From:flyaif@ibm.net(EtonBoy) Newsgroups: alt._s_e_x_.spanking Subject: Childhood Spanking Story 3 M/m Date: 9 Feb 1996 10:58:05 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: slip139-92-21-98.lo.uk.ibm.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: Text/Plain; charset=US-ASCII X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.99.7
This story pre-dates any others you may have read from me. Although I look back more than twenty years, I remember these events, particularly the climax, more clearly than any others I have written about before. For those who have not read my previous stories I'll just, briefly, re-cap the bio where it is relevant to these events which took place in 1966 when I was seven.
I come from a family of four kids. My eldest sister, Sally, never really figured much in my childhood. She was a distant figure, more like a second mother and, in 1966 when she was 19 and already at college, we had already grown too far apart for her to have any significant impact on my young life.
Of my other two brothers only Christopher figured in my day-to-day existence. Chris is five years older than me and Ethan is five years older than him. By 1966, Ethan was about to go to college as well and he was away on a trip with some of his friends. Ethan did figure in my childhood (see other stories) but, for now, this just left Chris and I at home.
Although Chris was already away at school, he was home for the holidays and these were very happy times for me. I would join him, away at school, at the end of the summer and I looked forward to this with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
As my regular readers will already know, Chris and I were (and still are) very close. He was much more than an older brother - he was a friend. That is not to say that we lived in each other's pockets - quite the contrary. Even when he was at home in the school holidays we hardly ever did things together - five years at ages 7 and 12 is a big difference. Nevertheless, we shared a room together, as we always had, and, even during term time when he was away, it felt as if it were his room rather than mine, and I missed him. His posters occupied the walls and all but a few drawers were filled with his comics and toys. (Later that summer I was to move out of that room into another, but that is another story for another time.)
I don't think my mother ever had a separate existence from my father's. She was a typical forces wife who, I suspect, did everything that was expected of her as the partner of a rising officer. My father was very definitely "head of the house" but I still had to learn this.
By this time my father was a CO and we had moved back from Germany to a station in Oxfordshire. Mum, Dad, Chris and myself - Ethan too when he came home, which wasn't often - lived in station quarters. The CO's house on this station was quite large - in fact the largest house I'd lived in so far. Unlike the last two places we'd been, this house was actually on the station itself rather than just being attached.
Although I liked Germany and missed many of friends there, this was the second time we'd moved since I was about five and, whilst I was better at it now, it always left me unsettled. This would manifest itself as "irritating behaviour " as my mother would say. Nothing major or destructive just general truculence and "limit pushing".
My father was always in charge of punishing us and although I suspected my mother of being complicit in the arrangements I could never prove it one way or the other. She only ever expressed a fleeting reference to any punishment that was to come or had already been received and talked about it in only the vaguest terms because that was my father's territory and she acted as if it were something "nice mummies never discussed".
On this morning, Chris had gone off into the woods near the station with some other kids nearer his own age, being twelve he was allowed liberties that I wasn't, and I had been left alone back at the house. I had been playing in the garden and had discovered that by climbing on to a small rockery at the back and then on to the wall that separated the garden from the road that ran round the inside of the station, I could walk almost completely round the garden off the ground. I could jump the gap in the wall where the back-gate was quite easily and anyway the ground was such that at this point the wall was only a few feet high. However, as I came round the front of the house where the ground dropped away, I couldn't see how to get over the much wider (and now higher) front gate. It was as I was trying to summon the courage to go for a jump that my mother opened the kitchen window and told me to "stay where I was and not to move". She came running out the front door and lifted me off the wall.
"You might have been hurt." She puffed.
I looked at her.
"I don't want you climbing on that wall again. You gave me a real fright." She continued when she'd got her breath back.
I looked at her.
"And don't give me that look. Your father will hear about this."
And so it was for this minor misdemeanour in the morning that, when my father returned from the station at lunch- time, my mother told him I needed to be punished. My father must have considered it minor because, on hearing of it, he had simply turned round, grabbed me by the back of shorts and smacked me on the backs of both legs just above the line of the trouser legs and let me go. Although this stung, I was more surprised than anything and just looked at him open mouthed.
"That look!", my mother said suddenly, to my father.
"You will not climb on the garden wall again. Do you understand?" He said to me, apparently not hearing my mother at all.
"Yes", I said simply.
"You are confined to the house and the garden for the rest of the day", he added as he marched past me into the living room with the morning paper.
I went outside. The backs of my legs stung a bit but much more injured was my pride. I went round the back of the house and looked at the rockery and the wall. I hadn't intended to go out of garden anyway so I couldn't see that it was a good choice of punishment to be told not to. "So that makes the score one to me" was the kind of thought I was delighting myself with.
I moved nearer the wall. At the back of the house, where the ground was higher, I could see over the wall into the station. I liked to watch the "soldiers" (I'd called them soldiers ever since I was I small and continued to call them that until much later on in life - another story!). On a large busy station there is always a lot of activity going on to interest a young boy -older boys as well come to that!
I'd watch the trucks driving about, the soldiers marching around or just moving between their posts and duties and, of course, the aeroplanes dispersing and recovering with all the attendant noise and movement. Whenever we moved station I would always try to make friends with the soldiers as quickly as possible. Where I succeeded I was always rewarded by being introduced to new and exciting activities and places. My father didn't seem to mind this but kept a careful watch on my soldier friendships. As long as I was with a soldier he didn't mind me going to some parts of the station that were otherwise out-of-bounds to me on my own. With this incentive, I learnt to make friends with them quickly - a skill that, although not now entirely confined to soldiers, has stayed with me into adult life!
Four off duty soldiers came round the bend in the road as it passed by the house.
"Hi, Jamie!", one of them shouted as he saw me standing behind the wall (I didn't become Jay-Jay until I started school).
I liked these soldiers, particularly the young one, because sometimes he'd take me to the engineering sheds with him. Most of younger men had beat up old cars which they would tinker around with. Adding bits here, removing bits there and, in some cases, just making them go again. A disused hangar had been set aside for storage and maintenance of these "prides and joys" near to the old fuel store and there was a constant flow of soldiers back and forth to "the hangar" as they came on and off duty.
There was one soldier, in Germany when I was about 5, whom I was particularly fond of. He was called "Wally" but I don't think that was his real name. Every time I used it the others would roll about laughing and, even though I didn't know what they were laughing at, I would too.
Wally would let me "help" him with his car sometimes. I had to sit on the bonnet or in the front seat and hand him the tools when he asked for them. I knew the names of all the common ones and could distinguish a vast array of different spanner types and sizes. Wally taught me all this. Between the requesting and passing of tools, he would talk to me. He told me about his house, which was very far away, and his family and how he missed them. He would tell me about his youngest brother who was my age and, if he had had a letter recently, what was going on at his home.
One day, when Wally had finally made the car go again, he jumped in and, with me in the passenger seat, began driving round the station. There was a big bit of tarmac or concrete where a hangar or some-such had once been near the back of the station and Wally drove the car round and round on it doing, what I now know to be, hand-brake turns.
We came to an abrupt stop as my father appeared in front of us on the tarmac.
"Jamie, get out!", he said to me and, pointing to his car, "Get in the car!". I did so. He then exchanged some words with Wally which I couldn't hear and we both drove off in different directions. We drove back to the quarters in silence. I could sense that there was something wrong but I couldn't have told you what it was. When we arrived I got out the car and went into the house with him.
"For goodness sake, Jean, keep your eye on this kid.", he said to Mum, "I just lifted him from a death-trap doing spin turns on the skid pan!"
I never saw Wally again after that. I used to look for him when the soldiers went by and I even asked some of them where he was. "Your Dad's punished Wally", this chap said, "He won't be back.". I was a bit saddened by this but not at all surprised. I imagined that Wally hadn't finished his tea or not gone to sleep when he was told to and Dad had punished him - I knew Dad was in charge of the station because all the soldiers called him "Sir". I could understand that Dad could punish Wally. That's what happened to me sometimes, but I always came through it - obviously Wally wasn't made of stern enough stuff! I put Wally out of my mind.
"Hi!", I said to the soldier who had spoken to me.
"Do you want to come to the hangar? We're gonna fix cars.", he asked.
"Can't.", I said.
"Why not?"
"I'm being punished."
"Oh!"
"Look,", I said, lifting up the leg of my trousers so they could see the red hand mark. It had almost gone by now but if you looked carefully you could just make out the fingers on the inside of my thigh.
"Oh! Bye then!"
"Bye!"
I looked after them. They walked quickly. They all walked quickly, like my Dad. Like a march but not a march. I wished I could have gone with them. The hangar, where their cars were, was such an interesting place with so much to do. Here I was stuck in the house or the garden. "So they had won after all", I began to think. And that was the keystone of the disaster that was to follow.
Maybe Dad had forgotten that he'd told me to stay in the house or garden all day. Or maybe he didn't mean it. After all he wasn't really looking at me when he said it. He was walking out of the room. He could have been talking to anyone. How was I to know he was talking to me. And he wasn't concentrating anyway. He didn't listen to what Mum said. Maybe he didn't understand it either. I could still catch up with the soldiers if I hopped over the wall here. It would be better to go over the wall here than go round the front of the house or through the back gate both of which were in clear view of the house. No point in bringing it to anyone's attention. I can be back before anyone knows I'm missing.
At seven years old thought is action and I jumped up onto the wall, down the other side and pelted off after the rapidly retreating soldiers on their way to the hangar.
"Wait for me!" I shouted.
They turned. Two of them waited and the others continued on ahead.
"I thought you couldn't come." Said one when I 'd caught up.
"Hmm" I said.
"So you can come?"
"Yes." I said.
We got to the hangar and the soldiers set about taking their respective cars and bikes to bits. I hung around them for a while but no one seemed to want the tool passing service and they were so busy talking to each other that I wandered off in search of something to do.
It didn't take long to find an old tyre. I struggled for ages to get it the right way up and then rolled back and forth at the back of the hangar. It wasn't a very good tyre because one part of it was distinctly flat and it would roll a little way and then stop, teeter and fall on its side again. I experimented with it trying to see how far I could roll it without it falling over.
"He's somewhere at the back there, Sir." I heard one of the soldiers say.
"James!", My father's voice.
My blood ran cold and my stomach turned over. I briefly considered not answering and hiding behind the drums and other odds and ends stacked up randomly all over the place. This plan was quickly rejected and went for the "pretend I'm not doing anything wrong" backup.
"Coming, Dad," I called back as cheerfully as I could.
As I came to the front of the hangar I could see his silhouette against the bright outside daylight. I couldn't see the expression on his face, just his outline. I hoped the expression was benign.
"Get in the car." He said. Nothing else, an unmistakable tension in his voice, but nothing else. We drove off back down the road.
He pulled up outside the house.
"Go to your room and wait for me." He said, as I got out the car.
The butterflies that hadn't really stopped since I heard my name called back in hangar surged worse. This could only mean one thing - a spanking.
"Why?", I said, looking straight at him. To this day, I don't know why I said it. I'd never really questioned his authority before and certainly not under circumstances like these.
"GO STRAIGHT TO YOUR ROOM AND WAIT FOR ME!", he yelled
I didn't repeat the question. I turned around and walked into the house.
He locked the car and he followed me in.
"NOW! MOVE YOURSELF!", he yelled even louder.
I went upstairs and into my room. I waited.
Downstairs I could hear raised voices. My mother and father were talking. Chris wasn't home yet (his boots and anorak weren't in the bedroom). I couldn't hear what they were saying but after a while I heard the cupboard door, where my mother used to keep her coat, open and close and a minute or so later the car started and drove away.
I waited.
Eventually, I heard him coming up the stairs. He opened the bedroom door, came in and closed it behind him.
I looked at him.
"Right, young man, "he said, "let's go back over the events of the day and make sure I've got them straight."
I looked at him.
"This morning, you were climbing on the wall. At lunch- time I smacked you and told you not to do so again. Correct so far?"
I looked at him
"CORRECT?", his voice increased in volume.
"Yes."
"Did I not also tell you that you were to remain in the house or garden for the rest of the day?"
I considered this for a moment and decided that my earlier thinking on this matter would probably not cut any ice here.
"Yes", I said, finally.
"And then, this afternoon, I come back and find you in the hangar?"
I looked at him.
"Take that look off your face and answer the question. Against my express instruction, you left the house and garden and went to the hangar. Is this true?"
I swallowed hard. "Yes."
"Good. I have made every allowance for you over the last few weeks James but this is going to have to stop and stop now. You have started to develop a very insolent and defiant attitude and I won't have it."
He was now talking very slowly and very calmly. The shouting had stopped and had been replaced by a much gentler but more menacing tone.
"I don't believe I could have made myself clearer at lunch time - you were told not to leave the boundary of the house and garden - and yet you did so. I told you outside in the car just now to go to your room and you challenged me. On both occasions you did not do as you were told and on both these occasions and, according to your mother, on others you have looked insolent and defiant. This behaviour is going to stop and stop today. Before I am finished with you this evening you will have learnt not only to do what I tell you but to do it quickly and smartly. Do you understand me?"
"Yes" I said. I had never heard him use this tone of voice before. It was so deliberate and firm. He was standing in front of me as he was talking. I felt smaller and smaller as his huge frame towered over me. That he wasn't yelling at me somehow made it all the worse.
"I am going to give you a spanking. I tell you now that I do not expect to ever, ever have to repeat this exercise again. It has become necessary not just because of your behaviour today but has been building up over the last few weeks. I promise you now that the spanking I give you this evening you will remember for the rest of your life. One day you may even thank me for it."
Well, he was certainly right on the first count but, even now, I'm still not sure about his second prediction.
This was not the first time I had been spanked by a long way. Spankings, as opposed to a smack, had started, I think, when I was about five. They were always administered over my father's lap with his hand on my bare bottom. They were serious affairs and, although no kid ever looks forward to one, they were over with fairly quickly and life could go on.
"Take your trousers and pants down."
I did so - heart beating, stomach churning - knowing it would hurt but that it would soon be over and we could all return to normal. My father's behaviour tonight was certainly not normal - he was too calm, too cool and very scary. My trousers fell to my ankles but I only took my underpants down as far as my lower thighs. My father sat on the edge of the bed.
"Over my knee!"
I bent over his knee. My father was a big, powerful man and his lap was big enough to support my entire seven year old upper body. My head hung over his left-hand side and my feet, right off the ground, hung over his right-hand side. In this position my bottom would have been just above his right thigh. He grabbed at my underpants and pulled them further down to join my trousers. I hung there, looking at the floor and waiting for the first whack.
WHACK .. I sniffed, and wiggled on my father's lap. A strong arm came over by back and a hand held me firmly by my right side. I was locked now between this hand and my father's stomach. WHACK .. I sniffed again, louder .. WHACK .. yow! This is hurting .. WHACK .. ouch! This is really hurting .. WHACK .. I sniff again and I can feel tears in my eyes .. WHACK .. ow! I felt that across my whole backside .. WHACK .. yow! This is more than I've had before .. WHACK .. I gasp and sniff .. WHACK .. the tears are filling my eyes .. WHACK ouch! I start crying .. WHACK .. more tears, more sniffing .. WHACK .. I cry audibly now and the tears are coming very easily.
"Get up!"
It's over! I get up. I'm quite definitely crying but crying gently.
"Why are you being spanked?"
"Because I went out of the garden." I got out through the tears.
"You are being spanked so that you learn that when I tell you to do something, you do it quickly and smartly." He said, ignoring my tears completely.
"Get over!"
What? Again? I thought he'd finished. I look at him.
"There's that look again! GET OVER!"
I get back over his lap.
WHACK .. ow! I start crying again .. WHACK .. oo! Ouch! I wiggle. The arm comes over my back .. WHACK .. "I'm sorry, Dad" .. WHACK .. "OW! I'm sorry" .. WHACK .. "OW! I won't do it again" .. WHACK .. "OW, Dad!" .. WHACK .. "OUCH! I'm sorry"
"Why are you being spanked?" He asks again without demanding that I get up.
"Because .. I .. (sniff) .. because I didn't do .. (sniff) didn't do what you told me"
"You are being spanked so that you learn that when I tell you to do something, you do it quickly and smartly."
WHACK .. "OW! Yes Dad" .. WHACK .. "OUCH! I will!" .. WHACK .. "OUCH! I will I'm sorry" .. WHACK .. "OW! Please no more!" .. WHACK .. "OW! OW! OW!" WHACK .. "Please!"
I am now crying very loudly and my bottom and the backs of my thighs are red-hot and very sore. I can't stand any more of this - I just can't. I can't move out of the way and I can't get up and I cry even louder.
"Why are you being spanked?"
"So when you tell me something, I do it quick and .. and .. and .." I choke through my tears and snot.
"You are being spanked so that you learn that when I tell you to do something, you do it quickly and smartly."
WHACK .. "Please, Dad, stop" .. WHACK .. "Dad, please, dad" .. WHACK .. "No more, please, no more" .. WHACK .. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" .. WHACK .. "Please, Dad, I'll be good" .. WHACK .. "I'll be good, please, please"
"Why are you being spanked?"
"So .. when .. you .. tell .. me .. something .. I .. I .. do ..it .. quick .. and .. smart." I can hardly get the words out, I can hardly speak. I am crying so loudly and gasping for breath and my bottom is hurting so much. I've given up straining against the arm I don't have the strength. All my energy is going in to crying and pleading with him to stop.
"Good!"
WHACK .. "Oh please, please" .. WHACK .. "Please, I got it right" .. "WHACK .. "I'll be good, please" .. WHACK .. "Oh please stop, Dad" .. WHACK .. "please, please, please" .. WHACK .. "I'll never be bad again, please"
"Why are you being spanked?"
"So .. when .. you .. tell .. me .. something .. I .. do .. it .. quick .. and .. smart."
The arm comes off my back and as he gets up he lifts me off his lap by my upper arm and throws me on the bed. I am crying so loudly now that I can hardly hear him talking to me.
"I never, never want to have to do that again. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, James?""
"Yes .. Dad" I squeeze out through the pain and tears.
"When you are ready, get yourself dressed and come downstairs. Do you understand?"
"Yes ..Dad" I manage to whimper out again.
I wiggle into a position on the bed lying on my stomach. I hear him leave and the door close behind him. I cry and cry and cry.
After sometime I manage to get a grip on myself sufficient to wiggle off the bed without turning over on to my bottom which is hurting so much. I know I have to go downstairs and that he will be waiting for me. Terrified that if I leave it too long he will come back, I get myself to my feet and try to pull my underpants up. I can't get them higher than the back of my thighs because of the stinging in my bottom and fall back on to the bed in frustration. This brings on another bout of crying face down on the pillow.
I hear the door knob turn and the door open. I sob louder. "Please Dad, don't spank me again, please don't spank me any more, please, please. When you tell me to do something, I'll do it smart and quick." Realising I've got the words round the wrong way my sobbing turns to uncontrollable crying.
"Shush, Jem, Shush. It's me, it's Chris."
"Oh Tif, Tif", is all I can manage.
"Shhh!", He sits on the bed next to me.
The relief of it not being Dad together with the unbearable stinging and burning of my bottom brings on another bout of sobbing which goes on for ages - my head and chest start to ache. Chris just sits there, "shushing" gently as I sob myself out.
"Oh Tif, Dad spanked me. Dad spanked me really, really hard."
"I know, I know."
Wiping my nose and eyes on the pillow, I turn my head to look at him.
"Oh, Jem! What a sight!" He said, smiling that smile of his.
"Tif, my bottom hurts, it really hurts."
"I know, I know. It will stop hurting soon - I promise - but I wouldn't try to sit down for the rest of the day, if I were you. Has Dad told you to go downstairs when you're ready?"
For the first time, but by no means the last, I sense that somehow Chris must be speaking from experience.
"Yes." How could he know?
"OK. Well don't try and pull your pants up. Just wear your shorts without any pants. You'll find it easier."
Chis is very wise and clever. He knows everything. I'm very lucky to have a brother like Chris. I sniff.
He took my shoes off and slipped my trousers and pants off my legs. I lifted myself to help him and this made my bottom sting even more. He helped me put my shorts back on. I gasped - it hurt, but not as badly as when I tried to pull my pants up by myself.
Chris helped me wash my face and tidy myself up and then I went downstairs to my father.
"Now Jamie, I really didn't want to have to do that. I hope that you've learnt your lesson now and this nonsense will stop." He said
"Yes, Dad," I said, quietly, "I'm sorry."
And I really was. I had been a pain for weeks. Ever since we'd moved I suppose. My life was changing so fast that I was having difficulty keeping up. In that instant, I did a lot of growing up.
"Alright, I know you are. Just remember, I never want you to have to go through that again."
I knew he meant it. I knew now that he meant everything he said. Whether he said it quietly or shouted it, he meant it. I went back upstairs to my bedroom. Chris stayed with me until supper by which time my mother had returned from wherever she'd been. When we went down for supper, (for which I was allowed to stand!) I saw my mother and realised that I was not the only one who had been crying that day.
AFTERTHOUGHT
This has been the hardest story to write. Even as I read it back to myself I feel some of the feelings I had as that seven year old boy and I still shiver slightly at the thought of the spanking I took that day. Although my father used no implement except his hand, I cannot recall being more soundly spanked throughout the rest of my childhood. I always treated my father with the greatest respect after that. He meant what he said. And as I grew older and the immediate hurt of that spanking grew more distant, I knew that he loved me - he loved all of us.
As I grew up I discovered that my father had a reputation that preceded him from station to station for being "hard but fair". He was a popular CO and man and was very proud of us.
I continued to be beaten for all kinds of things both at home and school. I think the last "whacking" I got was when I was 17 (ten years after these events - see other story) but none of them had a more profound effect than that walloping in 1966. I said earlier that I didn't think I could thank him for my treatment that day as he had predicted I would. I think that is true. But what I can thank him and my mother for was for bringing me up to be a confident and able person. I have never been without friends or a job I enjoy, somewhere good to live and food to eat. I have never been in trouble with the police, even as a teenager. My family is close and I love and am loved. If being spanked, caned and belted as I child when I did wrong was the price I had to pay, my life-style has been earned cheaply - even if I didn't think so at the time and, believe me, I didn't.
Whilst I cannot guarantee that the internal and external dialogue in this, or any of my others stories, is 100% correct (except the "quick and smart" bit which, I can assure you, is absolutely exact - word for word!) the order of events, the sense of the story and the thoughts and feelings I describe are as good as an adult recalling them from twenty years ago as a seven year old can be.
Having, at last, found the courage to write this story down and share it, I have been able to get the whole thing in perspective - as you can probably gather from these last few paragraphs. It has also reminded me of other childhood events which I had forgotten about - more stories to come!