D I S C L A I M E RMMSA StoriesMMSA StoriesMMSA Stories:::: This story has several references to the physical discipline of a boy through childhood and adolescence. It was written by a contributor to a BDSM-oriented newsgroup, for the amusement and edification of others who share that interest. Futhermore, in this story there are hints of gay male innuendo. If stories that touch upon these subjects make you uncomfortable, this is a good time to stop reading this text and go to another website. The names of the various people involved have been altered beyond recognition. If you were actually present for any of the events recounted in these stories, this author will welcome clarifications or corrections.
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EPISODE ONE: The Switching
I was seven, and we lived in a two hundred year-old cape cod farmhouse outside a small town in Maine. It was 1959, and the situation was, in retrospect, like living inside a Norman Rockwell painting.
I was a lazy and dreamy boy, and this caused much concern to my parents, and in particular my father who was cut from much the same stone. He was an artist, and had hardly earned a normal wage in his life.
I remember the local elementary school: It was one of those bigturn-of-the-century wood-frame buildings with enormous windows, high ceilings, and a small bell tower at the peak of the roof.
My grade Two teacher sent home a note regarding my extreme inattention to my work in general, my apparent incomprehension of arithmetic, and there were several references to the frequency of homework assignments missed or late. I didn't know it, but this was big trouble for me.
That afternoon after the note was delivered to my parents, I went up to my room to play with my new model jetliner. I remember seeing my dad going down to the back field out the window, with his big Jim Bowie-style hunting knife in his hand. I recall that it was a bit odd, him going out there by himself.
Usually I got to accompany him out there for that messing-around-in-the-back-field stuff. It was his parental quality time, which he grabbed as much of as he could. He was a troubled man, often away on business in New York, trapped in a doomed marriage. I think the presence of me, the only child, kept my parents together as a married couple for a longer period than might have otherwise have been.
My dad arrived at my room and asked me to come with him. I could tell that something was up. I certainly didn't like that tone in his voice. Downstairs, we proceeded to the sun porch which faced the Penobscot River. We didn't use that porch all that often, and certainly seldom in late October.
He produced the note from my teacher, and in his other hand he brandished a stout twig which he had evidently hacked out from a bramble bush in the back field some minutes ago. It looked horrible, It must have been 3 or 4 feet long, enormous to a wee boy who had never been switched before. Just looking at the thing I imagined it must hurt like heck.
I panicked. Nothing I could improvise were the right words. I had no excuse. I wanted to run away from there. My dad seemed to sense this, and he had already grabbed my left arm and was twisting me sideways to get a crack at the seat of my slacks.
The first blow was such a surprise that my legs began to propel me forward. With enough traction I might have formed the outer arm of a wheel with my dad as the axle. To counter this, my dad had to get his hand under my armpit and lift me off the floor so my feet were treading air.
This may have worked to my advantage, as the combined effort must have worn him out quickly. Although I only weighed about 50 pounds, the leverage worked against him. He hit me six or seven more times, none quite as hard as the first blow. I was screaming bloody blue murder. I had never been so violated, and the pain wouldn't go away.
He dropped the fearsome twig, and me. I ran screaming up to my room, slammed the door behind me and hurled the worst epithets in a seven-year-old's vocabulary into my pillow.
This experience was evidently very traumatic for my father, who some days later made a point of destroying that weapon on a bonfire of raked leaves, telling me that there would be no further need of it. He never switched me again.
However, in that same time period, there was another violation. I got a case of blood poisoning from a cat scratch, and the Country Doctor came and injected penicillin into my butt with that big glass-tubed needle. Ah! was there no end to my humiliation?
EPISODE TWO: Spanked in School
In 1961, my parents left that big house in Norman Rockwellish Maine, and we relocated to Canada, to a small port city on the East Coast.
I was sent to a newly-established private day school, one that was started by a select few of the city's old-guard and nouveau-riche families. The school was an old 1820's era mansion, with a typical 1950's era brick classroom annex added on the rear.
Originally my parents attempted to have me skip a grade, and arranged for the school place me in grade 4. My academic skills were so rudimentary at that stage that it must have been obvious to these semi-professional educators that I was not ready. I was only in grade 4 for a matter of a few days. Then I was bounced back to grade 3.
The act of this adjustment in the middle of a school day, during the second week of school (This was after we had already had our first fire drill, where I got to line up with the grade 4's) was quite embarrassing for me.
A few weeks later I was settling in to that grade 3 class on a more or less even keel. The teacher was having a bad day when she caught me whispering to another boy when I should not have done so. Silly me. I had no explanation.
GO SEE THE HEADMASTER, NOW.
Uh-oh. This is not good. I had premonitions of what was to come as I made my way down the creaky old corridors to his office in the new section. Would I get switched? caned? the strap?
Mr. R., the head, had his office routine disrupted by the arrival of this 9-year-old at his office. He was annoyed, visibly. I had already started to cry out of sheer despair at the situation. That made it worse, I think, as my explanation of why I was sent to him in the first place was obscured with terror and blubbering. `Talking....' was all I could get out of my mouth.
With not another word he gently but firmly had me off the floor and over his lap. He whacked me with his open palm, right over the grey flannels. My butt was small and his hand was large, so he was able to get both cheeks simultaneously. I was wailing. I think he gave me 8 whacks; I'm not certain that I can recall the exact number after all these years.
However I couldn't forget the humiliation afterward. Once back in the classroom, the teacher found it necessary to ask me for a report on what had just occurred, for the benefit of others in the class. She was urging me to speak clearly and succinctly, which was the last thing I wished to do at that particular moment. I then was lectured by her, in front of the class, as to the grammatical preference for using the word `backside' in future, instead of `bum'. I was such a naive kid, I had never heard that longer term used in context before.
Futhermore, I had to AGAIN recount the story to my mom when I got home that day. I was in better shape by the end of the school day, and had spent much of the afternoon rehearsing my speech. I think my Mom was a closet spanko, maybe. She always seemed to pay close attention to tales or suggestions of my physical punishment, and possibly was the real instigator of that switching back in Maine, as reported in Episode One.
TO BE CONTINUED...