Posted by Annemarie:
This is written from memories, a long time ago.
It is dedicated as a gift to Cannibal Khan's
narratives and fantasies. It is seen through the
eyes of a young girl in the memory of a middle
aged women with a strange interest in spanking
since her birth. Nearly dead at birth, the
gynecologist must have given me life by smacking
my neonate bottom a little too hard. It is close
to the truth as I remember it, but seconds
looked like minutes, dozens like thousands and
eager fantasies filled the holes. My parents
were very strict, but actually not great in
punishment. They just had a way to make us
behave. What I remember most of my entire youth,
was being a loved child in a warm nest.
------
I was 8, when the coldest winter of the
twentieth century hit Europe. It is now close to
47 years ago. The first cold left a crust of ice
over the waters, which had an irresistible
attraction to me. I adored ice. Being a scrawny
lightweight tomboy, I was tempted to try the
ice, but living water is tricky. Suddenly,
without warning, the ice cracked open and I fell
in the water. It was frighteningly cold. The
broken ice did not support me. Happily my father
nearly drowned as a boy. He did not rest before
his own children were able swimmers. Being the
youngest, and having to face the competition of
my older kin, I was already a very good swimmer
with a strong leg stroke that brought me up the
ice, but which did not support me. I swam up the
ice, but as soon as I put weight on it, it
broke. I had to cover the meters that separated
me from the bank like an icebreaker.
Outside the water, it was terribly cold. In a
state of self hypnosis I ran home in one long
desperate run. Reaching the door, I nearly
fainted from the cold, waiting till it opened.
My mother grabbed me in her arms, dripping all
over her. She took me upstairs to the bathroom,
where she struggled me out of my wet clothes,
putting me under the warm shower and rubbing me
hard with towels to get the blood streaming. I
vividly remember seeing myself in the mirror, a
strange blueish white girl with shattering
teeth. After a while I started to thaw. I wished
I could stay forever, but at the end mama rubbed
me dry and warm. She asked thousand times how I
felt, if everything was alright, if I was warm
again. At the end, I had to admit: I felt
glorious, all warm and tingling as after a
sauna.
"So, then. Now my time has come. Come here, you
naughty girl." She sat on the laundry box, and
beckoned me over. While I was thawing in the
shower, she had changed in dry clothes, brought
along my pyjamas but also the wooden ruler she
used when making clothes. I guessed, it was not
to make clothes. I don't remember if she
mentioned the spanking word, maybe not wanting
to hear that. My mother had never spanked me
before (discounting the single swat for the
bottom), nor would she ever after. She goaded me
between her legs, grabbed me by the middle and
pulled me over her left knee. I was acutely
aware that I was well dressed for a spanking.
For a moment, I felt cosy, warm and safe under
the arm of my mam.
It would be the first and last spanking by my
mother, remembered for the rest of my life. She
let the ruler dance over my seat with sharp
flicks. At the ripe age of eight, I understood
well why I was spanked. My mother lost a baby, a
little girl, to that most horrible of fiends,
cot death. You put a smiling, gurgling baby in
bed, you find a little stiff corpse. It was
nobody's fault, but any mother will always blame
it on herself. I was the replacement kid... With
considerable self restraint, she had not
overprotected me, but now she was very upset.
The old proverb goes, who loves well, spanks
well. She loved me too much.
It went as "You naughty (!) naughty (!) naughty
(!) girl (!). How (!) on earth (!) could you do
(!) such a stupid (!) stupid (!) stupid (!)
thing (!). You make (!) me mad (!) of fear (!).
You could (!) have been killed (!) (!) (!). If
(!) you (!) ever (!) ever (!) ever (!) even (!)
think (!) about (!) repeating (!) such a stunt
(!) you will not (!) sit down (!) for weeks (!).
That was the beginning.
I didn't want to cry, kick or protest. I wanted
to face the music. I took the first smacks
stoically and in total silence, which likely
only inspired mother to hit harder. However, the
ruler was but a light little wooden slat,
undoubtedly handled with motherly care, but "on
the bare bottom", it soon caused a surprisingly
evil sting. My bottom got sorer at each stroke,
and each stroke hurt more. Imagine your bottom
aching from a bad sunburn in a too skimpy bikini
bottom, and then getting that red, sunburned
skin friendly but firmly slapped with a wooden
ruler. Every second.
I had to make clear that I was a well spanked
little girl and that I had learned my lesson,
and please, mama, will you stop? But therefore,
I had to open my mouth, while I desperately
needed all my energy to keep control. Truly, I
was tough, but with the increasing sting, the
panic increased. My head seemed to grow bigger
and bigger, redder and redder, till it exploded.
I had to surrender.
By giving in, the stinging moved in a moment
from painful into unbearable. The wood whipping
now fiercely smarting buttocks, turned in a
moment in a red hot iron pushing under my naked
skin. My eyes had been filling with tears, but
now the snot was filling my nose and my mouth
opened for desperate howls, interspersed with
sobbing pleas and promises to be good for ever
and ever and ever and ever. I can not remember
that that soon brought out a lot of compassion.
At the contrary. Mama only grabbed me more
firmly to keep my struggling bottom in the line
of fire, and hit me even more vigorously, to
teach me for once and for all how bad could be a
good spanking. Another popular proverb goes:
spank once, do it good, you won't need to spank
twice. I do not suppose that the spanking took
longer than a minute, even maybe not half a
minute, but it seemed an eternity of raining
painful strokes.
However, there was something liberating in
crying hot tears. Is that strange? The ruler
hurt, but half the pain was caused by deep
guilt. I howled, but at least as much of sorrow.
Being in the icy water, and running for my life
had not make me shed a single tear. The cries
released the stress and the tears washed away
the deep fear. Be sure, I would have hated any
other who would have done this to me with a
burning, lifelong hate, but not mam or dad. Who
loves hard, is allowed to spank hard.
When she released me, I grabbed my pajamas, not
bothering to lose time to put them on fearing
she might change her mind and give me some more.
I still remember her eyes, not sad, not angry,
certainly not regretful or even sympathetic, but
with a little twinkle of pride?? Sometimes, a
naughty kid had to feel it. There was nothing
wrong or dangerous to that: it was just a fact
of life. Being a tomboy and a very avid reader,
heavily enjoying popular books of Indians and
cavemen, my prided nickname was "little warrior
girl". I admit 'captured little warrior girl'
would have been a better description. From my
tender youth, my preferred role was being
caught, tied up, slightly manhandled and rescued
by a young hero. The poor sod had to kiss me (a
prudish peck, off course). I ran to my room,
hoping not meeting one of my beloved brothers in
my state of undress and with two tomato red
buttocks.
----
There was a part two to this story. When
releasing me, she shouted after my naked back
running away: 'Wait till your father comes home,
you naughty girl." In my wound up fantasy, that
could only mean another spanking. As in most
traditional families, dad was usually delivering
corporal punishment. I had been spanked once by
him, more than a year ago, when I had lied. He
had asked me to do an errand, I had forgotten
it, and instead of admitting that I had
forgotten the errand, I just went on lying and
lying till he lost his temper. He put his foot
on the chair, dragged me over his knee, flipped
my skirt up and gave me five or six of the very
best ever given on my underpants. My dad was a
big man, with arms like legs and hands like
meaty shovels, and he had been very angry. It
was so sudden, that even the worst pain came
after I was already back on my feet again, but
then I was really hopping around the room, my
hands on my seat which felt as if I was skinned
alive. I howled that I had been lying, and that
I would never ever do it again. After hours in
the corner (minutes, but patience was not my
middle name), my dad, ashamed of his sudden
outburst, hugged me in his big bear hug,
stroking my hurt bottom now tenderly with his
enormous paw and uttering something of an
apology. I never forgot his words: a warrior
girl is true, and admits when she has done
wrong. I never lied again when he locked his
grey blue eyes in mine and asked for the truth.
But then, at the ripe age of 8, I was having
powerful spanking fantasies. They were not
entirely unpleasant. I was dizzy of fear and
high on adrenaline. On my belly in my bed, I had
pushed my pyjamas down from my bottom, wriggling
in my bed, fantasizing being spanked, on the
bare bottom off course, pleading no daddy, no
daddy. It can't have been anything sexual. I was
nearly 15 when, till my great relieve, my body
started to behave as that of grown up women.
When dad came home, fear prevailed. My bottom
was still chafing unpleasantly, feeling all
ridged and striped by the ruler. I could not
stomach another spanking. But off course, my dad
didn't spank me. He took me in his lap, let me
explain how I fell in the ice, crawled out of it
and ran home, his eyes full of pride in his
little warrior girl. At the end, he asked, "Your
mother gave you hell on your buttocks, didn't
she?" I nodded. "Does it still hurt?" I nodded
again, with conviction. It truly did. "Didn't
you deserve it, did you?" I nodded, and I never
forgot these last words. "A stupid act ruins
your life, but also the lives of those who love
you." And I sincerely hoped for that daddy's
spanking, not too big and not too hard, just
painful enough to shed again those few hot tears
of sorrow.
[HandPrince replies: Thank you Annemarie, for
posting your story! I find it intriguing that
you were spanked so rarely, yet your mother
was so severe with you on this occasion for
something which, after all, was an accident. I
think she was too hard on you and that the
natural consequences of your actions were all
the punishment you should have had.]
Annemarie to HandPrince: We were strictly
educated, but at ages 6 or more spanking was the
punishment of punishments and rarely but
severely applied, certainly to girls.
I tried to explain why mother spanked me. It was
no fair punishment: it was a "sweet revenge" for
what I had done to her, for the fear I caused
her, for the terror of losing another child. She
was a sweet soul who rarely punished, but once
she started, she found it difficult to stop. For
reasons unknown, I was not angry, not at all
(which I usually was when punished: punishment
seemed always unfair...). I remember just this
overwhelming feeling of great "sorriness".
[HandPrince replies: Thank you
Annemarie for your reply. Well, I still think
your mother was too hard on you. Even if I
believed in spanking real life children, I
don't think I would agree with doing it out of
"sweet revenge" as opposed to discipline for
the child.
You said once your mother started
spanking she found it hard to stop. Was she
disciplined differently as a child than you
were? I wonder if once she started giving you
a rare spanking something kicked in in her
psyche and she reenacted what was once done to
her(?)
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