I wasn't always spanked when I misbehaved. My mother preferred making me stand in the corner, or more correctly, "stand tall" at some set location, usually in the center of a room.
My mother had one of those old "typing test" alarm clocks, the kind you preset for some constant duration; usually five minutes in most typing classes, but 30 minutes in this case. To start the timer one had only to pull down on a lever/arm that extended out from one side of the clock. When the alarm sounded, a loud bell would ring for about five seconds as the lever/arm slowly inched its way back to the off position.
Stints in the corner, as you might guess, usually lasted thirty minutes. As a rule, my mother did not make me strip or anything before sending me to the corner and, if I behaved myself, there was usually no additional punishment. From time to time however, if I'd done something that made her real angry (and as I got older her patience diminished), she'd make an exception to that no strip rule, and I'd find myself stripped down to my underwear. When that happened the timer wasn't used - it was clearly understood that my standing in the corner was only a temporary condition, i.e., temporary until such time as my father got home and could administer a more appropriate punishment.
When my dad got home mom would tell him her version of what it was I did - dad would listen and then send me off to retrieve the Board of Education. When I returned, with paddle in hand, the two of us would head off to my room to "take care of business". I'd get the usual lecture - a lecture not so much about what it was I did wrong, as about my inability to learn from previous mistakes. After this "discussion" dad would, if I was wearing a T-shirt, tell me to put my hands up as he reached down to pull the T-shirt up and over my head. Then, without really asking, he'd expect me to take off, not just pull down, my underpants. Removing my underpants was always something that was left for me to accomplish. I'm sure there was a great deal of symbolism in this ritual, just as there was plenty of symbolism in the whole spanking process, e.g., the ritual of making me retrieve the paddle. These rituals involved relationships. Hanging the paddle someplace where everyone could see it, and making me put my arms up in the air while he pulled off my T-shirt, spoke of who was in charge. Retrieving the paddle, and taking off my underpants, meant that I accepted this relationship and accepted the punishment that was certain to follow.
Today, with the passing of 40+ years, 'corner time' is a fetish hot button, but I can assure you that as a young boy it was something I absolutely hated; hated more than the spanking itself. The spanking was almost always over in a matter of minutes, while 'corner time' dragged on forever - or so it seemed. As indicated above, my mother settled on two forms of 'corner time'; that which was intended to quiet me down when I became too rambunctious; and that which served as a prelude to a later spanking. At first, other than a strong verbal announcement that I was to wait in the corner for my father to come home and spank me, both forms of corner time were handled much the same, i.e., I was not stripped for one, or the other. But that was to change, and how that sad change came about is a story of its own.
* * *
I was ten years old at the time (sometime after the 4th of July incident) and still living at Anderson AFB, Guam. My father had hired a part time maid to work around the house but my mother always made sure that certain chores/duties were assigned to me and expected those household tasks to be completed on time and without excuses or complaints. These chores were by no means burdensome. I didn't have something to do each and every moment of the day; far from it - Instead my mother would, from time to time, inform me that she wanted 'such-n'such' done before I went out to play or, that I was to return home at a certain time to do whatever it was that she wanted done. None of these chores took a great deal of time to complete, thirty minutes to an hour at most, but they often seemed to crop up at the most inopportune moment and, when you're ten, thirty minutes can seem like forever.
One morning, as my mother was about to leave the house for a few hours, she informed me that she wanted some chore completed before I went out to play. I don't recall now what that chore was, but I do remember, shortly after she left, that a friend came over and easily talked me out of staying home to work on chores. I told the maid to do whatever it was that I had been asked to do, and quickly left the house. Well, as luck would have it (and my luck never seemed to be very good) my mother forgot something and came home soon after we left. When I finally did come home at around 4 that afternoon my mother was pretty angry. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that what I had done was very wrong, dishonest and would be punished. I was told to wait in the corner for my father to come home. My mother made it quite clear that she intended to have my father give me a sound thrashing, a spanking that I wouldn't forget any time soon. Memories of the spanking I had received less than a month before (on the 4th of July) came quickly to mind. The effect of this lecture was such that it scared the hell out of me. I was so scared in fact that I decided to run away. So, as soon as my mother left the room, I took off running.
I don't know what I thought I was doing. No sooner had I left than I quickly realized I was making a big mistake and only making things worse. I wandered about for an hour or so and then came home. By this time my father was home, and my mother had already stated the case from her perspective; need I say that I was convicted in absentia.
When I came in the house the first thing I was told to do was to get busy and set the table; a chore that was mine to do each evening. During supper mom made several references to my poor behavior, not just that day but, in her opinion, behavior that had been getting worse since school let out. She didn't discuss the pending spanking directly but it was clear to everyone that she was still very angry and expected my father to "discuss" this problem with me at length. Needless to say I had long since lost my appetite. When my parents were finished eating and the table had been cleared, my father sent me off to retrieve the "Board of Education" and then took me to my room where I received an intense bare bottom paddling that matched the expectations I'd had when I ran away in the first place. As was usual after such a spanking I was made to apologize to my mother. Apologize for failing to do what I was told to do; apologize for getting the maid to do my chores; and apologize for running away after she sent me to the corner. With regard to this last part of the apology I even went so far as to promise her that I would never run away again. My mother listened and accepted these apologies but also quickly added a cryptic comment of her own.
"I'm sure you're sorry Bobby. You're always sorry after you've been spanked. You've always been very quick with apologies and promises, but rather short on keeping your word - But not this time - this time Bobby I'm going to help you keep your promise."
I found out what she meant a week or so later. Again, as happened so often before, I failed to return home at some appointed time and, by failing to return had also failed to complete some assigned task. My mother went out searching for me. It didn't take her long to find me and the fact that I was playing with friends at the time didn't stop her from telling the whole world that I was going to get a spanking when my father got home.
"Didn't I tell you to be home by 3 o'clock? This is the same problem we had last week. When I tell you to do something Mister, I mean for it to be done on-time. Well - you've just earned yourself another spanking young man! You've obviously forgotten the spanking you got last week - and your apologies - but you can be sure that I have every intention of helping you keep your promise; you won't be running away from the corner this time. Now get home."
My mother and I entered the house together. She took me to the same corner I had fled from the week before, but this time, before leaving, she told me to take off my pants. I started to argue but quickly decided that I had better stop arguing and do what she said. I seldom wore shoes in Guam; hardly at all during the summer. Instead I wore 'zorries', or what are known today as 'flip-flops'. Consequently, it only took me a few seconds to get my pants off. When I had them off my mother grabbed them from me, and also pulled the T-shirt I was wearing up and over my head, leaving me to stand there in just my underpants.
"I don't imagine you'll run away dressed like that!"
From then on, whenever a spanking was due, standing in the corner in just my underwear (sometimes the T-shirt was left on, other times not) became the established rule. I remember a few weeks later, once again headed to the corner, begging her to let me keep my pants on. I told her that I'd stand still and remain quiet if she'd just let me keep my pants on. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not in a position to bargain.
"You should have thought of that before you ran away. You tricked me once and I won't be tricked again. If you don't want to stand in the corner in your underpants, then maybe you should learn to behave yourself and do what you're told - when you're told! Until you're ready to do that you'll be standing like this now, and forever more."
She was right. Five years later, at age 14 and in the 9th grade of Junior High, there were times when, if you were to drop by our house, you'd find me standing in the living room, stripped down to my underwear and waiting for my father to come home.
Fortunately, my mother seldom had guests dropping by -- but seldom is seldom, it's not never - and I recall how very embarrassing I found it when some friend of my mom, usually the mother of one of my friends (often with younger siblings in tow), would drop by the house for coffee or tea, or just to chat, while I stood in the center of the living room in just my underwear.
The guest would usually say something like "Oh, excuse me, have I come by at an inopportune time?"
I certainly thought so, but my mother would quickly say "No, no, not at all, please sit down. Bobby's just waiting for his Dad to come home, I told him to come straight home from school today and, instead, I found him playing football up the street." -- that sort of thing.
If a younger child (boy or girl) accompanied the visitor it didn't take him or her long to ask -
"What's Bobby doing in his undies?"
My mother would respond with something like -
"Now don't bother Bobby, he's been a naughty boy and is going to be punished when his dad gets home."
Mom didn't elaborate on what would happen when my Dad got home, she didn't have to - I was certain that everyone knew about that paddle in the foyer and therefore, no elaboration was required.
Of course, Mom's explanation only served to peak the kid's interest. After hearing this explanation, some kids would camp out, i.e., sit on the floor and look up at me during the rest of the visit.
These kids always seemed a bit disappointed when, as was usually the case, their visit ended before Dad got home. One persistent boy, who was probably five or six years old, and clearly harboring hopes of watching, or at least hearing me get spanked, started to give his Mom a hard time when it was time to leave, - i.e., until his mother (joking perhaps, but with a serious tone in her voice) let him know that if he didn't get out the door in the next 10 seconds she'd take off his pants and let him join me in the corner. I'm sure his mother was probably bluffing, but the boy wasn't a gambler - there were limits to his persistence and his determination quickly faltered. Bluff or no bluff, he folded and didn't hang around long enough to test the waters.
* * *
The following story is an exaggeration - the incident itself is true, but what happened took place while I stood in my underwear; not my birthday suit. When you're eleven (at least back in 1959) being seen by a girl while wearing nothing but underwear was about the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to a boy. I certainly felt embarrassed - though in truth, Valerie had often seen me wearing far less.
As noted before, I was almost always expected to help set the table for supper, and clear away the dirty dishes when we had finished eating. Sometimes I helped wash the dishes, and emptied the trash, but this was not a daily duty; my father had chores too.
Some chores, weren't really chores at all. They were an intrinsic part of daily life, like washing your hands or brushing your teeth. Similarly I was expected to make my bed each morning and to pick up after myself. My mother expected me to carry my dirty clothes to the laundry room, and put the clean clothes she had washed in their proper drawers. These routine tasks were to be taken care of each morning without fail, and without her asking. My mother would accept no excuse for failing to perform these basic duties. That point was made perfectly clear to me one day, shortly after I turned eleven.
We were living in Maine now. The school I attended was about seven miles from my house. When I got off the school bus, I went directly home. As I started to walk down the path that lead to our apartment building, my mother confronted me at the stairwell of our duplex building. She wanted to know why I left my room in such a mess that morning.
Well, to be honest, I had overslept that morning, and had run off to catch the school bus without making my bed or picking yesterday's dirty clothes up from off the floor. Mom left everything the way she discovered it, and wanted to know why I found it so hard to clean up after myself.
If I had been smart, I would have apologized right away, without excuses, and hoped for the best. If I had done so, I might have saved myself a lot of grief. Instead, I brushed her criticism aside. I told her that I had gotten a late start that morning and had forgotten to clean up my room because I was too busy trying to get ready for school. Wrong answer.
My mother responded that, in view of my failing memory and busy schedule, I had best take care of the mess right away; while it was still fresh in my mind and before I got too busy with homework.
My mother stood by my bedroom door watching as I made my bed, and continued to watch as I picked my dirty clothes up from off the floor. She then followed me to the laundry room and watched as I deposited those clothes in the hamper.
Once I was in the laundry room I discovered that I was somewhat cornered. As I was about to leave, my mother blocked the exit and suggested that I also put my school clothes (those I was wearing) in the hamper. "Now, before you forget."
Each day, when I got home from school, I was supposed to change from my school clothes, into my play clothes. Of course, I would normally do that in my room, not in the laundry room. I hadn't caught on to what was happening just yet, but I was about to find out.
"I'll change when I get to me room. Okay?"
"No, I think you had better change now. I wouldn't want you to forget." And, just in case there was any doubt in my mind as to what she wanted, she spelled out her request in no uncertain terms. "Get your clothes off!"
Reluctantly, I removed my school clothes and put them in the hamper. I tried keeping my underwear on, but my mother would have none of that. When I was completely undressed she told me to go to my room, get my school books, and meet her (straight away) in the dining room. When I walked into the dining room I found that her chair (normally located at the foot of the table, that end nearest the kitchen) had been pulled away. She told me to put my books at the foot of the table and to "Get started on your school work."
I explained to her that I expected Mike to come over any minute (true) and that we had planned to do our homework together (false).
Mom said that was fine with her, but it wasn't going to change anything. I could do my homework standing (naked) and Mike could stand or sit as he chose.
The door bell rang. It was Mike.
My mother answered the door.
From my vantage point, in the dining room, I could hear the following conversation.
"Is Bobby ready to go out and play?"
"I thought you and Bobby were going to do your homework together?"
"Oh yeah, but I thought we'd go out and play a little first." (Mike was quick on his feet)
"Bobby isn't dressed for play right now. He's got a lot of homework. If you two want to study together, you can join him in the dining room."
"Not right now, but I'll be over a little later."
My mother closed the door and returned to the kitchen.
"Unless you want to do your homework like this every day, I suggest you get started."
The door bell rang again. This time it was Valerie, she'd been sent over to borrow some eggs.
Our kitchen was located just off the entry hall, but the kitchen was also open to the dining room. When Valerie entered the kitchen she had a clear shot of my "work area" (and my backside).
"You'll have to excuse Bobby. He's being punished for failing to clean up his room this morning, and he's got a lot of homework to do."
Valerie and my mom continued to talk. Every so often, I would chance a look towards the kitchen. Once, when my mother wasn't looking, Valerie saw me, made a face, and rolled her eyes.
After about ten minutes, there was a knock at the door. Danny came bounding in. He'd been sent over to check up on Valerie and the eggs.
He'd been in the kitchen all of about 15 seconds when he looked over and saw me.
"Hey, Bobby's nak. . . . he's not wearing any clothes. Why isn't he wearing his clothes?
"Yes Danny, we know Bobby's naked. He's being punished. He's got lots of homework to do right now, so you'll have to talk to him about that later. Just let him do his work. Here, why don't you help your sister carry these eggs home."
Five minutes later the door bell rang yet again. This time it was Mike. Valerie and Danny had wasted no time informing him about my plight, and Mike had wasted no time rushing over to console (tease) me, and to share (enjoy) my misery. Nonetheless, we did do our math and geography homework together. When we finished, Mike went home.
After Mike left, my mother came over and checked my work. It met with her approval.
My father was due home almost any time.
"Do you think you can remember to do your chores in the future?"
"Okay then. You can go to your room now and get dressed but make sure you hurry back and set the table."
After that, I always remembered to make my bed and pick up my dirty clothes. That is, I always remembered to do those things until I got married.
* * *
At this point I would like to remind the reader that the events related up to this point all have a basis in truth. I will admit to having taken some literary license in the telling of these experiences, but the events described are actual events from my childhood.
The following story too, as the one before it, is only half true. In this half fictional story, I establish a pecking order in which a mother spanks her son, who spanks his sister, who spanks her younger brother etc... this is not true; the mother spanked everyone. Other than that, the events described below actually happened. Mixing fact with fiction was fun - I hope you enjoy the results.
* * *
The above story reminds me of a similar episode that occurred about a year and a half later. Fortunately, in that episode I was not cast as the protagonist.
I was twelve, almost thirteen at the time and our family was now living in California. I had a girl friend, Donna, who was also twelve and just beginning to develop. When she turned 13 she lost interest in "children" like me and moved on to capture the hearts of older boys. But, at the time of this story we were good friends, and we spent a lot of time together, at movies, studying together, or helping each other with our homework. We didn't fool around (no strip poker games either), Donna had an older brother, Patrick (age 15, and already nearly 6 ft tall) who would have kicked my ass if I stepped out of line with his baby sister.
Donna's mother and father were divorced. Patrick was the man of the family and very mature for his age. Donna also had a younger brother, Timmy (age 10, who, like his brother, was very big for his age, about 5 foot 6 inches), and it is Timmy who has the honor of being the star of this story.
Donna and I did our homework together almost every day. Normally, we would come straight home (her house) and work together in the kitchen. Her mother arranged this setting so that we weren't left alone in Donna's room. Meanwhile, her mother got dinner ready. We sat across from each other at a small, narrow, three sided breakfast table (the fourth side was shoved up against the wall.
On Wednesday's we'd start our homework (Social Studies and History) at the library and finish (Mathematics and English) at Donna's house. We'd get back from the library at about 4:30 and work to about 5:30 PM. Wednesday was also Donna's day for chores. She had to set the table and wash the dishes. I almost always stayed for dinner and helped her with these duties.
One Wednesday, we entered Donna's house and proceeded to the kitchen, as usual. When I opened the kitchen door, I had quite a surprise. Timmy was standing at the end of the breakfast table with one hand grasping each side of the table. His shirt and undershirt had been pulled over his head and were now stretched between his two lower arms. There was a razor strap (it must have been at least three inches wide) lying on the table, just forward of Timmy's hands, almost forming a bridge from one hand to the other. His legs were spread, about 18 inches apart, and his pants were pulled down tight about his ankles, his underpants were straddling his knees. Donna's mom, who was working about the kitchen when we entered, went about her work as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Donna too, did not seem overly surprised finding her brother in this situation.
"Did you two finish up your homework at the library?"
"Almost," replied Donna, "we have two pages of math to finish. It shouldn't take us more than 30 minutes or so."
"Well, you'll have to finish your homework at the dinner table I guess."
Donna nodded, and we left the kitchen.
As we sat down at the dining room table, an unsettling sense of deja'vu gripped my stomach; I'd been in something like Timmy's situation more than once myself. I started to ask Donna what was going on but she cut me short and said she'd explain later.
Homework took a little longer than we thought. When we finished, Donna took her books to her room.
Left alone, and without really thinking, I wandered back into the kitchen.
"Did you finish everything?" Donna's mother asked.
"Yes ma'am," I replied.
"Well Bobby, as you can see, Timmy's going to be punished. Since were running a little late, I'd appreciate your setting the dinner table alone. Donna and Timmy have some 'business' to take care of."
"Sure thing Mrs. Kelly, I'll start setting the table right away."
Donna returned to the dining room just as I exited the kitchen. I told her that her mom had asked me to start setting the table. Donna nodded and went into the kitchen.
The kitchen had a swing door, but I had no trouble hearing the conversation voiced on the other side of the door.
"I've told Timmy, over and over again, not to bounce that basketball of his in the house. Haven't I Timmy? (mumbled response). I cautioned him again this afternoon before he went out to play but when he came back in the house he started bouncing the ball again, only this time it bounced off his foot and it tipped over a lamp and broke the glass on our coffee table; thank god the lamp wasn't broken, its an antique. (Pause) Bobby's going to set the table, so you can start taking care of business right now, I'll tell you when to stop."
There was a brief moment of silence, followed by a surprisingly loud crack, as the razor strap must have wrapped itself around Timmy's bare ass. This was followed immediately by a loud outcry from Timmy. When Timmy's crying had diminished in volume, the whole cycle started again (CRRRRAACK!)
With each crack of the belt I shuddered, but continued to set the table. I silently counted off each stroke (out of habit I guess); twenty three in all. Again, there was a long period of silence, broken only by Timmy's sniffling and close to hyperventilating sobs.
"Are you going to bounce that ball in the house again," queried Mrs. Kelly?
"Are you sure? Is that a promise?"
"Ye....s mo....ther, I pr....omise," Tim replied with some difficulty, still unable to control his breathing.
"You'll have to pay for new glass out of your allowance, you understand?"
The kitchen door opened. Donna and her mother joined me in the dining room. Mrs. Kelly complimented me for the good job I did in setting the table and said she was sorry that I had had to set the table alone.
"These things happen from time to time, I'm sure you understand."
Mrs. Kelly knew that I understood, only too well. She and my mother were good friends. Mrs. Kelly had been over to our house on numerous occasions and had certainly seen the "Board of Education" hanging from its place of honor. I'm sure my mother must have told her just how, and how often, the paddle was put to use. Mrs. Kelly then asked me if I would help her carry the roast in from the kitchen.
I followed her into the kitchen and, in doing so, stole a glance Timmy's way. He was still standing in the same position, only now his underwear were draped around his ankles and his shirt and undershirt were lying on the floor. From just below his waste, to an area just above his knees, there wasn't an inch of skin on Timmy's behind that wasn't painted some shade of red.
I picked up the roast and carried it to the dining room. Mrs. Kelly stayed in the kitchen for a minute or two then joined us at the table. She asked Donna to tell Patrick, who was in his room, to join us at the table. Patrick joined us and sat down. A second or two later, Timmy, now dressed, bolted out of the kitchen and ran straight to his room, he didn't join us for supper. He wouldn't talk to me for weeks.
Donna and I had never really discussed discipline before, but the next day, during school lunch, I asked her about Timmy's punishment. Why did her mom have Donna, and not Patrick or herself, spank Timmy.
Donna said it all started a long time ago, when she was seven and Patrick was ten; Timmy's age now. Patrick, like Timmy, was big for his age. When Patrick misbehaved Mrs. Kelly would take Patrick to the kitchen and give him a good strapping. This wasn't very often though, Donna commented, Patrick had always been very responsible and seldom misbehaved.
Donna continued, "One day Patrick and I were sent off to the corner grocery, a Mom-N-Pop operation, to buy some canned tomatoes or something mom needed to fix dinner. Patrick had been given just enough money to buy what was needed. When we got to the store I threw a tantrum, I wanted a candy bar and I wasn't going to accept no for an answer. The store's owner came over and tried to calm me down by offering me a butterscotch but I threw the candy on the floor and said I wanted a candy bar. I was behaving like a regular spoiled brat. Patrick picked up the butterscotch and told the owner he was sorry about my behavior. He said he would be sure to tell our mom about this incident when we got home and that I'd be punished."
"When we got home I went to my room. Patrick brought the needed groceries to my mom, who was in the kitchen. True to his word, he told mom all about my little temper tantrum at the store."
"Mom was making a stew of some kind. When she had everything cooking she and Patrick went to my room. My mother asked me if what Patrick said was true. There was no use denying the story, mom would only have walked us back to the store to get the grocer's confirmation. Mom then told me to follow her back to the kitchen."
"I'd heard her spank Patrick before so I had a pretty good idea what was going to happen. I started to cry and promised that I'd never be bad again, but mom wasn't listening. When we got to the kitchen she had me grab the table with my arms, undid the zipper at the back of my dress, pulled it up over my head and pushed it down along my arms. Then she pulled my long stockings down about my ankles and my panties down to my knees. She left me in that position for a minute or two, returned with the razor strap which she placed on the table so that I had little else to focus on but that strap. She kept me standing like that for over a half hour, while she continued to work, walking in and out of the kitchen."
"On one of those return trips, she entered with Patrick at her side. She said that since I had misbehaved for Patrick, she was going to have Patrick spank me. She told me if I let go of that table we'd be there all night. She told Patrick that he was to spank me just as hard as she spanked him."
"Patrick certainly fulfilled his part of the bargain, I let go of the table more than once and, as a result, probably got twice as many licks as I would have received ordinarily. The same thing happened with Timmy yesterday. That's how his shirt ended up on the floor, and why he got such a long spanking."
"Anyway, from that day on, it's been sort of a tradition; Mom spanks Patrick, Patrick spanks me, and I spank Timmy. Mom calls it 'taking care of business', but it's really a spanking."
Donna knew I had been spanked on a pretty regular basis. Things had slowed down recently, but would pick up considerably when school let out for the summer. It was that summer that I got caught shoplifting. Anyway, as I said, Donna knew I had been spanked on a pretty regular basis, but she didn't know any of the particulars. She asked who spanked me and whether or not I was spanked with my pants down.
I felt embarrassed but since she had been open about her spanking I saw no reason to hide anything. I told her that my father did all the spanking (which was true enough at the time) and that as far back as I could remember, I'd always had my pants pulled down. Indeed, since the age of nine, I remarked, most of the spankings I got were given to me while I was buck naked.
Donna smiled a little when I said that, and asked if I was spanked right away or whether I had to wait a long time, as was customary at her house.
I was uncertain about that smile, but I told her that it all depends. If I was being punished for some minor infraction I usually got spanked right away, if I had done something very bad I was sent to my room, or to a corner, and made to wait.
"Do you have to wait with your clothes off? I hate the waiting," Donna replied.
Just then the bell rang and we had to get back to class. I was glad when the bell rang; this conversation was getting a little too personal.
I've lost track of Donna over the years. If she's a spankophile? I have no first hand knowledge of that, but the thought of her smile always makes me wonder. One thing for sure, I can attest to the fact that she knows how to wield a mean razor strap; Timmy knows it too.
* * *
As indicated, the above story was only half true. Still it was fun to write. Donna and I did discuss Tim's spanking and we did discuss some of the spankings that each of us had received from our respective parents. The school bell did ring and, while I was glad about that at the time - Now, some thirty-five years later, I think it might have been fun to ignore the bell and continue the discussion.
The recollections collected here were originally posted, individually, to an appropriate newsgroup. I sent a short 'EPILOGUE' as installment (#5) as this marked the end of the original series. After the series was posted I started to receive a number of e-mail'ings that asked for more stories. I got spanked a lot as a kid but my memory is fading and, to be honest, most of my spankings are too boring to warrant repetition here. Nonetheless, I did continue to search my memory and wrote down what surfaced. So, without further ado let me continue with this autobiographical sketch..
Note : When the author added the other episodes it made no sense to have the epilogue in the middle. The epilogue have been moved to the end. The stories have been renumbered, so that the epilogue is part 8.
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