Eroticizing Discipline: Dominance, Submission and Exquisite Pleasure. H. Hargrove

so I could examine them, concentrating most of my attention on a close inspection of their bottoms. But anything that conjured an image of a spanking was like a drug to me. Not yet knowing anything about the actual sex act, what I did know was that whenever I heard, read or saw anything related to a spanking, or just imagined it – I got a fuzzy, warm feeling flowing through my body and a hard penis. By the time I was in my mid-teen years, I was spending hours in the library investigating and reading about corporal punishment and its historical connection to eroticism, particularly in the homes, schools and convents of the British Isles and the U.S. But that day when I was fifteen, entering my third year of high school, and spending the afternoon at Joe McFarland’s house - sealed my fetish for a lifetime.

      Joe and I were classmates and neighbors. I spent many an afternoon at his house, listening to the latest 45’s and searching through his father’s girlie magazine collection – when we thought his mom was a safe distance away.

      Ah, yes, Mrs. McFarland. It was my first experience, but not my last, with a neurotic woman who drinks too much. On top of that - she was a flaming redhead. When the weather was warm, she walked around the house in tiny shorts, which often didn’t quite cover the cheeks of her ass above her long, shapely, freckle-covered legs. If she bent the right way, or got up the right way – I could catch a glimpse of red pubic hair. No panties for Mrs. McFarland. She was a frazzled, frantic woman, often smelled of alcohol, and it seemed as if threatening her children was at least half of what came out of her mouth.

      Joe’s sister Connie was a year younger and about to start her second year at our school. She was maturing quickly, and her breasts and bottom jiggled enticingly enough to make me always want to look. She was also a redhead, but seemed to be growing into a more rounded, voluptuous shape than her mom’s.

      “Do you want me to take you into the bathroom? I’m about to get the belt. Don’t make me tan your behind.” These were all common threats to both Joe and Connie that Mrs. McFarland screamed on a regular basis while I was at their house. I was sent home once because Joe was going to get a whipping, but many of the threats remained only threats.

      I was at their house one afternoon when I heard Connie ordered into the bathroom after some yelling and threats, and I fantasized about it for weeks. I asked Joe for as many details of their punishments as I could without raising suspicion, and replayed over and over Mrs. McFarland’s order, Connie’s protestations, and then the slam of the door. There were other sounds, muffled from Joe’s upstairs room, but there was no doubt Connie was getting a spanking.

      A month or so went by until another afternoon when we were in Joe’s room listening to music and heard his mom start yelling at Connie, then threatening her. I sat up and began listening and Joe shot me a quick smile. What came next was loud enough to be heard very clearly. “I’m going to get the belt, young lady. Get in the bathroom right now…right now!”

      Joe motioned for me to follow him. We crept down the staircase and waited until we heard the door slam, then he darted out the front door and I followed. We reached the back yard and tiptoed, hunched over, to the small window. He motioned for me to look, I slowly lifted my head, and through the open slats of the blinds I saw Connie bent over with her hands on her ankles, her dress up over her waist, and Mrs. McFarland lowering her panties to her knees. She picked up the belt from the counter and began to spank her. I knew I couldn’t afford to look for too long, but lowering my head took a huge effort. The spanking, her bare bottom arched over, the wisp of hair peeking out between her thighs – it set me on fire. For months, almost every day, I fantasized, and masturbated about what I had seen and heard, every moment broken into exquisite detail.

      It was the next spring before Joe and I crept out to the bathroom window again. We were tossing the football in his front yard, the door was open in the warm weather, and I heard Mrs. McFarland yell “I’m getting the belt.” I shot a quick glance at Joe. Again, I followed him around the outside of the house until we reached the window. I motioned for him to straighten up and take a look, then became impatient when he kept looking. As soon as he lowered his head, mine was on the way up.

      The slats of the blind seemed narrower, but I could see. Mrs. McFarland was standing and had Connie bent forward with her arm around her waist. Her shorts and panties were at her ankles, the belt hung from her mom’s hand. I was again staring directly at the beautiful curves of her round, white bottom, and a wisp of hair peeking from between her thighs, as Mr. McFarland raised the belt and brought it down with a slap.

      Mesmerized, my cock rock hard, the fog of arousal washed through me, and I was a split second slow as Ms. McFarland suddenly turned her head back toward the window. I dropped as fast as I could but I had seen her eyes.

      “Damn.”

      “What happened,” Joe whispered.

      “I think she saw me. Your mom.”

      “God we better hope not.” Joe started creeping quickly along the side of the house, staying low, and I followed. When we reached the front yard he grabbed the football and we started tossing it. We didn’t say a word to each other.

      Ten, maybe fifteen minutes went by and then I suddenly heard Mrs. McFarland’s voice. “Get in here…both of you…now!” What I won’t ever forget is what I faced as I turned toward the front door.

      She was standing on the small front stoop, her long slender legs parted and bare half way up her thighs beneath her short, light blue robe, the belt hanging by her side, doubled in her hand.

      She let us pass her through the door, then stepped in behind us and closed it. Her fierce expression forced our eyes to the floor. “Well, I hope you enjoyed watching me punish your sister, because you sure aren’t going to enjoy the whipping I’m about to give you. You’re not going to be able to sit for a week, and that’s before your dad comes home and takes you to the garage with the strap. I’ve already called him. Get upstairs Joe, now.”

      Joe quickly climbed the stairs as she turned her attention to me. “Sit down in that chair and don’t move Wally.” I quickly did as she told me, but couldn’t resist a peek as she neared the top of the stairs in her short robe.

      I heard some serious yelling from Mrs. McFarland, then the slap of the belt. It sounded serious, and it went on for some time, with Joe occasionally crying in protest. I was scared…no doubt…at the thought of what might happen next. But I remember I was also rock hard.

      Joe must have gone into the upstairs bathroom because he didn’t come back down the stairs. “Wally, come up here.”

      When I entered the bedroom she was seated on the edge of the bed, not more than six or seven feet from the door of the small room. Her legs were crossed and the belt was still in her hand, stretched across her lap. “Do you know that peeping in a window is a serious crime? Do you know that people go to jail for that?”

      “Uh…I didn’t know.”

      “Do your parents spank you, Wally?”

      “Uh…sometimes.”

      “Do you want me to call your parents, or take you home, and tell them what you did?”

      “No Mam. Please don’t.”

      “Then we’ll take care of your punishment right now and then we’ll forget it. Is that what you want?”

      “Yes, Mam.”

      “You know you deserve to be punished, don’t you?”

      “Yes, Mam.”

      “Pull your shorts down, Wally.”

      I didn’t hesitate…and pulled my gym shorts down to my knees. “Pull then down to your ankles.” I did as she said, then straightened up and put my hands across the front of my jockey shorts to hide the bulge. “Put your hands by your side.” Again, I did as she said.

      Mrs. McFarland uncrossed her legs and spread them to the width of her shoulders. Her robe hiked up, opened, and I was staring at the red thatch of hair. “Come over here,” she said, in a clear, commanding voice.

      I