Even growing up in the 80s, spanking was far more common than you might think. Most of the youngsters I knew got their bottoms smacked when they pushed their parents too far.
Mother did nearly all the spanking in our family, mostly because Dad was a big softy. I was given my first at an early age, and while it wasn’t a common occurrence, I was certainly more than used to Mother putting me across her knee and tanning my bottom until I couldn’t sit.
When I was very young, she just used her hand. I thought that was bad enough, but there must have come a point when my young behind started to get a bit used to the amount of sting a mother’s hand could produce on its own.
As I got older, I got into a series of problems at school—mostly fighting with other children, but some missed homework too. I ended up in the principal’s office quite a few times, and on more than one occasion, Mother was called down to the school to help sort it out.
I have to say she was very patient. She tried to get explanations out of me, and let me off with several warnings.
However, eventually her patience ran out and I got the expected spanking. It hurt, of course, and I cried, but I think Mother felt my sobbing was mostly crocodile tears. As I lay on the bed afterwards, holding my throbbing behind, she came back into my room unexpectedly. She was holding a paddle of the sort still commonly sold as novelties in souvenir shops. It bore the legend: “Heat for the seat.”
“You see this?” Mother demanded, waving the paddle in front of my face. “If you can’t learn how to behave, this is what you’re going to get. You’re old enough now to know better!”
Looking back, I can hardly believe my own stupidity, but only a week or so after this warning, I talked back at Mother while she was disciplining me for a minor matter. “That’s it!” she exclaimed. “Go to your room and wait there for me. I’ll be up to punish you shortly.”
I knew that would probably mean a spanking, but I had honestly forgotten about the paddle, and I felt my face draining of colour when Mother walked in with it in her hand.
Mother pulled my school desk chair out into the middle of the room. “Bend over that, please. Hands on the seat.” I was blushing and was scared all at the same time, however I had no choice but to comply – that much was made clear, despite her ‘please’.
“Push your bottom out more.” I did so and the next thing I knew, the paddle was brought down with an almighty ‘smack’ across my bottom. I screamed and began to cry all at the same time.
“That seems to be having more of an effect, doesn’t it? Does that hurt more than my hand?” I could only nod and almost incoherently beg Mother not to give me any more. But her mind was made up – I felt a firm hand on the small of my back, then around a dozen more licks of the paddle landed on my bottom in quick succession. The friction on my bottom was just unbearable, and I cried as I was given my punishment.
But there was one occasion, more memorable than all the rest, when Mother decided that the paddle was not enough. I had been caught fighting at school again, and this time, the headmistress had sent a note home. Mother’s face was grave as she read it, and I knew at once that I was in for something far more serious. (short pause) She sent me to my room, and after a few minutes that felt like an eternity, she entered, her lips pressed in a thin line, and in her hand, she carried Father’s old leather belt.
The belt was thick and well-worn, the sort that had held up Father’s trousers for years, and it seemed impossibly long as Mother doubled it over in her hand. She spoke quietly, her voice trembling only slightly: “You must learn that actions have consequences. This is for your own good.” (pause)
I was told to stand at the end of my bed, hands gripping the bedstead, and to keep still. My heart hammered in my chest, and my mouth felt dry as dust. I could hear the faint creak of the leather as Mother raised the belt. (short pause) The first smack landed with a sharp, stinging crack, and I gasped, the pain blooming across my skin like a sudden fire. (pause) There was a pause, just long enough for the sting to settle in, before the second followed, and then a third. Each stroke was measured, not wild or angry, but deliberate, as if Mother wanted me to remember
