I am the eldest of five children, and the only female among them. We were brought up in New Zealand, although I now live in London – and my parents never laid a finger on me during me childhood, no matter how naughty I’d been.
That’s not to say I wasn’t punished, of course – far from it. But these punishments were more of the boring, long-winded kind which in truth are probably more effective for children, such as being kept in, being given extra chores or having an early bedtime.
My parents, though, had a totally different approach when it came to my brothers – and in most cases, it involved a good old-fashioned smacked bottom. I was never totally clear about this distinction and, in fact, one day in my late teens I asked my mum outright why the boys got smacked and I didn’t. “Smacked bottoms are for boys,” was all she said. “Girls learn better through other punishments.” I didn’t dare pursue the matter further at the time, in case she changed her mind!
That said, I was absolutely fascinated with the act of corporal punishment. I only ever witnessed one spanking. Dad, who normally took the boys upstairs to be punished, was away for a few days and Danny, the next child down from me, had been a brat all day. Mum finally lost her patience, took his trousers and underpants down in front of us all and turned him over her knee.
I watched transfixed as my brother’s bare bum bounced under the ministrations of our mother’s hand. Danny cried like a baby and was absolutely oblivious to the fact that we had all seen his bare bottom and willy – I’m sure he could only think of the pain right then.
When he had been sent up to bed with a smarting bum, I remember sitting on the sofa and squeezing my bare thighs together underneath my dress while I replayed what I had just seen in my head. It felt mysteriously good.
Most of the time, though, it was Dad who was chief spanker, and his favoured method was the slipper. He would send the child concerned to their bedroom, with the order to ‘wait for me to come up’. He kept a special slipper for smacking bottoms with, and I would occasionally see him come menacingly up the stairs carrying the implement of correction in his right hand.
I never saw Dad smack the boys, as the door was closed firmly behind him when he went in to see the child in question – but I heard plenty. After a brief pause, which I assumed was the lecture and Dad baring his boy’s bottom, there would come a wailing from behind the door, accompanied by the steady rhythm of the slipper being applied to bare flesh. I knew from interrogating my brothers that they all always ‘got it’ pants down.
It was at those times that the feeling I experienced ‘down below’ would come on again, and I would try to picture the scene behind the closed door as I squeezed my thighs together again, or sometimes daringly directly touched myself.
With my younger brothers, who were less inhibited about modesty, I did occasionally get to see the results of Dad’s slippering as they scurried off for bath time or got ready for bed with a rosy red behind.
You’ll probably not be surprised (especially as I’m writing to a site like this!) that I grew up with a sexual fascination with spanking, and when I started dating, I deliberately tried to provoke my boyfriends in the hope they would turn me over their knee and show me what a good smacked bottom was like.
However, the guys I saw were obviously too nice, and it was many years later, when I was by now living in the UK, that I actually got the courage up to ask my boyfriend of the time to take down my knickers and smack me like a naughty girl. The pain when he obliged was something of a shock, but the buzzing in my bottom and wetness between my legs afterwards made me more than ready for the sex which followed.