The Story Of A Boy And His Bottom
Let’s not mince words. I love my bottom with a religious fervor, and have done ever since I first caught sight of it in the mirror as a boy. If I hadn’t already known it, at least by the time I was six, I understood that bottoms (children’s especially) were susceptible to something called a spanking: the determined application of smacks on the bottom, buttocks, backside, behind, bum, you name it, as a punishment for being naughty, rude, disobedient, disrespectful, what have you.
The intrigue was inescapable. After all, bottoms were the star attraction in private child’s play. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.” They were simultaneously naughty and nice. Practical and provocative. And so sublimely smackable, it beggared the imagination.
Spanking was a world of wonders all to itself. The ingeniousness of being turned over someone’s knee surely deserved a place in the listing of human inventions. And no small credit was due Adam and Eve for being made ashamed of their nakedness. Spanking a bottom was one thing, but spanking a bottom laid bare was nothing short of a universal truth.
And truly, there were times when spanking was all I wanted out of life. All I ever wanted to read, to hear, to know about. If the word came down that some other kid had been spanked, how red was their bum? I’ve long since forgotten what library book it was that rewarded my browsing with the delightful description of someone having ‘ the complexion of a well-spanked bottom.’ On top of all the mental images of a saucy bare backside turned rosy red from paddling, I had to wonder just how the writer knew what a well-spanked bottom looked like. I guess I thought of it as privileged information.
The times when I unquestionably should’ve been spanked and wasn’t are permanent fixtures of my memory. Which was worse; being rude to my mum on the phone or stealing money from my sisters’ coat pockets? You let a boy think he can get away with such brazen naughtiness and the next thing you know, he’ll be ordering spanking erotica through the mail.
My attitude towards the only spanking paperback I ever shoplifted as a shy, self-conscious teenager addicted to bottom warming was that I was obviously its intended reader. The writing was tailor-made for my fantasy world where naughty bare bumcheeks quivered and quaked across the knee of adult authority as palm, paddle, strap, hairbrush or slipper transformed them into twin mounds of strawberry ice cream, more or less.
No alarm sounded as I left the shop with my prize tucked underneath my schoolbooks, and no one else ever knew about it. It was another book my mother found and held up to me, asking if I wanted a bare bottom spanking. Seems to me we did too much talking in my family and not enough acting on impulse. My pants couldn’t have been that much trouble to take down, and I was just the right size to fit nicely over Mother’s lap.
Instead, all my spankings through my teens and twenties were self-administered. Frankly, it’s nowhere near as awkward as people make it out to be. As long as I had the right tool for the job, I was a veritable
pyromaniac forever setting fire to my helpless backside. Any self-spanking is grievously hampered by the lack of that interpersonal dimension. But there wasn’t much more I could’ve done to persuade either my mum or my oldest sister to confirm my need for punishment and paddle me pink. I wasn’t so much of a shrinking violet that I was prepared to do without the corporal comeuppance I knew I deserved.
Even though I privately modeled my high-school boy’s jockstrap for my younger sister (and we know full well it wasn’t the jockstrap I was showing off), I never admitted to sometimes wearing her half-slip and panties for the sake of a different look when I spanked myself. And I never spared the horses where warming my bare bum was concerned.
You’re either in love with something or you’re not. My well-spanked bottom not only titillated me, it settled me down. It soothed my jangled nerves. Like I said, I should’ve been properly spanked more than once and I wasn’t. Reclusive but resourceful, the word never came down from on high that I couldn’t fend for myself.
“Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” PROVERBS 22:6