(gap: 2s) Childhood in the 1960s was a tapestry of innocence, adventure, and—woven through it all—a strict sense of discipline. In our small town, the days seemed endless, filled with the scent of cut grass, the distant chime of the ice cream van, and the ever-present watchful eyes of grown-ups. For me, discipline was as much a part of growing up as hopscotch on the pavement or the taste of penny sweets from the corner shop. Spankings were not rare, but a familiar punctuation in the story of my youth. Whenever I strayed from the straight and narrow, Mrs. Johnson—my mother—would act swiftly and without hesitation. She’d settle herself on the edge of the old floral armchair, her face set with determination, and pull me—Tommy—across her lap. Sometimes it was her firm hand, other times the unforgiving wooden paddle, each swat landing with a sharp crack that echoed through the house. Tears would sting my eyes, blurring the faded wallpaper and the sunlight streaming through the window. If I’d truly crossed the line, she’d tug down my trousers and spank me over my underwear, the sting sharper, the lesson unmistakable.
(short pause) Summer days were golden and full of promise, and nothing thrilled me more than the prospect of a swim in the neighbour’s pool. But Mrs. Johnson’s rules were ironclad: I was never to go alone, not even with a crowd of mothers watching from their deck chairs. Her worry was a constant, hovering over me like a summer cloud, convinced that mischief or danger lurked just out of sight.
(short pause) One morning, after a particularly cheeky remark at breakfast, I found myself draped over her knee, the kitchen filled with the sound of a brisk paddling—right on my underpants. Mrs. Johnson’s patience for backtalk was as thin as the morning toast. Later that day, the sun was high, the air thick with the scent of chlorine and cut grass, and the pool was alive with the laughter and shrieks of my friends. I watched from the window, longing to join them, and pleaded with her to take me. But she was busy with chores, her hands deep in soapy water, and told me I’d have to wait.
(pause) Patience was never my strong suit. The temptation was too much. I slipped into my blue Speedo—just like all the other boys wore, the elastic snug against my skin—and crept out the back door, heart pounding with excitement and a twinge of guilt. The pool was just across the way, shimmering in the afternoon sun. Two other mothers sat nearby, chatting and keeping a lazy eye on the little ones. I convinced myself nothing could possibly go wrong. The cool water enveloped me as I dove in, laughter bubbling up as I splashed and played, the world narrowing to the bright blue sky and the echo of my friends’ voices.
(pause) Suddenly, a familiar voice sliced through the summer air—sharp, unmistakable, and chilling. “Tommy, you get over here this instant!” Mrs. Johnson’s voice was as piercing as a whistle, cutting through the laughter and bringing the world to a standstill.
(short pause) My cheeks flamed with embarrassment as every head turned. The water felt suddenly cold as I climbed out, droplets running down my arms and legs. I trudged over to where she sat, her lips pressed into a thin, unwavering line, her eyes steely with disappointment. Without a word, she took my arm and pulled me down across her lap, right there on the rough concrete by the poolside, the sun hot on my back and the world watching.
(pause) “No, Mum, please don’t spank me!” I pleaded, my voice trembling, my heart thudding in my chest. She fixed me with a look that brooked no argument. “You know the rules, Tommy, and you know what happens when you break them.” My Speedo clung tightly to my damp skin as her hand landed with a sharp, echoing smack. The sound seemed to ring out across the water, louder than the laughter had been. My friends stared, wide-eyed, frozen mid-play, and the younger children gawked, their mouths open in shock. Mrs. Johnson’s hand rose and fell, each swat stinging more than the last, my pride and my bottom burning equally. “Please, Mum, stop! I promise I’ll be good!” I cried, my voice cracking with desperation.
(pause) She gave me ten hard swats, each one echoing in the heavy summer air. Her hand was unyielding, each smack landing squarely on the thin, damp fabric of my Speedo, making the sting sharper and more humiliating. The first few swats made me gasp, the shock of the pain mingling with the embarrassment of being punished in front of everyone. By the fifth, my bottom was burning, the heat radiating outward, and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. She didn’t pause, her rhythm steady and relentless, each smack punctuated by the sharp intake of my breath and the murmurs of the onlookers. The pain built with every swat, a deep, throbbing ache layered over the sharp sting, until my legs began to kick involuntarily and my hands gripped the rough concrete for support. My face was hot with shame, my eyes squeezed shut as I tried to block out the world, but the sound of each smack and the sting on my skin made it impossible to escape. By the tenth swat, I was sobbing openly, my voice hoarse from pleading, my body trembling with the effort to endure the punishment.
(short pause) Without missing a beat, she pulled me back over her lap, her grip unyielding. The world seemed to shrink to the rough feel of the concrete, the heat of the sun, and the sting of her hand. “You are a very naughty boy!” she scolded, each word punctuated by a sharp smack. I kicked and howled, my legs flailing, the pain and humiliation overwhelming. The other mothers watched in stunned silence, their faces a mix of sympathy and approval, while the children stared, some wide-eyed, others whispering behind their hands.
(pause) Mrs. Johnson was relentless, determined to make her point. She turned me back over whenever I tried to wriggle away, her hand coming down with renewed force. My cries grew louder, my voice hoarse from pleading, the world blurring through my tears. The scent of chlorine, the roughness of the concrete, the heat of the sun, and the sting of each swat—all of it seared into my memory. She made sure to cover every inch of my bottom, her hand moving from one side to the other, never letting up. The smacks landed in quick succession, some low, some high, each one finding a fresh spot to sting. My Speedo offered little protection, and soon my skin felt raw and hot, the pain radiating down my thighs and up my back. I could hear the whispers and gasps from the crowd, but all I could focus on was the relentless rhythm of her hand and the burning ache that seemed to fill my whole world.
(short pause) At last, she paused, her hand resting firmly on my burning bottom. For a moment, I thought it was over, but then she started up again, delivering a final round of sharp, stinging swats. This time, she made each one count, lifting her hand high and bringing it down with a crisp, echoing smack that made me yelp and sob even harder. My legs kicked helplessly, my hands flew back to try to shield myself, but she simply pinned them out of the way and continued, determined that the lesson would not be forgotten. The pain was intense, a deep, throbbing burn layered over the sharp sting of each new smack, and I could feel the tears streaming down my face, my nose running, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The world seemed to blur and fade, the only reality the heat and pain and the sound of her hand meeting my skin.
(pause) When she finally let me up, I clutched my sore bottom, hopping from foot to foot, desperate to rub away the sting. Tears streamed down my face as I danced in place, the lesson—and the humiliation—etched into my mind for good. The pool, the laughter, the sun—all faded into the background, replaced by the sharp memory of discipline and the enduring innocence of childhood in a small town.
