Soft scrotum tightly protecting two delicate precious testicles gently caress my thighs. Desperate erection so firm that it barely bobs as I walk. The weight of my genitals engorged with blood and with no clothing to support them. It is a sensation that almost never happens except when I am walking through the house to my spanking.
Even if I know that she will spank me more than once, it is the first walk where it feels perfect. Cold bottom tingling in anticipation. A penis innocent even in its arousal. Later it will be coated with pre-cum, the wet tip cold, thighs spotted with slippery drops, and shaft and scrotum stained. It will look like an adult man's dirty needy organ ready to spray a sticky mess in or at least on any creature. Not so on that first walk. Hairless and pink, it is hard to believe that the cute little pee-pee could be capable of anything so vile.
The body of the owner has changed and admittedly the up angle isn't as dramatic as it was when I was younger. Otherwise, it is the same organ that drove my imagination, that made me take risks, and that tortured me all these years. As I walk though the house feeling the soft skin caress my thighs, I feel like the little boy in the cold empty house walking to my pretend disciplinarian. "I'll be good mommy! Please no spankees." echos in my head.
So long ago, I would walk home from school in the winter cold imagining that a spanking was waiting for me. I was at least ten when I started playing this game and I know it was a ritual for at least three years. In the world of my imagination, every scenario would play out on those cold walks.
Sometimes I would have a note from the teacher that I know would make my mother angry enough to spank me. Other times it was a test that I failed that she needed to sign. Other kids had to get their parents' signatures; I was never even close to suffering that embarrassment and I worked hard to be sure it stayed that way. Still, the fear that it could happen haunted me as did the fear of what the penalty might be.
My imagined spanking sometimes would happen right after I walked in the door. An angry mother just off the phone with a teacher standing in the foyer holding a wooden spoon waiting for me. I dreamed of not even getting my coat off before the spanking would start.
Other times I see myself pleading with her for leniency even as I took off my clothes down to the bare. And then shivering on the cold tile with my skinny pale bottom visible through the front door as she lectured me.
What if my sister was home? What if she had a friend? What if mom wasn't home yet and I would have to wait until she got home, or after dinner, or even later?
I would always end up completely naked even if my sister or some number of her friends were at the house. The fantasy incorporated the revolving door of her new best friend or friends. Each seemed cuter than the last.
Sent to my room to 'get ready' for my spanking, I would have to take off all my clothes. Then the walk through the open house to one of the rooms and their respective spanking implement. The kitchen with the ugly linoleum floor, the four straight back kitchen chairs, and all the wooden spoons. I fantasized endlessly imagining a precise sting of the spoon that bloomed slowly over my whole bottom to be as hot as charcoal in a summer grill. Even that ugly linoleum floor became a fetish item as I imagined myself staring at it as I was upended over mom's lap.
My parents bedroom could only mean the hairbrush. It was a frightening little club that rested on mom's dresser. I had never seen her brush her hair with it. Though she probably didn't mean it, the hairbrush was a silent warning to me to behave. In reality, it was her grandmother's and she would have sooner burned the house down that risk breaking it on the bottom of a naughty child.
If it was to be the bath brush, the room was to be the bathroom. The almost completely tiled acoustic nightmare of a room was bright even at night with the lights off. She would sit on the edge of the tub with my naked and sometimes wet body over her lap facing the mirror on the door. If I looked up, I could watch my own spanking and my face as it contorted. As we all know, the echo chamber and thin door hid nothing about what was happening in the room. Number one or number two, every strain, fart, splash, and tinkle was broadcast to anyone on the other side of the door and well down the hall. The spanking would be as loud as war and my cries of anguish and repentance would be read repeatedly back to me by my sister.
Of course, I might have to traverse the entire length of the house, past every room with a door and through every room without. Sister and guests would see me, spy on me, follow, point, laugh, but sometimes would comfort me afterwards by turning my sorrow into bliss.
Living room was that distant destination and it had the most options. The furniture allowed for everything from being bent over my mother's lap while sitting in eight different places, to being draped over the ottoman or bent over the back a couch or chair. And since the living room had no good spanking implements, it was an excellent setting not just for the traditional hand spanking but for the ritual of "fetching" whatever it was mom wanted to spank me with. The living room also afforded the best viewing accommodations in case my fantasy involved witnesses.
In each one act play that I performed in my head on the way home from school, there was a little boy that said one or both of my catchphrases: "Mommy, please, I don't want a spanking," "No, mommy, no ouchies, mommy." Always a selfish plea that mommy will spare me but never an admission of guilt, explanation, regret, empathy, or even acknowledgment that anything had been done wrong. Just a naughty little boy that proves he really should be spanked until he learns his lesson.
As further proof of this naughtiness, the entire walk home I would be struggling with an uncomfortable erection in tight underwear. Certainly if my dreams of a spanking were so exciting, I would undoubtedly have an erection if it really happened.
At that age, I was as beautiful as it turned out I would ever be. Later, I would be masculine and handsome, but when I was that young, I was a beautiful specimen except for my face that was an acne battlefield and teeth that seemed thrown at random into my mouth. Besides the hair on my head, I was nearly hairless. I was thin but looked a little bit muscular because every muscle was visible. Really, I was more like a living anatomy model designed to show muscles and tendons. Pale skin seemed almost see-through like if there was a bright light behind me, it could shine right through.
My penis when flaccid was cute and pink. When erect, I would point up so rigidly that I could look straight down at the slit. The tip would tint blue like an angry toddler holding its breath.
Those walks home in a dream pulled me away from the reality of the gray cold winter, my family's problems, the bullies at school, the girls that ignored me, and the turmoil of my pubescent confusion. It was a time where the hidden stress of being in junior high resolved itself. No longer would I fear the unknown but would actually experience it. Furthermore, I would be the center of attention and not ignored as my parents drifted toward their divorce.
The fantasies incorporated the reality that I really didn't know what was in store when I walked in the door. Many times the house would be empty. Parents at work and my sister either still in school or off with a friend. Other times, it would be an angry ugly place as my parents vacillated between the hot and cold war that they called a marriage. My sister and I hadn't yet realized that having our friends at the house was the secret to keeping our parents from fighting.
I was always relieved when no cars were in the driveway as I walked down the street. My erection would throb excitedly with the news of no adults in the house. If my sister wasn't home, it was solo play time when I would try to act out the script I had written on the way home. If I wasn't sure why the house was empty, the play would take place in my bedroom or the bathroom but when I knew the stage was empty, the whole house could be involved.
This was the beginning of my preparation ritual. After staging the house to be sure it looked like I was doing homework or some other worthy activity like practicing the piano, I would dash to my room. In the early days, it was almost enough just to be naked in my room. This quickly progressed to self-spanking and then the different positions for the spanking and the various improvised spanking implements.
Around this time, I would wake up in the morning humping my mattress through my flannel pajamas. It would feel good, then great, and then I would have to pee. Oblivious as I was to all things, I only slightly noticed that my jam-jams were sticky in the morning when I took them off and crunchy at night when I put them back on. Though those were my first orgasms, my first REAL orgasm was after after one of these walks home.
I guess I had stopped having my morning releases and was finding myself erect more and more. For days in a row, it seemed to be almost constant. One day, all the pieces came together: "the talk" with my dad that didn't make any sense, something I overheard the big kids talk about, health class the year before, etc. In the cold empty house kneeling on my bedroom floor with my pants and underwear pulled down just enough but still wearing my big puffy winter jacket, the lights off, the cold flat dreary light through the window, and a dirty dish rag I picked up in the laundry room as I raced through the house in my left hand, I lightly rubbed my angry erection for just seconds before it exploded onto the rag. It was nominally pleasurable but the relief was extraordinary.
There was a magical time just before I discovered masturbation when my libido raged but I had no idea what to do about it. At about the same time, the parents split and mom got a job. Suddenly, we were latchkey kids with a couple hours to ourselves after school.
On the days I was home alone, I would play out my spanking fantasies. Sometimes I would even end up outside in the playhouse in the backyard, on the front porch hidden behind the tree, or just in the cold garage. If I wasn't naked when I left the house, my pants were down shortly after I got outside. The freezing cold air of the midwest winter was a tantalizing sensation on my little genitals and vulnerable bottom cheeks. One time with my pants and underwear pulled down to my thighs, I stood on the front porch facing the street. It was foggy out and I thought no one could see me but then I heard cheering though I never saw who saw me.
Another time, I harvested icicles off the gutters until I found one that seemed like it would fit. I rushed inside with my prize and in the privacy of the bathroom, proceeded to insert it into my bottom. To this day, I can still feel the cold slippery phallus penetrate me surprisingly easily. It was scary, naughty, and exciting though the cold was so unpleasant.
The days my sister was home too became opportunities to explore each other with naked games like doctor and house. Sometimes I spanked her but more often she spanked me. I remember vividly the rough orange wool thread of the couch as I lay face down and naked for a spanking with a big piece of roughly paddle shape wood from the garage. She spanked me hard and I panicked under the sting.
Another time, I was sent to her room to wait for a spanking but mom came home before it happened. Sister ran into the room to tell me the bad news (that I already knew, actually) and as she ran into the room, she found me sitting naked and aroused on the edge of her bed. The look of desire and disappointment on her face when she saw my erection has forever haunted me.
We played the same silly games seemingly for years. Fondling, spanking, poking butts, and even kissing naughty places but nothing that would be considered sex. Still, I was learning about what men and women really did in bed. Mom bought us books but the one that was really informative was the one from her bedside table. There I learned that boys and girls masturbated. I tried to do it to my sister but we got nowhere.
Feeling guilty and having just discovered masturbation, I offered to let her watch me do it. She said OK and we went into the bathroom where I laid down naked on the floor and rubbed my little erection for less than a minute before making a puddle of semen on my tummy. Immediately, I regretted what I had done.
Then there was the spanking play. We were getting to the age where it was pretty obvious our naked games were getting weird but she had an idea about giving me a spanking as part of some scenario. We went into a bedroom and closed the door. I undid my pants and pulled them down to just below my bottom before bending over the foot of the bed. She didn't spank me long or hard but I made a fuss like she was really spanking me. My wiggling and kicking stimulated me and pretty soon good feelings were starting in my penis. Just as my orgasm arrived, there was a knock on the bedroom door. I was up in a hurry and pulling up my pants even as my ejaculation continued.
It could have been so much worse but it was almost how close it was to being so bad that makes it haunting. When I turned around to face my concerned parent, my orgasm had just ended. Sticky semen was on my hand, the bedspread, and especially in my tight white y-front underwear. I was confused by all that but felt lucky to not have been seen with my pants down.
If it wasn't the nexus of my budding kink, it was certainly a shaping event. Shortly after that, my playtime with my sister did end. It was a natural end. We both had discovered what adult sex was and knew that it wasn't something we should experiment with together. Interestingly, we both flirted openly and aggressively with each other's friends and at one point, I had to intervene because I thought one of my friends was becoming creepy.
Those childhood experiences that happened and the ones that didn't created the ritual that became my sacred time of preparation. Spanking time had to be preceded by this private time when I would have no distractions except to anticipate what was to come. It is a time of anxiety but also eager anticipation. Even though my spankings are painful, embarrassing, and humiliating, they also almost always result in sexual satisfaction in the form of an orgasm.
The fact that spankings "almost" always have that little bit of pleasure tucked in near the end lends mystery and hope. Like Pavlov's dogs, I am conditioned to be ready for sex even as I prepare for my punishment. My penis even when flaccid is engorged and darker in color. My testicles encase tightly in my scrotum and pull up against my body and away from danger. When erect, I am turgid and look to be seconds from ejaculation.
After hours if not days of anticipation, my spanking ritual starts with private time in the bathroom. I have to be clean, groomed, and ready myself for my punishment. I don't know what would happen if I wasn't but I don't want to find out.
There will be no potty breaks so I have to take care of that first but then I always have to bathe. This is when I make sure that I am totally hairless from the waist down. I'm not very hairy anyway, but stubble and stray hairs are unacceptable.
Sometime while I am brushing my teeth or my hair is when the butterflies invade my stomach. It is like a light switch gets flipped and suddenly the spanking to come seems like a really bad idea.
In the mirror, a scared little boy looks back at me. His slightly chubby body is pale and soft.
Even though I am into spanking, I get super anxious when I know it is going to happen. Spankings hurt and even though I need mine and find it arousing, I know that at least some of it will be agony. To get past this, I will try to focus on the good feelings I will experience when I have my naughty little orgasm while squirming on her lap.
It is silly because I could just pleasure myself at any time without negative consequence but I pretend that I am not allowed and that I am only allowed to have my little fun during my spanking.
My little orgasms are just the ultimate expression of my selfish nature. I don’t deserve that pleasure especially when I’m not giving her pleasure at the same time.
No, if I’m going to make my little squirts, I should have a bright red bottom and tears in my eyes when I do. Rather than being in one of her warm orifices, my penis is smashed between her thighs and my stomach. To stimulate myself, I have to push back toward the spoon, paddle or brush raining fire on my bottom.
In the hours leading up to my spanking, my erection haunts and mocks me. I have to hide it from co-workers, people at the gym (especially in the shower!), on the bus, and even from her. At the same time, I have butterflies in my stomach, stress sweat soiling my shirt, and a nervous stutter and laugh.
I stand in front of the mirror and inspect the naughty boy staring back at me. The body is of a man but the anxious look in his eyes reveals the terrified little boy inside. He isn’t fat but not muscular either. His tummy is full of butterflies and below that, a pink penis rests in repose like a frightened turtle. My testicles are retracted as well and look equally soft, vulnerable and frightened in their scrotum purse.
She will ignore my genitals during my punishment. Her focus will be on my bottom. I turn to inspect my plump bottom, the target of her wrath. It is also pale and only a little pink from the shower. Shortly the almost unblemished skin will be welted and an angry red. Indeed, it will absorb her anger as she transfers her disappointment into my helpless flesh.
I know the die has been cast, the spanking will happen. The butterflies churn in my tummy and I feel myself perspire. I don’t want to feel my bottom sting and burn. I don’t want to kick, whine, and cry. I don’t want to be reduced to a sobbing sorry little boy. In spite of all of that, I know from experience that my adult penis will be naughty even as I am being punished. It will just be like that fateful time when we were caught but so much more painful. I will finally receive the punishment I was due that day.
Actually, I will receive the punishment I was due each time I took a risk. Each unprotected sexual encounter. Each time in a car or park when I could have been caught. The girls that fell for my charm and let me do things. My selfish orgasms when she wasn't in the mood. All of those times when I prematurely orgasmed and didn't satisfy her.
It is all so shameful and embarrassing. She doesn't know some of the things I am most ashamed of even. The lowlight real of my risky sexual experiences plays in my head. To my horror whenever this happens, I find myself becoming aroused.
Looking down, I see my penis emerge, lengthen, thicken, and prepare for a sexual experience. Proof that this spanking is deserving proudly displays itself. In mere moments I will be standing before her with the erect penis of an eager lover. She will briefly inspect my straining member that has disappointed her so many times. Though throbbing in his need for release, his diminutive size would in other circumstances be an almost comical imitation of a man’s genitals. Instead, I will appear as a misguided pubescent boy who misunderstood his babysitter’s kind words as an overture.
My penis knows that relief is in sight even as I receive my due punishment. Skinny organ pressed between soft thighs and softer tummy receiving unintended stimulation even while the wood of the hairbrush cracks loud staccato on my unprotected bottom flesh. The tingles just below the tip a welcome distraction to the penis’ owner.
She knows that my “little distraction” will have to be solved before I fully appreciate my spanking. After a thorough warming, she will slow her pace and force. She acquiesces to allow genitals to fulfill their primary yet misguided function. Permission is not granted; I am merely permitted to shame and soil myself on her lap.
The brief moment of sexual pleasure ends quickly as the momentarily forgotten inferno is reignited. Sensing my ejaculation, she will redouble her efforts.
It will end only minutes later but those minutes will feel like hours. Tears, cries for mercy, promises, kicking, wiggling, clenching, and the sound of the hairbrush doing its good and righteous work. During it all, my proud penis retreats to safety even as my precious wasted spend is smeared into a sticky film across my genitals and stomach.
And then silence except for my weeping. I am allowed mere seconds over her lap before being encouraged off. She will see me in my broken state: soft genitals sticky with my shame, unsteady knees, and a face streaked with tears scrunched from my crying. Fearing more spanking, I begin the work of cleaning her lap.
But first, the walk.
