I was listening to a Harry Belefonte CD the other day, a CD version of an old concert performance that I remember having had on reel-to-reel tape years ago. Anyway, one of the songs performed during the concert is a stylized rendition of "Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?" - I don't know if you are familiar with this song, but it is one that I certainly remember. Whenever I hear this song I get a hallow feeling in the pit of my stomach and, in my minds eye, am immediately transported to Guam, circa spring 1958; a month or two shy of my 10th birthday.
It is late Saturday afternoon, a week before Good Friday/Easter, and I am at church for choir practice - a 2nd soprano, with a vocal range only a tad bit lower than that of some Italian castrati. This is one of the songs that the choir will perform during services next week. My parents were not home when I left for church, but should be home soon. They'd left early that morning on a shopping trip to Agana, the capital. I'd stayed behind, so as not to miss choir practice. I fully expect my parents to be home by the time choir practice is over, and knowing this, the hallow ache that has been burning in the pit of my stomach all afternoon feels worse than ever. The hymn doesn't help any either " . . . sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble . . . "
Early that morning, before leaving on this trip, my father took me aside and told me that he is trusting me to behave myself and to keep out of trouble. I'm not exactly being left 'home alone', I am expected to touch base with our neighbors, a black family who have two children, a boy a year younger than me and a little girl about age two or three.
I like these neighbors - the father plays guitar and sings but he is also very strict. I've been to their house quite often (the father is giving me guitar lessons) and recall, on several occasions, him sending their son to his room (and me home) while removing his belt; one of the biggest, widest and thickest belts I've ever seen. Watching him remove his belt sends chills up and down my spine. On these occasions, I seldom went straight home. Instead, I'd hang around his yard to hear what I could hear. From these auditory observations I've learned a lot, I've determined that our neighbor doesn't pull his son's pants down for a spanking like my dad, but I sure don't relish the whipping this boy gets. The sound of the strapping in progress scares the hell out of me; and makes me glad (almost) that my dad uses a paddle.
Anyway, continuing our talk, my father makes it clear that I am, (1) to keep our neighbor advised on my whereabouts at all times; (2) attend choir practice; and (3) if he and my mom are late getting home, which they don't expect, I'm to eat supper at our neighbors and spend the night at their house.
So why the hallow feeling in my stomach? - Well, as you might guess, I expect a spanking when my folks get home, and not just any spanking, I expect the biggest spanking of my young life. I have, during their absence, come close to burning down the house. I wasn't playing with matches, not really, though I do seem to have garnished this reputation.
After lunch I went out to play with some kids in the neighborhood. I wasn't playing long however when I suddenly needed to go toilet; why is it that I never seemed to take care of such needs before going out to play? Anyway, I can't go to our neighbors because they've gone to the BX (Base Exchange) for an hour or so. I have no choice but to make a mad dash home.
There is a toilet located just off our screened in porch. As a rule, this is the toilet that my mother insists I use when I'm at home and playing, i.e., running in and out of the house. It's a small room, just large enough for a toilet and a small sink. The ceiling in this room is high and there is a single bulb mounted in the center of the ceiling from which hangs a long draw string. The bulb burned out several days ago - my father knows this but needs a ladder to change the bulb and hasn't yet gotten around to fixing the problem.
Now, I am the only one home and could easily have used any bathroom in the house but, if only out of habit, I've decided to use this toilet - besides, it's close and I'm in a hurry. Only, as noted above, the light bulb is burnt out and, with the door closed and locked, it's pitch black; I can't take care of business under these conditions. Of course, as I am the only one home, there's no reason why the door must be closed and locked - but, at age 9, I never gave this option a seconds thought - no way am I going toilet with the door open. What to do? We don't seem to have any flashlights, but there are candles all about the house. I've made a decision - I will light a candle.
I put the lighted candle on the reservoir at the back of the toilet and take care of business (everything comes out all right; forgive the pun) but, in flushing the toilet the candle is knocked over and strikes the raised toilet seat. Whatever substance is used to paint the toilet seat immediately bursts into flame. Seriously, we're not talking slow burn here - the surface of the toilet seat seems to explode and is burning as though it were made of gun powder.
As noted, the neighbors, with whom I am supposed to touch base, are not at home. I can't call on them for help. What to do? I'm scared to death. Now, as it turns out, the fire must have burned itself out quickly. The only thing in the room that is really capable of burning is the toilet seat, the rest of the toilet is made of porcelain.
The room quickly filled with black smoke and the smell of burnt plastic, but the fire must have gone out fairly fast. Only I don't know this - I didn't hang around long enough to find this out. Instead, scared to death, I ran to the phone and called the base fire department. Then, I went outside to await their arrival. In a matter of minutes the blast of sirens, like air raid warnings, fill the air; the house is surrounded by fire trucks; fireman rush to our house, go in and come out - the Chief comes over and begins to question me.
Our neighbors came home while the fireman was questioning me. I tell everyone what happened. The Fire Chief talks to our neighbor and tells him that there really isn't a lot of damage, other than smoke damage in the small bathroom itself - the room will need a new coat of paint (and new toilet seats) - and, of course, there will be a full report filed with the base commander.
The consensus of this meeting is that I:
I don't think the Fire Chief believes me when I tell them, how, and how fast the toilet seat caught fire. He's of the opinion that I was playing with matches (Hell, I wasn't playing with matches, I just didn't want to go toilet in the dark!). Several months later, and I imagine as a consequence of this fire, the base replaced all similar style toilet seats; having decided that the paint used to coat these wooden seats is a fire hazard and very dangerous. But that doesn't help at the moment.
By the time the firemen leave, it is about time for me to head off to choir practice. But, in going, I know that I'm in big trouble - not a doubt in my mind about that. There is clearly no way to keep my parents from finding out about the fire - not with all those fire trucks. Everyone, for blocks around, knows about the fire. And, even at age 9, I know enough about the military to know that when the fire department files their report, base officials will be calling my father on the carpet to discuss this incident. All this leaves me with no doubt, no doubt whatsoever, that I am going to get the spanking of my life when my parents get home; my stomach begins to tighten.
Choir practice is over. As I walk home and near the house I see our car parked in the driveway. My father is in the front yard talking to our next door neighbor. The hallow feeling that I've had in the pit of my stomach all afternoon is growing bigger and bigger, and begins to churn and burn. Tears begin to well up in my eyes. As I continue to approach the house I wonder what my dad and this man are talking about, and just for a moment I think, maybe my dad is asking if he can borrow his belt.
We live on a corner lot. My father spots me when I'm about to cross the street. He gives me a serious look. Our neighbor leaves (without taking his belt off). Dad turns, and heads in my direction. Mom is no where to be seen, and is in the house I guess.
On this corner, there's a school bus stop, a concrete structure, closed on three sides; it's been built right on our yard. The bus stop houses a wooden bench.
We meet at the sidewalk, my father reaches for my hand and leads me to the bus stop where we both sit down on the bench.
I am crying, but my dad doesn't appear to be angry. Instead, he asks me to calm down and to explain what happened. I try to calm down but I've been worrying about a spanking for hours now and it isn't easy to keep the tears from flowing. While trying to choke back tears, I explain what happened.
"Why didn't you use one of the other bathrooms?" my dad asks.
I shrug my shoulders. "I don't know," is all I can say.
Dad tells me that I shouldn't have been playing with matches (who was playing with matches? All I did was light a candle) and should not have brought a lighted candle into the rest room. He further reminds me that I was very lucky in that the fire wasn't any worse than it was, and lucky too, to have escaped without being hurt. "You could have been seriously burned!"
"I know - - I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say.
Then, for a moment, the tone of my father's voice changes - he says that I did the right thing by calling the fire department.
I still don't know what to say other than that I was very scared, and am very sorry about what happened.
"I'm sorry too, Bobby," my dad says. "I should have replaced the light bulb when it first went out." Then, just as suddenly as before, the tone of my father's voice changes again. "But that doesn't excuse your playing with matches - -"
There's that 'playing with matches' remark again, I know I'm going to catch hell.
" - - and lighting a candle without adult supervision."
Here it comes I think -- the pay off; my stomach is doing flips.
My father stands - the conversation is over. Together, we head for the house. We enter the house via the screened in porch - a side entrance; my eyes immediately focus on the "Board of Education" which is kept in this area. At any moment I expect to hear my father tell me to get the paddle and follow him to my room. I know the routine well. But this never happens. Instead, my father walks to the kitchen. The incident is forgotten, and is never mentioned again.
Still, I felt as punished that day as I'd ever been in my life. The anticipation I'd suffered all afternoon, the spankings I conjured up in my mind, were worse than any spanking my father could have given me.
* * *
I had the occasion to call my father, now age 71, on the phone the other day. My father is not aware of my fascination with spankings but, in the conversation that ensued, I got him talking about the time we spent living in Maine. I asked if he recalled the name of the family who moved into our building after the Franklin's left in the summer of 1959. My dad chuckled a bit and asked if, after all these years, I was still haunted by memories of Mrs. Holgn. Suddenly, the memory of what my father was talking about came rushing back. The memory of an embarrassingly slow weekend that occurred almost 36 years ago. A weekend I came to think of as my "weekend in hell". How could I have forgotten that long, ever so long, weekend?
My father, who was a Master Sergeant in the Air Force had, the year before, been assigned to Loring AFB, Maine. When we first arrived, o/a January 1959, our neighbors were the Franklin's, who had three children, Valerie (12), Michael (10), and Daniel (8); all of whom were spanked on a fairly regular basis. Valerie's bedroom, and my own, were separated by what must have been a rather thin wall. Many an evening I would lie back in my bed and enjoy (and fantasize) as the sound of her father's leather belt, mixed with Valerie's pleas to stop, resounded through my room. Yes, and Valerie deserved that and much more (the cheat) . Alas, the Franklin's left in the summer of 1959 and the Holgn's moved in.
The Holgn's also had three children; two older girls (teenagers, late 13 and probably early 15; whose names escape me) and a boy named Stefan (pronounced Stef-on). I always called him Steve, but his mother called him Stefan. Steve was my age (11), but looked much younger, say eight or nine.
Steve's father was a Tech-Sergeant, whose job kept him away from home almost all the time. He would go away for several months at a time, come home for a weekend or two, and then leave again. Mrs. Holgn (my father recalls her name as being Elsa) was from Northern Europe; one of the Scandinavian countries, or perhaps Germany. She spoke good English, but with a slight accent. Since her husband was away, she was, except for the children, alone most of the time. She was a large woman, not fat but large boned, and so were her daughters. I remember them, physically, as closely resembling Disney's characterization of the Step-mother and Step-daughters in the Cinderella story. Steve, on the other hand, was very small in stature and, as indicated, looked several years younger than his actual age.
The girls were never spanked, that I know of; perhaps they were considered too old for a spanking. Steve, on the other hand, was spanked quite often. I have my own theory about this, I think Mrs. Holgn resented her husband's frequent absences and took this resentment out on Steve. Then again, I also remember her having told my father that she helped raise her three younger brothers, so perhaps her treatment of Steve was something she learned, and considered quite normal; more about this later.
Moving was a given in the military. Families moved in and out all the time. Trust was also something given quite readily. For example, my parents agreed to take care of the Franklin children only a month, or even less, after we arrived on base. The Holgn's moved into our building in mid July (1959). Yet, sometime in early/mid August, my father asked Mrs. Holgn if she would mind taking care of me for a few days (Friday evening, Saturday, and Sunday night).
My parents needed to escape for a few days; to be alone. My father indicated that I could either sleep in my own room, or if Mrs. Holgn agreed, sleep over. If I slept over, Steve and I would have to share his room and, share his bed. As an only child, I found the prospect of doing this exciting so I probably begged to sleep over.
There is wisdom in the saying, "Be careful what you wish for; you might just get it." I didn't know that then, but I would learn. Mrs. Holgn granted my wish and, as my parents expected to get home late Sunday night, it was agreed that I would stay over until Monday morning..
Before leaving, my father told me to be on my best behavior. (You will recall that this is the same warning Mr. Franklin gave his children, some six months previously, before he and his wife left on emergency leave.) He also told Mrs. Holgn to let him know if I misbehaved in any way. At the same time, he told her that she was "free" to deal with any discipline problems that she felt needed immediate attention. It was during this conversation that I remember Mrs. Holgn saying that, in addition to Stefan, she had helped raise her three younger brothers. I also remember her saying, "Don't worry. I know all about little boys, and how to keep them in line." This should have given me a warning of what was to happen, but it didn't.
My parents left at around 4:30 or 5:00 pm. I brought a few items over right away, a pair of pajamas (PJs), my tooth brush, but very little else. Why bring more? We lived in the same building. When I needed additional clothing, pants, shirts, socks, underwear, etc., I could run over and get them. I had my own key, and my dad left a set of keys with Mrs. Holgn.
At first everything seemed to go very well; very well indeed. Steve and I went outside to play for an hour or so. Steve's mom cautioned us not to wander off, as she did not want to look for us when supper was ready. I took this caution seriously, I certainly didn't want to start off on a bad foot. We stayed very close to the house.
There was a white birch and maple tree forest about 100 yards from the apartment. Steve asked if I had ever been in that forest. "Yeah, lots of times," I told him, and that was the truth. The forest was great. In addition to all the healthy trees, there were some that lay on the ground decaying. Trees you could climb over, under and up. There was also a clearing beyond the initial forest where berries grew in the autumn and where choke cherries and green apples grew. Steve asked me if I'd take him there. I reminded him that his mother had told us to stay close to home, but promised that I'd take him there in the morning. We'd have all day Saturday to play in that forest.
It was still mid-summer and, although the days were getting shorter, it didn't get dark until quite late. It certainly wasn't dark at 6:30, when Steve's mom called us in for supper. We came in right away and took off our shoes at the front door. This was a house rule. Mrs. Holgn did not allow anyone to wear shoes in the house. You took off your shoes when you entered the foyer and were expected to wear slippers or walk about in your socks or bare feet.
After entering the house Steve and I went to the bathroom, took a whiz, and washed our hands. The supper table had been set by one of Steve's sisters. Steve informed me that dinner and kitchen chores were always assigned to the girls. Steve did not have to set the table. He did not have to clear away the dirty dishes when the meal was through. And, he was not required to wash the dishes. "Wow, what a life," I thought. I sure considered Steve fortunate. I'd soon think otherwise.
We finished eating at around 7 pm. I asked Mrs. Holgn if Steve and I could go out and play a little, while it was still light. She said no. It was getting late and she wanted the two of us to wash up and get ready for bed. I remarked that it was much too early for bed, and told her that my parents let me stay up to at least 9 or 10 pm during the summer months. Mrs. Holgn said that Stefan was required to be in bed each evening at no later than 8:30 pm. She told me that, after we had had our bath, we could stay up until 8:30; but no longer than that.
Having said that, Mrs. Holgn motioned Steve and me to follow her up the stairs. She entered the bathroom, then turned on the water to draw our bath. Then, she turned towards Steve and started to assist him out of his clothes. When she was finished, Steve climbed in the tub. Now. she directed her attention towards me, reaching down to pull my polo shirt up and over my head.
This was obviously something that Steve was used to. But it was clearly something that I wished to avoid. I was eleven years old. I had been getting undressed by myself since I was four or five. I told Mrs. Holgn that I would rather undress myself but she ignored my complaints and, having removed my shirt, started to un-snap my blue jeans. There wasn't anything I could do except go along with the program. When she had me completely stripped down, she reached over to shut off the bath water. As she did so, I quickly climbed into the tub. Even with Steve in the tub, the water could not have been much more than 4 or 5 inches deep. Worse, it was barely warm. Embarrassed as I was, things got worse. Mrs. Holgn grabbed a bar of Ivory soap and proceeded to lather up a wash cloth. Then, she pulled Steve to his feet, and began scrubbing him vigorously.
This was too much. When I was eight years old, I lived in Guam. My father had hired a young (16) year old girl, Mikosan, to help around the house as a maid. One of her duties was giving me a bath. I wasn't keen on the idea; not at the age of eight, and so this 'duty' soon ended; an obvious mistake of my youth.. At age eleven, I certainly wasn't happy about repeating the experience. Nonetheless, just as soon as Steve was sufficiently clean, his mother told him to sit. Then she pulled me to my feet and repeated the whole process. The wash cloth felt scratchy and she scrubbed every inch of my body. When I, too, was judged sufficiently clean, she pulled the plug and grabbed a phone shower (something I'd never seen before). She had us stand while she used this instrument to rinse us off. The shower water was cold, room temperature at best. When she'd washed away all the soap, she pulled us out of the tub, handed each of us a towel, and told us to dry ourselves off. Then she walked out of the bathroom.
When she walked out, I asked Steve if his mother always bathed him like this. He shrugged his shoulders, which I took as an affirmative.
Mrs. Holgn returned almost immediately. In her hands, she carried a small red T-shirt and the tops (also a pull over design) to my PJs. She pulled the T-shirt down over Steve's head and repeated the same exercise with my pajama tops. I asked where the bottoms were, and I remember her reply "It's summer, and little boys don't need bottoms." She then ushered us out of the bathroom and directed us towards the staircase. Steve went down the stairs on his own but I dug in my heels. Steve's room was upstairs, that's where I wanted to go. His sisters were downstairs!
I lost the battle. Mrs. Holgn almost carried me down the stairs. I yelled a lot. I kept telling her I didn't want to go downstairs, I wanted to go to bed. She reminded me that only a few minutes ago, I had told her that it was too early for bed and that I routinely stayed up till 9 or 10 pm. (yeah, but not when I'm nearly naked, and not when there are strangers about, and certainly not when those strangers are young girls or some one else's mother).
When we got to the living room my worst fears were realized. Steve's sisters were sitting on the couch watching TV and Steve was sitting on the carpet just off to their side. I immediately dropped my hands to cover my privates. When I did so, Mr. Holgn brushed my hands away and said, "Stop touching yourself."
I would like to explain something here. I don't know for certain what "sex" knowledge other children of my generation had at that age, but I was certainly ignorant. If you were to have asked me what "masturbation" was, I wouldn't have had a clue. But I knew what "touching yourself" meant. I knew what happened when you touched yourself. I didn't know why it happened, or that others experienced the same sensation. I just knew it was something very, very private. Something 'bad' but also something that felt good. It was something I might do it when I was alone, either in my bed, or in the bathroom, but it was clearly something you kept secret. It was not something you did in public, and it was certainly not something you talked about.
I must have flushed beat red, the moment those words were spoken. My hands, of course, went right back where they were before. I wasn't "touching" myself, I was trying to cover myself. This, of course, caused Mrs. Holgn to repeat her admonition (louder) and she again brushed my hands away from their sentry post. My hands knew what my mind wanted, so they went right back where they had been. Then Mrs. Holgn took my hands in hers, placed them on my head and told me to keep them elevated. Most embarrassing of all, she announced, "I know that little boys like to touch themselves all the time. But, I'm not going to allow you to stand here and play with yourself. If you keep this up I'm going to tell your father about this behavior when he gets home."
Of course, all this only drew more attention towards me. If I was embarrassed by my exposed condition, and I was, Mrs. Holgn's comments only made things worse. Then, to make matters just about as bad as they could get, I suddenly, and uncontrollably, developed a hard-on that would not go away.
"Now see what you've done. You've gotten yourself all excited."
Following that comment, Mrs. Holgn led me to a corner, with my hands still on my head, and told me to stand there until I could learn to control myself. Well, at least standing in the corner, I had some privacy. Now the girls would only see my backside and not my erect penis.
The rest of the evening wasn't any better, but then it could hardly have been much worse. I stood in the corner for 15 minutes or so and then was told to sit on the floor. One of Steve's sisters looked at me and giggled (at least I thought she did), I covered myself again, and the next thing I knew I was back in the corner. Finally, at 8:30, Steve and I were sent to bed.
I didn't sleep all that well, neither of us did. I slept at one end of the bed, Steve at the other, our feet towards the center. We kept kicking one another all night, not on purpose, nor in play, it just happened. As a consequence of this kicking, we kept waking each other up. Nonetheless, I was up early the next morning, wanting nothing more in life than to get dressed and get out of that house. I went down stairs. No one else was awake yet; it was probably about 6:30 am. I had my key. I let myself into my apartment, went to my room, and got dressed. Just as I was leaving the apartment, and about to make my escape, Mrs. Holgn opened her door.
"Just what do you think you're doing?"
I didn't tell her that I'd planned on going out, just that I'd woken up early and decided to get dressed. She made me surrender my key to her, and told me to get back in the house. Of course, this meant that I had to take off my shoes.
"It's too early for you to be running about," announced Mrs. Holgn. Having said that, she started to take off my clothes. Soon, I was standing in my underwear. She told me to get back to bed, and not to wake up Stefan.
I did as she instructed. I wanted to escape before she realized I was still wearing underpants or, if she already knew this, before she changed her mind and made me take them off.
In about an hours time, I could smell bacon frying. I left the room again and asked Mrs. Holgn if I could please have my clothes back so I could get dressed. She said it was still too early to go outside and that there was no reason to get dressed until later. She then instructed me to go wake up the girls and Steve.
Again, let me interject. I found little comfort walking about in my underwear. I woke Steve up and told him to wake up his sisters. Steve obviously didn't share my modesty. He took off on this assignment without bothering to put on underpants. When he returned he opened his drawer and remedied that condition, but I couldn't understand why he hadn't reversed the process.
We were soon called to breakfast. Steve and I sat at the table wearing nothing but our underwear. Mrs. Holgn made a specific point of asking me whether I had washed my hands. Then, even though I assured her that I had, she sent me to the bathroom to wash them again.
"God only knows where you've been keeping your hands."
Again, I blushed, more out of anger than embarrassment. I knew exactly what she was saying and it wasn't true. None of it was true -- if she'd just let me wear my PJs like "normal" parents, I'd have had no reason to keep trying to cover myself.
At around 10 am I again asked if Steve and I could go outside. Mrs. Holgn said we could, and indicated that lunch was going to be late so we could play outside until 2 pm (four hours). Mrs. Holgn handed me the clothes she had removed earlier that morning. I ran upstairs as fast as I could, I wanted to get dressed and out of the house as quick as possible. Steve and I were both out of the house in record time.
Steve told me that he wanted to explore the forest, so that's where we went. I don't recall all that we did, but we enjoyed doing whatever it was and had a great time. We stayed in the forest most of the morning and early afternoon. At around 1 pm, we exited the forest area across from our apartment and started walking across the 100 yards or so of grass, weeds, and dirt that separated the housing complex from the forest. As we neared the house, Mrs. Holgn came out and called us over to her. She was angry for some reason.
"And just where have you boys been playing?"
"In the forest," I said innocently.
"Does your father allow you to play in the forest?"
"Yes, I play there all the time," I replied.
"Didn't Stefan tell you that I've absolutely forbidden him to play in that forest? It's too dangerous. There have been several incidents of rabies reported in this area.
I'd heard of the rabies incidents myself. My father told me all about it They had involved rabid bats. My father had cautioned me about staying clear of bats. Those that were flying about, would not be a problem, he said. Even if they had rabies they would not attack you. The ones you had to watch out for were those lying on the ground. Those were the really sick ones, the ones that would bite if you picked them up. There was no reason to avoid the forest, you were just as likely to run across a sick bat in the back yard, as in the forest.
I didn't want to start an argument. I also didn't want to get Steve in trouble by answering his mother's question. It had, after all, been Steve's idea to play in the forest. He certainly had not told me that his mother had placed the forest off limits. I looked at Steve but didn't say anything.
"Never mind Bobby," Steve's mother replied, "I'll ask Stefan."
"Stefan, did you tell Bobby that I'd forbidden you to play in the forest?"
Steve began to look sheepish and pale. "No, but . . ."
"But nothing! -- Just because we have company staying over Stefan, does not give you permission to break my rules. You are in big trouble! Now, I want both of you to get in the house."
We sat on the floor to take our shoes off the moment we entered the house. The base seemed to have been built on a field of gray clay so this was a common practice; insisted upon by just about everyone I knew; it was certainly a practice at my house. Anyway, no sooner had we taken off our shoes than Mrs. Holgn made a beeline towards Steve. Steve, seeing her approach but still seated on the floor, tried to scoot away but was no match for his mother.
"Don't you back away from me," cried Mrs. Holgn as she reached down and pulled Steve towards her by the waste band of his trousers. "You know better than that. When you break my rules you get spanked, and when you pull away like that you get spanked more." As she spoke, she pulled Steve closer, unbuckled his belt, popped open the now exposed snap, and lowered the zip. Then, in one quick motion, she lifted Steve up off the floor and, as she turned towards the living room, began tugging at his pants, tugging first on one side, than the other.
"Follow me," she ordered.
As we headed towards the living room, Mrs. Holgn continued tugging on Steve's pants and under pants, pulling them down together, an inch at a time, one side - than the other - his bared bottom was quickly exposed and, with every step, his pants got lower and lower - until suddenly free of of whatever resistence was holding them up, a final tug sent them flying to the floor.
Steve was obviously going to get a bare bottom spanking, and I was going to be there to watch. This, as it turned out, was the first of several spankings that I'd witness during the next year. But I was too scared and too worried to derive any pleasure from watching this particular spanking. Under the circumstances, I didn't know what to expect. What was going to happen when she finished spanking Steve? Was I next? I didn't want a spanking. I certainly didn't want to be spanked by Steve's mom.
Steve was already crying like a baby. I think I was crying too, or getting ready to cry. I fully supposed that I would be crying big time in a matter of minutes.
Mrs. Holgn sat down on the edge of their couch and turned Steve over her knee, locking him between her powerful legs. At the same time, she grabbed his two arms and held them in a vise grip behind his back, lifting them a bit to force Steve's head down towards the floor. Then she started the spanking. Steve's mom spanked fast and furious, though not as hard as my father. Then again, I was not as small as Steve. Maybe my father's spankings were every bit as hard as those Mrs. Holgn was administering when I was eight; I couldn't remember. Her right arm would rise up about a foot between each spank, then quickly fall. Again, and again, and again. She spanked his bottom thoroughly. Then, she relaxed the grip she had on his legs, and continued to spank Steve up and down his bare legs and bottom. After about a minute or two of this she stopped and placed Steve on his feet in front of her.
"Didn't I tell you not to go into that forest? Don't you realize that my rules are made for your own good. You could have been attacked by a rabid animal. When I tell you not to do something I expect to be obeyed, do you understand me?"
Steve was crying too hard to answer.
With that she picked him up again and started the whole process over. Again the delivery was hot and furious. Steve's bottom, which had been a bright pink at the end of the first round began to turn a bright red. Mrs. Holgn even spanked Steve's lower legs.
Again she stopped and stood Steve in front of her.
"What gave you the idea that it was all right to break my rules? Did you think that I wouldn't spank you because Bobby is staying with us? or that you would escape a spanking by backing away from me? Well, you're wrong!"
With that last remark, she pulled Steve over her knee yet again, and started a third round of spankings. Steve was no longer howling as loud as in the beginning. He was exhausted, but the spanking continued unabated, i.e., with the same furor as at the start. His backside was red all over; from his waist down to the top of his socks.
When she finished round three, she again placed Steve in front of her. "I want you to go stand in the corner now Stefan, and think about what you have learned."
Steve turned toward the foyer. In the year ahead, I discovered that this was Steve's "corner spot", a spot that was visible from the outside hallway if/when their door was open - I know this to be true because I saw Steve's backside a time or two when/if his mother or one of his sisters was standing at their door when I entered our building.
Now that Steve was headed for the foyer, his mother focused her attention on me. She pulled me towards her by the waist band of my blue jeans, and started to unbuckle my pants. I was really scared. My father had never spanked me like that, and besides, I was innocent. I didn't know the forest was off limits. I started to cry and tell her that I had done nothing wrong. She pulled my pants off and then lifted my outer shirt above my head, leaving me dressed in just my underwear. Then she spoke.
"Stop your crying. I'm not going to spank you. Stefan should have told you the forest was off limits, he didn't. If he had, or if I had told you myself, and you had gone into the woods anyway, then I'd spank you. I'd give you the same treatment I just gave Stefan, maybe more, as you are bigger. But, under the circumstances, you have not done anything to deserve a spanking; nothing that I know about anyway?"
"You and Stefan are not going out anymore today. You can play around the house now, and when Stefan is finished in the corner, the two of you can go up to his room and play together."
It was only Saturday, 1:30 pm, my parents would not get home until late Sunday evening. I could go on relating this narrative but Sunday was no different than Saturday except that Mrs. Holgn allowed me to dress early (for church). She took me to the church (we walked) and she was waiting outside when the services were over. She took me straight home; no pin ball machines this weekend. When I got to her house she made me take off my Sunday clothes and didn't allow me to get fully dressed again until mid-afternoon. Each evening I was given a bath, as previously described and made to sit in the living room with only a T-shirt or the tops of my PJs. My PJs were already getting too small for me. The sleeves were supposed to be full length but only extended about halfway down my lower arm. The tops, even when pulled down as far as I could stretch them, would not go much below my naval (belly button). I had to endure the humiliation of being exposed to Steve's sisters all evening, at least until 8:30. Every so often I would, without thinking, let my hands drop down in front of me and, when I did so, would stand accused of 'playing with myself'. Mrs. Holgn would make me go to the bathroom in the foyer to wash my hands. When I'd return, she'd say something like "Now try not to keep touching yourself." Invariably, I'd get a hard-on and end up standing in the corner. I was sure happy when bedtime rolled around; I'd have gladly gone to bed immediately following the bath.
Monday morning, I got up bright and early, borrowed a pair of Steve's underpants (way too small, but I squeezed them on anyway), and was soon pounding at the front door of my apartment; Mrs. Holgn had not returned my key. My father was up already, getting ready for work. He asked if I'd enjoyed myself at Mrs. Holgn's. I told him NO. He asked If I'd gotten into any trouble that he should know about. Again, I said NO, then ran to the safety of my room.
Later, that evening, Mrs. Holgn came over to question my father about whether or not I was allowed to play in the forest by myself. She also told my father that I was constantly touching myself and, becoming aroused.
My father listened to her but did not pursue the matter with me while she was at our house. He did ask later for an explanation. I told him how I'd spent the weekend. He explained that this was apparently a custom that Mrs. Holgn carried over from her childhood, a custom that may or may not have been that uncommon in the community where she grew up. My father commiserated with me over what had obviously been an embarrassing experience and told me that he would not make me stay at the Holgn's again; he never did.
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