Sixteen

Sometime in July 1955 shortly after I finished High School I found myself alone and horny in an empty house. Parents and sister momentarily gone. Afternoon light streaming in through the bathroom window of our new midwest tract home.
Masturbating in the bathroom seemed less messy than cleaning up afterwards in my room. But as I faced the mirror and the washbowl my eyes caught a glimpse of a plastic hairbrush on the stand. Memories of early childhood discipline in another country surfaced quickly.
We were a good family with the usual small problems, life went smoothly most of the time. But discipline was sometimes necessary. It was always meeted out immediately, in anger and, if necessary, harshly, with a short but hard hand spanking. The spanking came from either mother or father, whoever was closer and angrier, and was delivered fully clothed while we struggled to get our rears as close to the ground as possible to avoid the punishment. Then came the time in the corner, after that the scolding.
There was no premeditation in the physical punishment. You were warned, if you did it anyway you got spanked. But the warning threats stayed in the young and impressionable mind. Not "I'm gonna tar your hide!" or "when I'm done you won't be able to sit down for a week!" but (translated) "I'm going to make your ass as red as a tomato!"...
The translucent pink brush tickled my mind. What would it be like... feel like... look like? I took off all I had on, my shorts, grabbed the brush and turning to look back at the mirror tried a few swats. Too soft... too hard... reaching my left cheek not as hard as I thought... digging in underneath felt good... hey, this is fun...and as I kept going, the realization that the longer I spanked the harder I could hit for the same sting level. It was a very fine afternoon indeed. Very red, very hot cheeks. Very stinging but not very painful. New sensations sitting down on swollen buns.
I did that one more time that summer, alone in the woods with part of a dead branch, nothing else smooth at hand. Not satisfying, the feel of a flat surface was gone. Sitting on a hot rock surface afterward sort of made up for it.

 
 

Why?

Since I had seldom been spanked in my childhood, why were the threats:
"I will make your ass as red as a tomato!" or even
"I am going to leave marks on you!" so terrifying yet erotically stimulating?
Why did they provoke such fascinating, diffuse images of reddened flesh?

Erotic... brings other words to mind:

erythros: red (Greek adjective)

erythrian: blush (Greek verb)

Eritrea: Land of the Red Sea

Erythro: the name of the moon of Megas, a red giant in the novel Nemesis by Isaac Asimov.

I find the connection of eros to erythros quite resonable, given that most erotic surfaces are, or are near, red or dark red areas rich in blood supply and feeling.

Perhaps, at the deepest levels, the primate in estrus never really left me.