Sharing the suffering

Looking back on my childhood in the Netherlands, few events have made such an impression on me as the first time I was spanked. I known others have been similarly affected by the experience, but in my case the impact is perhaps easier to explain.

Even as a young boy, I was always curious about things that were ‘not allowed’. For some reason, these things had an irresistible attraction for me. I’m not talking about really serious matters such as theft or vandalism, but small, sneaky things. In addition, I had the idea in my head that such punishments were actually not too bad. Seen in this way, it’s therefore not surprising that one day, I would be confronted with the harsh reality of a well-smacked bottom!

In my case, it happened at the age of nine. One fine summer evening, I had accompanied a group of older boys (most of them around 12) who had discovered a new playground: a former rubbish dump, now overgrown with grass.

The artificial mounds made a nice place to hide behind – and therefore also to do things that could not bear the daylight, such as smoking a cigarette together or drinking a beer (often brought from a parental home). I wasn’t really ready for such experiences yet, but it was very exciting to be there. I remember one of the boys joked that we had better not get caught, because then some parental arms would be getting a bit of exercise!

Unfortunately, I found the experience so engrossing that I completely lost track of time. By the time I realised I was already 20 minutes late on my curfew. I considered this a minor annoyance, and wasn’t really worried.

My parents, on the other hand, had obviously been concerned. The first thing that struck me upon entering the house was the relief on their faces. However, this emotion quickly turned when it turned out that my late arrival had been very easy to avoid – I had a watch with me.

Never before had I had two seen such penetrating glances directed at me. Without thinking, I said: “It isn’t that bad to come home half an hour late, is it?”

This careless remark sealed my fate – now there was a reason for real punishment. My father replied that if I paid so little attention to things I had agreed with, then I just had to ‘feel it’. Those words shocked me to the core – surely, he couldn’t mean ‘that’, could he?

I was not left guessing for long. My father effortlessly put me across his knee. It felt unreal but I was in no doubt that I was about to be spanked.

After a short consultation between my parents, it was decided that bare bottom spanking was appropriate. It felt like a bad dream, but it was all too real. While my mother looked on, my father took down my shorts and underpants. There I was, in the living room over my father’s knee, with my bare buttocks up, anxiously awaiting…

I wanted to beg for another punishment but then the first blows fell. They resounded around the room, and they hurt much more than expected. Feelings of guilt and powerlessness alternated, and soon tears were shed. I wanted desperately to take it like a big boy, but that resolution quickly crumbled and I was soon crying like a naughty toddler. Needless to say, my tears failed to make the spanking stop.

Maybe it all seemed to take longer than it actually did. But the pain itself was unmistakable. For a long time after I was finally allowed to my feet, sobbing my heart out, I could still feel my buttocks burning intensely. I now finally had an idea of the ordeal many of my peers had gone through, and why they absolutely didn’t want to joke about spankings.

Bottom red as a tomato, I didn’t really care that I was then sent to my room and had to stay there for the rest of the evening. The next morning the pain in my behind was mostly gone – but the shame of how I had been punished lasted much longer.

Contributor: Michael

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