I was eleven years old when I was removed from the home of my schizophrenic mother and taken to the state hospital. The eldest boy, Steve, was a pedophile. One night, he persuaded several of us younger children to play "Truth or Dare" by his rules. No "truths"--that's the easy way out--and the only dares permitted had to be of a _s_e_x_ual nature. Well, Steve had his way with several boys, but I had my way with him. When it was my turn to issue the dares, I arranged them so the only one acceptable for him was to let me spank him. I gave his seventeen year old, hairy butt 10 good smacks, and I was exhilirated.
The next week, I couldn't escape my desire to spank the butt of another boy, about the same age as me. We will call him "Josh." Josh grew up on a farm. He characteristically wore tight blue jeans and he was always in trouble. "Josh," said I, "I have a way to keep you and I from getting into so much trouble."
"How?"
"Well, I know this will sound crazy, but what if every time you got into trouble you had to drop your pants and take a long, hard spanking from me on your butt. Do you think you would want to get in trouble then?"
"No way."
"Okay, then, let's make a deal: we will draw up some rules together and, every time you break them, you suffer the consequences and, everytime I break them, I suffer the same consequences. Deal?"
Reluctantly, Josh agreed. The next day we drew up the rules; the beauty was, I never got into trouble. The rule which would cause Josh the most pain over the next few days was "foul language