Bend Over! - A True Story
Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 13 Feb 2018
Hey guys. Just a quick note, if you enjoy this recollection of events of my childhood, please do leave me a comment. I do love to hear from everybody, especially if you have similar experiences to share. I don’t bite, and I’m always pleased to hear from people, so please leave an encouraging comment to let me know if you have enjoyed. Thank you for reading this account. If you would like to know more, my biography Growing Up Spanked is available now on amazon – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OGWEUO0
This story is true, and occurs during the time between my tenth and eleventh birthday. During this time, I was constantly in some kind of trouble-either at home or school which caused me to have to present my bottom for a paddling or a whipping. My main enemy was my mouth-my parents and teachers could not stand a kid talking back to them, as well as my laziness which prevented me from doing what I was supposed to do and the fact that I would not hesitate to tell a lie to try to get out of my trouble (and of course, It took a long time for me to realize that telling lies gets one into more trouble much more often that getting one out of trouble.) I was quite experienced in bending over before ten, and I gained some more experience at eleven.
I couldn’t get to sleep that hot May night, lying on top of my sheets, thinking about what had happened that evening. Six months past my tenth birthday and my conscience was running rampant-reminding me of the proper way that I should have responded to the accusations that my father and mother had angrily made. The sweat ran down my face as I squirmed on my bed – sweat as much from the shame of lies that I had told to avoid having to face the music for my offence. Finally, with a tear running down my cheek, I realized at 2am what I had to do, and then I was finally able to fall into a light sleep.
I awoke at 7am when the alarm rang, and slowly, I put on my school clothes, and gathered my books
together for one of my final days as an eighth grader. I didn’t feel much like the six foot tall teenager
that I was as I slowly, with heavy breathing walked into the kitchen where my parents were having breakfast.
My bottom clenched tight as I took a deep breath and said, simply-ready to start crying,
I did it.
I knew that with those three words, I had sealed at least part of my fate. I had admitted that I had been
telling lies, and the penalty for a ten year old liar in my family was a particularly heavy spanking on
the bare bottom.
As my parents looked sternly at me standing before them, I knew though that what faced me was, had
to be much more sever. The
it was having pelted the neighbour’s window with several stones, putting
five little nicks in the glass.
My father put his coffee down, and struggling to maintain a relatively calm composure, he laid out for me what would have to be my schedule for the day, and then, shocked and scared I went out to wait for my school bus, bottom twitching nervously as I thought about his plan. I spent that day at school in a trance, and when my mind would get away from the horrors that awaited me, the memory would immediately come back. My best friend noticed that I was not my usual gregarious self and he asked me why. I blurted out to him what I had done-and as I told him of my sentence, his eyes just kept getting wider.
Finally, I got home from school. After that, I went straight to my room where I was under orders to remain, trying to concentrate on my homework-realizing that when it was over that night, I would not be able to sit comfortably on my wooden desk chair-so I worked first on the assignments that required me to sit. My five year old brother came in a few minutes before 5 and told me how worried he was for me...that Mom and Dad had been really mad that morning after I had left for school. He said that they just kept getting madder and madder...my heart began to flutter and my mouth became dry as I felt apprehension.
Finally my father pulled into the driveway, and I almost felt a sense of relief-thinking that the
worst part was the waiting. As soon as the door shut, I heard the call.
Justin! March your butt down
here NOW! I gulped, yeah; Dad was still real, real mad at me. I got out of the chair, again feeling
the need to start crying, but holding the tears as I went downstairs.
Come with me, young man!
Yes dad, I mumbled, rubbing my still untouched bottom.
I will never forget the time I spent waiting for my punishment. Dad would give me a thrashing. But I didn’t know what it means. I was excited and scared.
A whipping. What would he use? How would it feel? Certainly, it would hurt. A spanking is supposed to hurt. But how much? Would I yell or cry?
Son, you’re ten years old and I thought that I would never have to spank you anymore. But what
you did was a very wrong thing and you deserve that punishment. Do understand why you’re going to be spanked?
Do you agree that you deserve to be spanked?
Y –yes, dad. I had tears in my eyes at this point. The words caught in my mouth,
struggling through embarrassment and fear.
My dad stepped over from the chair and gave me a look that made me feel like falling to my knees
The way you’ve both been behaving has been appalling, and it’s not going to happen again,
I nodded, meekly.
Now you’re going to get over the footstool there and you’re going to get a damn good thrashing!
he snapped, and my heart jumped. As a kid, my heart jumped any time I heard any word synonymous with spanking.
You’ll get a smacking. A thrashing. A belting. A brushing. Any of those terms would make my heart jump.
And if you even dare think about acting up again for the rest of this month, you’re going to get it
again, even worse. You understand?
I nodded, and I think that I sputtered a
Yes sir quietly.
He motioned to the footstool.
I felt my stomach fluttering.
Bend over said my dad.
The moment he said that, my mind filled with all kinds of thoughts. In my mind, I could see what was going to happen –my bottom turn that shade of red as I was reduced to sobbing and wailing in tears. That was what I was going to expect.
I stepped forward, feeling my legs shaking slightly. My father wrapped his strong hands around the sides of my jeans, and yanked them down. I knew I was blushing, my face turning red. He grasped onto the corners of my underpants, and lowered them to my knees as well. I stood, my lower quarters bare and exposed. My dad motioned me to bend over the footstool. Slowly, gradually, I did so. Immediately I became aware of the tough, stringy material of the cushion, it felt course and rough against my bare legs and the front of my stomach.
I hated being over the footstool. At ten years old, I was a rather short boy, with a mop of long brown hair and deep hazel eyes, and a thin wiry little frame, all of which aided my parents when I needed to be disciplined by means of a spanking. I was neither too broad nor too muscular to be able to offer much resistance. My bottom, should it be of your interest, was always soft, round, and with a thin plumpness to it. At this age though, I was far more accustomed to being spanked across my father’s knee. In the next few years, I would quickly grow accustomed to bending over the side of the bed in order to receive his belt, or across the arm of the sofa when it was my mother’s turn to punish me (which she did with a thorough and sternness that rivalled my dad). But the footstool always felt quite awful, because when I was positioned over it my entire body formed an arch. My bare bottom, of course, was at the top of that arch – the highest point of my body.
My dad lifted the bottom of my t-shirt up, baring my upturned bottom. With that one simple motion, I felt my whole bottom exposed to the world, ready for the only purpose it was being intended for at that moment in time, punishment. I felt awful. My bottom, lifted up high over the footstool, with my soft cotton underpants pulled down to bare it, felt so revealed, so ready.. I was certain that I was going to cry. My dad picked up the slipper.
I remember that I wasn’t at all ready for the first smack, it came far too fast after he picked it up. I immediately felt it, and clenched my bottom tightly in defence. It was no use. Immediately after the loud swat of the slipper on my bottom, I felt the cheek light up with heat. When I say swat, that doesn’t really sum up just how loud a smack from a slipper really is. It was more of a heavy, resounding whack. I remember that at the very first one, my body shot up and my dad planted his left hand down to hold me in position. Good god, the damn thing burned. I remember that almost right away I cried out, and all I could think about was the distinctive red shape that the slipper had left on my bottom. The thing with such a tool is, a slipper will leave a real mark, a bright pink one. If you’ve never been spanked with one, this is something they do. One good hard whack and your skin will turn pink. A few more and it’s red.
My body bucked when he smacked me the second time, this one landing more to the right. I remember specifically that it had caught the full curve of my right cheek, because my left knee bucked upwards and slammed into the edge of the footstool. It didn’t hurt, because the burning was focused entirely on my bottom. The slipper sounded so damn loud, its rubber sole giving a shockingly deft thudding whack that really made the entire spanking feel so much worse than it would otherwise be.
It.. hurts... I protested. My dad didn’t respond. He rarely did during my punishments. All
he did was spank me, as hard as he needed to, and let me do all the talking.
I felt my face screwing up, my eyes squeezing shut. I felt tears burst from the side of them and roll down my cheeks. One of the things I remember most about this particular spanking was the feel of the cushion beneath me, it was a rough material which was most likely a type of yarn, and it itched when my bare stomach rubbed against it with each smack. My dad gave my butt a third whack and I started to cry out, loud.
I think it was an
Oww! that I said, although I expect it came out more of an
I had tears in my eyes, but they didn’t start to truly flow like rivers fall until I got the fourth smack.
As soon as I felt that fourth whack of the slipper, I was broken. The tears started to stream down my
face and I begged my dad to stop. I can’t remember the exact words, I can remember
I’m sorry and
please, but one could have been what I’d said on the next smack. I wasn’t sure.
The fifth whack really burned, I remember that. It was stinging like, well, like the last slippering I’d had. At that age, I was still more familiar with my parent’s wooden hairbrush, and the belt was used only sparingly. The slipper had such authority to it, and I couldn’t believe that I was only barely half way through my punishment. I was on my knees, but I tried to kick purely because I think that was the natural thing I did in those situations, and I remember my body squirming. My dad put his hand, I suppose it must have been his left, on the small of my back to stop me from rolling away.
The sixth smack was the one I tried to shield by covering my bottom with my hand, and holy mother
of god was my bottom stinging by now. It was with such an easy type of control that my dad grabbed my
hand and held it to the small of my back, giving the sixth smack.
n..no.. no daddy... I bleated.
I’d decided at that point that I couldn’t take any more, I was crying terribly and tears were flowing
very freely from my eyes. I tried pleading,
please, I won’t do it again, my old fall-back phrase
when I was being disciplined,
I promise! But I didn’t quite get to finish the last word, as the
slipper cracked against my bottom again and I aborted it for another loud cry. I was so embarrassed, I
knew I was taking this spanking like a baby, but it burned just so much. The curious thing about the slipper,
with its porous rubber sole, is that it curves to land its full shape across your bottom, like a belt.
But it’s also smooth, and so it falls away from the skin easily. I didn’t learn that type of thing until
I was an adult, and until I had reason to learn how to apply a slipper spanking to someone else. That
gave me a real appreciation for how well it serves its function.
I took the eighth whack and was howling. I really began to feel the itchy fabric of the cushion now,
because I was squirming so badly, rubbing my bare stomach and hips against it. My bottom felt like it
was on fire, that mix of cold from the exposure and anxiety of facing the punishment utterly gone and
leaving my cheeks stinging terribly, and although it was just a guess I felt that they must have been
red raw by now. I know that after I gave a pitiful scream, I sobbed
please, I won’t do it again
through my sobbing.
The ninth whack, I remember, didn’t get a good swing and mostly glanced off the side of my bottom.
It was nowhere near as sore as the one that preceded it, but I cried out nevertheless, offering a tender
I’m sorry between tears. I genuinely couldn’t see the ugly brown floral pattern on the cushions any more,
but I didn’t care. I was desperate to clasp my hand to my bare and defenceless bottom, as if my palm would
sooth the burning in my cheeks.
NOO!! I was wailing, screaming now, and could taste my own tears
in my mouth.
By the end of the tenth, I had stopped caring about how much noise I was making. I was squirming
so much that my underpants, which had been left around my upper thighs when my father had begun to thrash
me with his slipper, were around my ankles. I squirmed this way and that, trying to get away, not caring
how bare my hips were when I accidently exposed my naked front side. I couldn’t care about that, because
any sense of humiliation at my father seeing my penis was nothing compared to how much the agonising,
burning sensation that filled the back quarters of my body.
I..it.. daddy no.. I blubbered.
Stop acting up! he snapped, and gave the eleventh. Looking back on it, the sound of the slipper
across my bottom was as loud as a gunshot, echoing terribly through my little room. I was screaming, or
trying to, and couldn’t feel anything apart from just how sore my naked bottom was. I tried to inhale,
but all I could do was gulp air in short sharp gasps.
I know that I must have stopped struggling, because when I got the twelfth smack, I remember that my dad had let go of my hand. I think that this must have been barely after the tenth whack, because I’d clasped tightly onto the cushion as if holding onto it by my fingernails would protect me. The twelfth one was certainly not a near miss like the ninth, but neither was it a dramatically superior final swing, it was simply as efficient as all of the others that my dad had delivered, and that was more than enough.
My fingers were clenched onto the seat cushion when my ad said
Right, up. You’re done. I scurried
quickly to my feet, barely even noticing that my white cotton briefs were pooled around my ankles. I was
sobbing too hard, tears flowing steadily as I tried for the life of me to just catch my breath. I dared
not touch my bottom, in the same way that I wouldn’t have dared to touch an open flame.
My dad motioned sternly with the toe of his slipper, and said very strongly
Now listen up. You’re
going to march yourself over to Mrs Walsh’s house and apologise to her, right this second.
My heart thudded. Now, maybe if you’re used to fictional spankings, written by people who have never
experienced them, with idyllic hugs and ice cream at the end, this may seem harsh. But no, I had acted
up, I knew it, I deserved it. There was no getting around that, I had definitely earned what we got. But
even so, standing there, my lower quarters bare and soft round bottom thoroughly red and beaten, this
was an instruction that I quailed at.
Dad! No! I bleated.
Do you want to go back over? he said. My father fixed me with the strongest of glares, one
that brooked no quarter.
Please! I gulped.
Then you are going to march your way over there he said, his finger straight and rigid and
guiding right across my range of vision,
and you are going to apologise to that old lady. Right this
second. Or you’re going right back over that footstool for another very sore spanking!
I felt another flood of tears break from my eyes.
Yu..yu.. yes dad... I gulped. Slowly, I
leaned down and grabbed the waist of my underpants, tugging them carefully up around my slender hips,
quickly followed by my trousers. I felt the fabric of my trousers against my bottom, and they felt like
a second skin covering me, as if my butt had been tanned so well that it had lost part of its own. Steadily,
trying as best as I could to rub the tears from my eyes, I made my way to the front door.
When Mrs Walsh opened her own door, she peered at me through the thick rims of his glasses. It took
her a few moments for the elderly woman to recognise her next door neighbour’s son.
Oh! she said
eventually, as recognition dawned on her.
Goodness, Justin, whatever’s the matter?
She must have been so concerned – the small, elderly old woman – to find a
young, sobbing ten year old boy on her doorstop, his face still red and swollen and wet from tears. I
looked at my shoes.
I.. uhh... I started.
Yes? she asked.
What is it?
I’m sorry I said. My hands, instinctively, slid their way to my bottom. Even through
the layers of fabric, it was sore. So utterly sore.
I threw the stones at your window I confessed.
I specifically remember, to this day, the way my hands rubbed against my clothed, aching bottom as I said
Steadily, she nodded.
I see she said, her voice cooling by several degrees.
A..and.. I gulped,
I’m.. really sorry...
I bet you are she said, peering at me over her glasses.
Your dad whipped your bottom something
hard, I expect?
The words shot through me. This was 1992, after all. And here in the UK, the act of spanking was positively discouraged. Of course, Mrs Walsh was of an older generation – and while I’m certain that many boys had their bottoms thrashed, to say so out loud had become quite anathema. To actually phrase it out loud seemed to make the spanking that I’d endured all the more real.
With a stern, grunting nod, she said
I should hope so!
She closed the door, leaving me sobbing, wet-faced and burning-bottomed on the doorstep. I remember at that time wishing, hoping, that I wouldn’t ever get another spanking. I think that I promised myself that I was going to make sure of it – that I’d never do anything to deserve one again.
Two weeks later, I got over my dad’s knee again, my legs kicking and boxers pulled down as he smacked me over and over with the wooden hairbrush. Because I was a kid, and I couldn’t really have been a very good kid if I learned my lessons easily, could I?
Thank you for reading this account. If you would like to know more, my biography Growing Up Spanked is available now on amazon – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OGWEUO0