When I was in my early teens, one day I found myself in my parents’ bedroom, idly rooting around in their dressing table, not looking for anything in particular.
What I found was a well-thumbed paperback book entitled Those Who Love. It was basically a ‘how to’ manual for those adults who needed extra assistance in the art of making love.
The book was incredibly graphic in its written description of male-female coupling, to say the least. One section was entitled ‘Pain and Pleasure’ and in part, it discussed a young boy’s fascination with spanking. It began when he was passing by a classroom and saw a female classmate with her dress up and her panties down around her knees, bent over a classroom desk as a teacher spanked her bare bottom with a paddle.
Inevitably. the young boy was thoroughly aroused by this scene. He then began to walk through his neighbourhood after dinner, knowing that this was a good time to witness the sounds of a good spanking being administered to an unfortunate child.
The boy wrote that on more than one occasion he could hear a female friend being spanked, and that he sometimes was able to sneak up to the open window where he could actually see the spanking being given.
The boy eventually related that he was caught doing something that would result in him being punished bare bottom style. He was ordered to lower his pants and underwear and lie across the armrest of a big couch in the living room.
His mother then began to lay into his bottom with a strap. The boy wrote that he began to feel pleasure from the pain he was receiving, and that when he got up after the spanking was done he found that he had ejaculated on the sofa.
I read these stories about spankings with huge interest, and eventually tried to recreate the scene above myself. I bent over the arm rest of our own sofa and took a hairbrush to my own bare bottom in the hope that I too would ejaculate. I never actually came, but I certainly did enjoy the feel of that hairbrush.
Disappointingly, my parents never spanked me but only discussed – at length – my latest infraction of household rules.
I guess I was in my middle 50s when it occurred to me that my parents should have talked about my behaviour once, maybe twice, but on the third occurrence of misbehaviour they should have taken physical action.
After my lecture, I should have had my pants and underwear lowered to my ankles, my body hoisted across a parental lap and my body subjected to a ‘red bottom discussion’ to make sure I minded in future. I’m convinced that I would have learned personal responsibility at a much younger age if they had introduced my bum to the flat side of a hairbrush in short order.