The Whipping Fantasy

Dimly I remember my mother whipping me once. Being a child who never littered, always looked both ways when crossing the street - was a little prig - must’ve been a very bad boy for her to punish me.

Though maybe age seven or eight I remember it vividly. She took me in the backyard because my father was asleep. I didn’t let out a peep. Worse than being hurt was the fear he would awake and then punish me himself. All I remember of him from early boyhood is fear.

A year or two later he did whip me. The lady who ran the nearby playground complained that I sassed her. (Both my parents had impeccable manners. That disrespect was unforgivable might be the reason that I grew up to be so scrupulously polite that it sometimes embarrassed my friends.)

My father had me drop my pants and bend over the bed. I was never again punished. This whipping had an effect that might’ve driven my father to suicide had he ever known it. Years later, unconsciously at first, as my masochism emerged that whipping was the source of what was long my core fantasy.

It also afforded me insight into fixated on details a fetish can become. And it was this detail that enabled me to trace the origin of the desire back to that final parental punishment.

In my “Perfect Fantasy” sequence I noted how obsessions with particulars once made fantasizing a struggle. In seeking to recapture the whipping the problem was how to have my body in the right position.

No, I didn’t see myself just bending over a bed. Early on bondage, perhaps from watching sword and sandal movies, became essential to my fantasies. How to be bound in the perfect position? I imagined the most complicated arrangements of pulleys, adjustable bas: contraptions that would require quite a bit of engineering skill. Eventually leafing through one of my mother’s trashy novels I saw a mention of someone being trapped to a huge barrel on its side. That worked. For a time.

Of course repeating a fantasy can wear it out (except for those whose erotic imagination freezes and becomes trapped by specificity).

How many times I fantasized about this is beyond guessing: refinements, variations emerged.

I’ve imagined being beaten with just about everything: car antennas, spliced garden hoses, knotted electrical cord. And in just about every position household furniture and dungeon gear might afford. But to that basic fantasy I’d always return.

A bench - never clearly visualized - became the stock item: various sizes, shapes, flat or angled. My thighs and arms bound.

The dreams became more diverse. It might be my introduction to enslavement, a special punishment or it simply happened.

Learning of all the things with which I could be hit some nights it was a virtual symphony of S&M. Or I’d be whipped then left alone. Then whipped again. Repeatedly.

From a pirate movie I learned about vinegar and corporal punishment.

Being hooded or blindfolded seemed a wonderful enhancement. In the opposite direction: a mirror placed before my face.

Gags came and went: was it better to be muffled or hear my crying and begging?

Similarly earplugs: isolation or hear the sadist’s expressions of pleasure.

Thankfully the obsession with minor matters faded. Why not enjoy every permutation?