I did my Holy Communion when I was 11. Before, we had to go to Sunday School (on Saturday), and to the big Holy Mass at 9.30, where we sat in pews, the boys left and the girls right. That Mass always seemed to take took hours. We were with some 30 young girls together in the church pews. At the best of times, I was a giggling chatterbox without an “Off” switch. That fateful Sunday, I was worse than usual. At a certain moment, we sung something like a Psalm that goes “with the tree of life, loaded on his back”. My neighbour bent over to me and whispered in my ear “That poor sod is severely handicapped. It is supposed to hang between a man’s legs.” (Hormones started to rush in). I hooted with laughter.
There is some commotion, a man comes out of the pews of the central rows. My dad mostly went to the earlier mass, but not today: he was in the same Mass (we didn’t go together, as I had to be earlier with my group). And yes, the man is my father, and he is very red in his face, too. I shut up the same split second. But it is too late. My dad is very catholic.
My dad motions me to come out the pews – these are wooden banks, with a kneeling board. It is not easy to get passed the other girls. And I am not in a hurry. But then my dad leans over the pew, grabs me and lifts me out the pews like a doll. He is a strong man, but that asks all his force, as he has to lean over, and I am not a little girl anymore. First he takes me under his arm, but skirts are really short then and I am flashing my underpants – in church this seems like a very big sin, so I try to keep my skirt down and whisper, “Dad, not like this, my underpants are showing”. He notices this, and takes me on his arm, as if I am a baby. Instinctively, I cling to him, although I feel pretty embarrassed. But I am very much his little girl, at all ages. He takes me out, in the vestibule of the church.
He does not say a word. He has never been a man of many words, and my misdeeds spoke for themselves. He kneels in the vestibule, put me over his knee, and tugs my poor underpants from my bottom. I whisper “Dad, no, not bare, not in the church”. But it is too late, my underpants hang in my knees. My tiny white skirt is already in my middle. It is the last time he will spank me, maybe I should ‘ve enjoyed it more. I was already very much aware I like to be spanked, and particularly by my big strong dad. But then his hand comes down as a thunderclap, resounding through the whole church. I didn’t count the smacks, they were not many, but my dad’s hand was big and very hard. It went left and right, the burning doubled at each smack on the same buttock, I tried to muffle my cries, but the last rows must have heard it.
My bottom in fire, my face as red as my bottom and with teary eyes, my dad walked me back to my place in the pews, and lifted me back in my pews. Happily, he never told my mother. This did happen more often, but rarely with a girl my age. I was terribly ashamed. But also a bit, I don’t know: proud? I did like to be the centre of attention.
Lucia9 Lucia9
61-65, F
1 Response Aug 27, 2014

I remember getting spanked in the breastfeeding room...never out in the vestibule!