She was punished for his own faults, his own demons. Her small childish missteps were blown out of proportion, handled with rage and violence. She never understood why, all she knew was that she was bad. She had to be if she got spanked and then ignored, never forgiven, never told she was a good girl again. If that was what getting spanked really was. It wasn't like she saw in the movies or on tv, it was so much worse. She was the perpetual bad girl, even though she wasn't sure what she'd done. Whatever it was, it had to have been very bad to make him hate her the way he did.
She refused to accept authority after a while, any authority. She only followed the rules out of fear, or because she thought it would make him like her, but it didn't. Nothing got better, only worse. She was always wrong, always bad. She couldn't get away from that feeling, even at such a young age. She was only a little girl, she should have been happy, not always sure that everyone knew that she was bad.
She was broken before she even had a chance to know who she was or what she wanted. Her soul damaged so deeply and so early that she had no choice in what she became. So sad, so lonely, thinking that he was right, that she'd be alone always, no friends, no love. Part of her remained five years old, holding on to the only thing she'd ever really learned, ever knew for sure, that she was a bad girl, that there was no hope of anything else. She became what he wanted her to be.
Learning to Trust
Once upon a time, I was foolish enough to believe that men were evil. It was what I grew up with, too early learned. It was imprinted on my soul like an unwanted tattoo.
Paternal rage, unpredictable hurricanes of torment, ruled my life. Rules were momentary or oppressive, consequences brutal or nonexistent. The belt on bare skin was the chosen form of consequence too often. No forgiveness afterward, just pain. Not erotic, only something to block out if possible, even when I knew that spanking, in a normal sense, made my body tingle.
The idea that men were bad, not to be trusted, remained even in adulthood. It would take so much to prove otherwise. Challengers were very few and far between, and those proved rather than disproved. Marriage solidified the concept. Being single seemed preferable at times.
Then it came to pass that spanking became a real part of life, not just fantasy or something not to be remembered. It was finally something to be reveled in, celebrated. Along with spanking came friends, some male. To trust was essential in this new life, for without it there was nothing. But would the belief be eradicated or vindicated.
I wanted to trust, and in the beginning most likely did so too willingly. Even in the new territory of my sexual liberation, hopes were dashed, twice in quick succession. I pushed on though, not willing to give up so easily when so much was at stake. I needed this new way of life, needed a spanked ass and the emotional release that could come with that.
There came a day when I realized that my beliefs were no longer valid. A well-chosen group of male friends had come along, one at a time, showing me each in their own way that men weren't what I had always thought. One in particular showed me what authority was supposed to be, consistent, safe. I trusted and relaxed finally, no longer having to wonder when the trust would be smashed. I knew that it would always be there. No promises had ever been made that weren't kept.
Spankings, real, non-brutal spankings, were given for misbehavior, along with something I'd never had before. Forgiveness, the knowledge that I wasn't the miserable creature I had once been led to believe I was, that I was worthy of that forgiveness, and I could never do something that would make me unworthy. It healed something deep inside, allowing me to own this thing in me, this need to be spanked, whether for punishment or sex. It was mine, and the brutality of the past couldn't take that away from me. Once upon a time, I was foolish enough to believe that men were evil. I'm glad I was wrong.