The other day I saw a blog post describing the effect of bare bottom spankings on older teenage girls.
It read, in part:
“12-14 is the ideal age for a boy to watch a college-age girl receive a spanking, both in terms of the embarrassment it causes her and the educational value it brings him.
“As mentioned before a good dose of humiliation creates a win-win situation. For the girl it increases the unpleasantness of her punishment . . .
“… she starts kicking wildly her legs and when she ends the show with an undignified bouncing around, furiously rubbing her bottom and pushing forward a bushy triangle as a sign of total surrender. . .
“But for a young lady the worst witnesses of her spankings, I am reliably told, are younger boys. Aarrrgh, that smirk on their faces as you are being scolded: what girl wouldn’t want to scratch these off with iron nails? The sniggering as she is doing corner time with panties at half-mast. . .
“… A big girl, who was looking down on the bratty, nerdy, pervy little pests, but, look, who is laughing now?”
Damn! Reading that hit home hard! Did it ever basically describe how I felt being spanked in front of my younger brother (and his friends, which included boys I regularly babysat!) when my stepdad began spanking me at age 16.
Those shameful spankings left me feeling far much more like a little girl in pre-school barely out of diapers with no need for any modesty to be afforded to her (and which wasn’t) than being an often impertinent teenage girl in high school heading into 11th grade with a driver’s license.
One minute I’d be arguing with my stepdad, the next I’d be over his lap with my bottom bared.
Once my spanking began I would soon be reduced to crying and babbling incoherently, which was embarrassing on its own let alone the shame that hit me knowing I was displaying everything as my legs kicked about from the pain.
But the shame was quickly overtaken by the pain as the repeated hard slaps to my bare bottom quickly received my full concentration.
When my spanking was over, whether it be five or ten minutes or how ever many minutes later, I couldn’t help but stand there – bottomless – as I hopped about on my feet rubbing my sore bottom, not even trying to cover myself.
If all my clothes were removed (as often was the case), I would effectively be reduced to a crying, naked, jiggling spectacle – on full display for whoever happened to be present at the time.
Just like a pre-school girl barely out of diapers, modesty was not a consideration for me. And the worst thing about that? My own worries about my modesty would take a back seat to the spanking itself, too, because I essentially WAS FEELING like a pre-school girl barely out of diapers as boys years younger than me laughed and giggled and snickered and made me feel quite inferior in age to them. This would be especially humbling and humiliating when boys who were friends of my younger brother and/or whom I routinely babysat were present to witness my punishment.
Any corner time given to me with my red bare bottom – and almost always everything else, too – on display only solidified my degradation and shame.