My mother was one who believed in physical punishments. In our house, this gradually became the standard remedy for any sort of misbehaviour or disobedience. (gap: 2s)
I’m not sure what brought about the change, which occurred gradually. However, over a short period of time, getting a spanking from Mother became a much more formal – and painful – affair. (gap: 2s)
At first, these spankings were administered with an old wooden spoon from the kitchen, but finding that insufficient, mother moved on to a flat wooden ruler, which admittedly was more effective for the job. That remained in regular use around the house for a year or so, until it was broken or misplaced somehow and mother went through a series of flimsier rulers and paint-stirrers, trying to find a suitable replacement. (gap: 2s)
Eventually, she settled on using the long, flat wooden slats she had left over from the building of a small garden wall. These, I regret to say, were more than adequate. They imparted an unbelievable sting and made sitting down after a spanking a chore of great difficulty. (gap: 2s)
My sisters and I were always obliged to help out around the house with various jobs, one of which was to take out the day’s trash in the evenings. This was to be deposited in a large barrel in the back garden, where it would be burned every few days when enough had accumulated. (gap: 2s)
Eventually, the idea occurred to us to deposit the hated spanking stick in there as well. It was with no small satisfaction that we watched it go up in flames. Of course, there were three or four more lying around but in a few weeks we managed to take care of those as well. (gap: 2s)
Needless to say, we hadn’t counted on what the outcome of this prank might be. Although she never said as much, I’m sure mother had at least some idea of where her trusty spankers were disappearing to – or at least who was responsible for their disappearance. (gap: 2s)
Unbeknown to us, she responded by asking her brother to help her out by fashioning a suitable wooden paddle in his workshop. This he did, and soon we all looked back even on the slats with a kind of nostalgia. (gap: 2s)
The paddle was more than a foot long, several inches across and perhaps a quarter of an inch thick. Worst of all, mother had asked our uncle to drill two neat little rows of holes through the centre of it, which made it sting even more than the dreaded slats had. (gap: 2s)
If we hated the slats, we really feared that paddle. I was probably got spanked with it almost once a month until when mother suddenly stopped using it altogether (on my younger sister as well) and instituted a policy of grounding and other more suitably mature punishments. (gap: 2s)
The acquisition of the paddle brought a change in the way we were spanked as well. Until then, we had always been sent to our rooms when mother deemed a spanking necessary, where we were made to wait a few minutes until she came up with the ruler (or whatever) to administer justice. (gap: 2s)
When she arrived, she would calmly deliver a short lecture, sometimes accentuating her point by slapping the ruler across the palm of her hand. She would then and order me to bend over the edge of my bed with my hands in front of me. (gap: 2s)
If I was being spanked for a repeat offence or something I’d been specifically warned about, she’d let me know that it would be harder than usual. “I’ve told you before, and I don’t expect to have to tell you again – it’ll be a whopper.” The spankings themselves usually consisted of anywhere between ten to twenty sharp cracks laid directly across the backside, each hurting more than the last. (gap: 2s)
(pause) But when the paddle entered our lives, everything about the experience changed. The very atmosphere in the house would shift the moment Mother’s voice rang out from the living room: “Get in here right now.” My heart would leap into my throat, my stomach twisting with dread as I shuffled down the hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. The living room, usually a place of warmth and laughter, suddenly felt cold and cavernous, the air thick with anticipation and fear. (gap: 2s)
Mother would be waiting, paddle already in hand, her face set in a mask of stern resolve. There was a ritual to it all: the lecture, her voice calm but unwavering, each word landing with the weight of inevitability. Sometimes she would tap the paddle lightly against her palm, the sound sharp and ominous, making my skin prickle with anxiety. Her eyes would meet mine, not unkind but unyielding, and I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as shame and apprehension mingled inside me. (gap: 2s)
“All right – assume the position.” Those words were final. I would step forward, my legs trembling, and bend over the arm of the couch, the fabric rough beneath my hands. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure she could hear it. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself – the seconds stretching out, every sense heightened, the room silent except for the faint ticking of the clock and my own ragged breathing. (gap: 2s)
Then, the first swat would land – a searing, explosive sting that seemed to set my entire body alight. The paddle was heavy and unyielding, and Mother wielded it with a steady, practiced rhythm, each smack falling in exactly the same spot, amplifying the pain until it was all I could think about. My eyes would squeeze shut, tears welling up as I fought to keep from crying out, but the burning ache would build with each blow, until finally the tears spilled over and I gasped or sobbed, unable to hold it in any longer. (gap: 2s)
Mother never shouted or lost her composure. Her voice, when she spoke, was always measured, sometimes even gentle, but her resolve never wavered. She would pause between swats, sometimes to remind me why I was being punished, her words cutting through the haze of pain and humiliation. The physical sensation was sharp and deep, a throbbing heat that lingered long after the last swat had landed, making even the act of standing up feel like a challenge. (gap: 2s)
What made it all the more mortifying was the public nature of it. The living room was never truly private – siblings or even a visiting aunt might be present, their eyes averted but their presence unmistakable. The humiliation of being punished so openly, of having to wipe my tears and shuffle off to my room with my pride in tatters, was almost as painful as the spanking itself. (gap: 2s)
Afterwards, I would retreat to my room, cheeks burning, both from the paddle and from embarrassment. I’d lie on my bed, face buried in the pillow, shoulders shaking as I tried to stifle my sobs. The ache would linger, a dull reminder of the lesson learned, and I’d promise myself – and Mother – that I’d never give her cause to use the paddle again. (gap: 2s)
As much as I hated the paddle at the time, looking back on it now I find that I hold my mother in pretty high esteem. She may have been strict but she was never unfair, and I can’t say that any of us ever got a spanking we didn’t richly deserve. (gap: 2s)
Even while disciplining us, she maintained a certain sense of jocularity and afterwards, all was forgotten and she was always very kind to us. Today, thinking about it, I must admit that I’m thankful for the upbringing I had and I certainly don’t have anything but warm feelings for my mother. (gap: 2s)
