Monday, February 17, 2014

The Pastor’s Pointed Finger

© Guyspencer 2014
The Pastor’s Pointed Finger

There was a sudden pause in the sermon, and then Pastor Chronister pointed his finger directly at us.  We looked back in horror!  Every head in the congregation swiveled, following the Pastor’s finger to find the object of his concern.  Us!  He sealed our fate by calling our fathers by name and advising them to “attend to their children”.  Sitting bolt upright in our pews, eyes and mouths wide open, we probably resembled the proverbial “deer in the headlights”.


If you knew me you probably wouldn’t guess, but I was raised in a small fundamentalist church.  The church building seemed huge at the time, but I now realize that it was small by most standards.  The building’s layout was very typical.  You enter the front of the church, walk through a wide hallway, and arrive in the rear of the church’s main sanctuary, which probably seated no more than 250 people.  The rear of the sanctuary was bifurcated by that hallway.   To the left of the hallway was the nursery.  It had a large picture window, which attenuated nursery noises while allowing mothers to watch the service as they tended their children.   To the right was a small overflow seating area that contained perhaps five rows of pews.  That is where Nancy Sue and I sat.

It had been the Wednesday night service, not nearly as formal as the Sunday morning service but equally boring.  Perhaps that informality is why my parents had given me permission to sit by myself in the back of the sanctuary.   It was a small freedom that was new to me.  I had just turned thirteen.

Probably they would have thought twice about giving me that permission had they known that Nancy Sue had also gained similar permission from her parents. 

I had literally grown up with Nancy Sue.  In those days, it was considered very “uncool” of a boy to hang out with girls.  But Nancy Sue had always been considered a tomboy, so that somehow make her OK.  When given the opportunity, we would usually find something to do together.  We even liked to wrestle!  Sitting together that evening, we weren’t guilty of anything so blatant as wrestling.  More likely, we had disappeared down between the pews so we could whisper together unobserved.  It was probably exactly that disappearance that had irritated and concerned Pastor Chronister as he droned through his sermon. 


Grim faced, our fathers stood and made their ways to the central aisle, and then walked purposely towards us.  The congregation’s heads tracked them as they came, taking in every second of this little drama.

Unfortunately, my father was first in line.  I don’t remember him saying a word.  He certainly never asked for my side of the story.  The Pastor had interrupted the sermon on account of us, therefore we were guilty, guilty as sin!    And “sin” was an important concept in this little fundamentalist church.

He simply took me by the hand and led me from the sanctuary.  Behind us, Nancy Sue’s father did the same to her.  In the entry hallway, father made a right hand turn, taking us into the nursery.  Nancy Sue got lucky.  Since I was a boy and she was a girl, we could hardly be spanked together.  So her father took her downstairs to a Sunday school room.  Her correction would be far more private than mine. 

In the nursery we encountered Sister Burtis.  She was standing in the window bouncing her newest child in her arms. 

“Sister Burtis,” my father said politely, “Guy and I have some unpleasant and noisy business to attend to.  Would that bother your little girl?”

“Not a bit,” she answered, “As you know, this young lady has three brothers.  She’s only a few months old, but she has heard many spankings.  Would you prefer that we leave?”

“Goodness no!” Father exclaimed as he arranged a chair and sat down, “You might even be able to give me some pointers.”

“Father still hadn’t discussed this incident with me, nor would he.  The mere fact that the Pastor had found it necessary to interrupt his sermon on my account was prima facie proof to him (and indeed, to the entire congregation) that I deserved to be spanked.

I didn’t dare object when he fumbled at my belt, button, and zipper.  He untied my shoes, made me kick them off, and then whisked down my pants and underpants together.  At that age my penis sported a scraggly mustache of pubic hair.  I really had no idea of the importance of the physical changes I had been noticing, but I knew that I was terribly embarrassed!  Having Sister Burtis as a witness magnified my embarrassment exponentially.  Looking back, I doubt if she even cared to notice my exposure.  After all, the lady had three sons!

As I stood there, exposed from my waist to below my knees, I could easily hear Pastor Chronister because the nursery featured a PA speaker in the ceiling.  He had continued on with his sermon as if nothing had happened.  Unfortunately, I could also see him through that picture window, which meant that he could see me and would see my spanking!  As he talked, he stared straight into my eyes.  For a moment I forgot my father, it was as if the Pastor was talking straight to me!  
Father took my shoulders to firmly guide me to his right thigh.  Then with a slight pull, he laid me across his lap.  My pants-encumbered feet were up in the air; my hands steadied me against the tile floor.

The soundproofing in that nursery was primitive at best.  That picture window was only one layer, and the entrance door normally stayed ajar.  Naturally, I vowed to take my punishment silently, but I totally gave up on that resolution mere seconds into my spanking.

I wasn’t really ready for my spanking to start, but my bottom exploded into impossible pain anyhow.  In no time, I was squalling, squealing, and begging at the top of my voice.  I also was kicking as much as my tethered-together legs would allow.  As my spanking seemed to continue forever, I heard the Pastor doggedly continue speaking, even though the sounds of my spanking were clearly audible throughout the sanctuary.  I still don’t understand how, but even though I was being noisily spanked, I could still every sound that came over that damn speaker! 

The worse moment came just as my spanking was finally winding down.  The Pastor finally paused in his delivery so that the congregation could savor the final sounds of my correction.  Then he spoke, “What you are hearing dear congregation, are the sounds of good Christian parenting!”  The congregation tittered in appreciation of his little joke.

Did I mention that Pastor Chronister was very pro-spanking?  It was a frequent subject in his sermons.

Father allowed me to my feet.  But he did it perhaps a bit too quickly because I was still bawling and clearly not yet in charge of my body.  I tried to dance, but that was a mistake because my pants were still down around my ankles.  So I tripped backwards.  Sister Burtis, who had just laid her baby in the crib, caught me just in time to save me from falling on my livid ass.  I’m glad she caught me, because my bottom didn’t need any more bruises just then.  To my mortification, she held me as she expertly pulled up my pants and fastened them for me.              

She beamed at my father, “You don’t need any spanking advice from me Brother Spencer.  You spank just fine!” 


Still teary-eyed and sniffling, I was made to march up the central aisle and to sit between my parents until the service was over.  Standing was out of the question, but the hard pew inspired new tears.  Moments later, Nancy Sue and her father also returned.  I could only see her out of the corner of my eye, but I saw tears.

Fortunately, the service soon ended.  Naturally I didn’t want to face anyone after that debacle.  As soon as I could manage it, I slipped out a side entrance and waited at the car for my parents to emerge from the church.  Predictably, they scolded me all the way home.  My sister smirked behind their backs and silently rubbed her fingers together in the “shame” gesture.

My sister told me later that everybody had heard my spanking, and that everybody was giving each other significant glances while it was happening.  This was no surprise to me.  I wasn’t the first kid to have been spanked in that nursery, so I knew what it sounded like.

She also told me that she could barely hear Nancy Sue’s spanking happen downstairs, because the sermon mostly drowned it out.  She said it sounded like she got it on her bare bottom.   Knowing Nancy Sue’s father, that came as no surprise.


Something momentous happened that night, but it would be decades before I would understand.

As I lay in my bed and contemplated my disastrous evening.  I found myself thinking differently about Nancy Sue than ever before.  I didn’t totally understand it, but my feelings for her now suddenly went far beyond wrestling and playing catch with her.  (Although wrestling had its compensations)  I felt bad about getting her into trouble, but I also found myself picturing her over her father’s lap.  In particular, I pictured her with her cotton panties hanging on the backs of her knees, and I pictured her sounds and movements as her bare bottom absorbed those spanks.

I pictured myself tenderly comforting her and kissing away her tears after her spanking.

I lay on my back.  I scrunched my bottom to wake up millions of slumbering spanked nerve endings.  The result was something between a sting and a low burn.  My bottom, Nancy Sue’s bottom, and thoughts of our humiliation and exposure churned around in my head.  I followed an almost irresistible impulse to do something a bit scary and secretly shameful.  My right hand snaked under the sheet and easily found its stiff target. 

My breathing became hard.  I kicked and thrashed, alternately imagining that I was being spanked again, and imagining Nancy Sue’s spanking.  Soon the sheets were tangled, and I was sweaty. 

As I lay in the afterglow, two huge concepts clicked together in my head to remain forever seamlessly connected, sex and spanking. 

Do I really need to say it? 

That night I had become a spanko.

© Guyspencer 2014

A Lesson Learned

© Guyspencer 2014

                                                             A Lesson Learned

When you are the oldest boy in a military family and your father is away on a long and dangerous deployment, the pressure to be “the man of the house” will either bring out the best in you or the brat in you.  In my case, the effect seemed to be mixed.  Since my father’s departure, I had gotten along well enough at home, but I seemed to be getting into increasing trouble at school.


I felt the usual butterflies as I handed the referral form to the school secretary.   After a quick glace, she told me what I already knew; I would have to see Dean Majors.  It was the third time this year that Mrs. Sessions had sent me to the Dean for “disruptive behavior”.  That last time the Dean had given me the maximum, six scorching licks from “Thor”, his impressive paddle.  I’m glad we were alone in that office, because Thor made me cry!

I’m really pissed off!  Who wouldn’t be upset, knowing that they are obviously about to feel that paddle again?                         

The secretary motioned me to a seat, carried the form into the Dean’s office, and then ignored me.  The Dean made me wait about 15 miserable minutes before finally bellowing my name. 

I endured his usual speech.  As before, he talked more about how I should be the “man of the house” while Daddy was deployed than about behaving in school.  That’s the problem with going to the same church as the Dean!  Here at school, he was the Dean, the man with the paddle.  But at church he was Mr. James Sessions, a friend of the family who knew everything about me.   Somehow, knowing me seemed to unfairly increase his expectations of me.  Being the school’s Dean, he was in a special position to enforce his “expectations” with Thor.

Anyhow, I was surprised when today’s speech didn’t end as usual.  That is, he didn’t end his speech by telling me to bend over for a date with Thor.  Instead, he filled out a form that sentenced me to two weeks of detention.  He explained; “I gave you the school’s maximum last time and it didn’t do any good, so your mother and I talked and we came up with another plan to try and get through to you.  Your mother has disciplinary powers that a Dean can only dream of having.  So your brothers are staying overnight at my house so you and your mother can have a nice long private session together.”

My butt clenched at that prospect.


After dropping my two brothers off at the Sessions’ house, Mom drove me back home.  She parked in the garage.  As we stepped out of the car, she pointed me to the laundry room.  “Remove your school clothes, drop them in the dirty clothes hamper, and then meet me in the living room.”  I obeyed quickly.  Clad only in my underpants I anxiously padded into the living room to find Mom waiting for me.

Then a bit of a miracle happened.  Somehow Mom found the right words, and got through to me.  What I expected to be a scolding, somehow turned into a two-way conversation, and somehow we both ended up in tears.  When it was over, I somehow felt different and I suddenly knew that I was done being a problem boy at school…so I told her so.  She hugged me for a long time and told me that she was happy.  Finally, with a hand firmly on each shoulder, she looked me in the eyes and said, “You know that I still have to blister your butt right?”  I nodded and squeaked my understanding. 

“You won’t be mad at me?”

“No Mommy” I blubbered, “I earned it and Daddy will expect me to get it.”
“It’s not just Daddy,” she corrected, “You have disregarded several warnings and continued to disrupt your class, you deserve punishment for that.”

“Yes Mommy,” I said, facing my fate squarely.

There was a long silence that Mom finally broke by gently suggesting that I fetch the hairbrush.  After a quick detour to empty my bladder, I visited my parent’s bedroom to get the heirloom hardwood hairbrush that never seemed to actually brush hair.   

Back in the living room, I found mother sitting exactly in the center of the couch.  With butterflies in my stomach, I handed the hairbrush to Mom.  She made a vague motion in the general direction of my underpants; I knew what to do.  This part was almost as bad as the spanking itself!  Red-faced, I lowered my briefs and stepped out of them.  Now naked, I suppressed the impulse to cover my barely-teenaged near-manhood, sensing that this intimate humbling was somehow part of my punishment.   As I waited for the next instruction, I noticed Mom looking appraisingly at me, neither staring at the developments below my bellybutton, nor looking away.  She finally spoke: “You understand that I have to make a good job of this right?” 

I started to croak some type of answer, but she wasn’t done explaining herself.  With a broad smile, she produced a telegram, “Read it”.

As you will surely understand, telegrams aren’t normally welcome when you have a loved one on military deployment, but this telegram was different.  Father had unexpectedly been granted leave.  Daddy would be home in three days!

“I want this to be a ‘done deal’ when your father arrives home because I want our time with him to be perfect.  Still, he’s bound to hear about you getting into trouble.  So he’ll see your newly improved attitude, and if he checks, he’ll find appropriate marks on your bottom.  So let’s get on with it.”

As I put myself across my mother’s lap for what I knew would be a long and painful ride, I had tears in my eyes. 

But the happy tears outnumbered the sad ones.  

© Guyspencer 2014