My own obsession with spanking goes back a long way – I’m convinced there’s something genetic about it. I want to tell you about a few of my memories from early childhood.
We moved to Scotland in 1974 and I had only just begun school. I hadn’t made many friends on the estate at that point but one exception was Cameron, a boy of my own age who lived a few houses down from our own. His Mother was a teacher and his Father was a college lecturer, and he had a sister, Marie, who was about four years older.
I remember one day when Cameron came round to my house – we went upstairs to my bedroom and began to play with some of my toys. I hadn’t seen Cameron out in the street for a few days and asked him why. He said he had been naughty and had been kept in as a punishment.
I wanted Cameron to tell me more about discipline in his house, so I offered up a snippet of my own, hoping he would take the bait. “When I’m really bad, my Father smacks my bottom with a slipper,” I said. There was a moment of silence, Cameron blushed a bit but then replied quietly: “We get the belt.”
I was quietly thrilled by this information. In my little mind, the belt seemed an awful lot more severe way to smack than a few whacks from Father’s slipper across the seat of my shorts, the customary punishment in my own home. I determined to press Cameron for more lurid details.
“Where do you get it?” I had seen pupils belted in class and this was on the hand. Cameron mistook the question entirely, though, and said: “Father takes us to the bathroom for it.” Although this wasn’t the answer I was after, it nevertheless conjured up a potent picture in my head of Cameron or his sister being marched sternly to the bathroom by their father to be belted.
“No,” I said, “I meant do you get it on the hand, like at school?” Cameron blushed a rather deeper shade of red, but murmured: “No, on the bum.” I barely dared asked the next question, but went for it anyway. “On the bottom?” Cameron went beetroot and didn’t reply but nodded.Of course, I didn’t really understand what was going on with my body at that age.
The next encounter was at Cameron’s house. It was a sunny summer afternoon. Mr McGregor, Cameron’s Father, was at work I think but his Mother was off (it must have been a school holiday) and both she and the children were in the garden. Cameron and I played quietly by the side of his mother’s deckchair as she read a book and Marie was drawing some of the flowers in their garden. Even at a young age, Marie was an accomplished artist.
She came over to her Mother to show off her work and Mrs McGregor warmly admired it. She called both us boys over to have a look. “Isn’t it good?” she asked. “Andrew, are you interested in botany?”
Now, that was a word I just didn’t know at that age, so I thought she had asked me: “Are you interested in the bottomy?” I wondered whether Cameron had told his mother about me asking him about getting the belt. I blushed an even deeper red than my friend had and just went quiet. I didn’t want to talk about bottoms with Mrs McGregor and particularly not in front of Marie. For some reason, I feared I might be required to show them both my own bottom.
The final incident was again at Cameron’s. We were upstairs in his room this time, and I managed to steer the conversation back to domestic discipline. “Where does your Father keep the belt?” “It’s in the bathroom,” Cameron answered. “Can I see it?” He shrugged and led me across the landing into the bathroom, which also had a toilet and sink in it. There was a small chest of drawers against one of the walls, and Cameron opened the top one.
To my fascination and delight, it wasn’t the thing used to hold up trousers that I was expecting but a proper school tawse, with a two-tailed split end. It was the first time I had seen this implement of discipline close up. “Does it really hurt?” Cameron nodded vigorously. Then, to my surprise, he said: “You can try it if you want.” I hesitated for a minute, but then said: “OK.”
Cameron waved me over to the toilet and closed the seat lid. “You have to bend over that,” he said, I was a bit shy about doing this, particularly as I was aware that I had got hard again, but after a moment’s hesitation, I did as I was told and assumed the position.
I felt my friend hitch my jumper clear of my now bottom, then there was an almighty ‘whack’ and the most incredible sting I had ever felt straight across both buttocks. I gave a yell of pain and jumped up. Cameron grinned at me – he had obviously enjoyed being on the other end of the belt for once, as his shorts now had a little tent in them too. I blushed again and quickly pulled my clothes back up. I honestly think I would willingly have bent over for more, despite the pain (or maybe because of it?), only I was frightened that Mrs McGregor would come upstairs and find us, and we’d been in serious trouble.
All that afternoon, as we continued to play, I was aware of an enjoyable tingly warmth in the back of my pants even from just that one stroke across my bottom.
What I hadn’t bargained for was that that broad red stripe would still be visible when my mother came to bath me that evening. “Andrew, what’s that mark on your bottom? Has someone hit you?” I blushed and really didn’t know what to say, but in the end I mumbled: “It was Cameron – we were playing.” My Mother arched an eyebrow but thankfully didn’t press me for any more details.
