Day 4: Any early experiences that, in retrospect, hinted at your kinks?
~ Disclaimer ~
I do not condone nor support the corporal punishment of children in any way, shape or form and find all child abuse utterly deplorable. There are better ways to administer discipline than hitting and I write merely of memories and emotions from my own life as I try to piece together the complicated jigsaw that is my mind. Should you find such content offensive, perhaps head somewhere else :)
If I were being honest about this there are probably many early experiences that hinted at my kink. One of these, the occasion that saw me narrowly escape my grandfather’s belt, was talked about yesterday. Many others I mentioned during my Fifty Shades of Addy post.
However, in answer of today’s question, I’ve selected three memories from my childhood that hinted at the kinkiness that lurks within me. Hence, the disclaimer at the top of this post!
1. “You won’t be able to sit down for a week!” (Age 9)
I’d forgotten that it actually hurt
The first slap was light, shocking me as I felt her palm contact with my wet trunks; the second was harder and made a squelchy splatting sound sending water droplets flying; the third smack was even harder; quickly followed by a much harder, much louder, fourth smack that hurt like hell and caused me to burst into tears.
It had been over two odd years since anyone had smacked me and in those years of dreaming and fearing a full blown spanking I’d forgotten that it actually hurt, a point hammered home as her hand tore down faster and harder onto my backside, causing a mini-explosion of stinging pain that had me hopping from foot to foot.
“Just wait til I get you home…”
My hands went straight to my bottom, rubbing the warmth as her words blasted into my ears. The last time I’d heard her so angry was when I was seven; when she bent me over the bed and cracked a slipper across my ass so hard I thought I was going to die.
“…where I promise my slipper will give you something to really cry about!”
The only words I could think to say were please don’t spank me quickly followed by I’m sorry, I really am. The few tears that trickled down my face were more from fear than pain. She turned away from me, leaving me to the horrors my mind was concocting of what would happen when we got home. A moment later she stopped, spun back to me and gave me a look most associated with Medusa.
“By the time I’ve finished with you…”
My heart skipped a beat. I knew what was coming. My knees trembled, my bottom twitched in anticipation.
“…you won’t be able to sit down for a week!”
Home was over an hour away. First we had to walk back to the car, then drive home, get out the car, wait for my mother to find the house keys, then go inside, then how long would it be before she…? Before she…? Every time I thought about it I thought of that day bent over the bed and how much the slipper had hurt. Every time I looked up and saw my mother glaring back at me in the mirror I knew she knew I was thinking about it. I sat uneasily, shifting nervously from cheek to cheek, remaining quiet as we drove slowly down suburban streets and empty motorways.
Every landmark I recognized signified how long it would be before she…? Before she…? The giant tree with the lightning cracked trunk was twenty-three minutes away, the field of cows was thirteen minutes away, the supermarket was six minutes away, our street sign was one minute away, the sound of the engine shutting down was zero minutes away.
By the time my mother opened the back door and ordered me out I was sweating bullets. Was it wrong to be so scared? To be so fearful of what was about to come? What of the strange excitement that lurked deep in my soul? Was that wrong? Mum, I’m sorry. I said softly. I shouldn’t have done it. It was wrong. Please don’t… but she cut me off by slamming the car door and marching me inside. She guided me upstairs and left me in my room, sitting on my bed, staring at the floor, not sure what was going on until she returned ten minutes later.
The moment I saw her pink slipper in her hand I wanted to burst into tears. The moment she knelt in front of me I nearly did. I didn’t know where to look or what to think. I just wanted it to be over; whatever it was.
“You came this close today, young man, this close!“
I looked up at her, my gaze drawn between slipper and eyes, slipper and eyes. Did this mean that…?
“The next time you behave like this…”
I won’t be able to sit for a week? She nodded silently at my whispered words and stood tall above me. She was sparing my bottom but I was grounded for a week; no computer, no TV, nothing but school, homework, chores and bed. As she left me to my early night with no dinner I thought of the mini-explosions as her hand smacked my bottom and drifted off to sleep wishing she’d just followed through with her threat.
This was the first, but definitely not the last time, my mother issued this threat…and to this day I’m can’t remember clearly what I did to deserve it. It must have been big (I may have pushed my sister, who couldn’t swim, into a pool) for it’s one of the few occasions she ever smacked me – and boy do I remember those smacks!
But what I remember more is the growing sense of confused, excited, fear as we drove the long way home and of sitting bewildered on the bed after the spanking hadn’t eventuated.
A bewilderment that happened on several other occasions throughout my childhood.
2. “You should count yourself lucky…” (Age 10)
It’s nothing like the comics
In the ten years I’d been alive I’d never felt so sure that a spanking was imminent. Darren’s mother had always been an imposing figure, but until I watched with wide eyes as she upended her son over her knee and whipped down his pyjamas without so much as a pause, I had never been scared of her.
For nearly five minutes I had sat on the floor hugging a pillow as she lectured us on the dangers of smoking. My eyes remained rigid on the floor as I became overwhelmed with shame over my behavior, my mind running rampant with panels from Beano comics as it processed the possibilities.
I knew, unlike me, that Darren was spanked on a semi-regular basis. On one occasion I’d heard him take a few wallops through his closed bedroom door, on another he’d mentioned the hiding he’d got for breaking his father’s windscreen and in the occasional glance I stole during the scolding I couldn’t help notice his hands nervously fidgeting over his backside as his subconscious did what it could to offer protection.
When the moment happened I couldn’t quite believe it. My mouth dropped as she took hold of him, lifted him into the air, and plopped him over her lap as if he weighed nothing more than a feather. His hands took a firm hold of his waistband as he struggled and pleaded, begging her not to spank him, not to spank him in front of me. But his pleading fell on deaf ears as she pulled down his trousers to bare his pale backside.
In a flash she started spanking him, my gaze rigid on the unfolding scene. I’d heard my father say once that it was hard not take your eyes from a car-crash. Is this what he meant? This intense fascination, this rigid curiosity to watch someone else’s suffering.
“Don’t worry about your friend, Darren…”
Within a minute my friend’s regular stoicism had been smacked away, his voice hollering and yelping as his bottom began to glow pink. Still he begged her not to spank him in front of me, still she kept spanking harder and harder, only this time stating sharply:
“…it’ll be his bottom next!”
Immediately my heart stopped as Mothra took up residence in my stomach. Seeing a spanking up close was nothing like the comical patterns in my weekly comics. They could never depict the angry red Darren’s bottom had become, the blubbering painful tears that wailed from his eyes or the terrifying, relentless sound of her hand striking his bare flesh.
Almost as soon as it had begun, it ended. Darren leapt from his mother’s lap and began dancing in a small circle, hopping from foot to foot as his hands clawed at his burning posterior. My presence no longer seemed to bother him as he nodded and complied to every barked order his mother gave, moving quickly to the corner where sniffing and snorting replaced his sobs and tears.
I didn’t know where to look. My fascination remained with the fire-engine red of my friend’s backside but my fear was with his mother who was now looming over me menacingly. Her hand took hold of my ear as she guided me up, twisting it painfully before moving me slowly across the room toward my fate.
This was it. No way out. Within minutes it would be me dancing around the room; it would be my posterior aflame.
“You should count yourself lucky…”
Out of nowhere she yanked my pyjama bottoms down and my cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. But unlike Darren I was standing, staring at the corner, listening to his mother command me to remain here until told otherwise. What about the spanking?
“…you’re not my son, young man!”
It seemed to take forever to dawn on me that the spanking had been cancelled; that her threat had been issued to bring relief to Darren and fear to me. With my heart pounding she left the room, leaving me to glance at my friend to see him gently rubbing his backside as he muttered what a ‘lucky git’ I was.
It’s been twenty three years since I sat, bottom trembling, watching my friend receive the spanking of his life.
In those two decades I’ve never forgotten the rapid speed in which his mother tore into his backside nor the fire engine red his buttocks became. However much I’ve wanted to, I’ve also never been able to erase from my mind the excitement tinged fear of when I heard his mother declare it’ll be his bottom next or how frustrated I was for the twenty minutes I stood in that corner wishing she had treated me like her son.
Eighteen months or so after this event my family moved, but throughout each of those months Darren and I’s friendship began to drift. He would tease me for being weak, for being a baby, for being a lucky git and although he never said it, I knew he was pissed off because he’d been spanked and not me. Especially as he knew as well as I did that it had been my idea to smoke the cigarettes in the first place.
3. “And don’t for a minute think you haven’t earned it!” (Age 11)
For as long as I can remember my family has stored an oversize whisky bottle in the corner of the dining room. This whisky bottle is huge; easily as high as my waist, containing hundreds upon hundreds of gold, silver and bronze coins, held inside by a thick heavy cork that’s wedged into the top. The theory behind it is whenever anyone has any loose change it gets thrown into the bottle to be tallied as spending money for the annual family holiday.
At any given time there is anywhere between $10 and $500 just begging to be taken.
Although it had occurred to me on several occasions I’d never once stolen a penny from the bottle…until I was eleven years old. One lunchtime I came home from school, prepared and ate my sandwich whilst watching a dodgy quiz show, threw the plate in the sink and just as I was about to leave, stared at the bottle. A few weeks earlier a video game had been released that I was desperate to own, but no amount of additional chores had reaped financial success. All I needed was thirty quid – and there was far more than that contained in the bottle. So much so that no-one would ever miss such a paltry amount.
Tossing my backpack to the kitchen floor I sauntered over to the bottle, checking over my shoulder and around the corner of the lounge to make sure I was alone before sitting on the carpet and popping the cork. As I tipped the bottle – far heavier than I’d imagined – the money began tinkling out onto the carpet; 50 pences, pound coins, dozens of 20 pence pieces glistening in the afternoon sun. At first I began picking out the larger denominations, filling my hand with nearly fifteen pounds in a matter of seconds. With the coins weighing me down I crawled to my bag, unzipped the side pocket and emptied my hand. Dragging the pack closer to the hoard of cash I crouched with my butt pushed into the air as I fished out as many pound coins as I could find before noticing a ten pound note hidden inside the bottle.
In a heartbeat I had the bottle in the air, overjoyed as I managed to reach the tenner, as well as a five-pound note closer to the bottom. These notes I stuffed into the back pocket of my grey school trousers before I scooped up three big handfuls of coins and dumped them into my bag, zipping the stolen cash away. Aware I only had ten minutes or so to get back to school I quickly began emptying the coins back into the bottle, working as fast as I could to clear the evidence of any wrong doing.
“Andrew David Lake, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”
I froze at my mother’s voice, turning my head to see her standing in the kitchen; both hands on her hips, her handbag dangling from her fingers. This handbag was slammed onto the counter before she strode over to me in three quick paces. Instinctively I thrust my bottom onto the carpet, twisted, and began babbling about how I’d accidentally knocked the bottle over and was just cleaning things up.
She bent over, reached toward the bottle and pushed it. I watched it fall onto the carpet with a soft thud before rolling a few millimeters away from me. The coins inside moved toward the neck of the bottle but became stalled on curving glass that led up to it.
“There is NO WAY the money would have come out of there had you just knocked it over, young man!”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I was just,”
“You were stealing,” She snapped. “From your family!”
With a swift movement she grabbed my ear and pulled me squirming to my feet, twisting my body away from her. The last time she’d done this her hand had connected firmly with my posterior and I half expected my vulnerable rump to explode in stinging pain but instead her hand plunged into my pocket and pulled out the fifteen pounds I’d secreted there.
Releasing me she ordered me to pick up every last coin and put them back in the bottle. In silence I did what I was told, the only noise being the clinking of coins as they hit the bottom. As soon as it was done she leant over and pushed the notes through the neck to land enticingly at the top of the pile. Thumping the cork back into place she turned back to me.
“If it wasn’t going to make you late for school, young man, I’d take your trousers down and tan that backside of yours,” My mother snapped, before adding. “But don’t let that make you think you’re getting away with this. When you get home tonight I’m going to spank you so hard you won’t be able to sit for a week. And don’t for a minute think you haven’t earned it! Stealing from your family?”
“I’m sorry, mum, really, please don’t…”
“Just DON’T Andrew. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind…or do you want to explain to your teacher the reason you’re late for school is because your mother spanked your bottom like you were a little boy?”
“I won’t tell you again. Just you wait until you get home!”
Too scared to say another word I leant down, grabbed the straps of my bag and moved slowly to the back door. Only too aware that any big movement would cause the coins in the bag to jingle and I didn’t dare alert her of those right now.
“You will be!” She said sternly, her words ringing in my ears as I left the house.
I had only two classes that afternoon; PE and English, and my mind was on neither. All it could think about was the two globes of muscle behind me.
Whenever a ball was kicked in my direction I either missed it entirely, or kicked it on with such a lack of skill tirades of insult were hurled in my direction. Whilst changing back into my school uniform I caught sight of my pale flesh in the mirror and wondered what colour it would become. Pink? Red? Purple? A mix of the two?
All through English all I could think of was the plastic seat upon which I sat. With my buttocks pressed firmly against the pattern of molded plastic, my mind sensed every discrepancy of its manufacture. When the teacher called upon me to read a passage from ‘The Guardians’ I failed to respond; a second time earned a scolding; a third, a detention the following lunchtime, all because I couldn’t stop wondering how painful sitting would be in a mere few hours.
It was true my mother had issued the you won’t be able to sit for a week threat before and it was equally true that on all those occasions she had never followed through with it. But I’d never heard such anger in her voice, nor experienced the tremble of disappointment that had lingered in her every sentence. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that in a short forty-five minutes my hindquarters would be aflame and salty tears would be pouring from my ducts as I cursed the moment I ever thought stealing was a good idea.
The walk home…
As I walked the fifteen minute trip home I couldn’t help but wonder why I’d done it. Did I really need the video game I was hoping to buy with it? Was what my mother had promised me worth betraying the trust of my family for the chance to save the world as Mega Man?
“But don’t let that make you think you’re getting away with this. When you get home tonight I’m going to spank you so hard you won’t be able to sit for a week. And don’t for a minute think you haven’t earned it!”
As the words rung in my head I turned the corner and saw my house a few minutes down the street. Would she use her hand? Her slipper? What about the wooden hairbrush she kept on her dresser? It would certainly be on my bare bottom because on the rare occasions she’d spanked me in the past it always had been. I shuddered as the thought of her making me wait for my dad to get home, for a trip over the arm of the sofa with his belt filled me with terror.
What happened when I got home…
Pausing outside the back door I ran my hand over the thin polyester guarding my backside before turning the handle. My mother was in the kitchen, a heavy wooden spoon resting on the side as she baked cookies. Would that be my fate?
“Hi, mum,” I said nervously.
“Hi,” She replied. “How was your afternoon?”
Terrifying. I wanted to say. Could you just quit with the niceties and spank me already. I wanted to add. But I responded with a simple shrug before adding I had homework to get done.
“Okay,” She smiled. “Dinner’s at six,”
In the two hours I spent doing homework, every sound in the hallway made my heart jump. Every minute I expected my mother to come bursting into my bedroom armed with her implement of choice; but it never happened. All through dinner I remained silent, paranoid that the moment we finished I would be ordered to bend over the table and have my bottom blistered for the family’s entertainment; but this didn’t happen either. In fact, four hours after getting home she hadn’t mentioned the incident once, even when we sat through an episode of Telly Addicts and a question was asked about who had stolen the tuck-shop money in an episode of Grange Hill.
It was only when I was lying in bed hours later did I realize that, once again, my bottom was safe; I had stolen nearly thirty pounds and gotten away with it. Again.
Sammi once asked me during an MSN conversation what I was thinking as I lay in bed that night. In all honesty, I answered complete confusion. I had never been able to understand why my mother had issued the threat of “When you get home tonight I’m going to spank you so hard you won’t be able to sit for a week” and then not follow through with it. Especially as she regularly spanked my sister with both hand, slipper and hairbrush; as recently as a couple of weeks before this incident.
I told Sammi that it made me feel neglected, that time and again throughout my childhood, punishments were threatened for the things I did but rarely (if ever) eventuated; that regardless of what I did, no-one could be bothered taking the time to punish me for my wrong doings.
To this day I can remember the nervousness of that afternoon. Of missing easy shots on goal during football because I was thinking only of what was going to happen that night, of sitting in detention the next day thinking I had only earned this because of nerves over something that never happened, of lying in bed that night not understanding why things had gone the way they had when I got home.
Sixteen Years Later…
A few months after my breakdown in 2007 my mother visited Melbourne. Although she wasn’t fully aware of everything that had been happening to me, she was more than aware things were not quite right with her son.
For nearly two weeks we hung out; wandering the beach, taking ferry rides from the city to Williamstown, exploring the art gallery and taking walks along the river so she could enjoy the smell of the Gum Trees.
One of these walks occurred on the day my ex-girlfriend decided to abuse me by phone and text message. For nearly four hours I was inundated with calls and text messages demanding that I love her, that I care about her, that I fix her problems, and when I didn’t respond to her liking, she began informing me that I was useless son, a terrible human being and deserved nothing but a slow, painful death.
Upon seeing some of these messages my mother asked me to tell her where my ex lived so she could “put her over her knee for a damn good hiding!”
Given my unstable mind at the time, I seized this opportunity to ask some of the questions that had bugged me since childhood. I asked her about the time she had smacked me for pushing my sister into the pool and told me I would be getting a lot more when we got home; what had changed her mind, why hadn’t she gone through with it? I questioned why she’d stopped my grandfather from belting me when I knew she didn’t disagree with corporal punishment completely as she’d spanked me herself on a couple of occasions. I brought up that lunchtime and asked her why she hadn’t even mentioned it when I got home.
In a rare moment of intimacy, as we walked along the river, and later when we were dining in a quiet pub, my mother and I talked about corporal punishment for the only time in our lives.
She told me that she had fully intended to spank me for what I’d done to my sister, even up to when she deposited me in my bedroom upon getting home, but after a conversation with my father they’d decided the smacks I’d received were enough and a further spanking would have been too much; hence the grounding. As for why she stopped my grandfather; “because I was so infuriated when I saw what he was about to do to my son. There was no way I was letting him hit you like that, even if you probably deserved it. Not without my permission first.”
At which point she mentioned my next door neighbor had at least had the courtesy of asking for their blessing. When I sought clarification, my mother told me that late one night when I was on a sleepover they’d received a phone call informing them that Darren and I had been caught smoking. Given I was under their roof, and Darren had already been giving a good hiding for what he’d done, my mother explained that Darren’s mum wanted permission to administer the same punishment to me. Permission that they denied for reasons my mother had forgotten.
“You seem annoyed,” My mother had then said. “Should we have said yes?”
“No.” I said immediately, not wishing to let on just how much I thought about this sort of thing. “I don’t know. Maybe. It was my idea after all, and all you guys did was ground me. I dunno. It just always felt a bit strange that you always threatened it but never went through with it, kinda confused me,”
“When you stole that money I wanted to,” My mother said, drinking her wine. “I was soooo angry with you Andrew. I’ve never forgotten walking into that house and seeing you sitting there. If you’d been a couple of years younger I would have taken you over my knee on the spot, but you were so much bigger than me, even then,”
“But you always smacked Kathryn,”
“Not always. But yes, a lot more than you. Something I’ve never been proud of. Smacking her, that is,”
“So when I got home?”
“I don’t know. I realized that going through with it would probably have caused more harm than good. It’s not as if you actually stole anything,” At that point I fessed up about the money she’d missed, the money that I went on to spend on a video game and some sweets. “If I’d known that? Yes. Things would have played out differently! But…I can’t exactly do that now, can I? So I guess you’re paying for tonight,”
The hardest part of the evening was when my mother asked if I considered her a ‘bad mother’, given I’d made her feel that she’d let me down in my upbringing, that she hadn’t raised me properly. This was something I shot down immediately, as I’d always known she’d done everything she could, especially with what we’d all been dealing with back then. “You’re definitely not a bad mother.” I said. “You’re awesome, you always were,” Never adding what else was on my mind: It’s just me. Your twisted freak of a son.
Not being spanked on these occasions did nothing to create this kink of mine, but over the years, I’ve found myself returning to them in my quest for answers. Always wondering if the spankings had eventuated, would I think the way I do, or would my curiosity have been sated and thus stopped them from coming in the first place?
As of now, I fully believe I would still have these fantasies even if I had been spanked on these – and other – occasions. They are simply early indicators of the kinkiness that dwells within me; of the desire I’ve had for discipline ever since I was born.