We Got Our *** Whipped.
Both of my parents spanked me as a child, but they called it "getting my *** beat" or "getting a whipping". I was taken to our enclosed back porch and was made to pull down my pants and panties. I was usually already crying or at least sniffling at this point, and I would usually stand there for a few minutes with my hands holding my *** cheeks, pants still up, sniffling and begging for another chance and promising to be good next time. It never worked. I was always told they knew I would be good because I was going to get my *** beat so hard I wouldn't be able to sit down and that would remind me not to do it again. They would then remind me again that if I didn't get my pants pulled down, they would do if for me and I would get it twice as hard. This usually would speed me up, and I would pull them down, but if I knew I was really in for it already, sometimes I wouldn't be able to force myself to pull them down fast enough, and I really would get it twice as hard and usually for twice as long too.
Mom usually used a ping pong paddle, fly swatter, piece of my brother's Hot Wheel track, or occasionally a belt. She would make me stand with my pants down around my knees and hold onto the side of the washer or dryer while she beat my *** good. She didn't talk while she did it, but after she was done, I would turn around to face her and she would always ask if I was going to do it again, to which I would always shake my head "no" and be allowed to pull up my pants and go back in the house.
With my dad, it was a totally different story. If dad was going to beat your ***, you were scared! Dad would make me pull down your pants and while I was standing there with my pants down, sniffling to beat hell, he would go through the whole speech about how and why whatever I did was wrong. When he was done, he would take me by my hand and proceed to beat my *** raw with his work belt. It was impossible to stand still when dad beat my ***. The result was dad holding my hand with one of his hands and then whipping my *** with his belt in the other while I ran around in circles with my pants down around my ankles and usually my free hand attempting as best I could to protect my bare ***. If my legs would give out or I would trip because my pants were around my ankles, he would pull me up and continue beating my *** without missing a stroke. The whole time, he would be telling me how I better never do it again and how he had told me a million times that whatever I had done was wrong. This seemed like it went on forever and sometimes it really did! I know it was usually 25-50 swats of that inch-wide belt on my bare *** as hard as he could hit it. When he was done, I was made to stand there with my pants down and tell him what I had done wrong and how I would never, ever do it again. By this time, I could barely talk, holding my beet red *** with both hands, and was gasping between sobs, but if he couldn't understand what I said, I would get it some more. If I was lucky, when I was done I would get to pull my pants up and run into the house. If I wasn't and whatever I did had my dad particularly mad, I would be made to stand out there on the porch with my pants still down and my nose in a corner until some time later when he would let one of my sisters tell me to go to bed and stay there. I usually had welts or stripes all over my *** and usually down to my knees where he had missed my *** altogether.
If one of my other siblings happened to be getting whipped at the same time, one of us would go first while the other stood and watched, praying he would change his mind about the punishment before he got to them. It never worked that way and always made the punishment that much worse because someone else was seeing our bare *** get beat until it was red and striped. We would always count how many each of us got and make fun of the one who got the most.