Transformed by Nature

My mother, June, sisters Isobel (19), Ann (19), Morag (18), and I (Bill, 18) lived in a large house on the outskirts of a traditional small town. We were a typical happy family, but compared to today's more worldly-wise teenagers, we were naïve late bloomers. In those days, kids were taught little, if anything, about themselves or the world in general, except for the absolute need for unquestioning obedience to elders. Curiosity and free thinking were actively discouraged, and any hint of free will was brutally beaten out of kids. After all, allowing kids to develop, think and understand was the road to ruin; they might run amok and, horror of horrors, challenge the status quo and privileges of the upper classes. So, even at eighteen plus, youngsters were still quite green behind the ears and subject to strict corporal punishment at home and college.

My sisters and I generally behaved well. Still, we tended to be irreverent, and Mum had a strict no-tolerance approach to this ill-discipline. So, it was not unusual for each of our bottoms to be lit up at least once a week by her venomous implement of disciplinary choice, a large, heavy hairbrush. Mum spanked us individually in the privacy of her bedroom and always made painfully sure we had no doubts about the severe error in our ways. I always asked to go first if a sister or sisters were also in line to be punished. Since Mum's anger was at its peak, I got the worst thrashing, but at least it was over quickly, and I did not have to endure the nerve-jangling shrieks of my sister/s as I waited outside Mum's door for my turn. Also, I knew that if Mum gave her all to my rear, she would be less severe on my sisters, which was good. In hindsight, Mum probably acceded to my wishes for similar reasons.

I was angry with Mum whenever she set my bottom alight. Still, in time, I understood and appreciated her immediate short, sharp, shocked approach to inappropriate behaviour. This harsh tutelage did not turn me into a saint, but it instilled a strong comprehension of right from wrong, tempering my actions in later life. Whether at work or play, any time I was tempted to stray from the straight and narrow, vivid flashbacks of Mum's hairbrush scorching my bum would bring me back to my senses at once and keep me on the proper path.

My sisters and I co-existed quite peaceably most of the time. So, punishments were meted out primarily for significant personal errors or minor squabbles amongst individuals. However, this was not the case over a few days every month. I was the only one punished during this particular time when we had a massive row. My sisters got off scot-free, and Mum transferred all her angst onto my rear.

Mum did this special punishment in a very ritualised way. My bottom was given four thrashings in succession, each pre-empted by a loud call for one of us to kneel over her bed: Isobel, Ann, Morag, and finally me. My bum was on fire, and I was a howling wreck when Bill got the coup de gras. Unsurprisingly, following these harsh spankings in quick succession, my bottom was awash with pain, and I could not sit comfortably for days. Understandably, I became very resentful of my sisters when my bum endured this extreme pain month after month, but they went unscathed. Only when Ann explained the vagaries of Mother Nature's monthly curse did I understand why Mum indulged in their bad behaviour. Indeed, when I considered the actual suffering my sisters and my Mum endured over that time of the month, I realised that my proxy period pains were far less debilitating and grew to admire Mum and the girls for their resilience; after all, they coped with the curse in the sure knowledge it would return in another four weeks.

I genuinely believed that my monthly proxy agonies occurred by chance until Ann, in a moment of frankness, told me the truth; if my sisters and I had not spontaneously clashed before the late stages of their menses, they would gang together and set me up for the inevitable thrashing from Mum. You may wonder why on earth they did this. Well, it was all a matter of self-protection. Mum was usually very irritable about the same time of the month as them, probably for the same reason, but miraculously became a different, very tranquil person once she transferred all her burning anger into my rear. Moreover, this calmness would usually persist for at least a week or more afterwards. During that time, my sisters could get up to mischief without fear of the hairbrush treatment. I was fit to explode when Ann first told me of their ploy. But then caring brotherly instincts took over, and I quickly understood and accepted their ruse; I realised that by taking it on the bottom, so to speak, I was saving my sisters from many encounters with Mum's fiery hairbrush. That was a sufficient reward for me. Moreover, I was proud of the little minxes for having the smarts to work that tactic out.

Puritanical firebrands, who often disobeyed their own teachings, still held great sway at that time. So regular exposure to harsh discipline was considered necessary for properly upbringing youngsters and adolescents. Woe betides any parents who spared the rod. They were openly denounced and humiliated for dereliction of their responsibilities by the many sanctimonious moralisers around them. Indeed, far from supporting widows like Mum, they bullied them over any hint they were being overly lenient. So, Mum had no choice but to be very strict with us and let the world know it; she always opened her bedroom window before giving us a thrashing for this very reason. Since spankings are very noisy and vocal, this simple move ensured every neighbour knew when our bottoms were on the receiving end and how often. In hindsight, I now realise that the reverse also applied. The distinctive howls and screams from friends in nearby houses receiving corrective punishment clearly indicate to the great and good that their parents were properly doing their duty.

The need to demonstrate the thoroughness of her parenting skills to the outside world explained Mum's ritualised period spanking of me. To eliminate any perception that she was being lenient on the girls, Mum had to present an over-the-top show that four bottoms were being thrashed instead of only one. My rear quivered, and I scowled when I realised that chicanery must have been music to the ears of nearby nosy parkers.

Mum had no choice but to adhere to the archaic rules about disciple. So, any anger I had for her was transient. But to this day, I still deeply resent the sad sook-ups who eagerly took it upon themselves to clype about parents to the Puritan overseers. I do not know how they could live with themselves, but somehow, they did.

These saddos were probably in ecstasy while listening one day as I got to the thrashing of all thrashings day from Mum. This agonising event was my fault and one of the few times Mum surged through the red mist to completely lose the plot with me. It occurred a few months after my eighteenth birthday. During that time, I became an argumentative know-it-all teenage yob that regularly butted heads with Mum. I should have noticed her increasingly vocal warnings that enough was enough, but I was too full of myself to do so. Therefore, I was utterly taken aback when she erupted like a volcano.

Clearly, in no mood for any further nonsense, Mum grabbed my arm, dragged me into my bedroom, closed and locked the door, and partly opened a window.

"Right young man, you were well warned. Now for a corrective lesson you will always remember. Kneel over the bed."

Only too aware of how angry she was, I quickly obeyed and got into position. As I settled, Mum unbuckled my belt and pulled my trousers down my knees. No surprises there, but then I gasped in shock when I added a new twist. She took down my underpants for the first time, exposing my bottom.

Now realising my peril, I tried to beg for mercy, surely manna for the ears of eager neighbours.

"Please, Mum, not on the bare. I promise to behave."

"You have made those promises before, and now you are about to discover the cost of not keeping them."

Any sense of bravado evaporated when I saw that Mum had one of my gym shoes instead of her usual hairbrush in her hand. I shivered in fear because I knew schoolboy tales described them as the ultimate in bum-scorchers. Unlike most implements that cause a steady build-up of pain in the bottom, the thick-soled plimsol delivers excruciating, eye-watering agony from the initial hit to the last.

I realised these lurid stories were confirmed when the gym shoe found its target. I screamed as each of six similarly excruciating strikes set my bottom alight. The acute pain in my backside stabilised, and my respiration rate slowed when Mum stopped for about one minute. However, both went through the roof again when six more eye-watering strokes were unleashed onto my rear. Indeed, just as during my period proxy punishments, my bum endured four thrashings, each separated by about a minute. Unlike the former, separating my spankings was not for show; the three interludes allowed Mum sufficient recovery time to ensure every strike was applied with all the power she could muster. The last was as agonising as the first. Mum certainly achieved her aim of giving me a lesson I would never forget. Ultimately, I wailed, sobbed, and cried uncontrollably as my whole posterior blazed like a furnace. Undoubtedly, many nearby residents would have heard and savoured my agonising downfall.

As I peered through my tear-soaked eyes, I saw Mum had undergone a remarkable transformation. She was now unperturbed and at peace, having transferred all her anger into my rear, as my sisters previously indicated.

"Relax, Bill, your punishment is now over. You can go to bed to rest. Take off your clothes while I find your PJs and some ointment to soothe your tushie."

As I struggled to push myself off the bed, I suddenly realised my penis was distressed. While my mind had been entirely focused on the acute pains surging through my bum, my cock had, of its own accord, come to life, and the tip was now desperately prodding the side of my bed, trying to get a way out. With one good shove, I got up from the side of the bed and sighed with great relief as my cock sprung free and quickly stood to attention. This respite was to be short-lived as moments later, the whole shaft began to tremble and twitch. Then, just as Mum turned around, it began to spasm like mad and shoot its load. To add to my horror, the now rampant dong would not relent. It continued to convulse and pump out a seemingly never-ending stream of spunk under Mum's eagle-eyed gaze.

I went bright crimson and tried to apologise, but my usually staid and priggish Mum had none of it. Instead of being mortified and upset as I expected, she smiled broadly and chuckled happily.

"Oh my, Bill, it is a long time since I encountered a cock so eagerly doing its thing. A most imposing display. I did not realise you were already so manly, so to speak."

If possible, I went an even deeper red. "I am sorry. I do not understand why my todger erupted like that."

"Shush, there is no need for a fuss. It is quite normal for boys to get an erection and climax during or after a harsh spanking. Just revel in the waves of pleasure surging from your cock. It will help mask the pain in your bum."

Mum was, of course, correct. Once my mind wandered away from the pain in my ass, I was quickly consumed by a deep sense of well-being. Although I had repeatedly climaxed at my hand, this was something special; the earth moved big time for me. Even as I savoured the joyous experience, I could hardly believe a severe thrashing could have such a fantastic add-on. Unbelievably, in a passing thought, I even looked forward to it happening again.

Once my eruptions finished, Mum cleaned up the mess. Then, she got me to lay face-down on my bed and began applying a soothing cream to my burning bum; the cooling effects of the ointment were sheer bliss. As I lay there, to my utter surprise, Mum chatted about the birds and bees for the first time. Her wise words dealt only with the very basics, but they were a revelation in that they straightaway debunked most schoolyard gossip; until then, my only source of information on sexual matters, dominance and overpowering of females was the main gist of these lurid tales, certainly no mention of love, partnership, or consent. I immediately felt more in tune with Mum's guidance on boy-girl interactions.

Mum finally ended her educating session, kissed me on the cheek and said, "Goodnight," as she left the room and shut the door. I lay on my bed and mulled over what had just happened, not about my thrashing, which had been unforgettable in so many ways, but the fact Mum had now talked openly and frankly to me about boy/girl stuff. Most people of today find it hard to believe that adolescents were ignorant of sex and sensuality even well into adulthood and often knew next to nothing about the realities when they married. But the deep fear amongst adults was that adolescents would run amok and engage in wild debauchery if we knew about these things. Yeah, stupid, I know, and more to do with adult moral doubts and insecurities than the risks of us going wild. Indeed, present evidence shows that this approach made things worse. For even the most curious, horny teenage boys and girls offer great restraint or use protection, which was available even back then once they knew of the realities and consequences of sex. Indeed, the phenomenon of teenage girls who please their boyfriends but have no idea why they have become pregnant has, thankfully, to all intents, gone. I wondered how far Mum would take her new candour; after all, it was contrary to the wishes of the self-appointed decency wardens. However, I could only hope she did, for pure playground rubbish no longer blinded my thoughts.

The neighbours were not the only ones to hear my demise. My sisters had gathered in Morag's room next to mine and listened intently throughout the first and second acts. As I rested on my bed, I then heard them chattering excitedly. At the same time, they tried to figure out what an erection and climax might be or what Mum had been telling me in her quietest voice. Oh, those sweet and innocent times. However, I also knew they would soon press me to tell all. Believe me, three sisters on a combined mission are impossible to resist.

My sisters did indeed corner me in my room the following day, and I 'voluntarily' recounted the previous day's events as delicately and modestly as possible. To my astonishment, they listened intently and without a snigger. In the end, Isobel revealed that there were times that she enjoyed intensely pleasurable feelings in her front bottom when her rear end was still consumed by the pain of a hairbrush-thrashing from Mum. Ann and Morag confirmed similar experiences. For a moment, we looked at each other in silence, fully aware of the significance of this observation. We were raised to believe girls and boys were in no way alike. Still, we found we had similar satisfying secondary responses to the same punitive trauma. So, the question was, what else had we in common.

Until then, I had generally been content doing boys' stuff while having little but a passing interest in girls, other than when my sisters set me up to be a whipping boy. However, the unexpectedly frank chat with Mum and subsequent conversations with my sisters sowed the seeds of curiosity about the opposite gender. So, albeit from a distance, I began to study my sisters, indeed all girls, with increased interest. Soon my mind was awash with random and naïve questions for which schoolyard tales gave no answer.

My frustrations continued until one Saturday when Mum and my sisters visited a family friend. It was a wet and cold day, so instead of spending the day with a pal, I decided to stay home and catch up on my schoolwork. I had the best intentions, but as the morning went on, my thoughts began to wander, and an intriguing idea came to mind; I would never have a better opportunity to explore my sisters' rooms and learn some of their secrets. However, I hesitated, knowing I was not permitted to go there. Even though they had no problems barging into my room at any time, I was never allowed to enter their female sanctums.

A clamouring voice on my shoulder convinced me, and I nervously headed off to Morag's bedroom. Once inside, I was immediately captivated by its colourful layout, sensual ambience, and enchanting fragrances, sweet scents, oh so different from my soulless, purely functional chamber. I was in a daze, but nothing would stop me now. I began to go through her wardrobe and drawer unit. I examined the fabulous, sometimes mysterious, items they contained and was utterly entranced when I opened her underwear drawer. Naturally, I had seen panties on the washing line many times, but touching and holding this most intimate item for the first time was mind-blowing; a boy's fantasy. Wow, they were so thin, soft, and colourful. Why were boys' underpants so thick, rough, and drab when they could just as readily resemble these exquisite knickers? Were they just another punishment for boys? I instantly knew that from then on, I would ask myself that question every time I stepped into my traditional drawers.

I was away in a dwam as I held a pair of floral knickers in my hand when my reveries were shattered by Ann's angry voice. "Why are you in here? What are you doing with Morag's undies?"

I almost fainted when I saw Ann glaring at me from the doorway. When Mum and my sisters left the house that morning, I assumed they were all going together. However, as it turned out, Ann was only visiting a nearby friend and had now returned.

"Well, what have you to say for yourself?"

I tried to speak, but in shock, I could not get any words out. Eventually, I got control over myself and told Ann the truth; there was no point in lying because it was obvious what I was doing. I said, "I have never done it before and will not do so again."

"You would say that, even if it were true."

I cowered, expecting Ann to now explode with rage. Still, I saw the red mist steadily disappear from her eyes, and a devilish grin appeared. Ever the opportunist, Ann saw a novel way to solve a problem.

"Well, I was planning to watch some tennis this afternoon. But my friend cannot come, and I do not want to attend alone. So, if you want your snooping to be kept a secret, you will be my partner for the afternoon. By the way, it is a girls-only tournament, so you must come as Morag."

I stuttered at first but then said, "I was only being curious about girls' wear, but I really have no choice but to obey you, do I. Ah, well, bring it on. So many questions will be answered."

"That is correct, Bill. You undress while getting the necessary clothes. While I removed all but my underpants, Ann selected several items from Morag's wardrobe and drawer unit and laid them out on the bed. I was blushing all over as Ann set to the task. First, she picked up a mysterious item, fitted it around my chest and padded out the cups at the front with socks. I realised this must be a brassiere, the fiddly, almost mystical undergarment that older boys whisper about. Indeed, I now appeared to have boobs, just like Ann. Ann then fitted me with a camisole, a half-slip, a blouse, an above-the-knee skirt, and knee-high socks in a flurry of activity.

Finally, Ann picked up a pair of bottle-green knickers. But after a moment's hesitation, she put them down again. Instead, she picked out blushing pink panties from the drawer and handed them to me.

"School knickers are awful. You deserve to wear a nice pair for your first time as a girl."

So, I duly and with as much modesty as I could muster slipped off my drawers and, for the first time, stepped into the most intimate of girls' wear. No sooner had the panties settled under my skirt than my nether regions were engulfed with delightful sensual sensations, which steadily spread throughout my body. As a sense of well-being emerged, previously unknown instincts and feelings emerged. I was transformed; dressing as a girl now felt natural and proper. While this made me happy, I was also bewildered. How could Ann's briefs bring about these tremendous changes?