I am a 62-year-old woman and I grew up all over the world. My father belonged to the British army and over the years we lived in China, India, the US, Canada, and of course various parts of the UK.
I’m unsure of my father’s specific role, but my whole family generally lived ‘on base’, although in a few locations we were placed in a flat or house near to the base instead. I was aware of my corporal punishment fetish from a very early age, and being a ‘military brat’ exposed me to many different examples of CP.
Our Christmas of 1967 was spent at a military base in the US – I’m afraid I don’t remember which state. I had a few Christmases in the States over the years, and they tended to be explosively exciting compared to those elsewhere. Someone would generally dress up as Father Christmas and arrive via helicopter to meet the children. Christmas dinner always started as a very special, sober, private affair that eventually became basically drunk adults fooling around while the children drank pop and ran around!
We’d moved very shortly before this particular Christmas, and so presents and toys had fallen by the wayside. My younger brother was very cross about this, not truly understanding why. Our parents tried to be tolerant of his disappointment, but both eventually became very cross with him. Then the threat finally came from mother: “If you don’t hush, you’re getting a tanned arse!”
Unfortunately for my brother, he failed to heed this warning. He was picked up by Mummy, who put him across her lap. My brother had his pyjama trousers and underpants tugged down and his bare bottom was thoroughly warmed by his mother’s hand. Our parents didn’t smack often but when they did, they made a proper job of it.
There was no real scolding during the smacking – just the sound of Mummy’s palm against my brother’s naked bottom as he roared with the pain. Quite often, if one of us children got smacked, the others would all end up being also spanked that day. Enjoying a sibling’s smacking definitely always came with a frisson of fear that you’d be next.
Once my brother had been ‘done’, Mummy took his pyjama bottoms entirely off and sent him over to Daddy, with an accompanying resounding smack across the backs of his legs. Daddy gave my brother another few smacks before plopping him onto the uncarpeted floor and telling him to sit there and be quiet.
Schooling was largely done on base too, though there would often be trips to local civilian schools to meet the local children. In China, we once took a special trip out to a small village where we stayed for a couple of nights, spending a whole day at the local school. Even with my CP-obsessed mind, I didn’t expect the amount of smacks and canings I witnessed.
The school was a one-room affair, led by a teacher and assisted by a man literally called the ‘Discipline Master’ or DM. At the slightest provocation, the DM would grab a child by the ear, make them drop to a ‘push-ups’ position and thwack the cane across the back of their calves.
For the first hour or two, we military children were seemingly immune from this treatment, but finally when a boy from my base made a rude noise the DM gave him a dose too. The boy yelled so loudly he was given another stroke on each hand as punishment for being verbally disruptive!
It was rare for any of us to get in any ‘real’ trouble (e.g. shoplifting, stealing, running away) because our time was usually very regimented and our trips outside the base were highly supervised. That said, when my older sister was about 14, she slipped out of the base in Germany where we were living and got caught stealing make-up at a nearby shopping centre.
Our parents were beyond furious – Daddy was ranting and raving, Mummy was still and silent. My sister didn’t help her cause by rolling her eyes and after a particular rude remark from her, Mummy stood up, grabbed her by the arm and swept her out of the room, with not a word to any of us.
After a few moments, we heard indignant screeching and then the fast, furious whapping of hard hairbrush back hitting bare bottom. Mummy’s hairbrush was far more painful than Daddy’s belt and was truly dreaded by all of us.
Daddy turned to us other children and said very firmly: “She’ll be getting another dose of that before bedtime too, so mind your mother and don’t you dare ever steal!” That night as we prepared for bed, I caught a glimpse of my sister’s bottom and saw it was a strange browny-red colour, with a dusty white patch in the centre of each cheek.
In spite of my own fetish (or perhaps because of it), I was a very good girl and only received a handful of smackings throughout my childhood, all of which I found unpleasant.
When I was 18 I got my first proper boyfriend – a young recruit called Danny training at the same base where I was living with my family. I poked and prodded conversationally until I found out that his father had slippered him growing up, and that he’d had the cane on his hand several times at school.
Danny seemed to realise that my interest in the topic was more than just interest in his childhood, and the first time we made love, he put me across his knee and smacked me until I cried. For the few months we were together, he’d smack my bottom on a near-daily basis. Being fucked with a hot, sore bottom was delicious, but most of all I liked to be given a terrible scolding and punished with no sexual activity whatsoever.
We broke up when Danny was moved to a different country, but he promised me that if we ever stumbled across one another in life after that, he’d be happy to ‘discipline’ me again!
I never joined the army myself – I found my lack of roots as a child rather traumatic. I settled in Wales, found my husband and had three beautiful children of my own. I never smacked them due to the nature of my fetish, but I rather suspect my youngest is ‘one of us’ from things she said and did both as a child and in her teenage years.