When I was fourteen years old, I was removed from my mom's house and placed in foster care. It was for the best in many ways, because she was so caught up in her own troubles that she couldn't keep me under control. I was running wild. She rarely came home in the evenings, and I ended up begging food from neighbors. I guess it was truancy from the seventh grade that really got the attention of the court.
In any event, I was removed and placed in a foster home, where I lived for thirteen months. My foster parents were named Smith, and they encouraged me to call them Mom and Dad. After awhile, I did, and I still think of them in those terms.
They were childless, which is why they went in for foster parenting. And they were pretty strict. I found out just how strict when I had only been there for about six days.
I skipped school. No big deal to me. But now, the school had someone to call. When I came home, my foster mom asked me how school was, like she always did, and I said it was fine. No homework, as usual. Then she told me the school had called, and that she was so disappointed in me for skipping school and for lying to her, and that I'd better go wait in my bedroom for my dad.
I did. I laid on the bed and listened to the radio they had given me. I had heard lectures before.
When he came in, he sat down on the corner of the bed, and he reached out and grabbed my foot. He was an affectionate fellow. "Why did you skip school, Benny?" he asked.
The answer was simple. "I didn't want to go. It's boring."
"You don't get to cut out on something just because it doesn't entertain you every minute," he said, patiently. "Don't you want to learn? To graduate someday?" I shook my head that I didn't care. Then he asked, "And why did you lie to your Mom?"
"She's not my Mom," I said, defensively. "And I lied so I wouldn't have to put up with this kind of sad lecture."
"For now," he said, standing, "we are your parents. And the only way I know how to be a father is to be just like mine was. So this is what's going to happen: I am going to spank you for skipping school and for lying."
"What?" I sputtered, sitting up. No one had ever spanked me in my memory! "I'm too old to spank. And the court won't let you."
"Oh yes they will," he said. "I called and asked. And if you are too old to spank, you should be too old to skip school and lie to people who love you."
I was flabbergasted and sat quietly. He stood up, walked over and closed the still-open bedroom door. Then he unbuckled his wide belt and pulled it {swish} through his belt loops.
Now I wished I had gone to school. I couldn't escape this, and truth known, I didn't want to try, because I did like the Smiths already. I liked knowing I had some limits now, underneath, at least.
"I've never been spanked before," I said, quietly. "What do I do?"
"Take off your clothes. All except your shorts," he added.
This was embarrassing, because I hadn't undressed in any degree in front of the Smiths. But I obeyed, and took off my shoes and socks and shirt, and then slowly removed my jeans. I stood before my new dad in just my white Fruit of the Looms.
"Sit here," he said, patting the bed next to him. I did, and for about ten minutes, he talked to me about the importance of education and about lying. He spoke gently, and I soon lost my embarrassment at being in just my underwear. After all, they hid everything that was really important. I tried to listen to him, too, and I must admit, everything he said was kind and right.
When he was finished with his talk, he told me to stand up, and I did, knowing we were ready for the real thing. What I was not ready for was his thumbs in the band of my underwear, tugging them down. Before I could even say a word, they were at my knees. My little _d_i_c_k_ and balls were right in his face, practically, and I hadn't gotten over my little stand of hair yet. I was embarrassed through and through now. "Why can't I keep my underwear on?" I asked.
"Because it's more embarrassing without them, isn't it?" my dad said, conversationally. "And of course, it will hurt a lot more when you're naked and when you're embarrassed."
He had me lay down on the bed, with pillows under my butt, to keep it propped in the air. He told me to arrange my privates so they would be comfortable, and then to spread my legs open wider. I did so, and then realized that my arrangement of my genitals, and the legs spread wide, left them, and my butthole in perfect view.
But I don't think he spent a lot of time looking at them. He started striping me with the belt, and I started trying to cover my butt with my hands. He said, "Move your hands, son. If you put them back there again, I'll get the fraternity paddle from the den and double your spanking."
I moved my hands, and after about another three licks of the belt, spaced all over my butt, I started crying. Before another three had passed, I was sobbing uncontrollably and saying that I'd be good, that I'd never skip school, that I'd never lie to them again.
I thought he hit me 100 times; he told me it was only twenty.
When I got up, I hopped around, oblivious to my flapping _c_o_c_k_ and balls, and rubbed my butt and cried.
Then he pulled me to him and hugged me, my head buried in his chest. I sobbed, and he ruffled my hair. His hands never descended below my shoulders. He said, "I'm sorry I had to do that. I hope I won't have to again, but if I do, always remember that I love you." I believed him.
Finally, the sobs subsided. "Let's go apologize to Mom," he said, and I started to pick up my underwear.
"No," he said, and I looked at him, quizzically, through tear-stained eyes. Finally I caught the meaning.
"I have to apologize naked?" I said. He nodded. "Why?" I asked.
"You have to get used to being the little boy again, Benny," he said. "Little boys are seen naked by their parents all the time. When you grow up a little, maybe only I will see you without your britches on; for now, it's both of us, and anyone else we choose to allow to see you. We are inc control, not you."
Nodding dumbly, I walked down the hall to the living room, where my foster mom sat watching TV.
I stood in front of her, hands cupped over my privates, and mumbled that I was sorry.
"Hands to your sides," Dad said, standing behind me. He swished his belt across my butt to accentuate his command.
I dropped them, and saw that though her eyes took in my nudity, she did not dwell on it. "I'm sorry," I said, louder.
"I forgive you honey," Mom said. "Now, let's have dinner. I have a pillow on your chair for you."
And so, six days into my living with them, we shared dinner together, dad in his business suit; mom in her housewife clothing; and me in my birthday suit. Afterwards, I was allowed to get dressed, but I did feel like a little boy again, walking away from them, bare-butt plainly in view. As it was many, many more times. More to come about that.