Unrequited Love
Unrequited Love

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   by David Nunes da Silva   . 
1974.    near Fredericksburg, Virginia.
in an old plantation house in need of some repair.
This is an ADULT story.

  I.   the bottom-dipping game  
When I was a boy, I was playing at a friend's house, and when we went to wash our hands the hot water was so hot we couldn't put our hands in it.    We tried to see who could keep his fingers in longer, and he could do it longer than me.   But instead of admitting it, I said a real contest would be to do it with our bottoms.   He said OK, and we ran some steaming water in the bathtub, then he stripped and stretched across the old claw-foot tub cross-wise, and on a count of three he dipped in - and immediately pulled out again, howling with pain.

I said I bet I could keep my butt in for longer than that, and I stripped and dipped in - and pulled right out.   My friend laughed at me, and he said he could do it for fifteen seconds.  He stretched across the tub next to me - so we were both dangling our butts an inch above the water, and on a count of three we both dipped.  Our arms were on each other's shoulders, and it felt really neat, to be naked together like that.   When my butt was above the water, I felt that I wanted the hurt, but somehow, when I actually stuck my butt in the water, all my resolution to endure it went away; it was as if it pulled itself out.   We agreed with each other that the spankings we got from our dads didn't really hurt as much as we could take - we boasted we could take a lashing with a cat-o-nine-tails, like in a pirate movie, but on our bottoms.   It was funny how we could take a pirate whipping in our imaginations, but as soon as we dipped our bottoms in the scalding water, we pulled right out.

But we kept playing - keeping count, and with my friend ready to laugh at me for pulling out, I did manage to stay in for a while, and it really hurt.   We wanted to look at our bottoms in the mirror, but the only mirror was behind the sink, so he dared me to run for a chair, and I did it - not just running naked through his house, but running naked with a red bottom, which would have been really embarrassing if I'd been caught.   He was amazed I would do it; he said he could never do something like that.  We stood on the chair to see our bottoms in the mirror.  
I think the longest spanking I ever got from my dad was ten spanks, and it seemed to me that each dip in the steaming water hurt more than any spank. We did hundreds of dips into the scalding water, continually running more hot water to keep it hot.  We got up to a count of one hundred seconds before pulling out.  After seeing our two red bottoms, I wanted to drain the tub and start all over again so it would be even hotter.  Because the truth was - but I didn't admit it to him - my friend's bottom was a darker red than mine.   I wanted another chance, to catch up, but he wouldn't agree to draining the tub and starting over.   But he said next time we played we'd do it really hot, plus we'd find a cat-o-nine tails and flog each other's bottoms.

That night I practiced alone at my house, getting ready for the next time we played.  The hot water at my house wasn't hot enough, so I had to add pans of water boiled on the stove.  But our bathroom did have a full-length mirror, so I could look at my own bottom without using a chair.  When I got out of the tub after leaving my butt in for a really long time, I looked at my bottom in the mirror, and it was dark!   And the red patches were big!  Much darker than my friend's had been.  Seeing that made me excited to a point where it seemed I could endure any pain at all, and I dipped in boiling water from the saucepan without any cold mixed in; really unbelievable pain, and it hurt for hours afterwards, but I could take it.   I felt like I'd won already; of course I knew I'd have to endure the pain all over again when we played, to really win, but that just made it more exciting--having endured it once, I looked forward to doing it again.    But I didn't like boiling my butt alone - I wanted to do it with someone to admire my red bottom.  For once I regretted being an only child.

Since I couldn't very well explain carrying pans of boiling water from the stove to the bathroom, I had to do my bottom-dipping after everyone had gone to bed, keeping my ears cocked for the sound of my Dad's canes on the stairs.    I thought he might give me a spanking if he caught me, but I wouldn't have minded if he did - actually I hoped he would,
because now I had a real craving to see my bottom after a bare-bottom spanking.   I beat my bottom with the back of the wooden toilet brush, but not hard enough.  It was exciting though, because the noise might wake my parents, and then Dad would come down and spank me.  Dad had always spanked me on my pants, which I didn't think was much of a punishment for a tough guy.  My friends all got it on their bare bottoms, and I was ashamed of being treated like a baby.  But once, years before this, I'd gotten into a fight with my aunt while we were taking a bath together (my aunt, who is my mother's half-sister, is the same age as me).   Dad decided it was her fault and spanked her bare bottom in front of me, which she didn't think was fair because I never got spanked bare.    But Dad said the rule was if you misbehaved bare, you got spanked bare.   But I'd never gotten one.

But all the noise I could make using my bottom as a drum didn't wake him up.   I did some more bottom-dipping, but the water had gotten cool, so I boiled another pot.   I had done all this stuff to my bottom without getting a stiffy, but when I started thinking about my aunt getting that bare spanking, I got one - and I didn't want Dad to see that!   And anyway, on second thought, I didn't really want him to see my red bottom and ask me what I'd been doing.  
So I poured that pot of boiled water down the toilet, and crept silently up the stairs to my room, to do something about that stiffy.    And while I did that, I made plans for the next night -  I would make so much noise it would wake up Dad for sure, and then he'd spank me.   I planned to tell Dad I was a big boy now and a big boy should get more than just ten spanks - I wanted fifty.    I imagined myself getting fifty spanks from Dad on my bare bottom - and at that point I came so hard and fast I was looking for spots on the ceiling.

The next day I decided I needed still more practice, so I sneaked the toilet brush out to my clubhouse in the back yard, and spanked my bare bottom fifty times, but that didn't hurt enough  - I didn't have the force of will to spank myself  as hard as I thought Dad would spank me.

So that night I carried out my plan - I put water on the stove and lit the gas with a match - that stove had a pilot light but it didn't always work.   Dad can't move chairs easily, so I pulled a chair out and put it in the middle of the kitchen, under the light ;  but that made it look too planned, so I moved the chair again.  Then the water began to bubble, and I picked up the heavy pot, and deliberately dropped it and screamed, standing on the chair so I wouldn't get scalded.   Dad heard that noise, and when he came down I told him I'd been trying to make tea, and since I wasn't supposed to touch the stove, plus it was way after my bed-time, and plus I was naked, that should have been a bare bottom spanking for sure.

As I waited, stark naked, for him to tell me to fetch the chair, I said: "Dad, I know you usually give me ten spanks when you spank me.   But all my friends get more than that - ten's not very much for a kid my age.  I'm not a baby; I'd like to take as many as I can, and try for fifty."

Maybe he would have spanked me if I hadn't said that, but he didn't spank me at all, he just scolded me, and his scolding was horrible.  He started with a lecture about the pilot light - like I was too dumb to use a match when it didn't light!  I started crying right away, and when it was over I cried myself to sleep - and the next morning I was still having spells of crying, and I was very weak.  Mom called an ambulance, but the medic said I was just faking it and she should belt me.    She didn't belt me : she called my school and told them I had the flu.   I'm still phobic about gas stoves.   

Enduring fifty spanks from Dad, would have proved I was a man.    Instead I was belittled and humiliated and called a baby and a nuisance, and it made me furious that this was done as if it was some sort of favor to me, to scold me instead of spanking me.  I knew that Granddad had used a strap on Dad and my Uncle Roger, and in my Uncle Roger's stories about getting the strap, he was proud of it.   He said proudly that he'd been belted more often and harder than Dad, even though Dad was four years older.   So it's not like it was my idea.
that a real man is proud of being able to take discipline.   To teach me that, and then not spank me - it just wasn't fair and I hadn't deserved to be treated like that.    I didn't think I was a nuisance and I didn't think I was a baby.

That was the end of my midnight hot water play though, because after that I was afraid of the stove.     So the only place I could go to boil my bottom - which my anger at my Dad made me want to do more than ever - was at my friend's house, where the water in the hot water tap was almost boiling.  When I went over to play with my friend the next time though, somehow his little brother had found out about the dipping game, and he wanted to play too.  We didn't want to play with the little brat, but he got into the bathroom ahead of us and locked us out.   Finally he unlocked the door and came out - naked and with a dark red penis.  And when he spun around to show us, his whole backside was red too - solid dark red over a big area, while we had just managed red patches on each buttock.   He had run a deep tub, torturing his penis too by sticking it under the stream of scalding water, and then when the water was deep he sat in it until it cooled - and this was water that big brother and I could just barely touch with our bottoms!   The edge of the red on his skin was very sharp, because he had sat in the hot water without moving - not constantly pulling out and dipping in the way we had done.    I said "wow" and was really impressed, and the little brat was so pleased he did acrobatics to show off his bottom, and wanted me to challenge him to play butt-games that would hurt even more.  But my friend was mad because I hadn't said "wow" about his bottom.   My friend had actually won our first game, but I hadn't admitted it, and now I told his bratty little brother that he was the winner of all three of us.  My friend got really jealous and wouldn't play the bottom-dipping game with me after that.

I still wanted to prove to myself I was a man and could take punishment.  When my friend wouldn't do any more bottom dipping, I dared him to trade paddle spankings with me instead, but he wouldn't agree to that either.   The paddle their mom and dad used on them was just left lying about, so we could use it.  I wish now I had just asked him straight out for fifty swats, but that wasn't something I wanted at the time - it would have been too embarrassing to ask.   To me, a spanking contest seemed manly, but to be on the bottom, getting the spanks but not giving them, seemed to be embarrassing, and I couldn't admit to wanting that.   But my friend would not agree to a spanking contest.  The brat was there when we talked about a spanking contest and of course he wanted to do it with me, but I wasn't about to have one with him.

That's all I remember about the bottom dipping game, except I have a memory (I don't know when it was exactly, but perhaps a year or two later) of my friend telling me, as proof of what a dork his little brother was, that every night his little brother showed off a red bottom, sometimes red from hot water and sometimes from spanking himself.   So for years, the little brat tortured his bottom, every night.  I presume he masturbated afterwards, and that showing his bottom to his brother was part of the ritual.   I know how it works because I was doing it myself some nights; not very often and not very hard, but sometimes I would spank myself before masturbating, or touch a hot lightbulb to my bottom.   When I did, I looked at my bottom in the mirror and if it was red enough I was proud of it, and I imagined I had an adopted brother to show it to, who I imagined admiring it.  The little brat showed his red bottom to his big brother, but his brother just laughed at him, so I guess it was me he was really doing it for in his mind.   All because I had praised and admired his red bottom, that one time.
  II.   the dares club  
I didn't stay friends with those boys when we grew up.   I did hear about it when the younger brother died of AIDS, at the age of 19, but I didn't go to his funeral.    My mom did go - their dad was my mom's relative in some way - what we call a "kissing cousin" in the South.   Back when I used to go play at my friend's house, I had talked to my friend's dad sometimes, and I had liked him a lot, but I hadn't kept up any connection with him either when I stopped being friends with his son.   He went into the hospital with a heart problem not long after his younger son died, and I didn't go visit him.  That turned out to be his last illness.  Mom visited him, and I happened to go along just once - only because I drove Mom to the hospital in my old Corvette one day when her new Lincoln was in the shop.   We stood around his bed, and he seemed really glad I'd come, and he told my mom stories about things I'd done as a kid.  He praised me to my mom way beyond what was true, and his praise was for doing stuff that was noble, not just praise for being smart.    I wasn't noble.  He especially said I'd always been kind to his younger son, letting him play with the big kids when the other big kids wouldn't let him play.  He said his son had often talked about it, even right before he died.  But this wasn't true ; I hadn't been kind to the kid.    Perhaps I wasn't as mean to the little brat as his big brother and some other boys were, but I wasn't kind to him.  The only kind word I can remember saying, a single solitary kind word, is that one time I said "wow" when I saw his red bottom.    I guess the little brat must have had a crush on me, to remember me so long and to talk about me when he was dying.    I went back to see his dad on my own after that - I don't know why I'd been such a fool as to loose touch with him, he was a great guy.   And then, just when I'd found a wonderful new friend, they discharged him from the hospital, and I took him home, and he died.   He died just after lunch.  Before lunch he told me not to bother with changing his bedpan, because it wouldn't matter this time; then he ate his lunch, chatting with me while he ate, and then he died.  He left me a mass of research notes on Virginia history, a lot of it having to do with my mom's ancestors, which I have even less time to turn into a book than he did.   But he never got tired of talking about how kind I'd been to his younger son.

I'd been the opposite of kind.   We big kids had a "clubhouse" behind some trees in my backyard, where we showed each other our penises and bottoms, and we had some stolen Playboy magazines, and we challenged each other to dares like crossing the street naked or kissing girls or sucking each other's dicks.   I was the one who insisted we let the little brat into the club - so his dad was right about that - but I only wanted to let him in so we could torture him.  We told him he had to have an initiation ceremony, like in a frat, and we pretended we'd all had one (which we hadn't).   But then, once he was stripped and tied up for his paddle spanking, we went way beyond what we'd told him his initiation would be - besides a lot more spanking than we'd said, we tortured him with pins and needles, our belts, hot wax, knives, and thorns, and I was the worst.  He loved the club though, once he got in, since he was really interested in penises and bottoms and assholes - he knew the scientific name for the slit at the end of your penis.   He was totally thrilled to see and touch and suck on big kids' penises.   And even more thrilled when we would do stuff with his penis - stuff that hurt.   We would shoot rubber bands at his penis, and he would gather up the rubber bands for us, and then turn around and bend over and spread his cheeks so we could shoot at his asshole.  We boys thought it was awful to have someone even see your underpants, and if someone saw your dick it was like you wanted to die of shame.   It was an ordeal for us to spin the bottle and risk being picked to have your asshole probed or your dick sucked, and that was just by the other boys in the club.     But the brat actually liked showing himself bare, even to girls.   We made him do the crossing-the-street naked dare, which we all had done, but we made him cross the street in front of his own house, when there were some girls there to see him naked.  He tried to dash across, but his mom saw him and he got a public spanking.

Afterwards he said : "Did you see it?   She spanked me naked with the girls watching!   Wasn't that cool?"  

I thought it was cool too.   I wanted a bare bottom spanking anyway, but I would have really liked to have girls watch me get it.   But I wasn't brave like the brat.  He wanted to go to school naked; and asked us to dare him to.  The only problem he saw with school was that the principal spanked you in his office, and he wanted to be spanked on the stage of the auditorium.  So he dared to go naked in the scariest place of all, my house.  That was the scariest place because I had lied to my friends about the way I was spanked; instead of admitting I was only spanked lightly on my pants like a baby, I said I was beaten bare with a leather strap. 
  The brat asked us to dare him to go naked at my house, thinking he'd get the strap from my dad.  I had found in the attic the strap that Granddad used on Dad and Uncle Roger, and I showed it to my friends, and said it hurt way more than a mere belt.   My lie didn't do me any good; no one admired me for being beaten, but they thought the strap was neat.    Dad went from just being a cool dad to being what they called "a real dad" - like the kind you read about in a book.  They were fascinated by the strap, and curious about it.  Manny said he hated his dad because he was never around, and he wished he had a real dad like mine; and while he was saying that, he was swishing the strap down hard on the calf of his leg. 

After that, we made a rule that the first boy to reach our clubhouse after school had the privilege of fetching my dad a beer, and we raced home from school for it.   They wanted to salute him, but I said that with his hands on his canes, he couldn't return the salute, so instead they should say "Yes, major!" and not just "Yes, sir!"   I think my friends came over to hang out with my dad more than with me, because at my house they had to do the same stupid stuff Dad made me do - like set the table and wash the dishes and sweep the floor, in military style, and they thought that was cool.   They liked being given orders and snapping out "Yes, Major!  Right away, Major!"   The silverware had to be exactly perpendicular to the edge of the table - he measured with a carpenter's square.  When we washed the dishes he would inspect them, and he would make us wash every dish over again twice, if one spoon was not perfectly clean - every boy had to wash except the one boy whose fault it was - that boy had to stand at attention and watch.    My friends thought this was fun.

But they didn't like the way he yelled, any more than I did.   It was bad enough having to wash dishes over and over again when it wasn't your fault ; he didn't have to call us all filthy low-life scum who sucked germ-infected spoons.   When something was wrong we just wanted to be punished.    Punish us hard - if we were "men" like he said, we could take it.  20 push-ups, with the strap if you were too slow - that was the punishment we thought would be best ; we wanted strict discipline, not humiliation.  The other boys all thought I got beatings with the strap (because I had lied to them), so they expected the strap and didn't understand why they got the humiliation treatment instead. Their dads were mostly enlisted men, so being treated like babies when, as they thought, the officer's own son got a manly, grown-up punishment, really hurt.   "Low-life scum" : it wasn't fair to call them that.

The dares club got more serious while we were in Dad's boot camp.
   We pretended the dares were secret missions, and we pretend we'd been sent on the missions by "The Major" - that is, by my dad.   It was actually me who picked the dares and with each dare I whispered a secret - stuff like "the attack will come from the north."   If you couldn't do a dare, that meant you had failed your mission and had been captured by the enemy, and you were tortured to reveal your secret - it wasn't real torture but it was fun to shout  "do your worst, I'll never talk," or "Only name, rank, and serial number!"    The tortures were stuff like tape pulled off your nipples or thorns stuck in your butt, and one was a string tied tight around your penis.    You reached in a jar and picked a slip of paper with a torture on it - we called them forfeits.   The  coolest forfeit was the flogging, since you could say "do your worst" in a real swashbuckling way if you were tied up naked and about to be flogged - the "whip" was only cotton clothesline but actually it hurt quite a bit.   It made a boy quite a hero in the club to endure a long flogging without saying his secret.

I once said "that was brave" to a boy I'd flogged, and once I had said it to one boy, I found I had to say it every time.   Boys asked me what number of strokes they had to take to get the words.    But no one ever said them to me.

The first time the brat couldn't do a dare, the forfeit he picked out of the jar was to be flogged.     When he read out "flogging" from his slip of paper, I said he was too little to be flogged, and I would spank him instead.   I did that because I didn't want to let him do such a cool forfeit ; I thought a light spanking on the seat of his pants, which was a baby's punishment and a humiliation, was all he deserved. But he pulled down his shorts and underpants before I could tell him not to, and when he bent across my lap he said: "Spank me all day, David.  You'll never make me tell the secret." 

I said : "We'll see about that!", and I spanked him really hard, and I kept on spanking; I would have spanked him all day - or at any rate until my hand hurt.    I stopped after about thirty, when he started to cry, but like with any forfeit, everyone got a turn, and so after that long hard spanking from me, he got another spanking from every boy in the club.    He cried and cried but none of us could make him tell his "secret mission."  

And then after that it was open season on torturing the little brat.   At the next club meeting and every meeting after that, I gave him a dare, without bothering with spin-the-bottle or being fair.  A lot of the dares I gave him weren't really dares, just torture.   For example I made a spanking machine based on Dad's electric drill, spinning a wooden dowell with straps of leather fastened to it, so they spun around and whipped your butt.    My dare to the brat was to lay down on the shop bench, with his bare butt under the contraption, while I turned it on.    Another dare was to drip ten drops of hot candle wax on his own penis.

If I did give him a real dare, I would pick something he was afraid of, like dogs.  Then he failed his dare and I would give him a long spanking, and then pass him to the next boy.   Or if I let him choose a forfeit from the jar, I tortured him a lot harder than we ever endured it ourselves. 
 He never complained it was unfair, and he never revealed his "secret mission," but he did cry.    Those were hard spankings; fifteen from me, and usually ten each from the other boys - but through them all he kept saying we could do our worst, that he would never talk.

But one time we beat him really badly, hitting him with our fists when he was stark naked.  He yelled at us to stop, that it wasn't fair.  I hadn't started that beating, and when it got too bad, I had to put a stop to it, threatening to fight any boy who landed another punch -  I remember him clinging to me, naked and sobbing for a long time, afterwards.    I got him into his clothes and took him home and he said he wanted to quit the club, but the next day he said he wanted to stay in.   He said he couldn't quit - that he had to do it, for "The Major."    The Major was my dad, but since I was the one who gave him the dares, and sent him on his "secret missions," he was really enduring those tortures for me.

I don't know how Dad missed our bullying of the brat, since we did it under his nose.    But he did miss it; Dad just isn't perceptive about people.
  It's no excuse, but that bad beating of the brat happened because Dad yelled at us.   It happened when we set the table; Dad told Manny (Manny was my best friend) that he'd put the knives with the edges pointing the wrong way, so Manny bent over the table and begged Dad for a beating with his cane.  Dad wouldn't do that; he yelled at all of us instead of at Manny.   He called us all scum, and kept yelling as we set the table over and over and over again, except for Manny who had to stand there and watch.   This was supposed to build unit cohesion or something.  Every time Dad snapped at some poor kid who was running as fast as he could, Manny whimpered.  When we were being punished like that - all of us except the boy whose fault it was - Dad would humiliate us in every way, but he never hit us.   He'd make us pull our pants down and make fun of us for not having pubic hair; stuff like that.  Or he'd just go after a kid - call him an asshole and a loser and a jerk, and make the kid say "Yes sir, I am an asshole, sir!  Yes sir, I masturbate, sir!"  Poor Manny had to listen to it all.   Finally, when Dad said we still weren't done, after our third time of setting the table perfectly, and we had to do it again, Manny started to cry.  When it was all over, we told Manny that we didn't blame him, but he was devastated, and the next day when we were spanking the brat, it was Manny - kind gentle Manny - who started using his fists.

Before we'd let the brat into the club, my friend his big brother had been the bravest one in the club, especially at any dare that hurt - like grabbing a live coal from the fire.   But the brat could beat us all at dares that hurt.   Older brother always took a forfeit rather than do any dare of going naked, because he was shy, but the brat would do anything naked.   So every club meeting it was either the brat doing some really impressive dare, or enduring a hard spanking without revealing his secret.   He was always the focus of attention, and his brother got jealous.  So I said: "What do you want - do you want to be the one spanked and tortured instead?"  He said "No, of course not."    But actually he did, because then he came up with a dare - his dare was to submit to being spanked bare for as long as anyone the club wanted to spank him - he was thinking of fifty or more from each.  
   He challenged us all, but especially his little brother, to join him in his dare.    Little brother said, "No way," and no one else would take the dare, either.   So my friend was smiling when he pulled down his pants to take his long spanking - he'd beaten his little brother at a dare, and he was more pleased about that than he cared about the pain.    Then I took him up on his dare, but I raised the stakes; I said I would take my strokes with the leather strap, and match each hand spank he took with a stroke of the strap for me.    I went to my bedroom and got the strap, but pretended I had to sneak it out of my dad's study.

So he said that if I could take the strap, he could take it too.  We agreed that I'd take five, then he'd take five, and so on, for as long as anyone in the club wanted to keep swinging the strap.    When I asked who wanted to give me my first five, he said he did.   I said, "that's not fair, we shouldn't whip each other."  But the other boys thought it was OK, so he gave me my first five - he whipped hard, but I was excited and didn't mind the pain too much.   But then he had to take the next five, and of course I was going to pay him back: I whipped a tree where he could see it, super-hard, just to show how hard I planned to whip him.  Then he was too scared to say OK when I asked if he was ready for me to start - so he failed his own dare.

Then his little brother decided he would take the dare after all, and bent over in his brother's place, and I gave him five with the strap, very hard.   Then we both had to take strokes from every other boy for as long as anyone wanted to spank us.  But Manny said: "If I whip you, I'll end up getting it."

I said: "No you won't."

He said: "You'll talk me into it."

As it was I couldn't talk him out of it.  He was convinced that if he whipped us and didn't take the dare himself, that would make him a coward.   For the other boys too, it was hard to get them to whip us really hard.  I had to beg for strokes ; the brat's older brother wouldn't whip us at all.   I got the other boys to agree to fifteen each.  I don't think they whipped as hard as they might have, but even so, that many strokes with that strap was sheer torture.   I wished I hadn't taken the dare.   Then Manny said "That was brave, David." -- the only time I heard the words.   I felt great; it was worth it.   Of course the brat was as brave as me, but no one said any nice words to him.

Then big brother had to take his forfeit for failing the dare.    Before he did, I dared him to play the bottom-dipping game with me - I wanted to push myself to my limit in scalding water, with everyone watching me, and also I thought he deserved another chance to win.   I knew he was good, so the competition would really push me, and he would probably beat me.  But he 
wouldn't take that dare either; he wasn't frightened of me, but he knew his little brother would take the dare too - and do way better at it than both of us.    And so big brother failed at two dares in one day and his forfeits - pulled out of the forfeit jar at random - were the worst.   First was clothespins on his dick (this gave him a stiffy, and we teased him for being a fag, which we always did whenever a boy got a stiffy atound other naked boys).  His second forfeit was even worse--to be pissed on. 

After that the brothers hated each other even more, and little brother got beat up a lot at home - I stopped that when I could, which is why their dad got the impression I was some kind of saint.   But I was more devil than saint.   I started using the strap on little brother, instead of my hand, whenever he had to pay a forfeit for a dare.   Fifteen hand spanks, the usual forfeit I'd given him for a dare before then, he could take and thought it was exciting and kind of neat.     Most boys in the club were the same -
if you were interested in bottoms which we all were, and if your friends were watching you take it, a dozen or so hand spanks on your bare bottom was kind of cool - for birthday spankings you got your age in spanks on your bare bottom, plus one to grow on, and no boy in the club ever chickened out of taking his birthday spanking hard and bare.    But fifteen with the strap was no fun at all, and that's what I would give the brat every club meeting, and then he got more from the other boys.      He got other tortures too.   But he always took the dares, and he always obeyed me and submitted during the tortures - although I tied him up too, for fun.  I wouldn't have had the guts to take half the dares he took.  
  III.   my birthday  
Not that I didn't have the guts to take a long hard spanking with the strap, I thought I could do that.  The dare strapping hadn't even hurt enough - my friends hadn't spanked me hard enough.   I still wanted a spanking that would test me to my limit, but I didn't have the guts to ask for it.   I still had the same problem of not being able to ask for a spanking, unless it was a spanking contest.   To be spanked outside of a contest seemed like being too much on the bottom - too much of what the brat was.   If only I could get the spanking without the humiliation!

Fortunately I had a birthday coming up, and as president of the club, I usually gave the birthday spankings.  I gave them as hard as I could with my hand, but I always told the birthday boy it was his choice; I would go easy on him if he wanted, or let him keep his pants on.   No one ever asked me to - it would have taken a brave boy to say he wasn't tough enough to take a bare-bottom birthday spanking.   So of course I was going to take my own birthday spanking bare and hard, but I went one more and asked for the strap.   My friends took turns, and whipped me super hard, which hurt a lot but it was cool with everyone watching.
This wasn't in the clubhouse, but in my bedroom on the night of my birthday party, with the girls my mom made me invite, watching too, and the music loud.   Then the boys with birthdays coming up talked about taking the strap too on their own birthdays.   Once I had done it, not one boy said he wasn't brave enough--every boy said he'd take the strap too on his own birthday.   One boy even boasted he would take his with a frat paddle, which he said hurt even more than the strap.   But since he'd just had his birthday the week before, we just laughed at him for this empty boast.   He said he was serious; he wanted his birthday spanking over again that night, with a frat paddle.   This boy, who wasn't in the club, didn't know I owned a frat paddle, but I did - it had the Greek letters carved backwards so if you gave a really hard swat, you could see Σ Ν  in white on the pledge's red butt.   The carved letters made it hurt a lot more, because they had sharp edges - you got a welt that ran around the outline of Σ Ν from a single stroke.    He took it pretty well.   But then, since he had taken a second birthday spanking, by general acclaim the real birthday boy had to get a second birthday spanking too, to prove he could endure the paddle.   The girls egged us on, and after I took my second birthday spanking with the frat padde, they got another pair of boys to do each other - but not with bare butts.   I called them chicken for being spanked with their pants on - big mistake; they agreed to do it again naked, but everyone said I had to do it with them, for calling them chicken.  There were tears in my eyes after my first two birthday spankings, but I didn't have much choice.

The dare was to do it stark naked, but we stripped facing the wall so the girls didn't see our cocks.  That was the plan anyway - the way we danced in agony I guess they saw everything if they looked - I got a tight stiffy.  We did the math and decided each  boy at the party would do two swats each.   But then Manny gave me one to grow on, really hard; after his two.   Then the next boy got the bright idea of doing a "practice swing" before starting, which was actually just as hard as the real ones, and everyone found that hilarious.  So each two swats we were supposed to get turned into four, and we didn't dare object -  the first of us who objected would be called a chicken.   Then when we thought it was over, the boys who had only beaten us two strokes each at the start of our spankings wanted to beat us two more, to make it "fair."   In no way was it fun to suffer that much pain, but we had to pretend we didn't mind; that we thought it was funny.   

That night, after midnight when we were supposed to be asleep, after the girls had gone home and it was just us boys, sleeping over (some of  us on our bellies), a boy we'd been teasing as a chicken announced he wanted his birthday spanking after all.  The strap or the paddle would have made too much noise, so I climbed out of my bedroom window, naked, to get a bamboo cane from the garden.   Since it was a new implement, my friends whispered I was a coward if I didn't try it too.  The cane was the worst pain of all, and the other boy didn't make it all the way through his birthday caning, but I did.   Tested to my limits, I had surpassed them.   Everyone in the club said I was the bravest boy of all, and I was giddy - on endorphins, I now know, but at the time I felt I'd had a great insight - I felt wise, as if I'd penetrated the secrets of the universe.   I've never felt such an intense euphoria since--I wanted to kiss the boys for caning me.

Birthday spankings were a club thing - and it was supposed to be a secret club.   But the secret of the club slipped out the night of my birthday.   The story of what they called our "birthday spanking club" spread through the girls' grapevine of both schools (mine, and the one my friend and the brat went to), and some girls started asking me all these questions about the club, and sort of casually mentioning when their birthdays were, and they asked me if we ever spanked girls.   One girl didn't want to wait for her birthday, and after that I kind of lost interest in spanking boys' bottoms.   But the story of my birthday spanking eventually got told to some girl's mom and then back to my mom, and so to my dad.    I was terrified when Dad said he wanted to talk to me about my "spanking club."   I thought he'd guessed I'd stolen his Playboys.   But he didn't talk about that, and he knew about the spanking anyway; he'd heard us the night of my birthday.  So I explained that we'd all agreed to the birthday spankings, and we hadn't forced anyone.     He just said it wasn't fair to the other boys for me to take so many spanks in one night - that it was showing off.   He tried not to show it, but I could tell he was pleased that I was club president - and he was secretly pleased, too, that I'd taken more spanks than anyone else.  But Dad didn't say he was pleased - he never praises me, except with his eyes, and he only does that because he doesn't know he's doing it - he doesn't know I can read people's eyes.  With his words he only belittles me; and that time he said out loud that our club was just babies playing at spanking.   He scorned the achievement I was most proud of.

He said to me: "Your uncle Roger and me used to play at spanking too, Baby.   It's not real spanking, just kids playing." 

"We used Granddad's strap, Dad, and I took over fifty strokes with strap, paddle, and cane!   What was the most you and Uncle Roger gave each other?  Was it fifty?
  My birthday spankings really hurt!"

"Baby, it hurts a lot worse when it's a man's arm."

"So give me fifty right now!  And Dad, if I can take it, if I can take fifty on my bare butt without crying, doesn't that prove I'm not a baby?     And if I'm not a baby, you shouldn't call me that.    And you shouldn't treat me like one either - the way you scold me!  I want to be spanked with the strap the same as Granddad spanked you and Uncle Roger.  I want it just as hard as Uncle Rog was spanked in the stories, and I want to be taken to the woodshed like in the stories.   I don't care that the woodshed's fallen down; I'll fix it up again so you can spank me in it."

Dad said: "I'll think about it, David."

Nothing happened after that for several weeks, except I propped up the woodshed; but when I got another scolding I wasn't given the option of a spanking.  Then Uncle Roger came for Thanksgiving.   On Friday, the womenfolk went shopping, and the men of the family: that's me, Dad, and Uncle Roger, went out to my 'clubhouse' behind the trees - which had been their clubhouse when they were kids.   We brought along some leftover pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce and we pulled the meat off the turkey carcass with our fingers and our teeth.   We had the campfire going.  Dad pulled out the bag of Playboys like he'd known where it was all along.   They leered at the centerfolds, and they told me about big clits (in those days Playboy centerfolds didn't show clits) and they explained to me what to do with clits, and then they gave me a swig of bourbon.  They'd each had about five drinks by then; and we drank the rest of the bottle, and opened another one.  They didn't keep track of how much I was drinking; I drank till I got sick.  Uncle Roger described in minute detail his sex with the woman he was dating - I learned things about that woman I still wish I didn't know, especially as she is now my Aunt Missy.   Then they pulled down my pants with me struggling to resist, to look at how my balls and dick hairs were coming along, and when they saw my tight little erection Uncle Roger wanted to show me how much better it felt to be masturbated by another guy, namely him, than to do it yourself, but I wouldn't let him touch my dick.   Uncle said he'd buy me a session with a whore, and she could teach me instead, if I was so fucking shy about it.  Then Uncle Roger found the strap in the same bag with the Playboys, and he swished it through the air and pointed at my naked butt, and I bent over for it.   I asked him if I was being spanked for refusing to be jerked off, and he said no and started to say what I had done to deserve it, but he got confused and then he forgot what he was doing.   He was really drunk.

He looked at the strap in his hand and said: "Ooo, Big Bro.   Do you remember what we used to do with this?"    

Dad wasn't quite as drunk.  He said : "Of course I do, Little Bro.   Of course I do."

I asked Uncle Rog about the spanking games they'd played as kids, and Uncle Roger said "Hmm" - but then he started asking me about my own "spanking club" instead.    He said Mom had told him to have a "talk" with me.   But he didn't give me a scolding like Mom had asked him to, because he himself thought it was fine to have a boys' spanking club.  He asked how many strokes with the strap we each took at each meeting, and if we sucked each other off afterwards or just jacked each other off with our fists. 
I figured this meant that when he and Dad played spanking as boys, they had jerked or sucked each other off after the spanking.   Or rather, since Uncle Rog is four years younger than Dad, that Rog had sucked off Dad for about four years before he got old enough to be masturbated himself.  And then I thought about the age difference and what it meant to the spanking game - that my Dad, as a teenager, had beaten his little brother, four years younger, with a strap.   Perhaps it was mutual, but if you think about when Dad was fifteen, and Rog just eleven ; the strappings Dad took would have been just play ones from a little kid--the way he told me that spankings from kids were just play ones--but the ones he gave little Rog would have been very real for Rog. 

I was shocked, both at the unfair spanking and at two brothers jerking each other off.    I said : "In my club we don't even get stiffies if we can help it!"   I had a huge one at the time, and my pants were down around my ankles, and I noticed I had gravy and cranberry sauce on my dick, which I couldn't remember touching.   I said : "We don't jerk each other off, Uncle Roger!
  Only fags do that!    My club isn't like that : it isn't a sex club!  It isn't even a spanking club.  ; You keep calling it that but it's really a dares club.    We do a dare where we have to cross a street naked.   We do a dare to kiss a girl.  Watch: I can grab a live coal from the fire - a boy showed us how and we all did it as a dare."   But while I was telling all this stuff, which maybe wasn't exactly true, Rog found the bag with the candles and the clothespins and the rope, and then he found the jar with forfeits on little strips of paper, and he read them all.  He laughed at me for saying it wasn't a fag sex club, when we put clothespins on each others' dicks (fortunately there was nothing on paper about sucking on dicks).   But he was impressed by the tortures on the forfeit slips, and he asked me which ordeal hurt the most.   I started to lie some more - I didn't tell him that we only tortured the brat, and only pretended to torture each other.   I wish now I'd fessed up, and told Uncle Roger that we - mostly me - had tortured the brat with real tortures, without taking them ourselves.    I wish I'd asked Uncle Roger to punish me for that as he saw fit.   But I didn't.  Instead, to punish myself for it, I decided to ask Uncle Roger for some of the tortures I'd inflicted on the brat, starting with the most painful one of them all: hot wax poured on my asshole.   I meant to make it true, what my uncle believed, that I was brave enough to endure all the tortures in the jar.  I stripped naked and I begged to be tied up for the hot wax torture, bent over a branch the way I had tied up the brat for it.    I wanted the penance, but I was not brave enough to make the confession.   I didn't give Uncle Roger a reason I needed a severe spanking, and without that he wasn't going to punish me seriously. Uncle Roger did call the screw-eyes I'd put into the trees "very professional."
  IV.   the family penis  
But then Dad noticed the bottle and guessed it was for spinning.   We were all pretty drunk.   Dad spun the bottle and it pointed to himself, so that meant he would get the hot wax first.   We lit the candle.  I had to help him with his shoes so he could strip - if he bends over, he can't stand up again.   I had never seen his butt, and I was amazed - about half of it is scar tissue.   The napalm had simply burned off his right buttock, and the surgeons had taken half of his left butt and fastened it to his right leg.  Hot wax on his asshole was out of the question - he doesn't actually have an asshole and his shit drains into a bag.   I had seen his feet before then, but still it was - it still is - shocking to look at them.   The scars from the burns all over his body are hideous, and the surgeons at the M.A.S.H. unit hadn't made them any prettier. But it was from his front I got the real shock - I found out why I don't have any little brothers or sisters. 

I love Uncle Roger terribly - it's like a pounding in my chest when I see him, and he was my other Dad when I was growing up - and I'm sorry to say, my favorite Dad.   We are a lot alike, Rog and Dave; identical twins born a generation apart - it happens that way sometimes in inbred families like ours.   Neither of us is much like Dad.   When I got into trouble as a boy, if Dad wasn't there, Uncle Rog was my dad : his spankings were bare and they really hurt, but his talkings-to afterwards made me feel better, not worse.  Dad spanked light on my pants, and his talkings-to were horrid.  I still remember my uncle's talkings-to; I remember I was thinking about one during that firefight in Somalia.    Uncle Roger always knows what I'm thinking, and I always know what he's thinking, and as I reeled in shock it was a lifeline having him there.   Our minds merged as I fell into his arms and looked into his eyes.    He knew I needed him, and all at once he was sober.   Dad looked down to where his penis used to be, ashamed of it.    My reaction was hurting him, but I couldn't help it.

Uncle dried my tears and said: "Dave, it's not as bad as you think.   Your Dad gets a lot of pleasure from sex with your Mom.   The brain is the only real sex organ, and your Dad's brain works just fine.    But he does need to see and feel an erect penis occasionally; it helps him to fantasize about fucking.   He needs to see and feel a male orgasm so up close and personal that it's like having one of his own.   And the way we do that is in his mouth.  Some might say that's incest, but I call it sharing the family penis."

Dad said: "I don't know if you had to tell him that, Little Bro."

"But why does it have to be you, Uncle Rog?" I wailed.  "If he needs to suck a penis, aren't there places you can go - like in D.C. - where the whores are he-shes?   Really boys?"

Dad shouted: "Where did you hear about that?"

Uncle Roger looked into my eyes, keeping my cool for me:   I would have gone nuts if I'd been alone when I found out about Dad.  He said: "He's tried sluts, Dave.    He said it was horrible - i
t just made it worse.     He gets his pleasure from the fantasy that it's his own cock that's shooting off, and watching a cum when it's a boy slut from the streets just won't work for that - if it isn't family, it's useless.  I've been with those he-shes.   It's not as much fun as you'd think it would be.  They're not interested in being pleasured by their clients."

"Little Bro, you don't have to tell him all this.   And it isn't true, anyway - my fantasies aren't enough.   I need stimulus the same as any other man - to the parts I have left.   I'm just lucky I've always liked that kind of stimulus, to those parts."

And then, without any fuss about it, my Dad took about sixty very hard strokes of the strap from Uncle Roger, on his reconstructed butt, and then some more on the bump where his penis used to be, which I found utterly and absolutely terrifying.   If there had been a penis there, it would have been cut into slices by the force of those blows.  A
nd then he took some on his burned thighs, and some on his scarred nipples. Also the hot wax on his nipples, and a knifeblade heated in the candle flame applied to his crotch, which made him scream and left second-degree burns.  Well over a hundred strokes altogether, ferociously hard, on a body that was a horror before the beating started, and which became bruised and welted beyond my endurance to watch.  The whipping drew blood.   But it was my reaction to his injuries that had hurt my dad.  The physical pain he eased that hurt, a little.   I longed for some physical pain myself, the emotional pain was more than I could take.

I've listened in on Mom and  Dad having sex, and I've never heard any spanking - so if they do it, they've somehow hidden it perfectly for years from a smart, dirty-minded, prying little brat - a natural born spy, in fact.     It's true my hidden mikes didn't connect to noise-activated recorders in those days, but I'm quite certain of the fact : Mom never spanks Dad.   Why, if it's something he needs, she will not do it, I have never asked her.   Dad spanks only with Uncle Roger, and Uncle Roger lives in California, and they see each other two or three times a year.

On the next spin, the bottle pointed to Uncle Roger, and he was very different about his own spanking; he was excited and frightened at the same time, and almost too keyed-up to get his clothes off - the same way I am about getting spanked.  His excitement communicated to me, and my butt started to itch for a spanking.  He had a huge erection - the first time I'd seen a grown man's stiffy - and he flogged it with the end of the strap, and he made gulping noises in the back of his throat when he saw me staring at it, too choked up to talk, and he pointedly looked down at my hard little prick and swished the strap toward it.   I got very excited by that; I wanted my cock whipped, and we locked eyes and he said with his eyes he would do it if I asked, and I said "yes please."  And even Dad was very intense and excited about Roger's spanking - it mattered a lot to both of them how many Roger could take.   What Rog could take though, was just ten of my Dad's hard spanks with the strap, and he screamed, and he wept tears until his face was soaking wet - he drooled too, and his nose ran snot, and his face turned red and got swollen - it was like nothing I'd ever seen.   Nothing like the fake torture you see in the movies.   He leaked piss, too.   And it took all my encouragement, in addition to being goaded by my dad, to get him to take even ten.  

And then my Dad sucked my Uncle Roger's cock, while Rog stuck his hand through the hole where my Dad's asshole used to be, to rub something inside.  It was my first time seeing grown-up sex, and Uncle's screaming jerking spastic orgasm was nothing at all like my quiet ejaculations, alone in my bed, late at night.   It was an incredibly intense experience, being there when two grown men had sex together - there was so much heavy sex before even starting Roger's climb to orgasm, that I had no idea about, and my own feelings through every minute of it were so strong I thought I would die if it didn't stop soon, and it didn't stop, and it didn't stop, and there was one more higher and higher level of feeling after another.  I wouldn't let Uncle Rog touch my dick, but I grabbed him in a sort of hug, sideways so my cock wasn't touching him, and I got bumped about and wrenched and twisted in their writhing and bucking - and then Rog came - and it lasted forever and I had my arms around him -  and feeling his cum was more intense than having one of my own.   I started to understand how important this was to Dad - I could tell he was feeling his brother's cum the same way I was.   Because that's exactly what it felt like - Uncle Rog's cum felt like it was mine - only better than mine.  I shook and writhed and moaned right along with him.  As you might imagine, my stiffy, which I'd gotten from Rog's story of belt-whipping Aunt Missy's three-inch clit, hadn't gone down through any of this; and if my balls weren't really blue, that's exactly what they felt like.    But after Uncle's screaming cum I started to droop, as if I'd really had my own orgasm.

Uncle shooed me out with a gesture, and in the yard, naked and in full view of the neighbor's house, but out of sight of my two dads, I brought myself fully up again, and then off, with my hand.    I was just taking care of business - it wasn't a big deal, just releasing some pressure - I've had pisses that felt more satisfying than that ejaculation.  It didn't deserve the name of orgasm.  All of my excitement was thinking about what had just happened.   And about what would happen next.

Because next, obviously, was my turn for the strap, and thinking about it made me feel so hot I was on fire.   My ass and my nipples and my lips and my thighs - all my spankable places - tingled with a sort of itch that made me feel a need to stroke and scratch them, and my whole crotch was on fire like stinging nettles.    If fifty hands
belonging to gorgeous naked girls, or - let's be realistic - four hands belonging to two whores, had been continuously spanking me hard all over, and scratching me with their long sharp fingernails - on every inch of my tingling body, that was what my body itched for.   But even better would have been the lingering pain of a good hard belting - like my birthday spanking.   That lasting warmth and soreness I had felt in my bottom that night was just what I wanted now.   But I didn't want it to be just my bottom.  If I'd been given a good hard going-over with the strap, on my ass but also on my nipples and my thighs and my crotch, like Dad had gotten, but before, so that all those places were sore and hurting with a light, hot, tingling pain that wouldn't go away, and if I'd been feeling that when I was with Uncle Rog with my arms around him as he came, that would have made it even more intense - or perhaps I mean, more pleasurable.   In the last hour I'd learned that my pitiful solitary ejaculations in bed, which was all the pleasure I'd known there was in sex, were just a faint shadow of the pleasure that sex could be.   There was a whole undiscovered world of pre-ejaculation pleasure that just blew me away, and the tingling of my body was demanding that I open the door to an even higher level of pleasure with a vigorous application of the strap.   My ass positively pulsed with demand for it, and my nipples were hard to ignore too.    And I wanted the excitement - the heart-pounding thrill - of waiting for a really hard strapping to start.  My cock pumped back into painful wooden hardness just minutes after I'd squirted all over the lawn.

I wasn't going to have sex with either of my dads though.   I wasn't!  But spanked by them, I could be; I thought that was OK.   Dad was right, he spanked much harder than my friends did - fifty from him would have been murder.   But if Uncle could take ten, I thought I might manage five.   And then maybe five from Uncle Roger across my nipples, and five on my thighs, and a good hard slap on the face.  Perhaps some hot wax on my dick and my asshole.  I went back in to the 'clubhouse' and announced: "As president of this club, I call this meeting to order.   The next item on the agenda is a hard spanking for President Dave."   

Dad said to me - "Baby, you said you wanted fifty.    Do you still want them? - if you say yes, you'll get them all, and we'll tie you up the way you wanted to be, and you won't have any choice about taking them - we won't stop even if you beg for mercy.  But after that I'll never scold you or call you Baby again.
  I'm sorry about calling you that but, you know, you may be the eldest son, but to Mom and me you're still our bab - our youngest.   But if you take the spanks I promise I won't call you Baby any more."

Somehow I never minded it when Mom
 called me Baby.  Dad would have stopped calling me Baby if I'd just asked him to; instead, since I'd asked for a spanking to prove myself, he was giving me exactly what I'd asked for - the chance to earn it instead of having it given to me.  He'd made it into a quest; a chance to be a hero, because I'd asked him to.  But there is only one hero in my family.    Fifty was too many.   I said - "No thanks!"

Only one hero in the family?   Not quite.   Uncle Roger took those fifty spanks for me.    Took them tied up, and after getting a promise from Dad not to stop even if he begged for mercy.   Which he did.    I don't know if I could really have taken five, but I could hardly bear even to watch five.  But I had to watch them all - Rog was doing this for me.  You could tell by the way they co-operated in tying up Rog that they'd done it before; they must have started when they were kids.   Roger, the little boy, must have been tied up for the whippings he got from his teenage brother.  While I was watching my dad whip his younger brother, I finally figured it out.

"Dad, you stopped spanking me because you enjoy it too much!   You wouldn't beat Manny because you wanted to too much!"

"No, David, I stopped spanking you because you stopped needing to be spanked.   You don't do anything bad enough to be spanked for any more; you never have, really.   You are more than welcome to get up at midnight to take a bath or make tea any time you want too - you get enough sleep, I don't need to enforce a bed-time curfew for you, David, you're so responsible.   Bring me a cup, next time you make tea ; I like tea.   Bring me herb tea and make me go to bed ; take away the book I'm reading and scold me - I'm the one who stays up too late, not you.  Take the book away and keep it in your room - otherwise I'll start reading it again.  You might have to spank me if you catch me with the light on after that.  And I know you would never forget to check that the gas was really lit.   I shouldn't have said anything, I'm sorry.   It's just I don't always understand people's feelings."

Uncle Roger said: "David, what do you think your Grandma calls me?     'Baby' - she calls me 'baby'; haven't you heard her?   That's just something you get when you're the youngest in this family.   I got called 'Baby' for years, by everyone, even by my buddies - it only stopped after I got back from Nam."

I gave Dad a hug, and a kiss - a sort of Eskimo kiss, rubbing my face into his scraggly beard.   I asked: "And you'll spank me from now on?"

"Spank you for what?"

"For the least little thing.   It doesn't matter, if you enjoy it."

"I offered you fifty.   You said no."

It didn't take a genius to figure it out.   What Dad needed, but would never take, wasn't only to spank me.    With Uncle Roger indefinitely stationed at the Defense Foreign Languages School in Monterey, California, the only family penis available year round was the one slowly getting bigger and sprouting hair, between my legs.    What Dad needed, and what Uncle Roger wanted me to let him do - (no, that's not right, not "let" him do; Dad would never ask me for this;) what my Uncle wanted me to persuade my Dad to do was to suck my cock.

Suck my cock after giving me a strapping.    A hard strapping.   A hard strapping, every time; week after week - twice a week, maybe.   And then ... well then, then I would have to whip my father.   Whip my father!   No way, end of discussion!    And then, and then, after that - after that! - then I would have to get  him to suck my cock!   That was my Uncle Roger's plan - that I would be whipped, give my father a whipping, and get a blow job.   It was the only way Dad could have sex and 
I should have done it.   But as I said, there's a shortage of heroes in my family.  

So that was that.   After that I wasn't scolded, ever, and I wasn't called "Baby."    
I wasn't spanked, either.   But sometimes, when I'd been very, very bad, I'd ask Dad for a kiss.  I miss being called "Baby."   Two or three times a year for the rest of my childhood, and in my twenties even less often since I was oversees, I would get to see Uncle Roger, and whenever we could, we spanked each other.   I remember doing it once in a hotel in Beirut, and we must have been seen or heard because the next night two very pretty Palestinian boys showed up with their own whips.   Of course we considered the boys as enemy agents, or more likely "blue enemy" (Mossad), but I didn't mind having them come to our rooms; they were fun to spank and it was good cover--two businessmen in Lebanon for sex.    But with Dad, nothing.

Now I'm finally back from Dubai, I can see my two dads more often,
and Dad and I will go to California for two weeks this summer if there isn't another crisis with the Saudis.  The testosterone injections are really helping Dad now, and his beard's not scraggly any more, and they're talking about reconstructive surgery, although that's more for Mom's pleasure than his; his new dick will need to have some sort of balloon in it to make it hard, and it won't have much sensitivity.  But perhaps it will work as a focus for his fantasies.   Rog was here for a week at Christmas, and he spanked my ass every day, and I know Dad got pleasure from watching that.   Uncle Roger's beatings hurt - I don't do it for fun, exactly, but I look forward to it all the same.   I long for Uncle Roger's visits as much as Dad does - we call it Santa Claus coming to town.  

Uncle Roger came up with a new invention,
to stimulate nerves using electrified acupuncture needles, and I made a prototype by modifying a gadget that MCID uses for quite another purpose.    We poked the needles into the spots we could reach inside of Dad's gaping rear hole - trying for the the nerves that used to go to his penis.    In theory, it should have been intense sexual pleasure, but Dad would only say the sensation would take some getting used to. 

Between Dad and me, there is still nothing.  Last Christmas I told Dad : "OK I'm grown-up now and OK I'm Assistant DIRINT and OK I outrank you, but I'm still your boy, and I've been bad.   I want you to spank me hard."  And like he does every Christmas, he said there was nothing to spank me for.   Only this year instead of "There is nothing to spank you for, David,"
it was "There is nothing to spank you for, Colonel."    He dropped his canes to the floor, and he saluted.   I had to grab him so he wouldn't fall down.
  V.   words at a funeral  
If I'd actually been kind to my friend's little brother, and played with him as an equal, then I guess I would have some interesting memories.    I wish now I'd asked him to do a spanking contest.   But to do that, we two would have had to be playing together - I often invited his brother over without him, but I never played with the brat without his brother.  There was no reason why older brother was my friend, and younger brother wasn't, except age.   I knew those boys because my mother's family has known theirs for generations - since before the War of Northern Aggression - so it wasn't that I knew older brother first.  Knowing them both, I chose to play with the one my age, who was and is nothing like me, instead of the younger one who was my soulmate and twin, only because of age; because of a single year of age difference.   A difference of one grade in school, and we didn't even go to the same school. There was social pressure not to play with younger kids : it would have made me a loser, or something, to be known as the kid who likes to play with little brats.   I think, if I had been friends with little brother, we would have kept in touch - and perhaps things would have turned out differently for him.     I hope it wasn't me he was looking for, in all those leather bars he went into.  But except for taking yucky penises into my mouth in the dares club, I've never done any kind of gay sex, so we couldn't have been lovers.   Still, things might have turned out differently.

Couldn't have been lovers?  - I wish I'd kissed him when I had the chance.  I can't get out of my mind his little bare body, the way he clung to me after his beating, and the poor comfort I gave him, not even hugging him all the way tight.   I should have kissed him!

 I went to his Dad's funeral.    My ex-friend, the older brother, had turned into just about the stuffiest, yuckiest, most unpleasant man, you can imagine.   The sort of redneck who gives the South a bad name.  He let me know, in a sneering way - just to let me know how wrong I'd been to pay so much attention to his brat brother - all about his brother's gay lifestyle and the leather bars he went to.  He made an exhibition of himself at the reception, telling the whole room about his brother's dissolute, wasted life.    To me the brat sounded wonderful - 
an artist, a rebel, a dreamer, a kinky sex machine - everything I've looked for in a woman, but never found.  At least I've never found a woman like that, who would go on a second date with me.

If I could meet little brother today, if he hadn't died, I would kiss him in a heartbeat - and go on kissing him for hours.  And not just kissing.   He was out of my league, flogging-wise, but I would have tried.   Hand jobs?   Why not - a hand's a hand.    Blow jobs? - been there, done that; we sucked each other's dicks to hardness back in the club.   CBT?  I did it to him, many times.   Nipple play? - I can take hot wax on my nipples, and clamps - I've taken it from women so why not from him?   His asshole? - I poured hot wax on it, and I shoved sticks up it, and tortured it in a dozen other ways.   My asshole?  I don't let women fuck my ass with strap-ons, which women of the kind I date often want to do, but I still dream about the brat's cock in my ass.   If things had turned out that way, if we'd kept in touch and had sex, he might not have died.   Or perhaps I would have caught AIDS and be dead too.

But I guess none of that could really have happened - I'm not gay.    But there's one fantasy that maybe could have happened.   What if little brother and me had spanked each other, with my Dad?    Me spanking Dad - well, I can't offer, and he can't ask.    But what about little brother and me, spanking each other, really hard, with Dad watching?   Dad always likes to watch me get spanked.   And beyond spanking?   
Rog had said, "If it isn't family, it's useless," but Dad might have been OK with the three of us.  Perhaps Dad could have sucked the brat's cock - it wouldn't have been the same as with a whore.  A third person could have made the difference - not me and Dad having sex, which we couldn't do - but me with having sex with brat, and Dad having sex with brat, when all three of us were naked together.   I know how powerful that can be.     It would still have been the family penis; I think Dad could have got off on watching me shove it up the brat's asshole.   And of course they could have whipped each other - going way beyond what I could ever endure.   And maybe, just maybe, if we'd done all that, the little brat could have been a bridge between Dad and me.

As it was, night after night I jerked off alone, and night after night Dad had a pleasureless session with Mom, and night after night the brat dipped in scalding water or paddled his own butt - each of us alone.  The brat endured pain I can hardly imagine, because I had once admired him for a red bottom.  And that was for much of his childhood.  I bet he boiled his bottom for me on every day he didn't get a spanking from me in the club.  And then I went out of his life and he had himself flogged, in the back room of some bar, every night.   And that was for the rest of his life, until the disease he got in one of those bars, killed him.   According to his dad, he never had a long-term lover, and his brother said - to all the guests at the reception - that he kept going for floggings even as Kaposi's sarcoma wasted him away.  He made his bottom red with hot water as a  boy, or had it whipped red as a man, even though I wasn't there to see it.   I wasn't there to see the red bottom that he made, night after night, for me.

July 2005
David Nunes da Silva

This is fiction, not autobiography,but I have worked in a few things that happened : (I've used quotes in this section, but my memory's not that good; I have tried to convey the conversations as I remember the emotional situations.)

  - We boys did have a club where we did dares, got naked, and talked about sex and spanking and whipping.  We took each other's penises in our mouths, but only once.   We looked at naked women in National Geographic, and at stolen copies of Playboy, and we read descriptions of floggings and canings in books. We did not know that grown-ups did slapping and spanking as part of sex; we imagined a million ways we might get spankings in our future, but not that.  We knew about ordeals in Indian tribes and in ancient Sparta; and we agreed to do an ordeal.  There was a boy we invited into the club; we told him there would be an initiation.   The idea was we'd all go through the initiation with him, since we'd never had an initiation.  He claimed that taking the initiation would be no problem for him, because he wasn't scared of the pain, but he just didn't want to be in our club.  We never did the ordeal.   This was entirely a boys club, and our idea was that a pain ordeal was for boys to show how brave they were.  But in fact we knew a girl who had to choose her own punishments, and she boasted : "Dad always says the punishment I pick, is more than he would have given me."   And the punishment she picked was always a bare-bottom belting.   But it never occured to us to invite her into the club.

 - There were two brothers in the club, and in later life I was praised by their father for always including the younger one in our games, when in fact we were very mean to him.   This kid brother is the main basis for my "little brat" character.     He liked to get naked for stuff like climbing trees.  Once he got caught and I suppose spanked, although certainly not in public.

 - The brat's older brother told me his kid brother showed off a red bottom to him every night, red from dipping in hot water in the bathtub, pretty much as I describe it in the story, including that it happened every night.   The kid called this his "ass-robatics."   He wanted me to sleep over so I could watch.    One thing I didn't put in the story, was that this boy said he loved me.   I was so innocent.  I knew about "fairies," but I didn't make the connection :  his "love" seemed like hero worship to me - flattering but a bit of a nuisance, from a little kid.   He was always pulling out his penis and wanting me to do stuff to it; he wanted us to suck on each others' penises again; he liked to rest his head on me and touch me, and he wanted me to sleep over so we could spend the night together in his bed; and he begged me do anything to his bottom and penis I liked.  Once I let him kiss me on the face.  But I didn't connect any of this with "fairies."  I thought it was extreme dorky behavior, especially the stuff he wanted me to do with his penis.  My schooling did include some sex education, but in those days they barely mentioned gay sex.

  - I
never spent the night with him, or saw his "ass-robatics."  I never torutured him, and no one else in the club did either; that part's fiction - although his brother did beat him up sometimes.   We were mean to him precicely by not letting come with us for the most fun things, like swimming, or sleepovers - and so he missed out on the spanking games, on those few times we did that.  

This boy was not a public exhibitionist at all though.  The exhibitionist part of the "little brat" character, is based on a different boy; a boy who was no sort of friend of mine.  He liked to show his penis and bottom on the school playground ; we called him the retard.    He got beat up a lot, including getting his bare ass beaten.   It didn't look like he enjoyed it, but he showed his bottom mostly to the kids who did it, so maybe he liked being spanked better than being left alone.   No one ever wanted to play with him.   He was seriously disturbed, and quite retarded, and I suppose he was being "mainstreamed."   But the judgment of the playground was that he was bad, selfish and rotten, as well as a retard, and we thought he had turned out that way because he was spoiled -- not spanked enough -- at home.   I wasn't one of the boys who spanked him, but I agreed with everyone that it was for his own good.

- What I've talked about so far was when I was around twelve, I also have one dim memory, from much earlier, from about six, of a friend who did stuff on purpose to get spanked by his dad.   Once he made cuts with a saw in his family's garden hose, so his dad would get soaked when he tried to wash his car.  He said, dreamily: "My dad will get soaked, and he'll say - who made these cuts, and I'll say - it was me!, and he'll go swat-swat-swat."   I remember I tried to talk him out of cutting the hose, by telling him that a spanking hurt and it didn't make sense to want one, but I can't remember what he said.   I know it had to be his dad, not his mom.   That's all I remember; I don't know if that spanking actually happened.

- Even younger, when I was maybe five, my older girl cousin and her friends liked to play "horsey," a game which included us little "colts" getting chased through the sprinkler and getting "horse spankings" when they caught us.   A horse spanking was a kick, given with the top of the foot to your butt, that lifted you off your feet.   My girl cousin about my age loved getting horse spankings from her big sister.  She would laugh and say, "Do it again."  I did not like getting horse spankings, but I liked being chased.   We colts played bare, I think.  Horse spankings, big sister said, were loving - and so not at all like the spankings girls and boys got from their dads.   But what was loving about them?   Did they come with horse kisses and horse hugs?   Did you get to say how many you wanted?  My memories are so vague   But I remember my big cousin's dream about the horses - horses running free across the plain, with mares and stallions and little colts;  families as families ought to have been.

- I don't remember anyone else who wanted
 to be spanked, but one boy, quite a good friend, got himself spanked often, as if it was a compulsion.  Mostly, he would hit or hurt his little brother, even when it was right in front of his mom; which meant a spanking when his dad got home.  He didn't hit his brother hard, because he was gentle.  Unfortunately, his dad wasn't - my friend showed me the marks on his bottom the next day; that seemed to be part of the compulsion, somehow.   Part of his punishment was the humiliation of stripping naked, and he really hated that.  He got five strokes for one little tap on his brother's back.  I think this was about age ten; his brother was a year younger.    His brother provoked him on purpose, and gloated with glee to be hit, because it meant his brother would be spanked and he would get to watch.  My friend cried on my shoulder, not about the spanking which he thought was fair; he complained because his brother got to see him naked, and was allowed to gloat.   But one day his brother was the one who had gotten the spanking, and my friend embarrassed him by telling me about him having to strip naked and show his dick.    He was so intent on needling his brother that he paid no attention to his mother; but she was right behind him with a stick and she spanked him for saying "dick."   That spanking was with  his pants on since I was there; but he'd get spanked again naked in front of his little brother, just as soon as I left, and that would be right away, because his mom severely scolded me for participating and told me to go home, saying I'd worn out my welcome.     I felt guilty and offered to be spanked too, even bare.   (I'm hoping she's forgotten about that; I still see her from time to time.)

(That was the only family where spankings were done in front of me, although never bare.  She would say to whatever brother was getting spanked: "you don't want David to think you're a crybaby, do you?")

I remember a nature hike leader who I felt a boy's hero worship for, and I remember asking him if he was allowed to spank us if we did something bad on a hike, and if so, what would I have to do to get a spanking?   I tried to get him to take the group swimming, just because I wanted to see him, and to have him see me, in the locker room.   I don't think I ever saw my dad's penis as a child, but there was an uncle who once pissed on a tree with me, and I was very impressed.   I was interested in seeing the penises of all the grown men in my life, to compare them, and also to have the man look at my penis.  I wanted to ask if it would get bigger.  And I would have welcomed a bare-bottom spanking from any one of those substitute dads.

Then when I was a teenage camp counselor, I got the question in turn - "Are counselors allowed to spank kids?"   The answer was of course no.   This was from two sisters who wanted me to spank their little brother.  He was, if not wanting to be spanked, at least very interested; he asked me if I'd ever spanked anyone, like for example had I ever been a baby-siiter and spanked a kid?   He also asked if I was Jewish, and when I said I was an athiest he explained to me patiently that just because I didn't go to temple didn't mean I wasn't Jewish.   He was quite sure I was really Jewish, and would tell his parents because they wouldn't hire a baby-sitter who wasn't Jewish at all   His parents did not spank.  I had to tell him that even if I was his baby-sitter, which I wasn't going to be, he wouldn't get a spanking.    He said to me: "turn around!" and we played at him spanking me.

He saw how much hot sauce I was putting on my food, and put the same on his, making it a contest.   I was used to spicy food, he wasn't.   He described  the intense burning pain of his lips and mouth, that lasted for hours; but he wasn't sorry, he said he liked it really spicy.

 - In the story, the narrator is jealous because his friends get spanked on their bare bottoms, while he only gets it by hand on his pants.   This is based on me, except I wasn't spanked at all, not even by hand on my pants, and my friends, every one of them, got spanked with a tool: strap, belt, or paddle (but only sometimes bare, I think). My friends said I was crazy, but I wanted a chance just once to "be a man" and "take it." 
 - A friend's father had a cool frat paddle in his study, so I asked for a swat to see how it felt, but when I pulled down my pants for it, he only gave me a real light swat, like a joke.   I said swats with your pants on were for sissies and a brave boy wouldn't even want it that way.   He gave me about five, a bit hard but nothing like as hard as I wanted, but then of course my friend had to prove he was as brave as me, and his dad swatted him a whole lot harder than he did me.     I thought that was so unfair.

 - I made myself a frat paddle and gave myself one hundred smacks.  I liked the way my bottom looked and it felt good to set myself a goal that really hurt, and to make it.   But somehow self-spanking did not work for me.   There were many times when I resolved to do another 100, but I did not usually keep my resolution.   I thought if someone was spanking me, I could say : "give me 100 spanks" and then I would be too ashamed to back out, and so I'd get a really hard spanking, harder than I could give myself.  But like the narrator of this story, I was shy about saying "I want a spanking;" to my friends, so instead I tried to provoke my friends into a spanking game or contest.   But it was actually easier to get my friends to take spankings than to give them.

- It was the boy ethic that you didn't show pain.    I remember digging out a tick with a knife from my friend's leg, and he didn't even say "ouch."   When I cut my finger to the bone, a cut which needed nine stitches, I said "it's nothing," and I didn't think I needed to go to the hospital.    At the hospital, I didn't want any anesthetic.

- One day that same friend and I were fooling around with balancing stuff on each other's bodies;  I was carefully putting the last block on a stack balanced on his butt, when he moved and sent it crashing, and so I picked up a ping-pong paddle that happened to be there, and gave him a good hard swat on the seat of his shorts, saying (after the fact) "Lets say that when you make a mistake, you get a spanking."    He didn't object, so I said: "And I'm in my swimsuit and you're in cut-offs, so you should pull your pants down to make it fair.  Let's say it's a spank for each block, OK?"   He just lay there quietly so I gave him a hard swat on his underpants for each block that had fallen.  Then it was his turn to pile blocks on my butt, and I jerked and sent his tower crashing on purpose, to earn spanks.   We played for hours, and if he didn't get a spanking in a turn, he complained his turn was too short and he should get another one.  He never complained about too many spankings or too hard.  I built a big construction on his butt using extra blocks from another set; and I built it so off-balance that it only took the slightest twitch of his body to knock it down, and when it did fall down he laughed about the long spanking he was about to get, boasting that it would be longer than any I'd gotten.  He wasn't laughing by the end of that spanking, but he wasn't crying either.   The next day he wouldn't play the balancing game at all - on the pretext that I was better at it than he was; actually, he was better than me.    I said the problem was he wasn't spanking me hard enough - I was going to keep acting naughty until he spanked me so hard I couldn't take it, and so a really hard spanking was the only way he'd ever get a tower built.   I said I would play naked to make it hurt more, and if even that wasn't enough, he should use a belt. (I collected my Dad's old belts).  But he wouldn't play balancing because he said I was too good at it.   And we never played again.  Go figure.

- Another example is a slightly younger kid I gave a birthday spanking to.    Perhaps he expected a play birthday spanking when he bent over my lap, but I spanked hard.  After it was over, he said "Wow, that really hurt.  Even more than a spanking from my dad."   I said I didn't mean it to hurt that much, and if he wanted to he could spank me back to make up for it.  He rubbed his bottom and said "That's OK."   I was surprised I could hurt him more than a spanking from his dad, since it was by hand on his pants.   I said "Doesn't your Dad make you pull down your pants?" and he said "Do I have to, Dad?"  He was submissive putty in my hands.

- I did a trade-off spanking  with my boy cousin, a few months younger than me, when we took a bath together.   Mostly by hand, but with a few strokes with the back of the toilet brush. He wanted to trade brush spankings to see who could take the most, but I said we'd do that next time.  However his little sister was waiting outside the door, and asked about the thumps she'd heard.  I'm sure she'd heard us talking about the spankings as well as hearing the swats, but we told her some lie.  Then she tried to get the two of us to sleep with her in her family's camper parked in the street, instead of us sleeping in the "boys dorm" and her in  the"girls dorm" that my mother had set up in the living room and dining room of our house.

- There is another case of a boy who wanted to be spanked, this is a boy I knew when I was grown up.   He was the son of a woman I knew; the father was long gone.   He was determined to go to college and have a career where he'd be respected and called "sir," and after eighth grade he announced he was going to work a summer job to earn enough to go to Catholic high school, since he had gotten in with a bad crowd in public school.   This school, or maybe all Catholic high schools for all I know, had abolished corporal punishment by then.   So he was quite surprised when he was slapped for talking back, rapped on the knuckles, and bopped on the head--and that was.just his first day.   He wasn't expecting it, but he liked it; especially he liked being made to say "sir" to the teachers.  He obeyed the rules, so he wasn't hit much after that first day, but he liked knowing that the brothers would hit him if he got out of line.   However, he was against actual spanking of boys his own age on their bare bottoms; he said priests who would do that were  fags.   But for little kids, it was different; he was hard trying to catch up academically after being allowed to goof off in public school his whole life; he said he wished he'd gone to a strict Catholic school, where (he believed) the nuns would have smacked his bare bottom with a ruler.

- In spite of the school policy against corporal punishment, the brothers would rap knuckles or bop heads to maintain order in class, and this boy thrived in the strict classroom environment.  But there was no punishment for getting a low grade on a test. The work that had gotten him As and Bs in public school, only earned him Cs and Ds in that Catholic high school. State college admission was in those days by grades; he asked me about college admissions, calling me "sir".  For his dream of going to college, I told him he had to get better grades.   So he went to his aunt's boyfriend  (they were engaged but not yet married) to ask to live with him for a while.   Of course he called him, "sir."  His uncle-to-be wore a business suit to work, and he was very good-looking, and he had rich friends - he was exactly the man the boy wanted to be.  He asked his uncle to punish him for bad grades and for doing low-class stuff, but then he was surprised because his uncle didn't tell him not to have sex.

The boy knew that  his own birth had spoiled his mother's chances of going to college, and also he could see that his mother had some problems, and he didn't want his own life to be like hers.  He expected his uncle to forbid him to have sex, and to punish him harshly for it.   Also no pot, no booze, and an early curfew.  This was rather ironic, because his uncle was actually a wild-man;
he was a heavy pot-smoker, and was very sexually active from a young age; he had done gay sex with older men for money, even, as a teenager.   He came from a middle-class academic background; his parents were liberals involved in prison reform; I'm sure they never spanked him.    But with that background, even though he had spent his high school years balling and getting high, and sucking cocks to supplement his allowance, he had still gotten into a good college.   The first week the boy lived with his uncle-to-be, there was a naked hot tub party, on what happened to be the boy's birthday. His uncle gave him condoms as a birthday present.   The boy was shy to take his swimsuit off, but when he saw that everyone else was doing it, all his uncle's rich classy friends, he stripped too.  We were smoking some good pot (my contribution) from a hooka we called the big bright green pleasure machine, which sat on the edge of the tub.   There was always some naked body slithering past yours to get into the corner where the pleasure machine was, with a lot of laughing and ducking people and grabbing.  And it was in that hot-tub, when the boy and his uncle and me were relaxing after cleaning up after the party, at about two  in the morning, that the boy asked for strict discipline and an early curfew.   He got into college but then had to drop out; I think his uncle helped him financially for a while, but that marriage didn't last, and without his uncle's money there just wasn't enough.   Last I heard the boy was the assistant manager of a large hotel, on the executive "fast track".   Hundreds of people call him "sir."   He's still young enough to be thrilled by the celebreties who stay at his hotel, and he gets very big tips, because he arranges for all the discrete services that very rich people need.

- There is one more boy I should mention, although I'm not proud of what I did.   This is maybe age about 12.  There was a boy no one liked, and one day for some reason we were hitting him, instead of just ignoring him like we usually did.  He wasn't fighting back.  I said, "Let's spank him."   But he made an enormous fuss and was ready to fight us to keep from having his pants pulled down  (he'd gotten "pantsed" once before by some other boys, and his pants were run up the flagpole, and he had to run stark naked across the playground.)   But he said it was OK if we punished him without doing it bare; he said we should punish him as much as we liked, he wanted us to, but then we had to play with him.   I felt somehow I owed it to him to overcome my dislike for him, if he was willing to take spanks to be played with.  So after that we two played together at my house; I acted as "Daddy" and lectured and scolded him, and each day's play included a session with a paddle on the seat of his pants.   He utterly refused to pull his pants down.  Somedays I only spanked a little but sometimes a lot.   I did play with him too, and I was the only boy who ever would play with him, so he called me his best friend.  My friends told me I got cooties from playing with such a creep.

I was ready to see myself as a hero, befriending an unpopular boy.  I thought my scoldings and spanking were teaching - helping him be a better person.   But I found I didn't enjoy spanking him; I thought I needed to see his bottom get red, to enjoy it.  I stopped playing with him.  He was devastated - he said he understood and didn't expect to be played with by someone like me, just spanked.  I felt really bad.  He said he could spank himself bare; he had tried it, so all I would have to do each day was
whisper the number to him at school.  To make an excuse, I said that would only work if I could watch how hard he spanked himself.   He gave in at last about me seeing his bare bottom, and agreed to me spanking him bare.    But I never did it; it was just too creepy. 

I wonder if perhaps he was sexually abused (other than by me spanking him, I mean); he was weird and creepy in so many ways - but I don't really remember anything that would prove he was.   I once saw a list of "red flags" for teachers that supposedly show when a child is being abused, and he had a lot of them.    The thing is, I had most of the red flags too, and I was not abused - unless you call not being touched enough, abuse.  I knew something was wrong with him.  
If I had known then how many children are raped by their step-fathers, I might have saved him, by getting the truth from him, which only I could have done.   No teacher could have known - teachers are the most clueless grown-ups of all about the boy world.     But according to the red-flag list, pre-mature sexual knowledge is a red flag.   So if my parents had told me the truth about my classmates being raped (3 out of each class of 30, according to some estimates) that would have counted as abusing me.    People think it helps children to lie to them.

-  Nothing in my boyhood experience made me a fan of the corporal punishment of children - the spankings my friends got didn't make them more mature, or make them self-disciplined, or help them in any way at all that I could see, and they hated the spankings and hated their dads.    But it was the punishment, and not the corporal part, that was the problem from the boy's point of view.  These same boys who were so devastated by their fathers' spankings, dreamed of undergoing a manhood ordeal of whipping.  Also, as far as I can remember none of my friends thought that spanking was a bad thing.   We all believed that Dr. Spock had written a book against spanking (that there was any other subject to the book, we did not know); we thought this was silly and would just produce spoiled children; I remember a boy saying, "I wish my parents didn't spank me, but I know I'd turn out rotten if they didn't."  My friends were in favor of being spanked in general, but somehow the particular spanking they had just gotten, was always unfair for some reason or other.   

I remember suffering through my scoldings and crying for hours (or even days) afterwards, thinking to myself I'd get revenge by doing something really, really bad.   In my fantasies, I was so bad I forced my dad to spank me.   All the time I was being scolded I was fantasizing about being spanked. 

 I was scolded, horribly, instead of being spanked, but my spanked friends didn't get spankings instead of scoldings, they got spankings on top of scoldings.  A scolding was being told you were acting like a baby, and being told it so often, we believed it.   Boasting to your friends that you'd gotten it really bad, and showing off a red bottom, and saying, "it's OK, I could take it." was a way to prove you were tough.   In contrast, the scolding part hurt too much to talk about; my friends never repeated what had been said to them in a scolding or talked about their scoldings at all.  I couldn't talk about mine, either.  My friend who got the five strokes for hitting his brother, was miserable for days; the deep dark misery I knew so well from my own scoldings; I told him it was silly to care about his brother seeing him naked since they stripped together at the Y, and that if he had taken his belting well,  it was an honor, and he should be glad his brother was there to watch.   I said I wanted him to give me five strokes for my initiation ordeal.  And wouldn't it be cool to have his little brother watch?    He agreed to everything I said, but he still hated his dad for spanking him - even if he couldn't say why.

 - It might seem odd that we thought spanking each other, was fun.   But actually most things we did for fun hurt -  boxing without gloves, fighting with "swords" (sticks), skateboarding without pads, hiking off-trail in cut-offs and pushing through brush, football, judo, climbing trees (I fell out of of a few), bicycling (I fell off), doing sweat lodges and seeing who could stand it the hottest (not me), or doing snowball fights naked, and seeing who could stand it the coldest.   (Me.  I have a nude picture of myself in the snow, hiding my dick from the camera with a big snowball.)   We swallowed hot-sauce for a dare, or painted our dicks with it.  We juggled hot coals.   A day's play left a boy covered in cuts, scrapes, scratches, bruises, and burns from head to foot, especially foot ; and we would have laughed at anyone who asked why we thought all that was fun.  At least the spanking wasn't dangerous, and a lot of what we did for fun was.
  I pity boys who grew up after the invention of video games.

  I was on the other side of some bullying, too.

- I went into seventh grade not knowing about using a wet towel as a whip.     But Coach gave us a lecture about not flicking with towels and of course I thought it was a cool idea and tried it, and and I flicked a lot of bottoms.  I told the boys I flicked they should try to flick me back - but even though I wanted the stings, I hated to lose, so I kept alert and not many boys managed to sneak up on me.  I offered to stand there and let them flick me if they wanted to, but no one did.    But the flicking was taken over by even worse bullies than me, and I was just another victim.  
These were boys a grade older than us, who had jobs as gym monitors; they organized the whipping and the extortion of lunch money.   Some days, about once a month, you got whipped in the showers - and there wasn't always an option of paying your lunch money.  The monitors kept us from running (which was indeed their job) so we couldn't get away.

    When I was younger, 
a sleepover or a camping overnight with the big kids was something I longed for
  with such excitement that I couldn't sleep the night before.
  Most fun of all would be a water fight ;
 and my best-ever one was the time I flung a huge water balloon into a big kid's face. 
He and his friends pulled down my swimsuit and worked me over, but good. 
   I remember my indignation, because I'd thrown the balloon fair and square,
  so I wouldn't say UNCLE, and I fought back,
 landing some punches - for which they punished me again; 
 and then they threw my swimsuit into a tree.
 I don't remember any embarrassment from walking around naked, though,
  only triumph.  I told everyone I hadn't said UNCLE.
One of the bullies said I was a pretty tough kid.

  A1.   e-mail me 

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When I see a child punished, I cringe.    The punishment I am talking about, is a scolding, in one form or another - you don't see spankings.   Often the parent thinks she (it is usually the mother) is not scolding, but reasoning.   These are the worst scoldings of all.

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