have done to her son if she caught him shoplifting. I felt my eyes watering up a little and the whole idea of me being mature was melting away, as I started to ask for another chance and promising not to do it again.
It got worse as we got in the house, where she pushed me ahead of her up the stairs. I started to blubber, resorting to acting like a 10-year-old. I completely came apart and said: “Please, Mommy! I promise not to do it again! I don’t want to feel the strap!” It had been years since I called Aunt Helen ‘mommy’.
When we got to our apartment, she said those dreaded words: “Get yourself ready for the strap”. Mary and her brother both overheard my sentence. I realised it was going to be more embarrassing than when we were younger, even though it would be in a separate room with the door closed a little at least, but by now I was a ‘big boy’ and had a modest growth of pubic hair.
I went into the room I was staying in and got undressed, while my cousins walked past and took a gleeful little peek. After getting bare, I lay face down on the bed and waited while my stomach did flips.
“Are you bare?” Aunt Helen shouted from the kitchen. As I answered in the affirmative, the tears really started. My aunt came through the door with the strap dangling from her hand, and I began to bawl. “Please, Mommy! I’ll be good, I won’t do it again! Please, another chance – please!”
Aunt Helen, of course, disregarded all this. She stood next to the bed and gave me a lecture. “Your bare backside and the back of your legs are going to get a licking you won’t forget for a long time, and you will call me Mommy when you stay here.” “Yes, Mommy.”
No sooner had those words left my lips when the strap went up in the air and the licking started. Those first few licks were indescribable, with stings and burns that made me remember that my aunt was really a second mother to me, and had no intention of going easy on me.
The blubbering turned into outright bawling. I clenched my buttocks together as tight as I could under the onslaught, kicking my legs frantically, twisting from side to side, and trying to get my hand in the way of the strap, all the while repeating the humiliating phrase: “Mommy, please!”
There was nowhere for me to go. If I put my hand in the way of my backside, my aunt strapped my legs. If I grabbed my legs, my backside would get it. I had learned from the lickings my younger days that turning over was not an option and would result in extra strokes. So the punishment went on, until my backside and back of my legs felt like I had sat down on a bees nest.
When Aunt Helen had finally finished with me, she stood me on my feet, bawling and blubbering, and put me in the corner to think about what I’d done.
When she left the room, my cousins looked in through the open door to get a peek of me rubbing like crazy and doing a dance, which made me even more aware of my pubic hair. I was a different 13-year-old for the next week, though, and Aunt Helen was ‘Mommy’ again.