My last post in the series of entries outlining my history as a spanko ended with me being about twelve years old and entering into my first dating relationship. While my thoughts about myself as a spanko were still dark and bleak, I was feeling slightly better about the world in general due to my new found emotional closeness with my first girlfriend. The rest of my twelfth year was fairly positive in other areas: I came to know myself in ways I had never before, and I began to see how it would be possible for me to have a place in the world.
Unfortunately, that is where the positivity stops for some time. I am not going to write much about the years when I was thirteen through sixteen. Suffice to say, I had some serious life issues that took my mind off my desire to be spanked. My focus was on simply getting through the day alive. That’s not to say that my spanking desires entirely disappeared: only at the very lowest point of my life, when I was about sixteen, did I reach a point where I simply did not care about anything superfluous to my survival, and spanking fell into that category. Still, when my situation improved a few months later, the daydreams and fantasies returned as if they had never left.
When I was seventeen, I first saw Serious_Face in the public library. He was, it turns out, twenty eight at the time, but he just seemed “kinda old” to me. He was working on some sort of research and had a lot of his personal books and papers spread out all over a table in the History section. I was originally fascinated by his stuff: his books were mainly older and leather bound. He had fancy pens and elegant folders for his papers. He had an air of class surrounding him that I’d never before observed. I did what any person would do when such an interesting person entered his or her world: I started stalking him mercilessly.
I realized fairly quickly that he was of English origin, which made him even more interesting to me, especially because of my long time obsession with Boy. I went to the library far more often and found myself sitting at a table adjacent to his, but getting very little reading done. He generally wore a long sleeved, button up shirt with a tie, and before he began to write, he would unbutton the cuff on his right hand and neatly roll the sleeve up, presumably to prevent ink from getting on his shirt. It sent serious shivers through my body and left me more interested in daydreaming than reading.
After two or three months of this (seriously!) I got up the courage to start talking to him. I asked him some mundane, academic questions and he answered them, then went off on long-winded historical lectures. He liked to talk and I liked to listen to him: we became fast friends. By the end of the next month, I was hanging out with him and his wife outside of the library. Eventually, I started to go over to their house pretty regularly.
Serious_Face’s house fascinated me. I lacked a lot of social skills when I was young, and I spent a lot of time just standing around staring at his stuff. I stood in front of his shelves reading book titles, and I smelled all the spices in his pantry. One day, when he was downstairs and I was looking at books in his study, I took my exploration a little too far and began to open the drawers in his desk. Tucked away behind a bunch of mundane papers and things was a heavy, leather strap. I turned beet red and slammed the drawer shut, feeling for a moment like I might pass out. Clearly, it had to be for something else. There was no way that it was for… that thing. I found myself too nervous to even think the word “spanking.”
Originally, I intended to never mention it again. I was clearly reading something into it that wasn’t there. That was all there was to it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, though: it was like suddenly discovering an artifact in someone’s home that suggested that magic might be real. Over time, I noticed little thing: the way that he looked at his wife when she was annoying him and the way that she shied under his gaze, the way that she occasionally sat down very carefully, the thick, ebony hairbrush on her dresser, even a small blister on the palm of his right hand. It took me months of quiet observation, but I finally decided to bring it up.
It was, hands down, the most awkward conversation of my life. I was sweating and shaking with fear and embarrassment. In order to do this, I not only had to approach something extremely personal head-on, but I had to say the word “spanking” aloud: something I had only done a handful of times in my entire life. Still, my desire to know if maybe there was a way for me to have that which I had always wanted was stronger than my fear and lack of self confidence. I was able to get through the conversation, and I found out that yes, he and his wife were into spanking. We talked about DD and accountability, about the physical side of how things were done, in his experience, and about the fact that there were other people in the world into spanking besides me, him and his wife. Then, making myself more emotionally vulnerable than I’d ever been in my life, I asked him to spank me.
He said no. At the time, it was the worst possible thing I could have heard. Now, I greatly appreciate it: I was only seventeen. He told me he would not engage with a minor that way. Thus began the waiting game. During this time, I started to use the internet to look at spanking sites a little bit, although I didn’t ever delve too deeply into that. I was so overwhelmed with excitement that one chapter of a spanking story could hold my attention for a week. The world of my fantasies was real. I was simultaneously overjoyed and petrified. I never made an account on any website. I never went on a message board. I never posted a story that I wrote. I lurked, feeling certain that even if S_F eventually did spank me, I’d never want to take my “kink” (as I had just started to think of it) any further than that. As I waited, my life changed more: I went away to college that January, where I grew and learned and matured even more. With the idea of DD in my mind, I found myself craving structure and discipline, but I tried my best to give it to myself. I set my standards high and put all my effort into their achievement.
On the day of my eighteenth birthday, I saw S_F and asked him if now that I was of age, he’d be willing to spank me. Being a cruel and awful man, he told me that he wanted to wait until he had more free time and we were both in the right “headspace” for it. So I kept waiting. It took another month and two days.
|I looked a bit different when I was 18, huh?|
[To be continued]
Content Warning: While it contains nothing objectionable, this post is a bit sad in places. Still, it’s important to me that I get a chance to share things, from the very start, to the present: even the sad parts.
When I was about ten, my life took a turn in a more complicated direction. My home life became unstable and I ended up living in a group home. I stayed there on and off for the next few years. It was an extremely awkward time in my life: I had begun to become aware of all the ways in which I was different than my peers. I had always known that I came from a less stable background than most of the other children I interacted with, but as I had more exposure to other people’s families, I became distressingly more aware of how little my own life conformed to society’s standards. It was during this time that I began to separate the ways in which I was different because of my circumstances: the things and experiences that I was not able to have but other children were, the lack of stability and comfort that I received at home et cetera, and the ways in which I was different because of who I was as a person: the fact that I preferred to read books or daydream than to socialize in groups or play sports and the fact that I wanted to learn everything while other children were satisfied to leave things unexplored. During this early self examination, I discovered two other things about me that I perceived as both inherent to who I was and socially unacceptable: I wanted to think about spanking all the time, and I was more interested in looking sexually at other girls and female celebrities than I was at boys and men.
At ten, I was beginning to go through puberty, I was at the height of my social vulnerability, and I had been thrust into a situation where many of my peers were older than I was and, due to the difficult backgrounds that tend to land children in places like a group home, many were aggressive, angry and judgmental. Furthermore, I had no privacy whatsoever: I shared a room with five other girls in my age range. I still attended a public school, where I found myself even more of an outcast than I had been before. At “home,” I was an outcast among outcasts: I was constantly teased for my bookish nature and my strange sense of humor. It was during this time that I fell deeply obsessed with video games as a secondary form of escapism, since I no longer had constant access to the library. I did, however, have a Gameboy Pocket and a copy of Pokemon Red. It was the only game I had, but it didn’t matter. It was the only game I needed, and I played the hell out of it. When my Pokemon all reached max level, I started the game over.
It was during this time that I discovered the book Boy by Roald Dahl. I found it on one of the shelves in my classroom and, as soon as I discovered the content, was afraid for anyone to see me reading it, so I stole it, brought it “home” and hid it under my mattress. I read it in any moment of privacy I could procure, flinging it back into its hiding spot when I heard the door open to the bedroom. For those who are unfamiliar with the book, Boy is Dahl’s autobiography of his childhood years. It is meant to provide the same kind of perspective on the world that most of Dahl’s books offer to children: it presents the world as a place that is full of both wonder and terror and which is dichotomized between people who will do sadistic harm to youth simply because they can and those who will always love and protect children.
|Yeah, I still have it!|
That said, it is also a very thinly veiled attack on corporal punishment as practiced in the English Public School system. The text was written and published during a time when the banning of caning in English schools was still a hot-button issue, and Dahl presents the historical tradition on which the practice is based as a series of horrific tortures that he underwent. I am in complete agreement with Dahl’s opinion, although I admit that his text is emotionally manipulative. The caning scenes are the most detailed in the book, and there is one every couple of chapters. They are presented as intentionally sadistic and extremely damaging to the students, who are young, defenseless and terrified of their superiors.Until Boy, the only text I’d ever seen relating to spanking or corporal punishment was the dictionary definition of “spanking” which I frequently looked up when I could ensure that I was alone. I just ate that book up. I loved it. I was obsessed with it. I eventually got brazen enough to carry it in my book bag, and I would excuse myself from class to read the beating scenes in the bathroom. Boy put a huge spin on my fantasies for a long time. I began to focus on boarding school scenarios rather obsessively, sometimes thinking about them so long and so obsessively that I would be unable to sleep for days on end. With the amount of desire to be spanked that I had and the entire lack of ability to express it, or even gain support about the way I was feeling, my obsession became unhealthy.
|After all these years, my Dictionary still opens to page 508.|
Boy had another influence on me, though: it dramatically increased the level of shame that I felt for my desires. The situation was made difficult because I did not know that consensual spanking play existed yet. I could only fantasize about the non-consensual, and I knew that spanking children and non consensual corporal punishment were against my morals. Dahl was clearly deeply traumatized by his experiences being caned as a boy, yet I could not stop thinking of them and being filled with a joyful excitement. I believed it was wrong for me to be so obsessed with behavior that had harmed others. I did not want to be part of something hurtful. I felt deeply ashamed of myself for this. Combined with my extreme lack of self confidence and the awkwardness of being among peers who did not accept me, I came to the conclusion that no one could ever know about my spanking fantasies for any reason. If it ever came to light, I resolved to kill myself.
I know, it sounds pretty silly now, but I felt a dark desperation in my heart. I couldn’t imagine living my life with a desire for something as strong as my longing to be spanked and no way to fulfill it. I had tried to come up with ways that I could receive spankings, but, since I had no knowledge of the kink community, I always came up empty handed. I wanted something dark, seemingly immoral and impossible, and I feared it would consume me.
Shortly after I “hit bottom” regarding my feelings about myself as a spanko, I met my first girlfriend and began to have my first loving, positive relationship. Although it had nothing to do with spanking, the lessened feeling of internal loneliness and alienation took some of the edge off things, and I was able to tone things down to a healthier level.
I talk frequently about “celebrating” being a spanko when I engage in play, and that’s extremely important to me. Every time I bare my bottom, I’m preparing for something that is at the very center of my nature. I am not ashamed of who I am or what I want. My Top is a person like me, an insider to my spanking existence, and we’re going to do this now because it is the thing that we want and enjoy and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s pure bliss. Sometimes, when I’m over a lap and getting spanked my mind flashes with the thought: this is real. I wanted something I thought I could never have, and in the end, I found something better than anything I had ever dreamed of.
Yesterday, I posted about how I relate to the origin and history of the BDSM community. Today, I want to start a series of posts that will explore my personal origins and history as a spanko. To begin this adventure, we have to go all the way back to the beginning of my existence: my oldest brother recently told me that when I was just two years old, he saw me spanking my stuffed animals while playing with them. I don’t think I even remember being two, but I remember thinking about spanking and playing pretends that involved spanking from as early as I can remember: probably around the time that I was three.
Having two older brothers, until I went to school and made a couple of female friends I generally engaged in two kinds of play: I either rough-housed with the boys as much as I was welcome or I played alone in my bedroom with my toys. It was during this time when I was alone and isolated (since my bedroom was the only one on that floor of the house) that I engaged in acting out my spanking fantasies. I always looked around to make sure that no one had snuck into the room to observe me before I flipped a doll or stuffed animal across my lap and smacked its bottom. Stuffed animals were more fun for me to spank because I didn’t have to worry about breaking them or making a strange noise, but dolls came with the added excitement of flipping up skirts and pulling down panties.
|This particular bear spent a lot of time over my lap when I was a girl.|
When I first started toy-spanking, there was no pretend, no roleplay and no details. I simply grabbed a toy and began to spank. As I grew older and I acquired a few Barbies, I began to create story lines and situations involving reoccurring characters. The spankings that my Barbies gave each other (and sometimes my other toys) were punitive: they occurred because of some silly doll offensive and included scolding, which I only expressed in my mind for fear of being overheard, and on occasion, corner time.There’s something about remembering this which fascinates me: I grew up in a household where no corporal punishment was used. I don’t even know how I became aware of spanking. I’ve almost felt as if I was born with basic spanking knowledge. When I first spanked my toys as a three year old, I held them across my lap and bared their bottoms. Within a year or so, I was putting Barbies in corners. I’d never been sent to a corner before. I interacted extremely little with the media and I have no memory of ever seeing a spanking scene in a movie. The only book I remember including spanking was “Bedtime for Francis,” in which the spanking was only threatened and therefore it did not include an illustration. Yet I knew all these things, quite a few of the details that would remain important and near to my heart for the rest of my spanking life, before I began to interact with children outside my family.
The most logical answer to this question is that I somehow learned these things, through a story told by a family friend maybe, or some book that I do not remember, earlier than I can remember. Whatever it was, I don’t believe that it created this fascination and desire in me. The potency with which spanking began to occupy my mind, even when I was so young, suggests to me that it awakened something that was laying dormant in me (but only lay for a very short time). This is a large part of the reason why I find my identity as a spanko so core to my general sense of self: I remember a time before I knew most of the things about myself. I can even vaguely remember not being able to read (I learned to read at a basic level when I was three), yet I can’t remember a time before spanking mattered to me.
Another aspect of my relationship to spanking which was, unfortunately, part of my life from the very beginning was embarrassment and shame. I knew that I toy-spanking was something that was only to be engaged in when I was alone, and I felt a sense of guilt and an idea that I was in someway strange or wrong for indulging in my thoughts. There was no time when I was without the heavy burden that my spanking desires were in some way immoral, harmful, dark or just plain wrong. The struggle to combat these feelings and accept myself began in my early childhood, and would come to be a defining feature of my experience as a spanko for many years.