I thought of entitling this piece ‘How it all Began’ but that has been used many times and, besides, including the evocative words smacked and behind in the header is more likely to get the post read. We are all transparent and none more so than those who share our strange but delightful fetish. But ‘How it all Began’ is what this is all about. It is reading all the postings on a variety of forums that got this particular trail of thoughts going. Without fail, somewhere it will turn up. Folks may enjoy what they do but, buried deep, there is often a desire to know where their need came from. If it is stamp collecting or fly fishing they can often point to an enthusiastic father or uncle from childhood, and if it is Tudor history or Greek mythology perhaps a dim and distant teacher kindled their interest. But having your bottom smacked? That is wierd. And society, much enamoured about stripping most emotions bare, never talks about it. So most of us conduct our own cod therapy. Freud dealt with it in ‘A Child is being Beaten’ but there ain't much else. Certainly not in the modern age. If CP is alluded to in the mainstream media it is all perversely jokey with none of the seriousness that true aficionados appreciate. I do not have any answers but the following explains my own kink. If it helps even one person to understand why he or she gets that special thrill from having their pants peeled down for some sharp pain on their backside I shall be happy. All I know is that when it happens to me, pretty rare these days, I get an unexplainable buzz. If they had tablets to cure it I would throw them in a bin.
When I was about three or four I remember getting excited about a favourite aunt coming to our house late in the evening. I have no idea why, at that age you are not privy to such reasons. But I remember getting excited about her visit and getting out of bed to see her. I also remember standing next to her by our sofa in the living room. Adorned only in a small vest. I was cuddled and then sent back to bed. As I left, happy at her presence, a light smack was delivered to my bare behind. That pleasant sting to my tiny naked rear followed me up the stairs and, if I had such early memories, I am sure I slept well that night. But I never forgot. That aunt loved me and she showed it by smacking my behind. The hard wiring started then.
The bedding down of my incipient kink happened during my primary and junior school years. I got belted occasionally at home, most kids growing up in the 1950’s did, but that was just unpleasant and painful. And mostly deserved. But in my junior school we had a teacher who had a penchant for taking his favourite boys over his knee and spanking their short covered bottoms. And he was not averse to lifting the leg of the shorts and delivering a couple of hard smacks to an exposed cheek. Embarrassing in a mixed class of nine and ten year olds, the girls were never so chastised, but exciting and fun. At least for me. I equated these spankings with love and attention and so the hard wiring continued. I didn’t like the cane, we got that on our hands, but I started fantasising about that teacher’s knee and my behind. And I wanted the latter bare.
I moved to a boys only senior school when I was eleven and I clearly remember that same junior school teacher relishing telling us that, when we moved on, the cane would be applied to our bottoms. Fear and excitement combined. This was the 1950s and a disciplinary culture prevailed. I cannot think of any boy who was not fascinated by the sundry beatings that were dished out. Seeing recent cane marks on a classroom colleague’s backside was a highlight of all our lives. I have no doubt that most grew out of such matters as they reached adulthood but some, like me, were unknowingly locked into an interest that would later dominate as our sexuality developed. I have often argued that CP was a good deterrent for mischievous boys but that it came with dangerous baggage. By the time I was fifteen I knew I was hooked. In my four years at senior school I had two memorable canings, from the same teacher, and I have never forgotten them. I have written a piece on both incidents (see below) and they combine two essential needs. The two stroke caning was excruciatingly painful and public (Yesterday’s Boy) and the four stroke caning semi-private and applied to my bare behind (Tomorrow’s Child). Those few minutes of expectation and discomfort fuelled my teenage fantasies and set me on a journey which has continued over all the ensuing years.
I don’t blame those teachers and I certainly don’t blame that favourite aunt. I think there was something wired into me from the moment I was born. If not, why is it that many younger folks who have never experienced childhood discipline to their bottoms both seek and fulfil this strange inner need? But at least in my case I can rationalise it. I cannot remember a time when I did not enjoy having my bottom smacked. No, that is not true. I still don’t enjoy the pain, especially a cane laid on with vigour. But I love the pageantry and the expectation, the aftermath and the visuals. Every time I bend over or drop my pants I am recreating a ritual, long past, seared in the memory. And I am eternally grateful that for every soul like me there seem to be just as many willing to dish out that pain. Some cane our behinds for cash but all I have met, payment or not, seem to get pleasure from it. All of us, those who wield the rod and those who receive, silently recognise that nature has provided a perfect place for instruction. If we didn’t have behinds they would have to be invented. Aunts, and others, need something substantial to give a loving smack. Alfred Roy
Yesterday’s Boy – Caned in class, with one other boy, for sneaking at exam results. Only two strokes but seared in the memory since it happened in 1958.
Tomorrow’s Child – Caned in a swimming pool changing room for not having bathing trunks. Four of us, all naked, got four strokes each. Circa 1956.
Both tales authentic and both will be posted here shortly for your enjoyment.