The stories that I chose to relate in my first two postings stand out in my mind because they were transitional events; i.e., my first spanking; the change from OTK spanking to over the chair spanking; and my recollection of the most severe spanking I received as a child. In addition to those events, there was one other spanking (well, a lot more than one actually, as you will soon understand) that stands out in my mind as being particularly memorable, and it is this incident that probably formed the basis of much of my later fascination with spanking.
As an only child, the spankings I received were solitary events, i.e., I was the sole recipient of the spanking, and my father, except as noted in the "shop lifting" episode, was the sole administrator. There was one exception to that rule and it occurred when I was ten years old.
From late 1958 to late 1960 I lived on an Air Force Base in Maine. Housing on that base consisted of duplex apartments. The building that my family lived in was shared by another family; the Franklin's. The Franklin's had three children. Their oldest child was a girl named Valerie, age twelve, (with whom I sometimes played strip poker, and always lost; I'm sure she cheated!) and two boys, Michael (ten) and Daniel (eight). Valerie, who had just turned twelve, was fifteen months older than Mike, and Mike was a month older than me.
Mike's parents, like the parents of most of my other friends, believed in the old adage "if you spare the rod, you spoil the child." That attitude was more common in the 1950's than it is today, or perhaps it was just more accepted in the military than in civilian life. This was, after all, long before anyone thought of establishing a "Family Advocacy Office" and certainly long before anyone would have given serious consideration to the notion that a child had a right to sue his parents for giving him a spanking. Anyway, the acoustics in our building clearly advertised the fact that Mr. Franklin had no intention of letting any of his children grow up spoiled; belt spankings, of one child or another (or all three), seemed as regular as the nightly news. Whenever a spanking was in progress (especially when Valerie was getting a whipping), I'd retire to my room (our bedrooms shared a common wall), lay back on my bed, fantasize and enjoy the show. Likewise, I'm sure, those same acoustics let the Franklin children know, from time to time, that matters of discipline were not being neglected on our side of the building.
February was very cold and filled with snow. It was also the month that Sergeant Franklin, and his wife, had to take emergency leave. His sister had been seriously injured in an automobile accident and was not expected to live. Mr. Franklin, which is how I always addressed him, did not know how long he and his wife would be gone, but thought that it might be as long as three or four weeks. Bringing his children along on this trip would, under the circumstances, have been very difficult and would also have interrupted the children's schooling. Consequently, Mr. Franklin asked my parents if they would mind taking care of his children while he and his wife were away. My mother and father agreed immediately and, as the two apartments shared a common stairwell, it was even possible for the Franklin children to sleep in their own rooms at night.
Before leaving, Mr. Franklin lectured his children on the importance of "being good" and told them that he expected everyone to be on their very best behavior. Having said that, he then told my father, "Treat my kids no differently than you do your own," by which he meant that my father was free to discipline his children "whenever (interesting when, not if) they get out of hand."
My father said that he hoped that would not be necessary. But, at the same time, he made it clear to all of us kids that he would tolerate no nonsense while Mr. and Mrs. Franklin were away. For two weeks, everything went very well.
On the second weekend, Valerie was invited to a sleep over/birthday party; she left Friday after school and returned Saturday afternoon. On Saturday morning, Mike, Danny and I were each given 50 cents to spend at the movie theater. Movies at the base theater started at 12:30 PM and cost 25 cents. With the extra quarter we could each buy a Coke and popcorn. Prices on the base were very reasonable, and of course a dollar bought more in 1959 than it does today. Dressed in long-john's, blue jeans, a pull over shirt, and a warm sweater, we donned our parkas and headed off to the movies. It was a five minute walk to the theater and we left the house at 12:15 PM.
I'm not sure which one of us bright young lads suggested the idea first, either Mike or myself, but we did some quick math and figured out that if Danny bought a ticket, went inside, and then let us in through the rear exit, we could "get in for free" and have an extra fifty cents to spend on candy. That was the game plan anyhow, the way it was supposed to work out; but of course, that is not what happened.
We got in okay, but within a minute or two the manager came down to our seats and motioned us to follow him to his office.
Were we worried? Not really. We knew, or thought we did, what was going to happen next. We weren't the first kids to have thought of this idea. Some of our friends had been caught pulling the same stunt, and had told us what to expect. The manager would take us to his office, ask us our name, address and telephone number -- put this information on a 3X5 card, and warn us never to pull a stunt like that again or he would call our parents.
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Minus any apprehension over the consequences of getting caught, we failed to exhibit the proper sense of remorse expected of a child that has just been caught doing something wrong. Mike was very cavalier about the whole thing, saying something like "Okay, you caught us - we're sorry, now how about letting us buy a ticket and forget the whole thing."
That type of attitude didn't play well with the manager. And, to make matters worse, the manager knew Mike's father.
"This is not a game, son. And, knowing your father as I do, I doubt seriously that your dad would consider this something to laugh about. In fact, why don't I just call your father on the phone right now (reaching for the phone) and we'll see what he has to say."
Mike answered, truthfully, that his father wasn't home, and that his parents were both "out of town." But, the manager didn't like the tone of Mike's reply, and took this response as further evidence that we were a bunch of "smart alecks." Rightly or wrongly, at that moment, we lost our last opportunity to convince the manager that we were sorry; our last chance to ask, or plead, that he not call our folks.
Displeased by our "poor" attitude, the manager was more determined than ever to make an example of our plight. Following a few more questions, he quickly determined that my father was the responsible adult in this case and, just as quickly, was talking to him on the telephone.
Mom had the car. She had gone off to some friends house, to help decorate for a party that she and my father were going to attend later that evening. She was also going to pick up Valerie at the birthday party she had attended and, before coming home, planned to drop by the commissary to do the week's grocery shopping. Mom wouldn't be home until after 3 PM. Consequently, my father had to walk to the theater. The temperature outside was near zero, and there was plenty of wind, ice and snow along the route. He wasn't happy.
When my father arrived, the manager rendered his version of what had happened. Needless to say, he didn't paint a very favorable picture. He said that when he brought us to his office we had "acted cocky and smarted off." And, as if sneaking into the theater and wising off were not bad enough, he added (for good measure) that, several weeks before, he had seen us throwing popcorn in the theater and making a general mess. (Yeah, us and about 30 other kids).
I mentioned that we weren't the only ones throwing popcorn, but that didn't help any; it only gave credence to the managers story.
By now it was just about 1 PM. My father thanked the manager for bringing this matter to his attention. He said that he was both ashamed and saddened by our poor behavior. He said that he would like to have us boys apologize, but felt that our rendering an apology, right then, would mean little or nothing. Instead, after confirming that the movie would end at 2:30 PM (there was usually a feature film lasting 90 minutes or so, preceded by the National anthem, and about 30 minutes of cartoons and/or a serial short of some kind), my father told the manager that he would like to take us home for a bit. He promised to have us back at the theater sometime before the end of the movie. My father said that he was certain that, between now and then, our attitude would show a remarkable change, and that our deferred apology would be far more convincing, heartfelt and sincere.
We all walked home together.
As we entered the house my father told us to leave our boots in the entry hall and to hang our coats on the coat rack. After doing this, he motioned us to follow him into the living room. Once there, we were instructed to sit on the couch. My father took a seat across from the couch and addressed himself to Mike, and his brother.
He said that he was very disappointed by their behavior. He had hoped, when their mother and father returned home, to be able to report to them how good everyone had been while they were away; now, he wouldn't be able to do that. Then, looking Mike right in the eyes, he asked "What do you think your father would do if he were here in my place?"
Mike shrugged his shoulders.
Mike's full name was Michael Thomas Franklin and while everyone at school called him Mike, his brother always called him Tommy. I mention this because, just as Mike shrugged his shoulders, Danny, always willing to be helpful, and forgetting that the three of us were all in this together, spoke up.
"Daddy would pull Tommy's pants down and whoop him with his belt for sure!"
If looks could kill --- anyway, Mike gave his brother a pained expression. But, before he had a chance to respond further, my father looked at Danny and asked "And just what would your Daddy do to you?"
Reality set in. Danny looked down at the floor and didn't say a thing.
Next, my father looked straight at me, but his comments were addressed to all three of us. "I want you kids to know that what you did today wasn't just a prank, it was stealing. Stealing isn't a game, its a crime. Sneaking into that movie theater is no different than stealing a candy bar from a store. The three of you went to that theater with enough money to buy a ticket and get yourselves something to eat. Instead, you tried to get something for nothing. . . . . and for that, you're going to be punished."
"Bobby, go get the chair and set it down right here."
When I returned with the chair, he spoke again. This time, directing his comments to Mike and Danny.
"For the record, I don't give spankings with a belt, . . . . I use a paddle; and I don't pull pants down, . . . . you're going to take off all your clothes; and I'm not going to bend you over my knee or anything, . . . . you're going to lean over that chair (pointing) while I spank you."
At this point my father paused for a moment, to let the full import of his message sink in.
"Now, I want the three of you to get your clothes off right now. . . .You heard me, start stripping. You've got just two minutes to get yourselves bare-ass and buck-naked, so you better get in gear!"
Mike and Danny didn't move at first, but as they watched me tear my clothes off as fast as I could, they soon got the spirit. In less than two minutes our clothes lay heaped on the floor, and the three of us
were sitting on that couch in our birthday suits.
"Bobby, bring me the paddle."
I scampered to the doorway and quickly returned with the "Board of Education". No one called it that (except for a few friends, Mike included, who enjoyed teasing me about it from time to time), but those words were printed, in large black lettering, on one side of the paddle; under about three layers of shinny varnish. In small doses bruising was minimal, but each swat stung like hell.
After handing the paddle to my father, I was given the honor of going first. My father grabbed a cushion from off the couch and held it atop the chair as I climbed into position. Following the usual warnings about "not letting go", I was told to "keep the count".
Given the seriousness of this offense and the fact that we had "smarted off" to the manager, my father announced that 20 swats seemed fair. He said that Mike would also be given 20 swats and Danny, because of his age, would be given 10 swats. The total, 50, with intended irony, would equal one swat for each penny we had planned to "steal" from the movie theater.
After making that comment, my father stepped to the side of the chair so that he stood parallel to my now perfectly positioned, highly arched, and naked ( ! ) ass. Without further comment, the spanking began.
The spanking was excruciating, but what I remember most, is not the spanking. What I remember most is standing afterwards, watching Mike and Danny get spanked. Watching their butts flinch in anticipation of each stroke. Listening to their cries. Watching their ass turn a brighter shade of pink (*!*) with each stroke, and then darken as repeated strokes left their mark. Watching the welts (#!#) rise and overlap.
I had never seen anyone spanked (that close up) before. As I stood there, taking it all in, I began to wonder what would have happened had Valerie not been invited to that sleep over? What if she had gone to the movies with us instead? If she had gone along with our conspiracy, would she have been punished along with the rest of us? Would I now be watching her naked body stretched across the top of that hated chair? Then a chilling thought; what if she had stayed home? Would my father have spanked us, in the living room, with Valerie watching?
Not that Valerie hadn't already seen me naked; we played a lot of strip poker, and, with her parents away, we had found more opportunities to play than usual. (You think, by now, that I'd have won at least one game! I'm sure she's cheating, I just don't know how.) Indeed, although I didn't know it at the time, Valerie would (again) have the three of us parading around, in the buff, later that evening.
Valerie, who had just turned twelve, was given the job of baby sitting us while my parents went to their party. Sort of like having a wolf guard the sheep, and like sheep, we were quickly shorn. We started our strip poker game almost as soon as my parents left and, in seemingly no time at all, were fleeced of every stitch of our clothing. (I know she cheated!, no one could be that lucky!)
Valerie gathered our "lost" clothes and put them in the dirty clothes hamper and then sequestered our pajamas. She told us that if we wanted our PJs back, we would have to "earn" them. We remained naked until well after mid-night.
As the victor, Valerie was able to select our penalty. She had been studying ancient Greece in school and decided that we should pretend to be Spartan school boys. She told us how, in ancient Sparta, boys were taken away from their parents when they reached their seventh birthday. Spartan boys, she claimed, were sent to a communal school. A school at which they were forbidden to wear clothes, and at which they were harshly disciplined for even the slightest offense.
As for discipline, Valerie made it fiendishly clear that she had every intention of being our overseer. The marks left from our earlier spanking provided cover and allowed her to pretty much paddle us as often and as hard as she wanted (and she wanted and extracted a lot). Mike, Danny and I had to wrestle and box with one another. We had to tumble, do sit-ups, push-ups, jumping jacks, run in place, bend over to touch our toes, hop, jump, squat, crawl like a crab, play leap frog, stand on our heads, and do just about anything (and everything) she demanded. Protests, of any kind, were quickly and wickedly "rewarded". Suffice to say, the spanking we received earlier that afternoon was not the only paddling we received that day; not by a long shot.
Anyway, getting back to that earlier spanking; as Mike, and then Danny, were each spanked in turn, I kept thinking of Valerie. Would she have stood by the doorway and watched me get spanked? Would she have enjoyed watching me get spanked? (She certainly demonstrated, later that evening, that she keenly relished being the spanker!) Would I have enjoyed watching her get spanked? - You Bet!
I don't know if my father had any idea of the thoughts that were running through my mind, but he could hardly have helped noticing the hard-on I had developed. I may not have started puberty, but my penis didn't know any better; | \?/ | it was standing almost straight up and down; perpendicular with the floor.
What my father thought, or what my father would have done had Valerie been home, remains a mystery. I guess he would have spanked us in separate rooms, or in different parts of the house (or houses). I don't know.
It was still early, not yet 2 PM, when Danny was given his last swat, had finally stopped crying, and was allowed to come down off the chair. Mike was given the job of putting the chair back in the dining room and Danny was told to replace the paddle on its hook by the front door (where it remained until Valerie made use of it later that evening). After completing those chores, my father made us stand, with our hands at our sides, as he continued to lecture us on the seriousness of what we had done; my erection subsided.
He kept this talk going for a good ten minutes. And, as always, he concluded his post-spanking lecture by saying that he hoped that we had learned something, and that we would profit from that experience.
Finally, we were given permission to get dressed. After getting our clothes back on, we all went to the bathroom to wash up, wipe away our tears, and take a whiz. Then, we headed back to the theater.
We arrived at the theater at about 2:20 PM and went straight to the manager's office. We apologized to the manager. And, as my father had suggested, that apology was delivered with far more sincerity than would have been the case earlier. The manager knew, or could certainly have guessed, that we had all been spanked. Nonetheless, he queried us (tortured us really) about this sudden and remarkable transformation.
"Just what did your Dad say? . . . I'd certainly like to know what your Dad's secret is."
After we rendered our apology, my father volunteered our services in helping to clean up the theater. My father did this so we could find out "first hand" why one should not throw popcorn.
When Mr. and Mrs. Franklin returned from their emergency leave, about a week later, my father told them that Valerie had been excellent (Excellent hell, she cheated at cards!). He also told them about the trouble we had gotten into at the movie theater, but made it clear that we had already been punished sufficiently for that error in judgment.
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