The Good Boy Spankings -- Preface

Disclaimer: This piece relates fantasy and is not only not intended to condone or approve of the behaviors contained herein, there is absolutely nothing about treating children as sexual objects that the author approves of, desires, or would dream of doing to an actual child. This work is written in the context of age based role play.

If you cannot understand this, have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality, or are in any way confused about what is appropriate and legal sexual expression, stop reading now.

Lastly, I am not a pedophile, don't approve of sexually assaulting children, and only use these themes in my writing because I empathize and identify with the victims of these stories; not the perpetrators. Some of us like to be embarrassed, ashamed, humiliated, spanked, and to be nervous, anxious, and afraid. Weird, right? To read more about why these stories were written, please see the "A Change To My Blog" post.

This was the preface to my book that was available for Kindle for a time before they decided that it was up to their standards. To be honest, lacking an editor besides myself didn't do any favors the grammar, spelling, and writing. At any rate, I am putting all of the book on my blog now.

Everything you will read here is a product of my twisted and terrible imagination. Many of these stories describe physical, sexual and psychological child abuse. The characters are clearly monsters. Don’t behave like this to children or around children, don’t sexualize children, and don’t ever inflict pain and violence on children. Seriously. 

It should be mentioned that because my French is terrible, I changed my nom de plume from Johnny Fesse to Johnny Fessée for the purposes of my published works. For those that don’t want to look it up, ‘fesse’ is basically translated as ‘ass’ whereas ‘fessée’ is spanking which is what I intended all along. I was careless long ago but only just now decided to fix things. 

Someplace in my head, there is a good little boy that needs to be spanked. Over the years, the origin of this need has sent me down a path of exploration and experimentation. Much of this has taken the form of adventures in my mind as I’ve written these stories but I’ve tried acting some of these out as well. In spankings that I have received, the script in my head has re-enacted some of these stories. Over my wife’s lap tasting the blinding sting of that nasty little hairbrush paddle on my bottom, I’ve tried to be the little Johnny of these stories. 

My point is, though acts of fiction, I’ve tried to make them as realistic as possible. 

Writing fiction of any sort makes the author incredibly vulnerable. We all know Stephen King’s writings and at some level, we trust him. Though he has written incredibly disturbing scenes, no one would hesitate if invited into his home. There was a time, however, when all of those stories were in King’s head. He had to decide if anyone would appreciate those stories or speak to him ever again if they knew what lurked inside him. 

The question that has haunted me is if anyone would find my fantasies exciting. Am I a freak? A pervert? Regardless of those answers, can I even write? My blog seems to indicate that people do like my stories and my writing so let’s see if being a little more formal than a blog works as well. 

I should mention that the title of my blog and this book is ‘borrowed’ from a blog entry by a much more popular blogger: Strict Julia. In a seminal entry, she recounts how she allows David to masturbate himself to orgasm on her lap while she spanks him. It is a fantastic read and well written as well. 

Though the mechanics are similar between that recounting and much of my work, what is happening in my head is very different. Thus, these stories try to capture not just the physical acts but also the ‘why’ of the whole sordid mess. 

These stories touch on something that has eaten me alive for as long as I can remember. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about spanking even though I was not spanked as a child that I can remember. Perhaps it all started because of shame about nudity, looking proper, control, not being an embarrassment, or some other fairly innocuous parenting message that I took far too seriously. Perhaps it had to do with a pre-school I attended that seemed a little ‘off’ and did advocate spanking both at home and school. Perhaps it was knowing that other families in the neighborhood spanked their children or that I was sometimes threatened with a spanking. 

It was a morbid fascination. I was deathly afraid of being spanked. Besides the pain, it seemed horribly embarrassing. In fact, it was the ultimate in embarrassment. Never was I supposed to be an embarrassment. That was the cardinal sin. Spanking was everything I was supposed to be afraid of: pain, embarrassment, being naked, and shame. 

It doesn’t matter, really. When puberty happened to me, everything got tinged with sex and suddenly even spanking became sexual. 

As a child, I played the usual naked games with whoever was available and willing. Eventually, spanking entered that play. At the time, I assumed that we were normal but I don't know. Whenever I found an opportunity to play, it seemed that spanking happened. 

Maybe this is because for children, being naked was the goal but the only times we could imitate involved doctors, things that happened in the bathroom, and spankings. I think that spanking became the preferred play because play allows children to face their deepest fears, take control over them, and ultimately gain control. Thus spanking had two attractions: nudity and working our fear of the dreaded spanking. At this point so many years later, there are only moments of the games that are memories 

•    Stretched out face down and naked on the couch as my playmate cracked a piece of wood that was vaguely paddle shaped on my bottom for not cleaning the house. The sting and panic of those couple spanks still haunt me to this day. 

•    Sitting on her bed with my pants and underpants around my knees waiting for her to come into the room to spank me. I knew a parent had just pulled up in the driveway and that she was running to tell me that the game had to be cancelled. As she rounded the corner and saw my erect penis poking out of my lap, she paused and a look of desire mixed with regret crossed her face before she announced the bad news. 

•    Feeling naughty running naked from the bathroom to throw my dirty clothes into the hamper in my parents’ room and wondering why my penis was so hard. I wanted it to be small again but it was just a mystery to me why sometimes it was hard and sometimes soft. 

•    Being permanently erect in middle school to the point where it hurt. 

•    Seeing the bully’s bottom close up in the locker room after gym class, being caught looking at it, and being made fun of for staring. 

•    After a long inspection of my friend’s beautiful hairless vagina, feeling like I had to show her my little erection. I apologized because I thought it was ugly but she said it wasn’t ugly at all. A girl thought my penis was attractive. To date, that one compliment has been one of the best of my life. 

•    Humping my mattress as I woke up in the morning until I felt good and then wondering why my pajama front was all crusty that night. 

Three experiences, however, stood out as even more influential. These explain some of the themes in my writing and if you don’t want to know the why, perhaps skip this. I feel it was important to include it in the preface because my themes are prima facie disturbing. The truth is that there was no real abuse in my past either with me as the victim, instigator, or witness. 

The first was just a comment but it was one of those comments that sparks one’s imagination. 

My mother has always had wicked PMS and after my parents split, my sister and I could rely on my mother’s foul moods to arrive with the precision of the atomic clock. It was a winter night and she came home from work in a terrible mood. Thus, I think what was said and what I heard are completely unrelated. I was in the middle of puberty and I am not sure if anything that I remember from those years was real, totally distorted, or completely in my mind. What I heard was mom announcing that if we weren’t quiet, she would spank us with a wooden spoon until we had bruises on our butts and thighs. Too precise to be real and too exactly in character with what I wanted to hear. 

This was actually the second spanking comment she made around that time. One of those super religious families lived down the street and I was nominally friends with the boy. We were nearly the same age and he had a sister that was a year or two younger. I don’t remember much about them except that their house was small, mother was huge, and I never met the father. 

At some point, my mother must have had a conversation with their mother who described their spanking ritual. My mother then described the process to me one evening. It involved praying about what they did wrong, then spanking, and then more prayer. Mom asked if I thought this was something we should do. 

Of course, why bother asking me? She was the parent, right? She could have unilaterally decided if and how discipline would be administered. Did she know that I wanted to be spanked? Did she want to spank me? 

To be honest, the unappealing aspect to me was the religious trapping. Even back then I knew that I liked the ritual of spanking but I also knew that crazy religious people and their customs should be avoided. The other problem was that I never got in any trouble. It seemed like a solution that had no problem. 

The whole memory is surreal and dreamlike. What I remember was me saying they were crazy and that we shouldn't do that. I also remember I was looking down, embarrassed, afraid, and cowardly like I knew the power of what was at stake, the opportunity on the table, and rather than take the risk, I failed the most important test of my young life. It was the feeling of shameful regret. 

Likewise, on the night the PMS monster threatened to spank the two of us, I wonder what could have been had we been louder. Truth was, I wasn’t quiet that night. In fact, I rolled the dice and poked the bear. Nothing happened. For me, the threat hung in the tense air all night. I wonder if it did for my mother as well. Was she tempted to make good on her threat? Was she looking for an excuse? Were we playing a game? I will never  know these answers and perhaps that is for the best. 

My mind has played out what could have been had I answered yes or stepped over the line that night. The fact that the threat was out there and the picture so vividly painted has allowed my imagination to paint endless images in my mind. These stories are some of the most sordid.  

One theme that haunts me is if I had acted out but my sister had been spanked as well. At four in the morning as I lay awake wallowing in the memories of all the terrible things I’ve done in my life, I will revisit that night and feel deep shame for not being more careful to keep my sister out of harm’s way. This is the origin of Descent, by the way. 

Of course and I cannot stress this enough, I don't think that my memory of either of those situations is accurate. Even at the time, I was so feverishly preoccupied with spanking that likely I heard what I wanted to hear. A more likely explanation was that mom was grumpy one night and I imagined or believed a throw-away comment. Likewise, she probably told me what the neighbor crazy lady said and asked if I thought that was as crazy as she thought it was but I took it personally instead of objectively. 

The second formative moment was one that happened sometime in middle school. We learned in fifth grade that boys were different than girls and then spent our middle school years in the dark only to finally be illumined in 9th or 10th grade to what sex actually was. Of course, by then we all knew the ins and outs, if you will, so it was really about not getting a disease or pregnant. 

In middle school, I would be sporting an erection almost all day. My tight white briefs and even tighter jeans kept everything nicely contained but the constant erection would eventually create the dreaded ‘head ache’ feeling. The only relief was when I would soften up enough to urinate briefly between classes. Luckily, I never mentioned my problem to anyone. 

Finally, I connected that dots that something needed to be done and I was just the boy to get that something done. 

The day was grey, cold, and wet as only it can be in the northern Midwest of the United States. I rushed home, ditched my coat and boots, and headed straight for my room in the empty house. Time was of the essence since my sister was due home at any second. On the way, I grabbed a dishrag that I think was clean but still a dingy gray. 

My room had very poor heat and the house was already cold. The lights were off and the flat grey light of the overcast sky that was also grey cast that depressing pall over my brightly painted room. 

I knelt on the floor, pulled down my pants and underpants just far enough, and manipulated my little erection for seconds before experiencing and seeing my first real orgasm. It was thick, copious, and I remember it being tinted green probably because of the dull light. 

The experience was mostly memorable because of how it was a desperate act in a cold and depressing place. The rag quickly filled with pent up semen as I felt merely relief from the torment of my own body. I had no control of my genitals and no understanding of what was happening or why. All I knew was that if it wasn’t wrong, it was definitely not the sort of thing we talked about. It was a private thing that good people didn’t discuss. It was a bathroom activity. 

Still, there I knelt in my cold bedroom on an ugly day having just masturbated for the first time. It was a short, perfunctory, joyless experience that was merely relief rather than pleasure. I quickly got dressed fearing  my sister or mother catching me with my pants literally down. 

Perhaps first experiences don’t matter but for me, something about masturbating into a dingy dishrag with my pants around my thighs in a cold, dark, gray child’s bedroom stuck with me. It wasn’t wrong in the moral sense as much as it was simply not at all what it could have been. It was a tragedy. It could have been so much more but instead, it was merely mechanical and necessary. It was something that had to happen so that I could move on to the next thing. 

The final formative experience was a perfect storm of coincidences. First, a word of explanation about the sexuality of children: 

There is an appropriate sexual response at every age. Up until puberty, it is difficult to accept that there exists any sexual feelings at all but they are there. Children play and the ‘naked’ games are how this is expressed. It isn’t at all what adult or even teenage sexuality is but it is appropriate for the age. This is normal, healthy, and shouldn’t be shamed. 

What is inappropriate and even harmful is when the sexuality of a person with older maturity imposes their more mature sexuality on a younger person. In fact, this is fairly rare compared to the amount of ‘fooling around’ that happens among children. 

The natural termination of the games children play is when the games lose their interest. The games just end because they are no longer interesting to one or both parties. 

I had a friend I played with but we both sensed that the naked games had to end but there was still some experimentation. I think the idea of acting out stories or script was her's. We picked one and went to a bedroom and acted our parts. At some point, I was supposed to be bad and would get a spanking. I acted my part, then turned toward the bed, undid my pants and bared my bottom before bending over the side of the bed. 

My erect penis came in contact with the comforter and it felt pretty great. She didn’t spank long or very hard but I played the part and pretended to get a real spanking. This involved some fake ‘ouch’ words and wiggling on the bed which continued to feel wonderful to my little erection. Just as the wonderful feelings were getting out of hand, there was knocking on the door from a parent that we hadn’t heard approaching. 

We both jumped up in a panic and I quickly pulled up my pants and stood there experiencing an orgasm as I ejaculated into my underwear and jeans. We didn’t get into very much trouble. There was a story we gave that was complete crap but believable crap. Had it been my friend in a state of undress rather than me, things might not have gone so well. 

Still, there was the ritual of the spanking, the setup, the experience, and a sexual response. It was a potent combination in my brain. I knew that spanking fascinated me but I didn’t know how good it could feel as well. My sexual awareness bloomed after I connected a few more ideas. At a time when breasts and vaginas should have fascinated me, it was the bottoms instead. In addition to the hormonal wash of puberty sexualizing my spanking preoccupation, I had experienced a sexual response to spanking complete with a ruined orgasm in my own pants. 

Everyone has an origin story and best I can tell, this was mine. Though some may disagree, I believe that in the end, it was the things that almost happened that shaped me more than the things that did. 

Of course, no one’s life is perfect and maybe some of what I experienced could have been avoided. It is too late to live in regret. For a time, my obsession with spanking was a burden. I have spent so much time writing, scheming, dreaming, and searching. At long last, I realized there was nothing I could do. Hating this obsession would not solve anything. This is me and I cannot change. 

Thank you for reading. You can find me at johnnyfesse@gmail.com and I would love to hear from you, write commissioned works, speak at events, or just know you are out there. I am working on two more publishable works. One is a collection of stories from a female perspective (The Good Girl Spankings) and the other is a novel length piece that I teased the first chapter out on my blog under the title Could Always Be Better.