When I was six years old, spanking had begun laying claim to my imagination. Any mention of it, spoken or written, immediately had my attention. Just seeing "SPANKING" on the cover of a parenting magazine left me spellbound. The very thought of a naughty child's bottom being bared and turned up for smacking and paddling fascinated me like nothing else ever has.
My mother and my oldest sister were my disciplinarians, and while they did sometimes threaten to spank me, I never once had my bottom warmed. I was punished instead by the withdrawal of their affection. No matter that I'd stolen, lied, been rude on the phone and played with matches, my naughtiness was never answered with a clear, discernible punishment like a good, sound spanking.
The only actual spanking I ever saw was in my Grade 7 class when a troublesome boy was taken over an imposing female teacher's lap at the back of the room for a brisk smacking on the seat of his pants. This woman's husband was our Health & Phys Ed instructor, and he once told us that what some of us needed was "a good stiff hairbrush on [our] bare bottoms."
My schoolteacher mother taught one of the younger grades, and she got a phone call one evening from the father of a boy in her class. The boy had somehow misbehaved, the man had learned of it, and he was calling to report that he'd given his son a bare bottom spanking.
My oldest sister and I were listening to Mum's end of the conversation, and when she passed on the father's comments, she wondered aloud if I might not benefit from similar treatment. My sister, with typical sisterly sarcasm, said that in my case, a spanking wouldn't register because my bum was too fat. Here were my two disciplinarians musing on whether soundly spanking my bare bottom would do any good.
The fact that I was never punished with spankings left the door wide open for spanking to become my secret fantasy playland. When I was 13, I could wait no longer to discover how it felt. I began paddling and strapping my bare backside, most often in my parents' bedroom where mirrors could be arranged to give me a perfect straight-on view of the warming & reddening proceedings.
I became addicted to the sting from a hard spanking. It affected me like a narcotic. Once I'd begun to really feel it, I just wanted more and more. Often as not, the spankings were a prelude to masturbation. The mirrors I was standing between let me fixate on the rapturous sight of my smooth, round, rosy red buttocks and upper thighs. And while my left hand soothed the spanking's sting with my mother's skin cream, my right hand brought me to gloriously shameful climax.
I was plagued by post-masturbation guilt. The idea that I was using a traditional children's punishment for my sexual pleasure left me feeling loathsome. I routinely threw out spanking magazines and books to show God that I'd repented. And within hours, I'd either reclaimed the uniquely captivating material or resolved to replace it. Quite simply, I was addicted to spanking.
As a very shy, introspective teenager, I was especially uncomfortable when called upon in the classroom. And so often with all of my social anxiety, I'd return after school to an empty home where I could medicate myself by spanking my bare bottom as hard as possible.
When I was 14, my mother privately confronted me one day with a certain paperback (if memory serves, it was "Spanking and the Single Girl") I'd forgotten in the bathroom. To my face, she asked me if I felt I'd "missed out by never getting a bare bottom spanking." As brazenly honest as I later imagined myself being, I melted in a puddle of shame and was told to "stop being silly."
I even went so far once as to steal a spanking paperback from a Hobby Shop in town. I bought spanking magazines at the local drugstore, and I ordered material through the mail with no great difficulty. Spanking was my life's passion whether I liked it or not.