Of all the spankings I received while growing up, I think one of the ones that had the most lasting effect on me was when I was fifteen. I have an urge to write this story from reality; a no frills "just the facts" account from my own upbringing.

In my home, my dad often took the role of the disciplinarian; he was never loud, strong or abusive, but he was always fair and, in retrospect, very firm. My mother had also spanked me on occasion, but only when I was younger – until I was about ten years old or so.

But as I grew into my teenage years, it was my dad who took the lead. He said I was a difficult child, by which I take it to mean that I was someone who got bored easily. I still do. It’s hard for me to write stories like this most of the time, because by the time I’m halfway through writing it I’ve already lost interest. But as a boy, it was far more extreme. I’d often be looking for things to get up to – I was the kind of child who couldn’t even sit through a Disney film without getting up to find something else to do.

It’s fair to say that up until the age of ten or so, I was somewhat familiar with my parent’s hands being applied to my bare bottom. Such punishments became far less frequent after that point, and by the time I was twelve or so the spankings were reserved for only the big things. This one was probably one of the biggest.

It happened in late 1997, toward the end of the year. I had just recently started the new year of school; I was generally, by that age, a quiet and studious kid. I tried to apply myself to my schooling, and was typically very good. I did well in most of my classes, although I had failed on quite a few of my mock exams the previous year. That had earned me a spanking. Schooling was one thing that my parents were very strong about; they were very insistent that I apply myself and get good scores.

I wonder if perhaps their strict nature about my schooling was, in some way, intended to overcompensate for my general lack of ability to keep my attention on one thing. I’m not too certain; although I never had any difficulty with my classes, as I was able to grasp most subjects fairly quickly. In either case, it had been a year since my last spanking, and it was a punishment I thought had been put out to pasture.

I don’t even remember what I had studied on this day; the exact circumstances of the day leading up to the spanking is a bit of a blur to me. I do remember the entire situation began after school. My dad had recently got home from work, and I remember I was sitting on the sofa in our lounge. I was reading at the time – Dragonriders of Pern, if anyone is interested – and the tv was showing the evening’s block of light soap operas, which would mean it must have been around 6pm.

"Spark!" called my dad, "Can you come upstairs with me?"

I put the book down and followed. I was definitely hesitant at that time; my dad rarely spoke to me separately away from the rest of the family. He motioned for me to come upstairs with him, and I followed him into my bedroom. This was definitely a disruption to our usual routine; our family were open enough that if there were any issues, it was typically discussed with us all.

My dad sat on the side of my bed and said "Close the door."

At that point I knew something was wrong. I shut my door, a horrible feeling rising inside me.

"Now" my dad said, and I remember his words very exactly at this point. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"No?" I said. It was definitely more of a question.

He shook his head. "I want you to think carefully. You’re already in a lot of trouble, and if you’re not completely honest with me, it’ll be a lot worse."

I don’t remember exactly how I replied; I asked him what it might be about, but I already knew. That was when my dad confronted me with it; placing down on the bed beside him the Playstation copy of Tomb Raider 2.

I felt the bottom fall out of my stomach. I had wanted the game drastically, especially after having developing a love of the series since the first game a year ago. I’d spent hours playing it; in fact, it was the first game I’d stayed up late at night playing. I had wanted to get a copy of the sequel, and...

"Where did you get it?"

I’d acquired the game a week and a half earlier. The shop was a few miles into the middle of town; I had to catch the subway to get there. This wasn’t a high-end store; it was a small local one, probably owned and run by one person, and many of the games were imports or pirated. This meant security was low, and the shop owner had earned a reputation around the schoolyard due to the fact that he’d not yet learned to keep game disks separate from the boxes he’d kept on display. This made his store a prime target for shoplifting.

Which was how I’d got my copy of Tomb Raider 2, and my dad knew it. He knew I didn’t have the money to buy a copy, so when he asked me how I had come to possess a copy, he knew what my answer was going to be.

With that, my dad got up and walked to my wardrobe, opening the door and recovering the hairbrush that was used for such moments. As he came back to the bed, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it; the way he carried it. Now, I know he gave me a lecture on this; that was one thing he was very good at. He would always take long, long moments to discuss the reason for my punishment, and I can’t actually remember a word for it. I know that all my replies were quiet and mumbled, because they typically were. All I could think at that time, though, was "oh shit, I’m going to get spanked."

He set the brush down beside him, and all I could do was stare at it. I’ve no doubt I heard every word he said, but my focus was on the brush. By this point in my life, I’d felt that brush a lot. My stomach turned and twisted into a knot; my vision narrowed into a tiny pinhole tunnel. I was fifteen years old, and none of that mattered.

Spanking, on the whole, wasn’t discussed much at that time. It was largely moving towards a socially unacceptable state here in Britain, and everyone liked to imagine it didn’t happen. Of course, I knew a few kids in school who I suspect experienced it, but we did not discuss it. Especially at our age. Which made these spankings in this point in our lives all the more potent.

Dad told me to take my trousers off. Without thinking, I did; folding them and placing them over my desk chair. I suspect that was an inbuilt response, something I did most times I was being punished. He called me over to him. I shuffled over; I don’t remember what underwear I was wearing, but I remember how thin and weak they felt. I was making every effort not to look at my dad.

"Over" he said, motioning to his lap.

"Dad" I remember saying, objecting.

"Over!" he said, much stronger, his words reminding me not to disobey.

I did as he told me. Moving over his knee was awkward at this point; I was taller than I’d been the last time he’d spanked me. I had to shuffle slightly to get into a position, and eventually settled with my upper body more over the bed itself while my legs hung from the side of the bed, my hips held upwards across my dad’s lap. I was trying hard not to picture myself in that situation, but already my mind had settled into moving without me, as if it were commanding my body like a separate entity.

Once I was in position, my dad pulled my underwear down. I always bemoaned this, the last moments of defense being pulled away. I don’t remember my exact words of complaint, but typically my dad didn’t reply, and he didn’t this time. I felt my face feeling red with heat, embarrassed, as I was across my dad’s knee with my bottom bare like this.

Then it began. My dad almost always spanked me in the same manner; a way I’d describe as very efficient. He never used any particular flair or unique eccentricities to it, never gave me a set number to count to, didn’t ask me to place my hands on my head, nothing of the like. Instead, he simply brought the brush down heavily on my bottom; one cheek, then the next.

Each smack had a light pause between it and the next, and they were always very, very sharp, more than enough to make me flinch. When I had been far younger, I’d yelled with each one; but at fifteen, I was able to keep my more vocal outbursts until later. I remember, more than that, the sound the brush made; an echoing crack which rang throughout my room. Now I knew why my dad had wanted the door closed; but I was in no doubt that my mother and sister downstairs could hear the entire thing.

No thoughts echoed through my mind while he spanked me, aside from that of the spanking itself. The brush landed between each cheek alternatingly, hard. Even though it was a large brush, he still aimed it to the center of my cheeks, only rarely moving down to smack at the lower parts of my bottom. Each time he did, though, I remember twitching terribly.

Slowly, with each smack, the stinging started to build up. I think, as the stinging grew to compound as one smack landed after another, I reached the point where I couldn’t contain the experience. I felt the burning growing hotter and the pain gradually creeping higher and higher, and the rhythm with each loud crack of the brush pushing deeper into my mind just how severe the situation was – how childish I felt.

I’m not sure at exactly what point it was, but before too long I had buried my face into my bedcovers, tears pouring from my eyes. In the year since my last one, I’d forgotten how hard it was to take a spanking. I’ve no doubt I was bawling loudly, but I couldn’t hear it.

I’ve no idea how long the spanking lasted; my dad never gave a set amount, opting instead to spank until I’d 'learned a lesson'. This one ended with him saying that he hoped he would never need to teach me this lesson again, and landing another two hard smacks. I definitely did.

My dad told me to get up, and I did, awkwardly. It occurs to me now that my underwear had fallen at some point, as I’d had to scoop them back up from the floor. I realize I was naked from the waist down, but I didn’t care, not really.

My dad put the hairbrush back in the cupboard, and I don’t remember much of what he’d said to me afterwards. I recall that he’d taken the game with him, and later it vanished from the house; I presume returned to the shop. That makes me think that I must have informed him where it had come from at some point during my punishment. It seemed appropriate.

The rest of the evening proceeded normally; I kept in my room for the evening, however. My bottom, on inspection, had darkened to a strong red around the middle of both cheeks, and the lower quarters were an lighter crimson shade. Looking at it felt awful; and as the sensation cooled over the next hour but the marks remained, I wondered how long I would have them for. Which, in turn, made me wonder how often I’d be subjected to such punishments.

Thankfully, not too long; this was one of the last spankings I’d receive. But on the whole, it’s one of the ones I’m more, I suppose, thankful for. I’d definitely felt more than a little guilty about having stolen the game; at the time, I’d thought of perhaps trading it to another kid in school, as if that would get rid of the guilt from having stolen it. This experience made me feel somewhat better about the whole affair, I think. But only when I look back on it.