If the idea of adults playing children in such circumstances offends you do not read on.

The indignity of it was even worse than the pain! At sixteen I wasn't thrashed by my step-father, strapped, slippered or even spanked - I was SMACKED.

There always seemed to be a ready excuse for punishment but often I dug the pit myself. Bedtimes were a particularly frequent cause of friction. I shared a room with my eleven year old step-brother and, presumably for convenience, it was decreed that I should go to bed at the same time as he.

I remember clearly one evening when my step-father's sister, husband and thirteen year old son were visiting us. They made no move to leave as the nine o'clock deadline approached. Clearly a thirteen year old's bedtime was later than mine!

Looking back it was very foolish of me to protest when, glancing at the clock, my step father began "Right, you two ..." but I did.

"You," he said, stabbing an emphatic finger in my direction, "are getting too big for your boots. Come here."

Thoughts of flight flickered through my mind but there was no escape. I approached.

"Hands on head." he ordered. I knew only too well what that meant!

"But I'm too..." I began. Would I have finished "too old for a smacking." - I knew that I wasn't, not in his book - had he not cut me off?

"Don't talk back to me, young man."

He reached for the waistband of my trousers. Vainly I closed my eyes but I couldn't cut out the feel of the unfastening process or the cloth sliding down my legs. Then fingers grasped the top of my underpants and they were roughly pulled down. I became conscious that my _c_o_c_k_ was semi-erect as it flopped forward when released. I felt my face burn with a sudden flush.

I looked down at my step-father there was no sign of remission on his face.

"Get over my knee." He ordered, grasping my arm and urging me down.

I bent over and lay with my nose a few inches from the carpet, a position I had become very used to.

I felt my shirt being pushed up. A large hand was placed for a moment on one cheek. Then I felt it no more until, a fraction of a second later, it came down with a crisp SMACK! "Ah!", I gasped aloud, quite involuntarily. There was a quiet chuckle of pleasure from one of the boys. I grit my teeth, determined not to react again.

The firm hand came down again ... again ... again. Keeping my mouth shut was fairly easy at first after the shock of the first smack but I was conscious of many eyes enjoying the continual twitches and tremors of my bottom which I was as powerless to prevent as I was the smarting impacts which produced them.

After a few minutes, however, it became more difficult to prevent myself gasping as the twitches and tremors became bounces and wriggles.

I hung on desperately fighting the urge to cry out for some ten minutes increasingly feeling that it was no use, my step father would not be satisfied until he had me bawling. It was unbelievable that his hand alone could hurt so much!

At length further gasps were driven from my lips as the stinging palm continued to descend and finally, my resolution broken, I greeted each smack with an anguished squeal.

At last it stopped.

"Just stay where you are, boy." I heard my step-father order, "I haven't finished with you yet."

I had no wish to rise and face the onlookers if I could avoid it but the reality of "not finishing yet" made my heart sink.

"Jim," he called to his son, "Just go and bring me the slipper will, you?"

"Oh Yeah!, Dad" said the boy with obvious relish as he hurried from the room.

"I'm sorry you've had to endure this disgraceful scene." my uncle offered piously to the other present, across my hot and smarting cheeks, " but this _c_o_c_k_y little brat needs teaching a lesson."

"Oh yeah," I thought, not daring to utter it, "you're neither sorry nor are they 'enduring' it. You're all loving every moment up there!" but I couldn't forget the impending arrival of the slipper!

"I'm afraid," the voice above me droned on "he's been asking to have his bottom smacked for a long time. This will do him a lot of good. Ah!"

The exclamation greeted a clatter of foot steps down the stairs and the breathless entry of my step-brother. "Here you are, Dad." he said enthusiastically.

The slipper, which seemed to have lost the other half of its pair many years before, was a special one, I was expected to keep it on the chest of drawers in my bedroom - ready for use, though not for wearing. It was a large, elderly carpet-slipper with a hard, hard, leather sole, worn smooth and shiny with frequent use.

My step father tapped it gently against the tender flesh of my rear. I could not help but whince.

Then suddenly there was a sharp CRACK! "Agh!" I cried as my head jerked up. My legs began to kick and my bottom squirm vigorously as the slipper punished first one cheek then the other but my step-father held me firmly with his left hand.

>From a distance I heard a voice which I recognised as my own, begging,

"Oh, please, no!... Please! ... Please don't smack me any more! ... I'm sorry! ... Please ... please, Daddy! ..."

It stopped.

"Get up!" he snapped and, as I obeyed, pointed towards the door, "Bed!" he ordered.

I stumbled out, vainly trying to pull up my underpants as I did so, painfully conscious that my _c_o_c_k_ was as hard as it always was on such occasions but unable to venture any concealment.

Behind me were a pair of hushed juvenile giggles.