Hats are not playthings

I’m thrilled to have found this site – there are fantastic stories, and after a few months of reading I finally found the time to write you with my own memories.

I was born in the late 1950s, the second of six children. I have four sisters and a brother and we grew up most of the time in the United States, which we then left to come to Europe.

Corporal punishment, both at home and at school, was widespread at the time, and both my siblings and I experienced first-hand what it was like to go to sleep with a hot, sore bottom.

I come from a wealthy family. My father was a fantastic man but he was over 6ft tall and had the physique of a boxer – a single slap from him was enough to make our behinds red for hours.

My mother, on the other hand, hated raising her hand to her children. That didn’t mean we didn’t get our bottoms smacked when she thought it was required – she simply delegated the task to our nannies or one of the housekeepers. Later on, on a rare occasion when she did spank us, we found out that this decision had been for the best, because she smacked harder than Dad and the nannies put together! However, the protagonist of today’s story is my mother’s younger sister, my Aunt Caroline.

Mum and her sister were both born in Italy and their family moved to New York when they girls were young children. The family made a fortune in their new life in the US and their children followed in their footsteps of success. My own mother was a lawyer and stock market trader, while Aunt Caroline worked in Paris as a model and designer for a famous fashion house.

She came over to the US to visit us several times a year. We all loved her because she was a very kind and sunny person, always fashionable and with a smile. Above all, she was a beautiful woman – tall, long legs, long blonde hair and blue eyes. It’s true to say that Aunt Caroline was my first crush.

When I was six, my mother had to have surgery. Fortunately, Aunt Caroline was over visiting, and she offered to look after me and my sister Eleonore. I was overjoyed to be with my aunt instead of the nanny.

The first few days were fantastic – my aunt and her boyfriend, who was also visiting, were fantastic. They took us to the park and played with us continually.

Then, one afternoon while we were at home, Aunt Caroline received an urgent phone call from her work in Paris. She had to send some important documents and so retreated to the study, leaving Eleanore and I to play alone in the living room.

My sister started reading a book while I, both bored and curious, decided to explore the house. I wandered through the rooms, coming to the guest room where there was a collection of Aunt Caroline’s hats, all carefully arranged on velvet stands. One in particular caught my attention – a black hat with a large white feather and a silk ribbon.

Without thinking too much, I took the hat and started playing with it like a Frisbee. I didn’t realise that Eleanore had entered the room and, seeing me, she burst out laughing. I whirled around and the hat – thrown a little too hard this time – hit the mirror. I heard a small crack and my heart stopped. The feather had broken. In a panic, I tried to put repair the damage but to no avail. Eleanore looked at me meaningfully: “You’d better tell Aunt Caroline right away.” It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but I knew my sister was right.

My heart in my mouth, I approached the study and knocked timidly on the door. Aunt Caroline let me in and, seeing my guilty expression, she sensed immediately that something was wrong. I made my confession and showed her the hat, which I had reluctantly brought with me. When she saw the damage, my aunt’s expression changed and for the first time I saw her really angry.

“These hats are extremely precious! Some are unique!” she said in a firm voice. I felt even smaller and guilty. “We need to fix this right away and you, young man, have really let me down.”

Aunt Caroline put away the documents on the desk, then closed the study door. She took me by her arm and in one fluid motion, she bent me over her extended arm, making me lie on my stomach. I felt the tension in my muscles as my belly touched her forearm and my legs dangled in the air. I understood what was happening. The only consolation was that she didn’t take my pants off.

I felt the first slap on my behind, followed by others, one after the other. They weren’t too painful, but every now and then one of the rings on my aunt’s fingers would catch me square in the buttocks, making me whimper.

She kept repeating: “You don’t damage other people’s things in such a stupid way. What would your mother have done in my place? Answer!” I wanted to tell her that my mom didn’t care about a hat, but that immense barrage of spanks silenced me. When it was over, my bottom felt like it was on fire, but Aunt Caroline quickly stood me up and ruffled my hair. “Stop crying, now – you’re forgiven. I can make another hat, but don’t you dare touch my things again, understand?” I nodded immediately, sniffing at her and promising to obey.

She smiled and sat me on the desk next to her, giggling: “Here, stay here. Good! A warm bottom warms you up well, it will remind you to be careful next time.” The contact of the hard wood against my newly-spanked behind was a painful reminder, but being so close to that beautiful woman who had just chastised me was something of a reward.

I would discover, many years later, that the effect my aunt had on me was the same for many men.

Contributor: Ferdinando 

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