The Waiting

I would get home from school some time around three o'clock. My stepfather didn't get home from work until around six. If I brought home a note from school, or if some misdeed of mine came to my mother's attention, that meant having to wait at least three hours for the spanking I knew I was going to get. Mother would send me to my room, and I was supposed to wait in there for my stepfather to get home and "tend" to me. I hated my room during those three hour periods more than any other place I've ever known in my life. I've seen movies in which prisoners were kept in solitary confinement, and their predicament is probably a close approximation of how I felt. Trapped. No escape. Doomed. Children experience time differently from adults, and three hours in solitary confinement, knowing that at the end of it all you have to look forward to is a bare sore rear end is like torture.

Looking back, my memories of the time spent waiting have an almost unreal quality to them. I was expected to do my homework. If mother came in and I hadn't finished my homework, I knew it would be worse for me later. But how can you concentrate on your homework when you know you are about to get a spanking, and the time for it is getting closer and closer? I spent a lot of time staring at the textbooks or the writing tablets, not seeing what was in front of me, and trying hard not to think about what was ahead of me. All I could really think about was my bottom, and what was going to be done to it. And of course, I felt very very sorry for myself. No matter how richly I deserved the punishment I was about to receive, I always felt like a victim, like one of the abused children in a Dickens novel. That was me. Little Oliver Twist, waiting for three hours to get his little bottom spanked.

After I finished my homework, or pretended to, I couldn't watch television, since I didn't have one in my room, which I was forbidden to leave. I tried to read, but found it impossible to concentrate. All I could think about was how bad it was going to be, how much it was going to hurt, and how sore my bottom would be afterwards. No matter what book I was attempting to read, I kept seeing the same awful words printed on the page. "Spanking." "Whipping." "Licking." "I'm sorry!" Most of the time I ended up lying on my bed staring at the ceiling and trying to keep my mind a perfect blank. Waiting for the inevitable, while the seconds passed like hours. I know that's a cliche, but in this case it is not an exaggeration.

When, finally, I heard my stepfather's car come into the driveway, it was almost a relief. Despite the dread of what was to come, I was almost desperate by that time to get his show on the road, to get myself spanked so that I could cry myself to sleep and get on with my life. Because everything comes to a total stand still when you know you are about to get a spanking. It is like being in suspended animation. And if I could have been given one wish as a kid, it would have been for my stepfather to change jobs so that he would get home sooner. Because waiting for three hours to get your bottom blistered is sheer hell.
newman1833 newman1833
51-55, M
5 Responses Nov 28, 2012

I feel for you I think the wait can be worse than the spanking at times!

A very well written memoir! Descriptive, articulate, with excellent use of metaphors.
Ms. Drew

I felt like i was right there with you as i read your well-written account. Thank you for sharing.

Thanks very much.

I never had to wait both parents spanked us and if I wasn't with them I'd be with my grandparents my aunts or uncles my older brother although he barely ever spanked me or my sister so they would do the honours right there at that moment no matter who was there especially when I was young because my parents said that when your a little kid and you do something bad then if you had to wait to be punished you probably would have forgotten what you did wrong and still do if again so I guess I was lucky

I never really had to wait for a spanking of any kind. I was always dealt with "on the spot" so to speak. Since those days I've always appreciated spontaneous justice.
Although these days there is not enough of it.
Your story was well written. A clear insight into your "suffering".