A Primer on Stealing Your Child’s Innocence as a Fundamentalist
I was a cradle fundamentalist, meaning that I was born into the cult and therefore came by it honestly. Of course, being in a fundamentalist cult meant following certain rules if I wanted to be right with God. It meant that I was to suppress my sexuality and not have sex before being in a heterosexual marriage, it meant that as a young woman I was to be careful what I wore, lest I tempted the young men to rape me. It meant hiding the fact that I was not into boys at all, but was sexually attracted to girls. In marriage it meant that if my husband cheated on me, it was my fault because I was obviously not giving him enough sex. Everything that a man did could be blamed on a woman somehow.
“Spankings” were part of growing up, as I think they were for most kids of my generation. I suppose that I was more kinky and perverted than your regular kid, though, because those spankings were far more than a punishment for me. They elicited a sexual response right from the very start. In fact, I do not remember a time when they did not feel sexual, and when I did not feel shame far deeper than the shame of being punished. I often wonder what happened to me when I was too little to understand it, because I would also role-play sexual scenarios and pleasure myself to them at age six. I remember playing out the scenarios in my mind, and hiding under my bed as a small child to release the sexual tension. Violence was always a part of my scenarios. I daydreamed of rape and of being held as a sex slave. Those repressed memories of what caused that shit still bother me today.
Apparently, my room was messier than was acceptable. My parents had a green bamboo cane, because the green sticks of bamboo hurt more than the brown ones, because they were new and strong. They stung like motherfuckers.
“Go wait for me in my room.” Those were the dreaded words that came out of my father’s mouth. I went to my parent’s room, and sat down on the bed, tears already coming to my eyes because I knew what was next. It seemed like an eternity before my father appeared, carrying that bamboo cane.
“Lay on my lap.” My dad commanded, which was the usual command. I, not liking to be spanked, but also liking the feeling it gave me, hesitated, but not for long because that would earn more swats, and, resigned to my fate, I laid across his lap. My chin was quivering and I didn’t think the punishment was fair. He pulled down my shorts, and then pulled down my underpants.
“You need a sore bottom so that you remember to clean your room.” My dad said. “Don’t you agree?” Of course, there was only one acceptable answer.
“Yes,” I barely whispered, scared.
Whack! The tears welled up in my eyes as the cane put a thin red mark across my butt. The sting was incredible, and he knew just where to place each strike.
I put my hands across my bottom, trying to shield myself from the next one. Whack! It landed right across the backs of my hands. That stung greatly, and I almost burst trying not to shout about how much it hurt because that was not ok. I was allowed to cry, but that was it. No shouting ouch or anything to that effect. That would earn me more swats, because it meant I was just being rebellious.
“If you’re going to put your hands there, I’m going to smack them,” he said. “But it will just get you more across your bottom when you move them.” My hands felt like lead, but I managed to move them out of the way.
“Are you starting to get the message yet?” My dad asked.
“Yes,” I said through my tears.
“I don’t think so.” My dad said. “I’m going to smack you till you’re black and blue.” I tried to move a little, hoping to lessen the blow. He moved me right back. Whack! whack! whack! “Don’t you dare move while I’m smacking you!” I broke down, shaking and crying, resigned at this point to my fate. He was going to continue smacking me, for a long time, and there was no escape. I was helpless. During this helplessness, the sexual tension built.
The blows continued, and I sobbed more with every strike of that damn bamboo cane. When he was finally done, he had more commands.
“Now, come and give me a hug.” He said. Refusing to hug him, even after a spanking, would mean going across his knee again and starting the spanking over. I knew that from previous experience. So, I hugged him. I didn’t want to hug him, I thought he was a fucking monster. “I hope that hurt.” He said. I nodded. “Good. I always like to make it hurt as much as possible, so you’ll get the message. I love you.”
“I love you too,” I said, because not doing so would be rather risky at this point.
“You’re bleeding.” He said. “Lay on the bed with your bottom up and leave your clothes where they are at.” He left the bedroom and came back a few minutes later with some kind of cream or salve and proceeded to rub it into my already bruised and bleeding butt. It hurt like hell.
“Now, go in there, and clean you room, and do it properly, or we’ll come back in here for more.” He said. There was no way in hell I was risking that. My ass was already bloody and bruised. “And wipe those tears from your face and quit sulking about it, or I’ll smack you again.”
Other times would be similar.
“What did you do?” My dad asked.
“I lied.” I said.
“And what do you deserve?” He asked.
“A spanking.” I said.
“Good, go get the jug cord.” He said. (This was their latest torture device, the cord that connected the electrical kettle, or “jug” to the wall). My stomach was cramped up in the anticipation, and all I wanted to do was double over and throw up. I got the jug cord from the kitchen and brought it to him. “Better go pee.” My dad said, because he’d gotten tired of us being so scared of the spanking that we pissed ourselves on him during the spanking.
So, I went to the toilet and used it, although I was so scared and nothing came out.
“Lay down on the bed.” This was his command now as the last time he’d used the jug cord with one of us across his lap, he’d accidentally hit himself with it. I wanted to puke. I couldn’t bring myself to lay on the bed. He swung that cord and brought it across my bare legs. I howled in pain. “I said lay down on the bed!” He shouted. “You’re just making it worse for yourself.” As much as I knew there were many extra swats for not laying down immediately, I just couldn’t. He shoved me roughly onto the bed and held me down with one hand while pulling my skirt up to expose my underpants with the other.
“These give you too much protection.” He said, removing his hand from my back and pulling down my underwear. I didn’t see how simple, thin cotton undies could possibly provide much protection against the jug cord. “It needs to hurt as much as possible so that you learn not to lie.” He said.
The bamboo cane seemed like child’s play when it came to being hit with the jug cord. It made a horrible “whoosh” noise as it was brought down onto its victim’s bottom and legs. He had long ago figured out the “sweet spot” right where the butt meets the top of the legs.
“I’ll make sure you don’t sit down for a week!” He hollered. He doubled the jug cord over, which just made it deal out double the sting. “Lying gets you a black and blue bottom.” He said. I really needed to throw up.
The first strike came down, very quickly followed by more and more strikes. I couldn’t help it. I moved all over that bed, trying to escape the wrath of the jug cord in the hands of an angry man. I sobbed deeply, like I was broken, and I still needed to throw up. He always said that we were never truly sorry until we started those deep, incoherent sobs. Again, although I was crying in pain and I felt helpless, I also felt tension that needed to be released. That was the most shameful thing about this whole ordeal, and I had no clue why I felt the way that I did.
“Give me a hug.” He demanded, as usual, when he was finally done. I hugged him, although everything in me wanted to run. “Now, go look at your bottom in the mirror. I want you to see where lying gets you.” I went to the bathroom, to do as I was told and looked at my butt in the mirror. There were welts and bruises all over my butt and legs. When I emerged, I still wanted to throw up. “Stop crying about it or I’ll give you something else to cry about.” He said. I fled to my room, shut the door, and hid under my bed, to release the tension and wallow in shame.
The whole thing seemed so fucking sadistic. Although I hated the spankings, they always gave me a release that I never could figure out until I was nineteen and came across BDSM spanking stories on the internet.
I started working at a small Australian bush themed café in the food court of the mall. This café sold traditional Australian food such as meat pies and things of that nature. I mostly worked out the front on the register and serving people their food over the counter. Catherine was one of the young girls I worked with, who was my age and always seemed to have boyfriend issues. She invited herself over to my apartment, and I agreed to let her come. She was a rather cheeky girl with a captivating grin and long blonde hair that was always in a ponytail. When we got to my apartment, she went straight to my computer.
“Do you like porn?” Catherine asked, smirking, already dialing in to my internet. Those were the days of dial-up internet. Broadband internet was for businesses and rich people. With dial-up, it kicked me off every four hours and I had to dial back in, which could be annoying when I was in the middle of something. I had never really looked at porn but didn’t want to admit that to Catherine. She went to some sites, and I was hooked.
“I’ll give you a quick introduction.” She said. “Obviously you’re not familiar with porn.”
“Ok,” I said, afraid that my mortal soul was at stake but too curious to say no.
“This is lesbian porn.” Catherine said, as the images showed up on my screen. Although I thought I would be disgusted, I was not. I was kind of fascinated. She showed me a few different pieces of lesbian porn, and then moved on. “This is BDSM, this is my favorite.” Catherine said. She pulled up some of the tamer pictures, pictures of women being spanked. I was completely and utterly taken by the pictures, and suddenly I wanted Catherine to spank me, but was too afraid to ask.
“It’s not just pictures,” Catherine said. “There’s also stories and videos. I figured you could use an education because you’re all uptight. I can’t believe you’ve never looked at porn before.”
“I never said I haven’t looked at porn before.” I defended myself.
“You didn’t have to.” Catherine responded. “It’s all in your face. You like it, you know you do. Everyone likes porn. My boyfriend and I use it together all the time.”
After Catherine finally went home, I went and searched for spanking stories, and a whole new world opened up to me. I saw the pictures, and read the stories, and began to feel the same ways I did when I was spanked as a child. I finally realized I’d had a sexual response to being spanked.
“I have decided, to follow Jesus, I have decided, to follow Jesus, I have decided, to follow Jesus, no turning back, no turning back.” I sung, two days later, at my fundamentalist church wearing my long skirt and frumpy blouse. While I was singing, those pornographic images were playing through my head, like a huge movie screen. Bud got up to preach, but I barely noticed because I had retreated into the pictures in my head. Ironically, he was preaching about pornography, and as his words began to mesh with the images in my brain, I felt a deep shame.
You’re a perverted freak. I told myself. The pictures and stories continued to play through my mind uninvited. I went through all the motions, heading off to Hungry Jack’s with the usual Sunday night crew after church, but I couldn’t wait to get home. I wanted to read and watch more BDSM porn. The world of pornography was alluring, and I returned time and time again to its clutches.