Spanking Cousins

by Crimson Kid

[A memoir by Miriam Michelle Palace—June 2010] (2,500 words)
(All rights reserved.)

The summer of 1975 was when my first cousin Paul Royalton became my “spanking cousin”—yes, that’s a variation on “kissing cousin”—but our fanny-tanning action was all one-way. I’ve always known which side of a hard-whacking, punitive paddle I was intended by Mother Nature to be on, namely the side that leaves my beautiful bottom clothed, cool and comfortable, not to mention pristinely snow white. A couple quick slaps on the seat of my panties when I was a toddler, that’s all the bottom-warming I’ve ever experienced; I’ve never been truly spanked in my life, although blistering the bare behinds of others, especially those of the masculine persuasion, has always held a compelling fascination for me.

Conversely, my slightly older (eight months) cousin Paul has a posterior that was designed by the Sacred Feminine to absorb an exceptional amount of rump-smacking corporal correction from females without suffering any permanent damage; his nicely-rounded rump always looks its best when glowing with a deep maroon coloration or crisscrossed with fiery-hot, stinging stripes—or optimally both together. Although he always carries on quite childishly while being corporally chastised on his naked buttcheeks, it’s clear that Paul has a deep-seated (pun intended) emotional need for strict and frequent bare-bottomed ‘whuppings’ administered by his loving womenfolk.

So why did it take until he was nineteen years old before Paul finally acknowledged the roles that Fate had predestined for the two of us? In my view, it was because he can be rather stubborn and has the classic male ego with its inherent superiority complex—he simply didn’t want to admit, even to himself, that in our relationship I belonged on the swinging side of a paddle while he belonged on the stinging side of it. I had to somehow engineer circumstances under which my darling cousin would receive regular pants-down corporal correction at my hands over a period of time; after experiencing that, I believed, he would ultimately concede that such a relationship was ideal for both of us—he’s never lacked honesty and integrity, after all.

It was an incident that occurred in July of ’73 which convinced me that Paul would voluntarily accept being disciplined by a woman under the correct conditions. My younger girlfriend Brittany (Brittie) and I were visiting Marcella (Marcie) Valentine, a late-twentyish divorcee who’d been a babysitter for us, and for Paul as well, in our younger days; we called him over to the porch as he walked by carrying his tennis racket. We were all chatting, Brittie flirting with my cousin and him responding shyly, then he blurted out a flippant comment about single motherhood that Marcie was offended by. She grasped his left wrist and dragged him inside her house, although being six feet tall and solidly built he could have resisted her.

Marcie’s daughter, six-year-old Rapunzel (Rappie), was in the living room; her mother told the girl to retrieve the “big paddle” for her and then go to her room upstairs. Rappie obeyed, at least momentarily, handing Marcie a thick, oval-shaped Jokari paddle with a rubber-coated handle—but she scooted back downstairs to observe from the landing once Paul’s spanking was underway. Brittie and I, by then also in the living room, were just as fascinated as Rappie, especially when Marcie yanked my cousin’s gym-type shorts downward to his knees—that left his boyish buttcheeks naked, neatly framed by the white bands of his athletic supporter.

That was hardly the first time that she’d exposed his posterior for punitive purposes, but all the other times she’d been exercising formal disciplinary authority as his babysitter. Paul was a couple years too old to require babysitting, but he seemingly wasn’t mature enough to resist her iron determination to paddle his bare buns; Brittie and I certainly weren’t grownup enough to avoid giggling at the confounded, helpless expression on his flushed face as Marcie firmly pulled him across her bluejean-clad womanly thighs. As his ex-babysitter raised her left hand, tightly gripping that sturdy oaken implement while her right forearm encircled his waist, his disciplinary fate was unmistakable.

“Girls, no mention of this to anyone,” Marcie told us pointedly, “Your absolute secrecy is the price of admission.”

Then she administered an extremely emphatic fanny-tanning with her Jokari paddle, whacking away at Paul’s poor unprotected posterior with great gusto for a solid dozen minutes; her feelings were clearly hurt so she sensibly dealt with that issue by making her victim’s bare bottom hurt a whole lot more. Although almost seventeen years old, he quickly was squirming and squealing over Marcie’s knee as those resounding paddleswats steadily smacked against the sensitive ‘sit spots’ at the base of his rapidly-reddening nether moons; he was shamelessly sobbing before the five-minute mark of his corporal correction, but his disciplinarian granted no mercy as she reduced him to the hapless state of a wailing kindergartener with that butt-blistering paddle.

That seat-scorching comeuppance demonstrated that, under certain circumstances, Paul would accept being spanked by a woman lacking “official” authority to do so. Two years later, I was determined to be one of those women in his life by the end of summer vacation. (I had seriously walloped his naked nates in the past, but only as part of overall disciplinary sessions under Marcie’s babysitting authority.) It was the hand of Fate, I believed, that Marcie, Brittie, Paul and myself had all acquired summertime employment as support staff at a Christian retreat center called Camp Gabrielle .

My cousin’s oversized male ego played into my plans, allowing Brittie and me to draw him into the wager that he wouldn’t be spanked by Marcie that summer—he’d insisted he was “too grownup” to be disciplined by her. It took him only two days to lose that bet, bare-bottom-up over his former babysitter’s knee, his forfeit being that both Brittie and myself could wallop his exposed posterior as often, as long and as hard as we wished to, with his complete cooperation. (Although he’d never admit it, I’m totally convinced that Paul agreed to that wager feeling that he’d lose—an outcome which he deeply desired.)

We had figured that those pants-down paddlings would be basically playful albeit quite energetic in application, but the first one ironically turned out to be serious punishment. The day after Brittie and I had won the bet, our dear boy borrowed my car without asking permission because he’d inadvertently left his wallet in town; he claimed that it was an emergency and “there was no time to ask,” but I refused to accept that rationalization—and I clearly didn’t have to either.

That evening Paul visited our cabin and found himself across my loving lap, sweatpants around his ankles with his black jockstrap bands framing my target area, while I vigorously smacked a large stirring spatula’s rectangular rubber head against his quivering, naked buttocks as Brittie watched appreciatively. The warmup spanking lasted for over six minutes, leaving my red-bottomed cousin wriggling, kicking and sobbing.

The main event found him bent over two back-to-back kitchen-style chairs on all fours, a position that pushed his exposed posterior backward in my direction. Taking a stance to his left, I proceeded to plaster his vulnerable buttock rounds with Marcie’s heavy Jokari paddle and I really swung at them with plenty of force—I wanted to make him bawl like a baby, which is exactly what happened as his teardrops flowed freely down his face. Since he’d had thirty-six dollars in the wallet he’d reclaimed, I administered four sets of three dozen paddleswats each, giving him a thirty-second rest between them.

Although Brittie hadn’t been victimized herself, she insisted on having Paul bend over the sofa’s back for a sound strapping via her doubled-up leather belt—she delivered seventy-two blistering-hard licks across his upthrust exposed asscheeks, reducing him to the state of a blubbering toddler while leaving her grinning with smug satisfaction.

As my sniffling, scarlet-bottomed cousin kissed both of our implement-gripping hands and humbly thanked us for disciplining him so effectively, I realized that starting out our summer of spanking with a truly punitive paddling had been providential. For the first time ever, I’d acted as his primary disciplinarian.

That turned out to be one of three serious ass-thrashing punishments that Paul received from me during our time at camp, he was later disciplined for profanely insulting me and for deeply hurting Brittie’s feelings. The rest of his bare-bottomed chastisements were playful but nonetheless hurt his hiney exceedingly; Brittie and I greatly enjoyed administering several every week.

Right before we left for our respective colleges, Paul kissed my cheek and asked me to spank him soundly with the Spencer paddle he’d been given (and promptly walloped with) by Brittie and myself on his birthday.

“Only if you’re permanently and totally accepting my authority as your spanking cousin,” I informed him, grasping the multi-holed instrument of corporal correction. “If so, get your fanny ready for a sizzling-hot, red-assed shellacking.”

Momentarily, his upturned naked buttocks were trembling with anticipation…

{The End}