From: gaetana@aol.com (Gaetana) Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking Subject: Hot Summer Nights Date: 24 Jul 1994 16:18:01 -0400 A recollection from late childhood, Part I I grew up, to the extent that any of us did, on a 3-block long strip of cheap townhouses that were thrown together to accomodate the swelling population of gov't workers in the DC suburbs late in the WWII years. By the time we lived there, the few years they may have looked good were well past and the occupants' efforts to individualize them only made them more eccentrically tawdry. But there were little front and back porches with white railings and an unpaved alley in back of the lots that was only used for the trash pickup trucks and by us kids for a variety of summer games. Since we were a generation early for totally-organized afterschool schedules (maybe ballet class or piano lessons for the more upwardly mobile, like my family), most of the younger and older kids joined together for street games, hide & seek, kick-the-can and sometimes (more to my liking) imaginative role-playing games: re-enactments of Sat. westerns and serials, cops & robbers, and plots of our own devising. The houses weren't air-conditioned and in summer the windows were always wide open. Kids ran in and out, slamming doors, parents shouted, people laughed and cried, and summer life was public, steamy and vital. So was discipline. When we got punished, and that was often with our pre-PC parents, it was usually a good, hard paddling. Come home late, or not come when called, "talk back" or disobey once too often, and the resulting spanking was part of the kid community's entertainment - at least audible, and sometimes visible to the whole neighborhood. Anyone else remember that time? I don't think for a heartbeat that I was the only kid whose awakening sexual responses quickened to the sound or sight of an acquaintance's behind being loudly smacked, with deliciously anguished sound effects! But that's when it was somebody else...and inevitably my turn came. A few blocks away from home a local stream ran through a remnant of the woodlands our subdivision had been carved from. It was a great place to play on hot days...the stream was cool and the trees furnished shade but, more importantly, a place to stage our juvenile dramas. Popular *scripts* included Tarzan, cowboy & Indian stories and the like. I was only 9 or so, but some of the boys were 14-15 and seemed very grown up to me. A knotted rope let you swing across the creek and there was a tire suspended from a huge tree that was an equally wonderful prop. Unfortunately, because there was a seedy bar & grill across the street, the woods and the stream were strictly off-limits to all the kids. We'd all been warned to stay away under threat of certain punishment, but it was just too good a place to go...the alley was fine for activities we didn't mind being monitored by our parents...but the woods seemed daring, unobserved and just the perfect spot to experiment with the new games that growing up suggested. Time would get away from you, though - many a night we nearly flew back to get home by suppertime deadlines...not everyone making it, as yelling, loud spanking smacks, and howls of protest would quickly broadcast. I usually managed to be on-time or finesse an excuse. I was by no means the most-paddled kid on the block - Anthony (our brave hulking Tarzan, who at home hollered pitifully under his Dad's razor strop!) and Linda (whose Mom regularly used the wooden spoon on her bare behind - I know this because she shrieked her plea's not to be paddled with that dreaded implement!) held those distinctions. Sorry to digress, but my response now is as distracting as I write as it was then, when it began! But my turn came now and then. My Mom's paddlings were usually for *back-talking* or *being fresh* - a habit I never broke. They were spontaneous and sharp, usually OTK or standing up, secured by one arm, and given with the hand or the hairbrush. I usually could avoid crying or begging unless (as otherwise noted, this was frequent) I was then made to go to my room to await my father's homecoming and a "real" spanking, as she put it. Then I had time (sometimes half an hour, sometimes several hours) to think about that second punishment. And brood, working up an impressive amount of self-pity and righteous indignation - I never thought what I had done deserved the pain and embarrasment of a spanking, but that never spared my bottom! But one hot summer evening, we just lost track of time down at the creek. The make-believe had taken on a magical dangerous quality, halfway between Spielburg-like adventure and a newly-realized eroticism. The little kids probably weren't aware of it, but my precociously blooming body and imagination were reveling in it...casting my own starring part in the movie we seemed to be making. We didn't notice the time until Anthony's father came looking for him, heavy switch in hand! When we saw him, we all snapped out of our entranced time-warp, realized how dark it was, and raced for home (leaving Anthony to his fate, I'm afraid!). By the time I got home, my parents were both on the porch, talking to a neighbor and watching down the street, I'm sure with mixed anger and worry - I've been a parent myself now and I can understand that part. But when they saw me racing sweatily up the block with several others, the anxiety was erased and the fury took over! I was in for it now and I knew it! My Mom did the talking, or shouting, and it went along the well-trodden familiar lines of "Where have YOU been, young lady? Do you KNOW what time it is? You are going to LEARN not to disobey! You know BETTER than to come home at this time!" (etc.) My Dad didn't say a word. He had a paddle in his hand and was standing there, with his arms crossed, on the top step of our little wooden porch, leaning against the white railing. ( I remember how hot it was and the blinking of fireflies in the June evening, for some reason forever after associated with spanking and sexual arousal). He motioned me up to the porch with one sharp gesture and said three words: "Get up here." Didn't even raise his voice...my belly felt like everything inside was melting down. I didn't want to climb those four wooden steps. The other kids were forgotten...I know every single one of us got whipped that night, probably a record...but I didn't care. I was about to get my worst spanking ever and I definitely care about that! "Daddy," I started but my voice wobbled badly. "Daddy, don't...I can explain...see we forgot and..." It was no use - I couldn't explain because I wasn't supposed to be where I'd been EVER. I actually started to whimper -- 9 years old and starting to become a woman and whimpering like a scared baby! Which I felt like. My knees were trembling. He reached down and pulled me up the last couple of stairs heading, I thought for the privacy of the house, probably the kitchen where, for some reason, most of my spankings were given (except those ritual *2nd spankings* which were without exception in my room with my nightie pulled up!). But he jerked me over to the porch railing and, without a word, bent me over it. Outside!! On the porch!! No, this could NOT happen to me! He was not going to paddle my behind outside where anyone could see/hear/amuse themselves with my humiliation! Oh, yes - that's exactly what he was going to do. My belly was straddling the porch rail and I was stretched on tip-toe. "Pull your pants down," he ordered, his voice low, rough with anger. "Ohhhh...Daddy....Noooo!" I protested but reached back, too scared now to disobey. Now that it was too late, I was being very, very good! He swung the paddle back (I remember gasping...I could feel the air movement!) and brought it down on my butt, hard. The sting and the sound of the smack, simultaneously, made me cry out in spite of myself. Thwack!! Thwack!! Thwack!! Thwack!! And..."Owww!" "OWWWWW" from me, genuinely crying from pain but praying my wails would be piteous enough to make him stop! He did stop. After about 6 terrible smacks with the paddle, he put it down on the railing and I started to shakily straighten up. "Get over there...you haven't started to get paddled!" He ordered. He and my mother (who was watching sternly and approvingly) confirmed briefly and then she said, calmly: "You have to be taught never to do this again. You get those panties down." I was a big girl at 9 (in truth, fully grown although that wasn't very big). I couldn't believe I was going to be spanked bare-assed on my own front porch, bent over the wooden railing, for all to see! I wailed and blubbered - no use. I refused to pull my panties down. My Dad then whispered in my ear and I quickly peeled my little cotton panties down to my ankles, where they draped with my previously dropped slacks. What had he said? Oh, just that if I didn't get them down quick enough, he was going to spank me out here on the porch every night at suppertime for a week, that's all! Once bare-assed, my Dad picked up the paddle and really began to apply it to my butt, the smacks so fiery that I jerked a few inches off my tip-toed position with every one. I can remember exactly how it stung...and the abject helplessness of that position. Not to mention the sure and certain knowledge that tonight it was MY punishment that was entertaining the entire block! I ended up with an ass so flaming red that even my mother relented and let me sit on an ice-bag for half an hour. It didn't help. The paddle (garden-variety ping-pong, with pebbly red vinyl facing) had raised welts and blisters that took days to go down. I wore skirts for a week - and hated them! As noted, every kid that was in the woods that night probably got a whipping. I suspect that, but none of us talked about. We were a pretty chastened bunch for a week or so...but of course ultimately went back to the woods and the stream to play, and continue to experiment and experience...and grow up. And I often wonder, how many of us grew up with the hot, lingering fantasy of those hot, summer-night spankings. (Any comments in this forum, please - may cross-post this to alt.sex.stories) Gaetana