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This is why! Another of my memento pieces.","description_bbcode_parsed":"Every time I go to London, I wince a little. This is why! Another of my memento pieces.","writing":"When I was 11, my family went to London for a weekend trip.\n\nFor us, this was a huge event; London was a very long distance for us, as we lived across the other side of the country. Due to that, it was also the first time I had ever been on a plane. A national domestic flight from one point in the UK to the capital, the actual journey took less than an hour. But it was very exciting.\n\nI remember taking a book with me; Charlotte’s Web. I was a bookish type of child, so that kept me entertained during the trip. It also kept me amused on the ride to the hotel, right up until the producers and staff from the BBC came to collect us.\n\nThere were four other families staying at the hotel; the children were all my approximate age, 9-13 or so. After my family arrived, we spent a short time unpacking and then went down to the hotel bar where we met the others. I spoke a little with the other children, but it was mostly a chance for our parents to meet and greet. I do remember my dad complaining about the cost of drinks at the bar; and, in retrospect, they were exorbitant. Typical London prices, although I had no concept of that at the time. I spent a while talking with a couple of the kids; twins from Yorkshire, and a boy from Cornwall called either Dave or Dale, I can’t really remember.\n\nAfter a while, the crew turned up and loaded all five families into a minibus, where we were brought to the BBC headquarters.\n\nThe exact route I’d taken to get here was a rather long one; several months earlier, a couple of producers came to our school. Children were given the option of auditioning with them, a process which amounted to answering a series of general trivia questions. The producers gauged our responses to determine which of the children were the most humorous and who had the biggest personality. I was a very shy, reserved child but I had a performative side; when I gave myself permission I could act. So I gave the performance of my life, jumping up with ridiculous answers at every chance. Several weeks passed, and my family got a call from the BBC; they wanted me to come into the local studio and do a few screen tests.\n\nScreen tests were a long, boring day, but had the highlight of meeting the star of the show. Six children from different schools in the area were all invited; I knew none of them, and some were definitely from 'rival' schools, so I felt like our social time spent in the green room watching old Disney films was somehow quite elicit. The green room, however, wasn’t green; but it was windowless and lacking good ventilation, and by the end of the six-hour day I was feeling pretty ill.\n\nWe didn’t hear much for several months. Then we received a letter, quickly followed by a phone call, to let us know that I’d been selected to appear on the show. The BBC paid for our flight, for our hotel, and a weekend in London. We travelled down on the Friday morning, with shooting for the show scheduled for that evening. Then our family would have all of Saturday to spend around the city, with our flight back home on Sunday.\n\nThe night’s filming went on until midnight. I was exhausted, and rather miffed the producers wouldn’t let me wear my Super Mario shirt. They laid out a buffet for us, which quickly got cold and inedible. At 9pm, a studio audience were brought into the studio; we had already completed a few rehearsals by that point and I was feeling a little tired.\n\nBut it all turned out fine because, in the end, Noel Edmunds recorded an entire segment of his quiz, which would air the next year on his show \"Noel’s House Party\". And if someone was to search around on Google long enough, you’ll be able to find me on the show. I won a Sega Megadrive.\n\nThe next day was a heady rush; my family had a small tour around the city, visiting many of the locations around the city. Being that the trip was on behalf of the BBC, we had a fair bit of spending money from our savings and made good use of it. We went to Madame Tussauds waxworks, visited the London Dungeons, and ended up in Hamleys’, a large toy shop. There I was allowed to pick out several items for myself as a treat. This, it seems, went right to my head. I was feeling on top of the world; unconquerable. After all, I was basically a star – I was going to be on television.\n\nBy late afternoon we returned to the hotel. I had selected several toys – a Batman figure, a few new books and a magic set. The other families had all gone their separate ways for the day, and gradually we started to filter back into the lobby. I spent a good amount of time showing off my goods to the twins (two girls, I can’t remember their names).\n\nAnd there was another kid. Christopher. He was a pudgy youngster with a very strong accent I’d only describe as 'snobby'. We had not got along at all. Since we first met the day before he had been condescending to me; first commenting that he hadn’t expected the BBC to want to have 'poor people' like my family on the show. He had soon went on to insult my glasses; an inexpensive pair I had to wear due to my eye condition. In the UK we have a national health service, a care system which the Americans would doubtless class as 'socialist' due to its dedication to provide medical treatment to as much of the population as possible, rather than simply the most wealthy. My glasses were provided by the NHS and, therefore, Christopher identified them as a signifier of my family being poor.\n\nHis attitude had continued at the studio the night of the recording. He had made a pig of himself at the buffet, while his parents (who, now that I look at the video, were definitely dressed in designer clothes) completely refused to speak with the rest of us – no doubt considering the rest of the families to be beneath them. When time came for us to leave the green room and head into the studio, Christopher had shoved me aside to rush through the door first. In short, I had known the kid for less than 24 hours and already disliked him.\n\nSo when I was showing off my new stuff to the twins, I didn’t even notice Christopher until he walked up and said, in his 'posh boy' accent, \"Is that the best stuff you got?\"\n\nOf course, he had been out in London as well; I got the feeling he had been several times, and doubtless had a whole load of things to show off. But I was happy with my gifts, and I told him as much.\n\nThen he asked \"Why did you just want a Sega? Don’t you already have one?\"\n\nSo, the thing with this quiz segment on Noel’s House Party was this – if you were a kid who was selected to be on it, you could pretty much name whatever prize you wanted. If the BBC’s budget could stretch to it, you could have it. One of the other kids that night got a collection of James Bond films on VHS; this was back when films would cost around £14 on VHS, and fourteen of them was not an inconsiderable amount. One of the twins got a drum kit. The Sega system was £190; a considerable price, and one outside of my family’s regular budget.\n\n\"I have one! Can’t your parents afford one?\" Christopher asked. Well, sneered.\n\nSo I did something utterly uncharacteristic. Remember, I was a rather quiet and studious child. My prized item out of our trip to Hamleys was the books (namely an illustrated comic version of The Hobbit), so I wasn’t ever one who was easily inspired to getting into tussles. I mean, I rushed at him and got into a brawl. Next thing I knew, the two of us were rolling on the floor while I tried to knock some sense into him. It wasn’t so much a fight, as two kids grappling and knocking arms and feet against one another. But I genuinely think I was the first person who had stuck up for himself to Christopher in the kid’s entire life.\n\nNext thing I knew, the two of us were being pried apart. At first I thought it was my dad – but no, it was one of the hotel’s staff. He pulled the two of us apart, and I stopped the fight immediately. Christopher’s hair was tussled and his shirt was messy, but more than anything else, he looked distressed. That was enough.\n\nChristopher’s parents hurried over a few moments later; I don’t remember their arrival, only that I looked back and saw him being led away by his mother. I didn’t see him again for the rest of the weekend. The staff member, however, escorted me into the lounge where my parents were. My mum and dad were sitting talking with the twins’ parents at the time (which makes me wonder if they ever kept in contact after that).\n\nThe staff told my parents what had happened; that fighting wasn’t permitted on the premises, and if it happened again the family would be told to leave. My parents apologised to the man and promised it never would again. Then as he left, they looked at each other. I knew that look; by that point in my life, I’d seen them exchange it several times when I’d done something wrong. It was a look that, silently, passing between the two of them, said \"Do you want to handle this or shall I?\"\n\nMy dad, after a few seconds, nodded. He got to his feet and said C’mon, we’ll have a talk about this upstairs.\n\nOh shit, I thought.\n\nThe funny thing was, I had no thought until that moment that I’d be punished. The thought hadn’t even entered my mind. But when my dad said those words, I knew what he meant. We had shared those 'talks' before. I felt my stomach sink.\n\nHe motioned for me to follow, and I did. As we got to the stairs, I realized he meant to guide me upstairs to the family’s hotel room. Where he would... The thought occurred to me so strongly that I stopped walking, causing him to reach over and grab my arm to usher me along. But... he couldn’t spank me. Not here, not in London. Not when I’m a famous star. He couldn’t!\n\nThe entire walk upstairs to our room seemed to last an eternity, but when we got to the door I felt like it was going in slow motion, because I genuinely didn’t want to go through it and face my punishment. My dad open the door, and grasped me by the wrist. His grip was tight, very tight. And he marched me through the door, and I hurried along after him, struggling to keep up, wincing because his grip on my wrist was so tight. I don’t think I said anything, but for all I can remember I may have been mumbling apologies all the way.\n\nDad locked the door and hurried into the adjoining bedroom. I just mumbled an \"I won’t do it again.\"\n\nMy dad sat down on the bed. \"Damn right you won’t. Get your pants down.\"\n\n\"Here?\" I asked. This was unusual for me. Normally, I was almost never spanked outside of our own family home.\n\nMy dad reached over and pulled me closer, standing me next to him. \"Down!\" he said. My heart was thumping in my chest. The hotel was too public a space, I moved slowly. I didn’t want to lower my pants, not here. I moved my hands very slowly, hoping that even the slowest of movements would satisfy my father.\n\nIt did not. He reached down and grabbed the side of my trousers, giving them a strong tug. I tried to grab onto them, holding them in place. That was a mistake. My dad gave my hand a sharp, quick smack, and I yelped. I pulled my hand away, the back of my fingers feeling immediately hot and stinging. My dad grabbed ahold of my trousers, and tugged them downwards. I felt them move down, far too long a distance for my liking, in his strong grip. As they rested around my knees, my father gave the short, sharp order, \"Get over my knee.\"\n\nI started to lean over. Dad put his hand to the top of my back and urged me across his strong knees. \"Do you understand what’s going to happen if you start fights again?\" asked my dad.\n\nMy voice was shaky, I said \"Yes dad.\"\n\nAnd that was when he pulled down my underpants. He pulled them down first, tugging hard and roughly on them, leaving them around my knees. I really didn’t want him to pull my underwear down, I didn’t want my bottom to feel so naked in this unfamiliar hotel room, especially not today – not when I was a television star! I was whimpering a soft No, please while he yanked them down.\n\n\"I’m sorry\" I said.\n\n\"Not as sorry as you’re going to be\" said my dad, and gave my naked bottom a loud, hard slap.\n\nI didn’t even have time to brace myself for it.\n\nIt’s worth discussing my dad for a little moment here. He was never a military chap, but he had spent almost a decade working as a mechanic. He had worked on cars, and continued to work on them until I was six years old. At the time I was ten years old, he was working in an office, but his hands had all the strength of a mechanic, his palm was strong and his fingers were wide. When he gave you a spanking, you could feel each smack. Secretly, when he later switched to the hairbrush, I think a part of me was somewhat relieved that he wasn’t using his powerful hands any more. The sensation from a hairbrush is distinctly different, but to feel my dad’s hand against my bottom was more than painful enough to create a lasting impression.\n\nI was lying there, across my dad’s knee, wishing immediately that I had not obeyed his order. If I had refused, stayed standing, maybe he would have reconsidered. The strange thing about having your underwear pulled down to your mid-thigh like this is the feeling of vulnerability, of nakedness, but it’s so localised. Your legs feel clothed, your upper body feels clothed, but the naked part of you – the only part that mattered at that moment in time – was utterly defenceless.\n\nMy dad started to spank me, steadily and very, very strongly. It was within a few smacks, each one ringing in my ears and bringing a whimpering tear to my eye, that I realised that this wasn’t going to be a normal spanking. My dad, when he did spank me, tended to do so quickly. He never took his leisurely time with it, he was a man who wanted to get the punishment over with.\n\nToday was different. I felt several seconds between each smack. And they hurt, they really hurt. The very first one was enough to cause my body to buck against his knee, and within a few whacks I was already nearly in tears. I realise now that he was pacing himself, spanking me steadily and slowly so as not to wear out his hand, but to make sure my bottom was feeling the maximum effect he wanted to put across.\n\nEach second between the smacks seemed like an eternity. I winced, I clenched my bottom, I grabbed onto the side of the sofa. My dad was lecturing me, telling me off, his voice loud and strong. But rather than accenting each smack with a single word, he finished several words before punctuating them with a smack of his strong hand. \"You are going to behave yourself for the rest of this weekend\" he was commanding.\n\nI was in tears at that point. He was spanking me with the full strength in his arm, and although I couldn’t see his arm, I can safely hazard a guess that he was raising it very high with each swing. \"I promise dad!\" I was wailing.\n\n\"Do you understand me?\" he barked. Another smack. They sounded so loud, my whole body moving with each one. His knees beneath me felt so difficult to lean over.\n\n\"Yes\" I was blubbering. \"I’m sorry!\" I would have promised anything. My body had, by then, been heaved over with the force of each smack with his hand. My bottom, bare and stinging terribly, clenched to try to keep out the burning pain that shot through it every few seconds, was the part of my body that was the highest up.\n\nI remember that I’d lost count of how many smacks he gave me. I only remember that he wasn’t holding a single one back, that he was pacing them all out, that my bottom shook with each slap from his hand. I was promising I’d never do it again, I was promising I’d be good, I was promising anything that would stop the spanking my dad was giving me at that moment.\n\nBy the time my dad was finished, I was worn out. I didn’t know how long I’d been over his knee for, my bottom felt as if it had never been seared quite so heavily before. The very surface of it stung with little pinpricks of fire, the heat beneath the skin felt like an inferno. I couldn’t see clearly because tears were streaming down my eyes. I was sobbing like a baby – me, nearly a teenager. Most of all, I felt punished. I felt as if I had been punished. I was sputtering words, \"I’m sorry dad, I won’t do it again, I promise, it hurts, please\" but I wasn’t even listening. I’d been hoping to try to coax and bargain my way out of it, or plead or beg, but nothing had worked. My dad had punished me, by spanking my bottom until I couldn’t take any more.\n\nAnd as I lay there over his knee, crying out loudly from each hard and sharp whack against my bare and unprotected bottom, I knew that this was what it meant to pay the price for your misdeeds. The entire concept that I existed in was simple, so utterly simple. If you were a bad girl, you were put over your dad’s knee and given a spanking. It would make you cry, no matter how old you were or how much you tried not to, and then you would have to live for the next hours with your bottom feeling like it was on fire, a lingering warning for the lesson you had learned and a warning against the bad thing you had done.\n\nWhen my dad was done, I didn’t know how long he’d spanked me for. It felt like an eternity. It was probably only a few minutes. He told me to get up, but I just laid there, sobbing and blubbering that I was sorry and that I promised that I wouldn’t do it again. My dad told me that he bloody well hoped not, and told me again to get up. I touched my bottom. I couldn’t help it. It felt like touching a warm oven, the heat was so strong.\n\nWe didn’t go out for the rest of the evening, despite having dinner at a small restaurant across the road from the hotel. Following that, our entire family watched television in the hotel lounge before retiring for the night. The next day, we caught the flight back home, bidding farewell to London. Naturally I had been on my best behaviour ever since, and my attitude was remarkably better. So much so that, at the airport, my mother bought me a new book to keep me amused during the trip; a choose-your-own-adventure style book, one of the Fighting Fantasy series. It was very enjoyable, and kept my attention focused for most of the flight.\n\nThe following day I returned to school; I had somewhat expected fame and adulation, but in reality everything was just as it had been before the trip. My moment of television stardom wouldn’t come for almost a year, when the show was broadcast and I had my ten minutes of fame. Until then, life at school continued without any change; despite the fact that I was the new owner of a Sega Megadrive. For his part in the escapades though, I would have loved to know if Christopher had been punished in the same or similar means. I wonder if his parents were the type who would spank him – and if they were, if he was the type who would try to bite back his tears until the very last moment, simply to show that he was strong enough to take his punishment. I doubt I was.","writing_bbcode_parsed":"When I was 11, my family went to London for a weekend trip.
For us, this was a huge event; London was a very long distance for us, as we lived across the other side of the country. Due to that, it was also the first time I had ever been on a plane. A national domestic flight from one point in the UK to the capital, the actual journey took less than an hour. But it was very exciting.
I remember taking a book with me; Charlotte’s Web. I was a bookish type of child, so that kept me entertained during the trip. It also kept me amused on the ride to the hotel, right up until the producers and staff from the BBC came to collect us.
There were four other families staying at the hotel; the children were all my approximate age, 9-13 or so. After my family arrived, we spent a short time unpacking and then went down to the hotel bar where we met the others. I spoke a little with the other children, but it was mostly a chance for our parents to meet and greet. I do remember my dad complaining about the cost of drinks at the bar; and, in retrospect, they were exorbitant. Typical London prices, although I had no concept of that at the time. I spent a while talking with a couple of the kids; twins from Yorkshire, and a boy from Cornwall called either Dave or Dale, I can’t really remember.
After a while, the crew turned up and loaded all five families into a minibus, where we were brought to the BBC headquarters.
The exact route I’d taken to get here was a rather long one; several months earlier, a couple of producers came to our school. Children were given the option of auditioning with them, a process which amounted to answering a series of general trivia questions. The producers gauged our responses to determine which of the children were the most humorous and who had the biggest personality. I was a very shy, reserved child but I had a performative side; when I gave myself permission I could act. So I gave the performance of my life, jumping up with ridiculous answers at every chance. Several weeks passed, and my family got a call from the BBC; they wanted me to come into the local studio and do a few screen tests.
Screen tests were a long, boring day, but had the highlight of meeting the star of the show. Six children from different schools in the area were all invited; I knew none of them, and some were definitely from 'rival' schools, so I felt like our social time spent in the green room watching old Disney films was somehow quite elicit. The green room, however, wasn’t green; but it was windowless and lacking good ventilation, and by the end of the six-hour day I was feeling pretty ill.
We didn’t hear much for several months. Then we received a letter, quickly followed by a phone call, to let us know that I’d been selected to appear on the show. The BBC paid for our flight, for our hotel, and a weekend in London. We travelled down on the Friday morning, with shooting for the show scheduled for that evening. Then our family would have all of Saturday to spend around the city, with our flight back home on Sunday.
The night’s filming went on until midnight. I was exhausted, and rather miffed the producers wouldn’t let me wear my Super Mario shirt. They laid out a buffet for us, which quickly got cold and inedible. At 9pm, a studio audience were brought into the studio; we had already completed a few rehearsals by that point and I was feeling a little tired.
But it all turned out fine because, in the end, Noel Edmunds recorded an entire segment of his quiz, which would air the next year on his show "Noel’s House Party". And if someone was to search around on Google long enough, you’ll be able to find me on the show. I won a Sega Megadrive.
The next day was a heady rush; my family had a small tour around the city, visiting many of the locations around the city. Being that the trip was on behalf of the BBC, we had a fair bit of spending money from our savings and made good use of it. We went to Madame Tussauds waxworks, visited the London Dungeons, and ended up in Hamleys’, a large toy shop. There I was allowed to pick out several items for myself as a treat. This, it seems, went right to my head. I was feeling on top of the world; unconquerable. After all, I was basically a star – I was going to be on television.
By late afternoon we returned to the hotel. I had selected several toys – a Batman figure, a few new books and a magic set. The other families had all gone their separate ways for the day, and gradually we started to filter back into the lobby. I spent a good amount of time showing off my goods to the twins (two girls, I can’t remember their names).
And there was another kid. Christopher. He was a pudgy youngster with a very strong accent I’d only describe as 'snobby'. We had not got along at all. Since we first met the day before he had been condescending to me; first commenting that he hadn’t expected the BBC to want to have 'poor people' like my family on the show. He had soon went on to insult my glasses; an inexpensive pair I had to wear due to my eye condition. In the UK we have a national health service, a care system which the Americans would doubtless class as 'socialist' due to its dedication to provide medical treatment to as much of the population as possible, rather than simply the most wealthy. My glasses were provided by the NHS and, therefore, Christopher identified them as a signifier of my family being poor.
His attitude had continued at the studio the night of the recording. He had made a pig of himself at the buffet, while his parents (who, now that I look at the video, were definitely dressed in designer clothes) completely refused to speak with the rest of us – no doubt considering the rest of the families to be beneath them. When time came for us to leave the green room and head into the studio, Christopher had shoved me aside to rush through the door first. In short, I had known the kid for less than 24 hours and already disliked him.
So when I was showing off my new stuff to the twins, I didn’t even notice Christopher until he walked up and said, in his 'posh boy' accent, "Is that the best stuff you got?"
Of course, he had been out in London as well; I got the feeling he had been several times, and doubtless had a whole load of things to show off. But I was happy with my gifts, and I told him as much.
Then he asked "Why did you just want a Sega? Don’t you already have one?"
So, the thing with this quiz segment on Noel’s House Party was this – if you were a kid who was selected to be on it, you could pretty much name whatever prize you wanted. If the BBC’s budget could stretch to it, you could have it. One of the other kids that night got a collection of James Bond films on VHS; this was back when films would cost around £14 on VHS, and fourteen of them was not an inconsiderable amount. One of the twins got a drum kit. The Sega system was £190; a considerable price, and one outside of my family’s regular budget.
"I have one! Can’t your parents afford one?" Christopher asked. Well, sneered.
So I did something utterly uncharacteristic. Remember, I was a rather quiet and studious child. My prized item out of our trip to Hamleys was the books (namely an illustrated comic version of The Hobbit), so I wasn’t ever one who was easily inspired to getting into tussles. I mean, I rushed at him and got into a brawl. Next thing I knew, the two of us were rolling on the floor while I tried to knock some sense into him. It wasn’t so much a fight, as two kids grappling and knocking arms and feet against one another. But I genuinely think I was the first person who had stuck up for himself to Christopher in the kid’s entire life.
Next thing I knew, the two of us were being pried apart. At first I thought it was my dad – but no, it was one of the hotel’s staff. He pulled the two of us apart, and I stopped the fight immediately. Christopher’s hair was tussled and his shirt was messy, but more than anything else, he looked distressed. That was enough.
Christopher’s parents hurried over a few moments later; I don’t remember their arrival, only that I looked back and saw him being led away by his mother. I didn’t see him again for the rest of the weekend. The staff member, however, escorted me into the lounge where my parents were. My mum and dad were sitting talking with the twins’ parents at the time (which makes me wonder if they ever kept in contact after that).
The staff told my parents what had happened; that fighting wasn’t permitted on the premises, and if it happened again the family would be told to leave. My parents apologised to the man and promised it never would again. Then as he left, they looked at each other. I knew that look; by that point in my life, I’d seen them exchange it several times when I’d done something wrong. It was a look that, silently, passing between the two of them, said "Do you want to handle this or shall I?"
My dad, after a few seconds, nodded. He got to his feet and said C’mon, we’ll have a talk about this upstairs.
Oh shit, I thought.
The funny thing was, I had no thought until that moment that I’d be punished. The thought hadn’t even entered my mind. But when my dad said those words, I knew what he meant. We had shared those 'talks' before. I felt my stomach sink.
He motioned for me to follow, and I did. As we got to the stairs, I realized he meant to guide me upstairs to the family’s hotel room. Where he would... The thought occurred to me so strongly that I stopped walking, causing him to reach over and grab my arm to usher me along. But... he couldn’t spank me. Not here, not in London. Not when I’m a famous star. He couldn’t!
The entire walk upstairs to our room seemed to last an eternity, but when we got to the door I felt like it was going in slow motion, because I genuinely didn’t want to go through it and face my punishment. My dad open the door, and grasped me by the wrist. His grip was tight, very tight. And he marched me through the door, and I hurried along after him, struggling to keep up, wincing because his grip on my wrist was so tight. I don’t think I said anything, but for all I can remember I may have been mumbling apologies all the way.
Dad locked the door and hurried into the adjoining bedroom. I just mumbled an "I won’t do it again."
My dad sat down on the bed. "Damn right you won’t. Get your pants down."
"Here?" I asked. This was unusual for me. Normally, I was almost never spanked outside of our own family home.
My dad reached over and pulled me closer, standing me next to him. "Down!" he said. My heart was thumping in my chest. The hotel was too public a space, I moved slowly. I didn’t want to lower my pants, not here. I moved my hands very slowly, hoping that even the slowest of movements would satisfy my father.
It did not. He reached down and grabbed the side of my trousers, giving them a strong tug. I tried to grab onto them, holding them in place. That was a mistake. My dad gave my hand a sharp, quick smack, and I yelped. I pulled my hand away, the back of my fingers feeling immediately hot and stinging. My dad grabbed ahold of my trousers, and tugged them downwards. I felt them move down, far too long a distance for my liking, in his strong grip. As they rested around my knees, my father gave the short, sharp order, "Get over my knee."
I started to lean over. Dad put his hand to the top of my back and urged me across his strong knees. "Do you understand what’s going to happen if you start fights again?" asked my dad.
My voice was shaky, I said "Yes dad."
And that was when he pulled down my underpants. He pulled them down first, tugging hard and roughly on them, leaving them around my knees. I really didn’t want him to pull my underwear down, I didn’t want my bottom to feel so naked in this unfamiliar hotel room, especially not today – not when I was a television star! I was whimpering a soft No, please while he yanked them down.
"I’m sorry" I said.
"Not as sorry as you’re going to be" said my dad, and gave my naked bottom a loud, hard slap.
I didn’t even have time to brace myself for it.
It’s worth discussing my dad for a little moment here. He was never a military chap, but he had spent almost a decade working as a mechanic. He had worked on cars, and continued to work on them until I was six years old. At the time I was ten years old, he was working in an office, but his hands had all the strength of a mechanic, his palm was strong and his fingers were wide. When he gave you a spanking, you could feel each smack. Secretly, when he later switched to the hairbrush, I think a part of me was somewhat relieved that he wasn’t using his powerful hands any more. The sensation from a hairbrush is distinctly different, but to feel my dad’s hand against my bottom was more than painful enough to create a lasting impression.
I was lying there, across my dad’s knee, wishing immediately that I had not obeyed his order. If I had refused, stayed standing, maybe he would have reconsidered. The strange thing about having your underwear pulled down to your mid-thigh like this is the feeling of vulnerability, of nakedness, but it’s so localised. Your legs feel clothed, your upper body feels clothed, but the naked part of you – the only part that mattered at that moment in time – was utterly defenceless.
My dad started to spank me, steadily and very, very strongly. It was within a few smacks, each one ringing in my ears and bringing a whimpering tear to my eye, that I realised that this wasn’t going to be a normal spanking. My dad, when he did spank me, tended to do so quickly. He never took his leisurely time with it, he was a man who wanted to get the punishment over with.
Today was different. I felt several seconds between each smack. And they hurt, they really hurt. The very first one was enough to cause my body to buck against his knee, and within a few whacks I was already nearly in tears. I realise now that he was pacing himself, spanking me steadily and slowly so as not to wear out his hand, but to make sure my bottom was feeling the maximum effect he wanted to put across.
Each second between the smacks seemed like an eternity. I winced, I clenched my bottom, I grabbed onto the side of the sofa. My dad was lecturing me, telling me off, his voice loud and strong. But rather than accenting each smack with a single word, he finished several words before punctuating them with a smack of his strong hand. "You are going to behave yourself for the rest of this weekend" he was commanding.
I was in tears at that point. He was spanking me with the full strength in his arm, and although I couldn’t see his arm, I can safely hazard a guess that he was raising it very high with each swing. "I promise dad!" I was wailing.
"Do you understand me?" he barked. Another smack. They sounded so loud, my whole body moving with each one. His knees beneath me felt so difficult to lean over.
"Yes" I was blubbering. "I’m sorry!" I would have promised anything. My body had, by then, been heaved over with the force of each smack with his hand. My bottom, bare and stinging terribly, clenched to try to keep out the burning pain that shot through it every few seconds, was the part of my body that was the highest up.
I remember that I’d lost count of how many smacks he gave me. I only remember that he wasn’t holding a single one back, that he was pacing them all out, that my bottom shook with each slap from his hand. I was promising I’d never do it again, I was promising I’d be good, I was promising anything that would stop the spanking my dad was giving me at that moment.
By the time my dad was finished, I was worn out. I didn’t know how long I’d been over his knee for, my bottom felt as if it had never been seared quite so heavily before. The very surface of it stung with little pinpricks of fire, the heat beneath the skin felt like an inferno. I couldn’t see clearly because tears were streaming down my eyes. I was sobbing like a baby – me, nearly a teenager. Most of all, I felt punished. I felt as if I had been punished. I was sputtering words, "I’m sorry dad, I won’t do it again, I promise, it hurts, please" but I wasn’t even listening. I’d been hoping to try to coax and bargain my way out of it, or plead or beg, but nothing had worked. My dad had punished me, by spanking my bottom until I couldn’t take any more.
And as I lay there over his knee, crying out loudly from each hard and sharp whack against my bare and unprotected bottom, I knew that this was what it meant to pay the price for your misdeeds. The entire concept that I existed in was simple, so utterly simple. If you were a bad girl, you were put over your dad’s knee and given a spanking. It would make you cry, no matter how old you were or how much you tried not to, and then you would have to live for the next hours with your bottom feeling like it was on fire, a lingering warning for the lesson you had learned and a warning against the bad thing you had done.
When my dad was done, I didn’t know how long he’d spanked me for. It felt like an eternity. It was probably only a few minutes. He told me to get up, but I just laid there, sobbing and blubbering that I was sorry and that I promised that I wouldn’t do it again. My dad told me that he bloody well hoped not, and told me again to get up. I touched my bottom. I couldn’t help it. It felt like touching a warm oven, the heat was so strong.
We didn’t go out for the rest of the evening, despite having dinner at a small restaurant across the road from the hotel. Following that, our entire family watched television in the hotel lounge before retiring for the night. The next day, we caught the flight back home, bidding farewell to London. Naturally I had been on my best behaviour ever since, and my attitude was remarkably better. So much so that, at the airport, my mother bought me a new book to keep me amused during the trip; a choose-your-own-adventure style book, one of the Fighting Fantasy series. It was very enjoyable, and kept my attention focused for most of the flight.
The following day I returned to school; I had somewhat expected fame and adulation, but in reality everything was just as it had been before the trip. My moment of television stardom wouldn’t come for almost a year, when the show was broadcast and I had my ten minutes of fame. Until then, life at school continued without any change; despite the fact that I was the new owner of a Sega Megadrive. For his part in the escapades though, I would have loved to know if Christopher had been punished in the same or similar means. I wonder if his parents were the type who would spank him – and if they were, if he was the type who would try to bite back his tears until the very last moment, simply to show that he was strong enough to take his punishment. I doubt I was.","pools_count":0,"title":"The London Spanking","deleted":"f","public":"t","mimetype":"text/plain","pagecount":"1","rating_id":"1","rating_name":"Mature","ratings":[{"content_tag_id":"2","name":"Nudity","description":"Nonsexual nudity exposing breasts or genitals (must not show arousal)","rating_id":"1"},{"content_tag_id":"3","name":"Violence","description":"Mild violence","rating_id":"1"}],"submission_type_id":"12","type_name":"Writing - Document","guest_block":"t","friends_only":"f","comments_count":"5","views":"39"}