I didn’t see much of my father during my childhood before the age of 11, when I finally went to live with him. During that time, I got a couple of spankings, which were actually the only corporal punishment I received as a boy.
Not long after I moved in with my father, I returned home on a Sunday afternoon after spending the weekend with my grandmother, who I had been missing. While I was unpacking, my father began grilling me about my weekend, asking me probing questions.
When he asked me if I’d remembered to brush my teeth, I froze. Staring him in the eyes, I realised that I had entirely forgotten to brush my teeth over the weekend. My grandmother was not a stickler for it and it was not rigidly enforced. My father had different standards – he was determined to have me do it three times a day, and he was not going to overlook my forgetfulness.
He handed down the sentence of a spanking, and I was in disbelief. I had only just begun to truly get to know my father, and already I had somehow earned his wrath.
He left my bedroom for a moment and returned with a belt in his hand. The belt was a surprise to me – I had expected to be spanked by hand. Up until this point, my relationship with my father had been more like that of an adult friend. Now I was seeing him in a totally different light. Here he was as my parent, and about to give me a spanking.
He instructed me to pull my pants down and lean over the bed, bucking my expectation of going over his lap. As previously stated, I had never been spanked before, but I knew what spanking usually entailed based on what I’d heard and seen, so anxiously I began to pull my pants and underwear down to my ankles. This was really it – I was going to get a whipping on my bare bottom. My father was a strong and muscular man, and I knew it would hurt badly.
He stopped me short, though, as my fingers went to the waistband of my underwear. “Only your jeans.” he said. I obeyed, although I wouldn’t say it was much of a relief, as my boxers wouldn’t provide much real protection from the belt.
I knelt on my knees across the bed in a prayer-like position and he corrected me again. I then lay across the bed with my feet dangling just above the floor, my bottom positioned correctly at the bend, near the middle of the bed.
With me finally properly in position, it was time, and he wasted none of it. I don’t remember how many whacks he gave me but there were several. Ten maybe. The first slice of the belt brought the intended pain with it, and I jolted. My bottom burned fiercely, as my father whipped me, one stroke after the other.
I was normally a very composed child, but I was soon squirming and crying. Looking back on it, I can honestly say that up to that point I had never experienced such a unique pain as that which I received from my father’s belt.
Then, as quickly as it had began, it was over. “How many times do you brush your teeth a day?” he asked sternly. “Three! Three!” I yelped. “Good.”
He hugged me before he left the room, leaving me to finish crying. Needless to say, his spanking did the trick, and I remembered to brush my teeth after that. Later, my mother and grandmother were both quite displeased to hear that I’d been spanked with the belt, but nothing ever came of it. My first spanking came and went, just like that.
The only other time I was spanked was a couple years later, after my father married for the first time. His wife had four boys of her own, one of whom was the same age as me. This kid was not well behaved at all. He was a frequent troublemaker, totally extroverted, and had criminal tendencies to boot. I tried my best to bond with him, and we admittedly had some good memories, but most of the time I was just annoyed by his shenanigans.
Unsurprisingly, I ended up fighting with my stepbrother, being fed up with him and his nonsense. One day, after we’d been fighting and brawling, my stepmother demanded that my father spank both of us, as punishment, which I thought was unfair since my stepbrother started it. But my dad would not relent – we were getting the belt. Incidentally, I never actually saw my stepmother spank one of her kids, though she claimed she did; but she threatened and at least once she said she pulled down her toddler’s diaper and spanked him in an effort to correct his ceaseless brattiness, but I did not see it.
If memory serves, I was up first, and my brother waited in the other room next to mine. Again, I knelt over the bed, with my pants down but not my underwear. The spanking was much harsher than my first. The strokes came hard and in quick succession, and I lost count as they landed, and again lost all composure.
Eventually, I begged my father to stop. “Please – no more! No more!” I cried between sobs. I couldn’t take it – the strength of his belt against my bottom was more than I could bear. I imagine he gave me more strokes this time since I was a bit older.
To be totally honest, I haven’t experienced many other things in life that were quite as intense as these two childhood spankings. Nothing else pushed me that far, though they were relatively easy compared to what some kids get. I was a slightly overweight child, and the pain against my squishy backside was profound. In all reality, I know I didn’t get that intense of a spanking – but it didn’t feel that way at the time.
My dad stopped whipping me, and after a hug he instructed me to return to my room and send in my brother. He received the same treatment and was spanked well. He too pleaded for no more.
In hindsight, can I say that these spankings were fair? I’m still not sure. I don’t disagree with spanking as a form of discipline, but I never did agree with his reasons for spanking me. The teeth brushing incident was an honest mistake on my part and I felt that could have been handed differently.
I was also shocked that my father was so quick to lump me in with my misbehaving stepbrother. My behaviour was never as bad as his and I felt totally justified in fighting him when he pushed me too far.
I was never spanked again by my dad, though there were times over the years when I feared he might. In truth, my father scared me – he had serious anger problems, but he never took it out on my bottom. My stepbrother, on the other hand, was not quite as lucky. On one other occasion, my stepbrother once again incurred the wrath of our parents (for something I don’t remember) and my stepmom demanded a spanking.
I remember vividly sitting at the bottom of the staircase to listen to the punishment, as I watched the shadows dance on the floor from behind the closed door above. I was too nervous to get closer. That day was different, and I think my stepbrother got one of his worst spankings ever. Clearly still, I can hear in my head his cries as my dad whipped his butt furiously. My stepbrother bawled and wailed, quite loudly actually; the door did nothing to muffle it. He may have been spanked bare bottom, I don’t know. All I know is that his misbehaviour had gone too far this time, and my dad was about to whip him into shape. The sound of the belt striking his bottom was all you could hear in our house.
He started backtalking during the spanking, a spanking that already was longer than before, saying “I hate you!” to my dad in a shrill and crying voice. This was a huge mistake. Provoked by this, Dad spanked him faster and even harder. I will never forget the sounds of him being spanked, because the thought crossed my mind in that moment that he sounded exactly like a little girl as he squealed like a banshee between cries and the sound of the belt.
Eventually, his back-talking turned into begs and pleas of ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ and ‘no more – please!’ as his voice cracked and broke. I don’t even remember that spanking coming to an end, although of course it did – I only recall the sounds of the belt against his butt and my stepbrother begging for it to stop.