Adventures of an Errant Son - Part 1

by Jason J. Andresen

When we were "younger", the spankings that my brother and I got from our dad were pretty-much the same from spanking to spanking. But as we grew older (into our teens), the spankings changed. First of all, the hand spanking was combined with a paddling and later the spanking part was dropped altogether and punishments became just a paddling. Since my brother and I were only 18 months apart in age, we, more or less, went through this age-related transition together. I have very clear and vivid memories of these punishments. I'll begin by relating to you the details of the spankings of my pre-teen years.

Whenever either my brother or I had misbehaved and needed punishment, our dad would always be very methodical about it. He never, for example, spanked us "on the spot," at the time of the infraction. That was Mom's job. She would swat us on our bottoms a couple of times and that was it. These were usually small infractions that Mom would take care of at the time. Larger "crimes" were referred to Dad.

It was not good news when Mom would say: "I'm telling your father about this, young man; you'll get a spanking." A horrible sentence; one that put a heavy feeling of dread into the remainder of the day.

Jason needs a spanking," she would typically say to my Dad shortly after he arrived home in the evening. She would then briefly tell Dad the particulars. At other times, Dad himself would observe or discover the crime and pronounce the sentence on the spot. It was not a pleasant thing to hear: "Jason, for that you'll get a spanking." That's all he said at the time.

Spankings were almost always carried out in the evenings after dinner. My brother Bill and I knew this and if a spanking were "pending" for either of us, the evening meal seemed to drag out as the feeling of dread killed all appetite. Both Mom and Dad were appreciative of this and on evenings when a spanking was scheduled, Mom would always save some dinner for the "victim" to eat later.

"Jason needs to excused from kitchen duty tonight," Dad would announce at the end of the meal. Everyone knew what that meant. On many ocassions, however, this standard announcement was the first I would know of a spanking for Bill and I'm sure that there were times when he didn't know of a pending spanking for me until Dad's announcement. This was especially true as we both approached our teen years and we didn't share our daily misfortunes with each other as much as we did when we were between the ages of, say, six and eleven.

In any event, "Jason needs to be excused from kitchen duty tonight" were the dreaded words and as soon as Dad uttered them, the anticipation of pain and humiliation would really begin in earnest. It was a matter of minutes from Dad's dinner table announcement until the spanking would begin. Even if the "You'll get a spanking" sentence had been delivered early in the day (as would happen on a Saturday, for example), the real heavy sense of dread began with Dad's end of dinner announcement.

"Go to your room, Jason." This directive was invariably issued as Dad got up from the table to help carry dishes into the kitchen. "I'll be there presently."

I would slowly climb the stairs to the bedroom Bill and I shared. At this point I would almost be on automatic pilot. It was well known to both Bill and me that Dad's order, "Go to your room," meant the following: go to the bedroom and close the door, strip down to only socks, underpants and T-shirt and stand in the corner, facing the wall with hands clasped behind your back. This was so standard that it didn't need stating at all -- it was assumed and Dad expected to see us in that position when he entered the room.

Inevitably, I would stand in the corner waiting for what seemed a long time as Dad would intentionally take his time in ascending to the bedroom. As I stood with my hands behind me, my face not more than three inches from the two intersecting walls, I would attempt to keep my mind off the upcoming sting of Dad's hand by inspecting the pattern of the wallpaper in front of me. I knew every square inch of the wallpaper in that one particular corner. I can close my eyes and see it even today. As I waited, I could actually feel my breath as it bounced off the two walls and back into my face. I could smell the wallpaper.

This was a time of reflection, a time to think about what I had done to put me in this predicament. It was also a time to anticipate the upcoming spanking, the sting, the embarrassment and humiliation. I learned early-on that this was very much a part of Dad's punishment routine. It was mentally very unpleasant.

Finally I would hear Dad on the stairs, then walking on the creeking hallway floorboards. The door would open. I could hear Dad sit on my bed. I knew he was staring at me as he sat and said nothing for a long time.

"What are you thinking about, Jason," he would ask after a while.

"About why I'm here, Dad."

"Do you know why?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Tell me. Why?"

"'Cause I [whatever it was: talked back to Mom, neglected my chores, etc. or whatever)]".

"Come here, son, and receive your punishment."

Almost always as I turned to face him, Dad would be rolloing up his sleeves. I walked over and stood directly in front of him. He would tap his right leg several times and without further instruction I would lower myself over his knee and leg with my chest and head resting on the bed, my legs held fast by his left leg. When I was perhaps six, seven or eight it was at this point that I would often begin to cry softly. As I grew older -- ten, eleven, twelve years old -- I would at this point close my eyes tightly and clench my teeth.

"Hands behind you," Dad would now say. He would then hold both of my wrists tightly. Then the spanking would begin. His big hand would land hard on my relatively small buttocks protected only by my thin underpants. The whacks came very regularly -- about one a second. The pain built-up slowly and I would feel his grip on my wrists increase as I fought to wiggle around.

Then after about a dozen smacks, Dad would stop. "Stand up, Jason," he would then say as he removed his leg from its lock over my legs and loosened his grip on my wrists. I would slowly stand. "Lower your pants, son."

Thus began the truely humiliating phase of a typical spanking. I don't know if my dad had any idea of the embarrassment that lowering my underpants and exposing myself while standing before him brought me. I'm not certain that I can explain it myself. After all, I had been naked in front of my dad many times; in the bathroom after a shower, for example. Nor was I particularly bashful. My brother Bill and I were frequently naked in front of each other. But for some reason, exposing myself by slowly pulling my underpants down and off in the context of being punished was very embarrassing. And the older I grew, the more embarrassing it became. At the age of 14, exposing my maturing genitals was intensely embarrising -- although by this age I was used to taking showers in gym class at school and casually walking around amonst my classmates completely naked. Perhaps it was exposing myself in fron of my dad instead of my brother or my peers at school that brought about the intense humiliation. I don't know.

In any even, when it came time -- as it always did -- for me to remove my underpants and stand in front of Dad ready for more spanking, I had very mixed emotions. A part of me wanted to be quickly told to get over Dad's leg and knee again. This would at least hide my genitals from view. Another part of me, however, knew that as soon as I did bend over Dad's leg, the more painful bare-butt spanking would soon begin. Dad never made me stand naked in front of him for very long, but long enough to make me uncomfortable.

Soon, Dad would again point or pat his right leg, indicating that I was to again assume the spanking position. It was then that more humiliation occurred. I immediately became painfully aware that my bare butt was now visible. And to add insult to injury, Dad would almost always rub my butt lightly with his rough hand before delivering the first "spank." I believe that he did this to either warn me of the impending swat or to prolong the dread of receiving the first smack. I don't know which. Once again, Dad would hook his left leg over my legs and hold my hands firmly behing my back.

Although I seriously doubt that the "spanks" upon my bare skin hurt any more than those with only my thin underwear protecting my tender butt, psychologically the bare butt swats seemed to sting more. Perhaps it was the difference in the sound of Dad's hand striking my bare skin; there was more of a sharp, "slapping" sound without the underpants intervening. But for whatever reasons, the bare butt slaps were definately more painful. Again, Dad would deliver a measured dozen or so. Then, if my offense for the evening were particularly grievous or atrocious (such as a repeat offense), Dad would use his leg to slowly spread my legs apart, exposing both the inner portion of my upper legs as well as the inner parts of my buttocks.

"You're to get extra this time," he would say. "Do you know why?"

"Yes, sir. I promised not to do [whatever] again," I would answer -- all the while lying there even more humiliatingly exposed. There would then follow a half-dozen or so hard smacks to the sensitive, newly exposed skin. These really hurt with the sting lasting much longer than the sting to the more normal places on my posterior. "Stand up, son," he would say after all the "spanks" had been delivered. Again, I would find myself standing for a second or so -- though it seemed much longer -- completely exposed. My only consolation at this point was the knowledge that the ordeal would soon be over. The final phase of the spanking would now begin.

"Go stand in the corner hands behind your back, Jason." He would say. "I want you to think about this for a while." I would turn and walk to the corner, my bare butt in full view, tears often in my eyes or rolling down my cheeks. And I would stand there as I heard Dad leave the room, shutting the door behind him.

Standing there, again breathing on the wallpaper with my bare butt still stinging, did, indeed, cause my to think about what I had just gone through. On rare ocassions I took a chance and lowered my hands to massages my buttocks, an action that always seemed to make the stinging lessen. After perhaps five minutes (it was difficult to tell, really), Dad would come back into the room.

"Have you learned anything, Jason?" He would ask.

"Yes, sir," I would answer into the corner.

"Good. Get dressed, son. Wash your face and come back downstairs." He would say as he again left the room.

This, with minor variations, is the way my brother and I were spanked until about the age of 13 or 14. After that, Dad began using a paddle. But I'll save that for another time.


More stories byJason J. Andresen