I grew up in a fundamentalist Christian sect, and from a very early age I knew I was interested in spanking. It wasn’t until after I left that I understood it was a fetish – until then I had felt like a broken person with perverse interests, and that God would never let me into heaven. I kept my interests completely to myself.
The space I grew up in enabled my fetish completely. Spanking wasn’t just commonplace, it was expected. One tape played in church and our home alike testified that children needed the rod to guide them, and that an unbeaten child was an unhappy child.
There were also more adults there to spank us than in most circles. My household had my father, my mother, my father’s other wives (who we referred to as Mother Beth and Mother Anne), and between 10 and 30 children at various points of my childhood. The oldest children, my father and all my mothers would all spank. The principal at school – a school especially run for members of our group – would also spank.
All the adults had different styles of spanking the children. The principal was a terrifying man and usually used a yardstick, whipping it down on our palms, head, bottom, thighs and calves in a frenzy. It was common to see children with bold red welts on them from his yardstick.
My father, on the other hand, favoured the belt, ordering us to bare our bottoms before bending over the desk in his study for our age in lashes. He didn’t spank all that hard, and though being sent to father was seen as the ultimate shame, it wasn’t as bad as spankings from our mothers.
Mother Beth applied fast, hard hand spankings. The whole process of baring us, putting us over her lap, and hitting our bottoms around 10-20 times only took 30 seconds. You’d sting for a few minutes and be done. A day never went by without Mother Beth applying her palm to some child’s bottom.
Mother Anne handled most of the cooking in our household, and it is unsurprising thus that she favoured a wooden spoon as her spanking implement. She didn’t spank that often, and usually it was only the older girls who helped her in the kitchen who found themselves holding out a palm for a whack, or bending over for several on the backs of their thighs through their dress. I only got a handful of spankings from Mother Anne, and most of the boys avoided them entirely.
My biological mother, whom I will refer to as Mother Prudence, was a hand spanker too. She preferred a longer, more drawn out approach. We’d be summoned to her, usually in one of the bathrooms, over an intercom system which built into the house. This would regularly with announcements such as: “Corby is to see Mother Prudence in the first floor bathroom,” or “Harriet is to attend to Mother Prudence in the basement bathroom.”
Each bathroom had at least one chair in it, to enable the mothers to bathe the babies more easily, and Mother would sit on this chair waiting for you to come and be spanked. She’d draw you in and hold you in front of her, recounting your sins, before baring your bottom and putting you over her lap.
A long spanking would ensue, punctuated with scolding. Mother waited for what was known as ‘broken compliance’ – the child would be spanked to the point where he or she was crying with no defiance. Mother expected ample apologies and prayer after she had warmed your behind. She sometimes used a belt or a switch on the older children, but mostly it was her hand.
Even as a small child, although I hated getting spanked, I was obsessed with corporal punishment and loved seeing other children ‘get done’. I remember seeing my friend Grace spanked bare bottom when we were both around five years old, and experiencing a desire to swap places with her. I was very confused by this hatred of spankings when they happened, but the desire for them in my heart.
When I escaped and first encountered the internet, naturally one of the first things I did was to search for spanking. I was thrilled by how many others there were like me out there. Nowadays I play with several people, all of whom find my childhood stories very stimulating. I have to say, reliving childhood spankings has been better for my PTSD than therapy has been!