I’m an Italian-American boy who basically got spanked for every misdeed until about I was about 11 years old. At the time of this story, I’d be about eight.
We were celebrating my dad’s birthday at my aunt’s house. She still lived in the house in which she and Dad had grown up, now occupied by my aunt and her husband, their three children and my paternal grandmother. The bedroom which had been my dad’s – and in which he had been spanked many times as a child – was now occupied by my cousin Johnny, who was just over a year older than me.
As a child, I would stay over at this house for days at a time and sleep in Johnny’s bed with him. Johnny was like a brother He was 13 months older than I was, and like a brother to me. In fact, he had even whipped my bare bottom once as part of a prank.
On the day of dad’s birthday party, I had been acting like my usual bratty self for most of the day. Finally, Dad had had enough and told me to get upstairs for a spanking. Of course, sentence was pronounced in front of everyone, so they all knew what was going to happen to me.
I dashed up to the bedroom and hid in the closet – not a smart move! A few minutes later, Dad stormed into the room and looked around for me. Pretty soon he opened the door of the closet and I retreated further back into the cubby hole – absolutely to no avail.
Dad followed me right in and in a single swoop grabbed me under my arms, picked me up and carried me over to the bed. I’m not exactly sure what happened next – all I remember is Dad sitting down on the bed with me over his lap, his left arm holding me down in a bear-hug. My shorts were way down my legs, but my briefs were only down below my crack, exposing my butt. The bedroom door was open and I could see out into the hallway – meaning that folks in the hallway could see everything that was going to happen.
I clenched my legs together and tensed my buttocks to try to minimise the pain, but Dad smacked me so hard I could feel my cheeks flatten out with every single smack. Dad was a keen amateur boxer so he had an incredible amount of force at his disposal – thankfully, he never struck me anywhere else other than my backside in my whole life. Mom could never spank me as hard as Dad did.
Each spank felt like a lightning bolt radiating from the centre of my bottom and down my legs. The tighter Dad held on to me, the harder he seemed to spank. His ‘spanking clock’ didn’t start until I went limp and surrendered – everything before that was just regarded as the warm-up stage!
Every time one of Dad’s smacks landed on my young backside, it was like a bomb going off. I jerked forward again and again, my butt boiling hot and throbbing with the pain. I started wailing a bit but Dad warned me: “If you start crying, we’ll begin the spanking all over again, my boy!”
Finally he stopped and let me up, but because my bottom hurt so much I couldn’t stand and fell back on the floor – right on my butt cheeks, which was even more horrific. I managed to jump back up, tears streaming down over my face cheeks because my lower ones were smoking hot. Dad briefly examined my thoroughly blistered bottom, then roughly pulled my briefs and shorts back up.
I found out later that my cousins had got a good look at what went on. The bedroom was on the way to the bathroom, so of course everyone suddenly ‘had to go’ and get a bird’s eye view of my bare bottom being thoroughly tanned. To this day, everyone who was at that part still remembers the incident.
It was summer, and later on we went all swam in the pool. That was good in one way – the pool water cooled my burning bottom down quite a bit – but bad in another, as the evidence of my recent punishment was all the way down my bum, well below the bottom line of my Speedos.
Many years later, Dad told me that in one way, that was the best birthday he’d ever had. I did wonder whether this was because he had been able to at last administer a spanking in the room where he had received so many himself, to a little boy who looked a lot like he had has a child. In retrospect, I got off pretty easy compared with my dad, who invariably got it with his own father’s belt.