Secrets with my daddy
“You wouldn’t want Mummy knowing you’ve been such a naughty boy, would you?”
“You don’t have to tell Mummy about your spanked bottom - it’s just between you and me.”
“You mustn’t worry about being spanked - it’s just something that daddies do for their sons. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve been naughty or not, you just need to have your bottom spanked - regularly.”
“Your mother’s at the shops, so she’s not going to save you now - come here!”
On one of the rare occasions he’d supervised my bath when I was standing drying myself afterwards: “This is too good an opportunity to miss! Over my knee for a spanked bottom!”
Secret things my daddy did to me
Between the ages of three and eight I was always getting spanked by my daddy - every second week. Some of them were for stuff I’d done wrong and in that I was no different from other boys.
But as well he used to make up lots of extra reasons to spank me. He invented things I’d done wrong and he changed the ‘rules’ retrospectively so that he could spank me for doing things I hadn’t known were wrong. Things which had been OK for ever and a day were suddenly naughty so I could have extra spankings for doing them.
And like on the beach at four years old when he told me I shouldn’t worry about being spanked because it was just something daddies did . . .
One extra spanking happened not long after Christmas. My sister and brother had both caught ‘german measles’ and after a couple of days I’d caught the spotty illness too. This particular night the whole family was supposed to be going to the pantomime in the city.
My sister and brother were declared sufficiently recovered but I was not and had to stay at home - with my daddy who volunteered to miss the show. In an effort to cheer me up he got me out of bed and downstairs where he’d turned one of the chairs into Cinderella’s coach. Big sheets of cardboard formed the sides, back and roof, while our rocking horse did duty in front.
At four and a half I wasn’t much impressed for some while, going on about how it wasn’t fair that I couldn’t go to the ball. Eventually I cheered up and together we acted out the fairy story.
Later I was given a hot drink and sent to get ready for bed. After cleaning my teeth I walked into the bedroom to find my daddy sitting on my bed.
He talked to me as he helped me off with my dressing gown and slippers. He told me what fun it had been with our coach and horse and so on. Then, as he unbuttoned my pyjama jacket and pulled my trousers down he reminded me what a spiteful and ungrateful little boy I’d been earlier. Gently but firmly he put me over his knees, pulling my pyjama trousers right down and pushing my jacket right up. He hugged me close so that I couldn’t move at all as he spanked my bottom.
How long he spanked me I don’t know but I was crying pretty well from the start - both from guilt and the spanking.
Eventually he picked me up and put me, face down, on the bed, leaving my pyjama trousers around my ankles so that he could look at my red bottom and listen to my crying into the pillow while he continued to explain that I was a naughty boy who’d been spanked.
Much later my mummy came to check on me before she going to bed herself.
“Daddy says you’ve been a very good boy!” she told me.
I squirmed. If she only knew!
Through the next two and a half years there was hardly a week went by without my daddy spanking me. If I didn’t do anything naughty then I’d get an extra spanking ‘because it was what a boy’s bottom was for’.
The day after my 7th birthday party he took me into the front room on my own and straight away I guessed I was in for another hiding. He tole me one of my friends had said I’d hit him in the face. I hadn’t hit anyone in the face and told Daddy so. What’s more the boy who’d allegedly complained was one of the most honest guys in school. There’s no way I’d hit him (or anyone else) and there was no way he’d tell a lie to anyone.
So as my shorts and pants were taken down yet again I was seething with anger at this obvious lie and that fact that my daddy would make up such a hateful thing. I hated my daddy for lying to me. And this time as he pulled me over his knee I gritted my teeth and decided that I’d try hard not to let him hear me cry.
I clenched my teeth and shut my mind against the pain as he laid into me again but however hard he spanked I wouldn’t cry. I didn’t give in.
A week or two later, up in my bedroom, he found an excuse for another spanking and laid into me once more. Again I tried to ride it. I was determined not to give in and cry. It was all so unfair and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
It made him mad.
“You’re not even crying!” he said when he let me up “I’ll give you something to cry about - you naughty boy!”
And so saying he threw me back over his knee and laid it on again. He was determined it should hurt enough to make me cry and, under this second onslaught I burst into tears: tears of pain, of anger and of frustration.
Very soon after this, when Mum was out - she was generally at the shops or visiting a neighbour when my daddy spanked me so’s she wouldn’t hear it - anyway, I was over his knee again. As he started to spank me I closed my eyes to try to deal with more undeserved pain when suddenly I felt his other hand pushing between my legs.
He caught my balls and squeezed so’s it hurt as he spanked my bottom even harder. I winced and, try as I might to withstand it, the tears came into my eyes. A moment later he made me cry again.
After my bath (“This is too good an opportunity to miss!”) he went downstairs to put some music on the radio so’s my mum wouldn’t hear anything. I’d been told to stand by my bed to wait for him.
I had to kneel to say my prayers. ‘ . . . bless Mummy and Daddy’.
“Now there’s the rest of your spanked bottom! You were naked before so let’s have these off!”
Over his knee, with my eyes closed and him laying into my bottom, his other hand between my legs again. Again he squeezes my testicles and tears came into my eyes. Then he pulled my foreskin back and used his finger nail to scratch the head of my penis. The spanking didn’t make me cry any more - I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction - but this new stuff certainly did. I bawled for my daddy.
So it was fortunate, in a crazy kind of way, that within a few weeks I caught pneumonia and was rushed into hospital.
My mother told me years later that the very real possibility of me dying scared the wits out of them both. And though of course I didn’t realise it at the time because he never said anything to me, it turned out it was enough of a shock to my daddy that he never laid a finger on me again.
But that didn’t stop him making frequent references to how my bottom ought to be treated. No sooner was I back at school after a long period of recovery, than my school shut down.
There were two schools I might go to so my mother and I visited them. At the first a boy of eleven took me on a tour of the place while the headmistress entertained my mummy. This boy wore a horrible brown blazer and told me how often the headmistress caned him and all the other boys. The other school had nice red blazers and didn’t use the cane. You can guess which one my father wanted me to go to - but my mother prevailed.
Even though I spent the fist few days at my new school crying my eyes out I eventually settled in. From the age of eight we had a half afternoon each week for football or cricket. Boys of eight and nine went together to the local park and then halfway through the afternoon boys of ten and eleven were taken there by another teacher who brought the younger boys back to school.
This master, who spent most of his week working at a local grammar school, had a system. It was simple and to me it depressingly familiar. Roughly half of us boys had blue footie shirts (Birmingham City fans) and half had white so it was simple to get two teams.
Now my father had no interest in football or any other sport come to that and I was always too young for my brother to want to teach me any games. So I knew nothing about football - and neither, it turned out, did most of the boys in white jerseys!
At the end of the half hour game the score was something like 12 - 1 to the blues which (obviously) included all the boys who did know something about football and our Games Master turned to us.
‘Whites!” he shouted “Line up for the whack!”
It was like a game of forfeits. The blues could stand and watch (and cat-call) while us whites lined up for three on the bottom each from sir’s rubber soled gym shoe.
This master took us for football in the local park every week for the autumn and spring terms which were each 13 weeks long. Each week all the boys in the loosing (white) team (including me) got 3 with the gym shoe. This master took us for two years.
I’ll let you do the maths.
He never ‘coached’ us or even told those who didn’t know the rules of the game and anyway there was nearly always going to be a losing team so he was pretty well guaranteed twelve or more boys to slipper each week - and he took two groups of boys each week. We just lined-up each week, fiddling with our jerseys and wriggling in our football shorts.
Years later, as an adult, I discovered it hadn’t just been me. Our sister was the eldest and our daddy had started on her first with punishment and then, as she grew older, sexual stuff as well.
My brother was a year and a half younger and he was frequently punished, with a belt once he was too old to be spanked, but our daddy did sexual stuff to him to.
It also turned out that my daddy suffered from balanitis (tight foreskin) which made it painful for him to have sex with my mother. These days he might well have found solutions on the internet but back then - he was notoriously unwilling to visit a doctor for anything.
Maybe this was some of the reason my daddy got his sexual thrills by abusing his kids - I’m sure he got off on spanking us. If I hadn’t contracted pneumonia I guess I’d have got what my brother did. My brother always had relationship difficulties, he drank heavily and took drugs of various sorts. Pissed or high or both one night in Seville he walked out in front of a truck. He wasn’t forty when he died.
Malcolm and I are discussing the best way to do this but we would like to debate some of the issues raised in our Story Pages on the general blog - to highlight some of those issues and maybe you'd like to join in with this process through Comments or Emails. We both see all emails you send and one of us will always reply.