To say that I had a tough start in life would be quite the understatement. When I was 11, my father was sent to prison and my mom could not take care of me because she was in a rehab facility. My uncle was always in trouble with the law as well.
So, I wound up living with their mother and my aunt. My aunt worked, so Grandma took on the role of primary care giver. Her name was Crystal and everyone in the neighbourhood knew her as ‘Big Crystal’. She was a heavy-set woman with a hard hand (as I was to find out), muscular arms, large thighs and a generous, motherly bosom.
Looking back, I think Grandma felt she had not done a good enough job with raising her own children, particularly my uncle, and she was determined that I would not turn out like them. She made that clear the day I arrived, taking me aside to give me a stern lecture, all the while smacking her lap with her right hand.
Certainly, the message was loud and clear, I was certainly embarrassed at the possibility of ending up over Grandma’s knee for a spanking like a naughty little boy.
But a bigger shock was to come, as I found out that Grandma wasn’t just speaking theoretically – she called me over to stand in front of her
“But I haven’t done anything wrong yet!” I complained. “No, you haven’t – and this is to make sure it stays that way,” Grandma replied shortly. She perched me, on her right thigh. She looked down briefly, then she looked me solemnly in the eyes and extracted promises to behave, do well in school, remember my chores etc.
I promised, of course, then Grandma said: “Now it’s time for that reminder. Lie face down over my knee – this is going to hurt.” I began to cry in anticipation of the pain but Grandma gently but firmly manhandled me into the required position, so that my naked bottom was on top of her lap.
The first spank on my bottom burned like fire – I could not believe how hard Grandma could smack my bottom with that hand that had treated me so tenderly in so many other ways. The spanks continued to come as I cried rivers of tears.
Finally, after begging and pleading ‘no more’ for a few minutes, Grandma suddenly stopped spanking me, raised me to her breasts and cuddled me while rubbing my behind to make it better.
She spoke tenderly to me. “John, I hope that lesson will prevent future misbehaviour. But I won’t hesitate to spank you when it’s needed. I only because I love you.” “That won’t be a problem in future because it’ll be the slipper, young man. Hands are for loving.”
Not surprisingly, in bed that night I I replayed the spanking in my head. Looking back, I had already developed a fetish but that experience over Grandma’s knee cemented the way I came to equate spankings with love. As an adult, I would go on to re-enact such punishments with various others, including the woman who eventually became my wife.
