I am strongly opposed to the spanking of RL children and believe that spanking children is wrong. There are better ways to guide a child and better lessons to be taught by caring parents than though hitting. I believe that real-life, non-consensual spanking is both debilitating to the child's physical and psychological well-being and debilitating to the child-parent relationship. The potential for permanent psychological hurt cannot be overlooked. Still, I am a spankophile and while I am opposed to the RL spanking of children I nonetheless find the fictional account of such stories, and some remembrances of my own and other's RL experiences, very arousing. If such stories and remembrances do not interest you, move on.
What follows here is an autobiographical sketch of my childhood spanking experiences. Not everything happened just as it is portrayed here, but close -- very close. At a safe distance of 40 plus years, I can look back at some of these incidents with a moderate sense of humor. But, at the time. I assure you most of the incidents portrayed in this 'series' were, to me, anything but funny. Instead they were very humiliating, provoked much anger and can only be characterized as very sad. tbfyb
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My first and middle names are James Robert but because my father's first name was also James everyone called me Bobby.
During the setting of this story, circa summer 1953, I was a military brat. My father was in the Army (enlisted) at the time but later transferred over to the Air Force. We lived on the Presideo Army Depot near San Francisco. I was five years old and would be starting kindergarten in the fall.
Base housing consisted of townhouse type apartments. Our apartment was quite nice. I remember the living room had a large picture window that looked out over the ocean. Looking straight out from that window you could see a Coast Guard cutter at anchor near a light house and, to the far right, you could just view the Golden Gate Bridge.
There was a playground (swings, teeter-totter, slide, round-about, sandbox) adjacent to a forested area about three blocks from our apartment. I loved to play there and to explore the nearby woods. However, because I was not yet allowed to cross streets by myself, I had to be escorted there by a parent or some other adult .
At this point in my life, neither my father or mother had shown any sign that they would become strict (in the corporal sense) disciplinarians. When I misbehaved I was usually made to go stand or sit in a corner. This was, and remained, my mother's favorite form of punishment.
My earliest recollection of a real spanking occurred shortly after I turned five years old. This spanking was by no means severe, but it was administered OTK, in public, and with my pants and underwear pulled down; not just to my knees, but pulled off altogether.
It was late in the afternoon. I asked my mom if she would take me, and my best friend Mark (and his twin sister; I don't remember her name), to the playground. She said she couldn't. We were going out for dinner just as soon as my father got home and she needed to get ready. I was told to put on some clean clothes, nothing fancy - short pants and a pull over type shirt. Mom said I could play in the front yard, with Mark and his sister, if I could keep from getting too dirty.
Mark didn't want to play in the front yard, he wanted to go to the playground. Mark's mom was always too busy (or too sick) to take us anywhere and besides, she didn't care if Mark went to the park on his own; just as long as he and his sister stayed together. Mark said if I was such a "baby" that I couldn't come to the park, then that was just "Too bad", he and his sister would go without me. I stood on the sidewalk watching Mark and his sister head off down the block. Just before they got to the corner I yelled "Wait for me" and ran to join them.
When my father got home, and my parents were ready to leave for the restaurant but couldn't find me, they were, to put it mildly, a bit angry. I don't think they were worried. I'm sure that the playground was the first place that they thought to look.
My father went to look for me. He drove our car to the park. When he pulled up I wasn't worried. He'd never spanked me before and a spanking was the last thing I expected. I ran to the car when I saw him, expecting to hear nothing more than "jump in". But, instead of opening the car door for me to get in, he let himself out.
"Didn't your mother tell you to stay in the front yard?", he yelled. "You know better than to go off to the park by yourself! Just look at you, you've got sand all over you. You know we are going out for dinner!" And, for the first time, an expression that I'd grow to dread in the years ahead. "You know young man, you're getting a little too big for your britches!"
With this final admonishment, my father picked me up and carried me over to the teeter-totter, positioned himself in the middle, and repeated that soon to become familiar phrase once again. "Yes young man, you're getting much too big for your britches . . . and when that happens, I guess the only thing to do is take them off."
In addition to Mark and his sister, there were about eight other children (boys and girls, ages 10 and younger) playing in the park. My father's last comment had not only caught my attention, it had obviously captured their interest as well.
The next thing I knew, I was being turned over my father's knee. As my body was stretched forward, over his knee, my pants and underwear were, in unison, slid to the rear; slowly at first, over my bare bottom ( ! ) ; then, gathering speed, down past my knees; around my ankles; over my shoes; and finally, with some degree of satisfaction on my father's part, they were dropped to the ground.
It all happened so quickly. I didn't have time to protest. One minute I was being carried to the teeter-totter and the next thing I knew was situated center stage, so to speak, staring down at my pants and underwear. Just as suddenly, but in no rush to get through, my father delivered, with his hand, a series of sharp, brisk smacks; alternating from side to side - ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, TEN!!! After the last swat was delivered, I was kept "bottoms up" (*!*), and told that I would stay that way, until I stopped crying and stopped squirming. After what seemed to me an endless wait, I was finally placed back on my feet.
"I hope this teaches you a lesson!"
It did, but I was a slow learner. It was a lesson that would be repeated many times in the years ahead.
As my father picked up my clothes, I stood there, wearing nothing but shoes and a too short to hide anything | \g/ | shirt. Then he grabbed me by the hand, and escorted me, (once again crying, jumping, and kicking) to the car.
The crowd of children, who had watched the spanking with obvious enjoyment, continued to stare in total rapture as I was unceremoniously marched to the car. To add further insult to injury, my father offered Mark and his sister a ride home. As they joined me in the back seat of the car, I scampered madly to pull my polo shirt down over bunched knees.
When we got home, my mother was waiting outside of our apartment; on the sidewalk where I was supposed to have played. She smiled, and didn't seem at all surprised or upset by my lack of attire; if anything, she seemed somewhat pleased. As I was ushered up the stairs, my father called out to her that we would be back down in a few minutes.
When we entered the apartment, my father walked me to the bathroom, put my sandy clothes in the dirty clothes hamper and started the shower.
He turned on the water and adjusted the temperature, then he spoke.
"Get your clothes off (easy enough, all I had on were shoes, socks, and a polo shirt), wash up . . . be sure to get all the sand out of your hair . . . and be quick about it."
As I showered, he left to find me some clean clothes. After a very short shower, he helped me dress for dinner.
The incident was not mentioned again (by my parents that is; it was a subject of near constant conversation among children in our neighborhood for months). The whole event probably took no more than 20 minutes from the time my dad pulled up at the playground until we were finally headed off to the restaurant -- but I will remember those 20 minutes all my life.