Readers in the Denver area might consider checking the Denver Post morgue for Sunday editions in the summer of 1952. I don't remember the month, but it was either July or August.
I was thirteen that summer, and Dad had taken me on a fishing/camping trip in southern Colorado. I had been interested in spanking for some time, and had been feeling a strange desire to endure one until it actually happened a few months before and I got my first honest-to-goodness bare-skin paddling with a piece of 1-by-2 lumber. Don't misunderstand me; it certainly was interesting, but I thought it was the most awful thing that had ever happened to me, and I bawled like an eight-year-old from beginning to end. (Of course, since then that paddling has become a treasured memory, and it is a story that I want to tell, but since it was classic F/m, it will wait for another time and another forum.)
Dad and I camped at a lake north of Durango and soon met the Jones's. They had two boys younger than me, maybe nine and ten, and a little girl, Mary, seven years old. The first day at the lake, Dad and I and Mr. and Mrs. Jones were fishing from the dam when she had some business at their tent. After a time she returned and I overheard her tell her husband that she had found the two boys fighting, so she had spanked them and put them to bed. I found that interesting. That evening, while we shared a campfire, Mr. Jones brought out their martinet and showed it to Dad (and maybe he intended to show it to me too; in any event I was watching closely). He told Dad that the four leather thongs worked wonders on their children, and they never traveled without it.
I'm sure that I did any number of things that irritated the adults. One stands out: On the second day, we rented a boat and spent the morning trolling. For some unaccountable reason, I caught fish after fish and had my limit before any of the grownups had caught more than a couple, and I was early-adolescent smug about it. (It wasn't really such a victory, because I had to spend the rest of the morning with nothing to do, putting along at two miles per hour, and they weren't about to go into shore to let me off.)
There was another incident the next day, while I was fishing from the shore. It still shames me...but I'll confess in a few minutes.
After three days, both families moved camp to Ouray, going over the fabulous Million Dollar Highway past Silverton. We stopped at Bear Creek Falls, which drops two hundred feet or more directly below the road. There were marmots playing in the rocks, and we watched them until I got bored and surreptitiously flipped a stone that scared the little rodents into their burrows. Mrs. Jones, dismayed, asked "Who did that?", and clearly everyone was disappointed. I felt guilty but kept silent.
We camped on the outskirts of the town. The next morning, Sunday, Dad and Mr. Jones went into Ouray for supplies, and they brought back a Sunday Denver Post. The big news that day--I'm pretty sure it was the front page banner--concerned an incident at the Colorado State Penitentiary at Canon City. There had been a disturbance; not quite a riot but something fairly serious, and five inmates had been singled out as ringleaders. They were stripped, taken to the prison gymnasium, and whipped. There weren't any photographs of the actual whippings, but there was a riveting pen-and-ink sketch on an inside page: A totally naked man was lying over a gymnasium horse with his arms dangling down one side and his legs down the other. His wrists were tied to his ankles, and his ass was high and prominent. Behind him, a guard was starting a swing with a four-foot length of thick machine belt as wide as a hand, and it looked like the guard meant business! The artist's conception of the prisoner's face showed a mixture of agony, fear, and hatred.
There WERE photographs of the aftermath, occupying a broad spread on the front page. The pictures were taken through bars, with each convict's rear end toward the camera. One man was wearing white jockey-style underpants, pulled down in back to the base of his buttocks but still covering his genitals. The other pictures were, shall we say, full backal nudity. One of the men was a dark-skinned Negro; the others were light-skinned Whites or Latinos. In the black-and-white photos, every butt, from bottom of back to top of thighs, was a solid, uniform mass of bruises, as black as the black man's skin!
Mrs. Jones read the article and looked at the pictures, and exclaimed to her husband, "They whipped those men half to death!" I looked at the pictures and read the words, and said to myself, "Wow!", and felt horny. I went back to them again and again during the day. They were fascinating!
Late in the day, I went to fetch water at a nearby spring, and Mary came with me. We hadn't gone two hundred yards when Mrs. Jones caught up to us. She sternly told the girl, "I told you not to go with him!", and as she spoke she tore a willow branch from a nearby bush. She whacked the girl across her legs once; twice; a third time, causing immediate shrieks and squalls, and I watched, confused, and embarrassed. Then some impulse made me speak up: "No! Don't whip her. It wasn't her fault; I asked her along. I'm the one who needs spanking!" While I still had some momentum, I breathlessly went on, "I've been naughty. I threw the rock at the marmots, and I've done lots of other bad things and I deserve to be whipped like those men at the prison!" I hastily amended this, "Not that HARD, but with a leather strap and no clothes on." She had stopped her switching until I ran out of breath and words, and she said nothing but looked at me with a very strange expression. Then she turned back to her daughter and unleashed another half dozen swats with the switch. Crying girl and angry mother strode back down the trail, leaving me with a flood of emotions, a pounding heart, and some serious second thoughts about what I had just said. To this day, I can't remember if I got that bucket of water or not.
I don't remember anything special about the evening, so someone must have gotten some water for supper. I suppose we ate and somebody must have talked about something, but I'm sure no one brought up spankings, whether at Canon City or at Ouray. I crawled into my sleeping bag fairly early and left the adults conversing around a Coleman lantern next door while I masturbated and fantasized about convicts getting their bare asses whipped.
Morning started routinely. Awaken to "Up and at `em!"; doze off again; repeat this three times until the "Up! Out of the sack!" orders began to have a distinct edge of irritation; grumble a little; finally sigh forlornly and climb out of bed just before the last straw was added. Eat pancakes and bacon, still surly (early morning was not my best time of day). Think about what mischief to do because we weren't fishing or traveling today.
I hadn't settled on plans for the day when Dad walked over to the Jones' tent, and matters were decided for me. I was called over, and entered the tent to find the three adults sitting in camp chairs; they motioned me to the center. Dad started: "Tell us what you asked Mrs. Jones to do." Uh-oh! "I...I...what do you mean?...asked her?" "On the trail to the spring: Didn't you ask her to spank you?" "NO!...uh, I mean...I didn't really... uh...NO!! Please!!" "Didn't you say that you had done bad things and deserved a bare-bottom whipping with a strap? What bad things were you thinking about?" "NO!...I mean, yes...but...but...". By now my legs were weakening and I was feeling hot and flushed and my heart was migrating towards my throat, and I doubtless resembled a cooked beet from the neck up. The interrogation continued: "What bad things?" Trapped, I mumbled, "...well, the marmots..." "We know about the marmots, and it was thoughtless and you hurt other people and we agree that you deserve punishment for it. What else?" "...well...a few days ago I talked back to Mom when she told me to take out the trash." "Okay; she didn't tell me about that, but she has complained about your attitude several times lately. We'll add that one. What else?" "...I...I...Mary got a switching yesterday that was my fault." Mrs. Jones spoke for the first time: "Mary and I talked about that, and yes, you asked her along but you didn't know I had told her not to, so it wasn't really your fault. But you have been kind of nasty all week which was why I told her not to go with you in the first place. I'm more than willing to play my part in punishing you." This was kind of dizzying, and I wasn't really ready for the next "what else?" from Dad. With my guts sinking even deeper, I finally decided to come clean. I hung my head and stammered and finally admitted to Mr. Jones, "Well, I...I kind of...borrowed...a casting lure from your tackle box, and then it got caught on a snag and the line broke...". He scowled and looked at his wife and my Dad, and said "I figured as much. I knew I was missing an orange and black flatfish!"
Dad finally spoke: "I think that's enough. There are plenty of other things I could add: You have been surly when you didn't get just what you wanted. You haven't been very good with chores. Just this morning I had to tell you again and again to get out of bed. That settles it for me!"
Then the fateful question: "Do you still want a hard whipping?" My stomach lurched and it was very easy to give the answer that was God's honest truth: "NOOOooo!" "That's good!", he concluded; "I'd hate to waste a spanking on a boy who wanted one!"
The stripping was ceremmnious. My father set the rules: "Do nothing until ordered, and then do it promptly and without argument. Sit!" I sat on the edge of a cot which promptly tipped over and deposited me on the canvas floor. The adults tried not to laugh while I tried not to cry. It worked better the second time. "Shoes and socks-OFF!" I managed that without too much trouble. "Come here!" I didn't want to, but I walked to the middle of the tent. "T-shirt and pants!" I was so nervous that I got tangled in the shirt and nearly needed rescuing. Then the trousers--this was getting serious! It took a sharp "NOW!" to start me fumbling with belt, button, and zipper. The pants fell to my ankles and I felt like my stomach was going with them. Being surrounded by three grown-ups while wearing nothing but underpants is an interesting experience in those circumstances, but it didn't last long: "Those too! OFF!" That was hard! My hands shook and my knees were knocking. I tried to face away from everybody (but especially from HER!) and VERY slowly lowered the cotton briefs. I vividly remember the feeling of impending doom as they slipped below my buttocks. They snagged my penis for a moment; then they fell to my knees. As I nudged them off, I recall cool air wafting across parts that didn't usually feel it. The garment fell to my ankles, and I immediately crossed my legs and clenched my thighs and cupped my hands, but then I was sternly instructed to pick up all the clothes, fold them neatly, and stack them on my sneakers. As I bent over to gather clothes, I was exceptionally aware of my vulnerable bare rump and I began to quiver. What had I gotten myself into?
There was a pregnant silence for a few seconds, and I looked around in near-panic, wanting to flee but not daring to move. Finally Mrs. Jones announced: "I'll go first! Down across my knees!" Had I actually WANTED to find myself in this position just a few hours ago? Very reluctantly I minced the few feet to her with my hands covering my crotch, took a deep breath, and flopped over her thighs. Well, I did have to admit that it was kind of exciting to have my bare belly and thighs touching her skin and the hem of her skirt, but, frankly, I was scared!
"This is for your thoughtlessness and lack of consideration for others!", she told me, and then she whacked my fanny with her bare hand. The first swat landed with a sharp CRACK. It didn't hurt too much, but the shock and the indignity were memorable. This was actually happening; I was really getting a spanking! More smacks followed, each one harder and louder. By three or four, they were beginning to hurt. By seven or eight, they were HURTING! I started complaining: SMACK..."ohhh"...SMACK... "OWW"...SMACK..."NO! OUCH!!"...SMACK..."STOP!!; YEOAHHH!"...and on in that general theme. My feet, well off the ground, were bouncing around vigorously and my hands, which were dangling over the other side, were clenching. The sting and burn in my buns was getting worse and there was no question that this was a for-real punishment spanking. Some relief was imperative, so my right hand darted around to do some much-needed soothing and protecting. She simply grabbed the wrist, bent it into the small of my back, pressed down with her left hand, and kept on spanking.
She didn't make me cry but I wasn't far from it when she finally stopped after twenty. She brushed me onto my feet and cheerfully suggested, "Next!" I spent a few seconds dancing and energetically rubbing before my father stood up, pulled the belt from his trousers, and demanded, "Kneel and bend over the cot!"
Reluctant obedience would be a generous description of my actions. Actually, I tried a few seconds of reasoned argument which was something along the lines of "No! NOOO! PLEASE DONT!...YOWWL!..." (this last in response to a quick snap of the belt across my upper thighs), and I was rather harshly jammed down on my knees. The cot sagged in the middle so my head was low, nearly smothered in someone's sleeping bag, my arms were extended beside me and my posterior was high in the air, the whole forming an absurd parody of a crucifixion posture. "Stay in that position or we'll start over!", he said. "This is awful", I thought. "You said you wanted a leather strap. Okay, this part is to make you do something about your general attitude and behavior!", and he set to work: WHACK!..."Youchhhhh"...WHACK!..."SHREESHhhh!" ("This is REALLY awful!"). WHACK, WHACK, WHACK!..."OHHHRRRLlll; EEACHhhh; BlurbOHHnnn..."...Now I WAS crying! WHACK!..."(snufff...)...YOOOO... (snif)"...WHACK!... His quota of twenty probably took two minutes, but it seemed endless. I was crying steadily for the last half or more, and I don't apologize because that belt HURT!
The intermission was brief, but I used it as best I could to rub and wiggle, still sobbing. Far too soon, Mr. Jones took over, and ordered: "Get up and lie on the cot!" I was seriously sore and a good bit demoralized, but I winced and stood and moved over and flopped, and, from a spanker's point of view, virtually disappeared into the fold of the cot. "Sit up a minute", he said, and he stacked three or four pillows for my belly to rest on. That did the trick.
"This is for stealing!" I looked up and, oh God!, he was dangling that martinet in my face.
I'm not sure how to describe the sound of four half-inch wide, 18 inch long leather thongs impacting HARD twenty times on bare boy bottom. It isn't quite "SMACK!", and "WHACK!" isn't right either, and "SWISH!" is much too mild. "SWISHACKKK", maybe? I AM sure how to describe the reactions of the boy possessing that bottom: They started with "YEOLSH!" and graduated to "EECHeeeLLLL" and then to "SHRIEELSH!", or something similar, with every howl interrupting nonstop squalls. That session was not fun.
They weren't quite finished with me yet. After you have been spanked hard, you need a good wash to get rid of the tears and sweat, and to start the recovery process. There were no showers at the campground, so I was herded outside. Mrs. Jones ladled water over me with a saucepan; then I had to soap up completely (getting soap in my eyes, naturally), and endure another sousing. Everyone in the campground had been able to hear the entire whipping through the canvas tent walls, and now anyone who wanted to (and several did) could see the results. I was already shaking from the emotional overload and from the adrenaline my system had pumped into my body to cope with the emergency. The lukewarm water, evaporating in the dry mountain air, added still more shivers. As soon as I could, I toweled off, and they finally let me retrieve my clothes and get dressed.
I ran into the woods. Lest anyone fear that I became lost in the forest and was eaten by bears, I should point out that the Uncompahgre Valley at this point is fairly narrow and steep-sided, and there is very little ground cover on the slopes. It would be extremely inconvenient to conduct a tantrum on steep dirt studded with sharp stones with an arm crooked around a tree root. Instead, I ran down the canyon a few hundred yards, struggled though some brush, and found a small grassy clearing. I probably wasn't more than forty yards from the highway, but it was secluded and private, and no one disturbed me.
I pounded my fists in the grass and kicked my feet and felt very sorry for myself and squalled for a good long while. I decided to go into the mountains and become a hermit.
It occurred to me that this was exactly how I had reacted to Mom's paddling, except then I used my own bed. I wondered if other kids responded to spankings this way? Eventually I fell asleep (temper tantrums are hard work!). I awoke before any great time, stiff from lying on the hard ground, and it occurred to me that I didn't seem to be horribly injured. Some tentative pokes and rubs made me amend that thought slightly; there were definitely some tender spots. Time for some research.
The morning was sunny and warm and bugs weren't a problem, so I pulled down pants and underpants. Mostly my bottom was warm and tingly but not hurting. In fact, the sensation was almost pleasant. Humm.that spot on the right cheek didn't really want to be touched, did it? Neither did the left thigh-buttocks junction! I craned my neck to try to see the state of affairs...not easy to do! Some tugging on my thigh, and neck strains that risked serious cricks, provided a limited view of an intriguingly pink fanny with some interesting purple blotches and red stripes. Geesh! Everyone in the campground got to see all the details, except me! The only mirror I could think of was the rear view mirror on Dad's pickup, and I couldn't come up with an inconspicuous way to get to it or to adjust it and my rear to get everything in view without attracting unwanted attention.
I stripped off the rest of my clothes and let the grass tickle my belly and the sun add still more warmth to my backside while I reflected. Well, now I knew what leather felt like on bare skin. It was at least as interesting as the paddling! I re-lived the experience: The embarrassing stripping ceremony; the feeling of my flesh on hers; the shocking first smack; Dad's belt; the martinet. I remembered how I settled, unreachable and unwhippable, into the cot; it was funny in retrospect. But OH! The rest of that thrashing wasn't funny, was it? Nope! But then again...I really HAD been craving something like this. Parts of me stiffened and itched, and I did things that would certainly have earned another spanking if anyone had caught me. It occurred to me that it is a whole lot more fun to have GOTTEN a spanking than to GET one.
My thoughts turned to the prison whippings. WOW! Dad's belt, and especially Mr. Jones' martinet, had HURT, and I didn't feel any shame about yelling and crying. I knew I had stripes on my butt, but they weren't ANYTHING like those men's rumps. What must that have been like? Did they undress after they got to the gymnasium, or did they have to walk naked across the yard? Did they struggle when they were placed across the horses? What did they feel when the guard with the strap came up to them? What taunts were uttered? What did that first lash feel like; did they scream? How about the 50'th, or the 100'th? How many did they get; the paper never said? How many vicious swings of a strap does it take to leave bruises like that? What kind of pain and emotions were they feeling when those photographs were taken? I fantasized once more about being tied over that horse and feeling that strap, and those thoughts flowed back again to shuddering recollections of the belt and the martinet. In a few minutes the stiffness returned and had to be dealt with again.
It must have been nearly noon, and I was hungry, so I decided to postpone the hermit project. I wish I still had that copy of the Denver Post.