The first spanking I remember getting myself as a girl was from my Mother was when I had a problem with biting. I was often sent home from play dates for attacking other children because I hadn’t got my way over something.
Needless to say, such behaviour didn’t go down well with my mother. When I had bitten another YOUNGSTER for the third time in a week, Mother decided she had had enough
The memory of that spanking is etched in my mind, vivid and raw, as if the years between have only sharpened its edges. The living room was dim, the only light coming from the coal fire, its orange glow flickering across the faded floral wallpaper and casting long, restless shadows that danced on the ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of burning coal, mingled with the faint tang of soap from the morning’s chores and the ever-present dampness that clung to the walls of our council flat. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes, carrying with it the distant clang of shipyard horns and the laughter of children playing in the street below—a world that felt impossibly far away in that moment.
(short pause) My mother sat on the edge of my narrow bed, her back ramrod straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her face was set, lips pressed into a thin, determined line, her eyes steely but not unkind. There was a gravity to her presence, a sense of duty that seemed to fill the room as much as the fire’s warmth. She began her lecture in a low, measured voice, each word deliberate, echoing in the hush of the flat. She spoke of biting—how it was wrong, how it hurt others, how she expected better from me. I could hear the disappointment in her tone, and it stung almost as much as what I knew was coming.
(pause) My heart pounded in my chest, a cold knot of dread tightening in my stomach. I stared at the worn pattern of the bedspread, my small hands twisting the fabric, wishing I could disappear into its faded flowers. I tried to focus on the familiar details of the room—the chipped paint on the skirting boards, the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the faint hum of the wireless radio, silent now but always a comfort. But nothing could distract me from the inevitability of what was about to happen. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and so very small.
(pause) When my mother finished speaking, she reached for me with a firm, unyielding grip. I tried to wriggle away, my feet scrabbling against the floor, but she was stronger, her movements practiced and resolute. She lifted me easily, turning me over her lap. The world seemed to shrink to the narrow view of the faded carpet and the warmth of her skirt beneath my cheek. My breath came in short, panicked bursts, my cheeks already wet with tears before the first smack landed. I remember the roughness of her woollen skirt against my skin, the way her hand felt—steady, unwavering, almost impersonal in its purpose.
(pause) The sound of her hand striking my bottom was sharp and echoing, each spank sending a jolt of hot pain through my body. The sting was immediate, blooming across my skin, and with every blow the heat built, radiating outward until my legs kicked helplessly and my sobs filled the room. My mother’s hand was steady, her voice unwavering as she reminded me, between spanks, why I was being punished. The pain was real, but so was the shame—my face burning as much as my backside, the humiliation of being so utterly powerless and so completely seen. I wanted to plead, to promise never to do it again, but the words caught in my throat, lost in the storm of my crying.
(pause) The room felt smaller, the air heavier with each passing second. The fire crackled in the grate, its warmth a cruel contrast to the coldness I felt inside. My mother’s demeanor was strict, but not cruel; there was a sense of sorrow in her eyes, a flicker of regret that she tried to hide. I sensed that this was as hard for her as it was for me, that she believed—perhaps desperately—that love sometimes meant being stern. When she finally stopped, my body trembled with the aftershocks of pain and fear, my sobs subsiding into hiccupping gasps. She set me gently on my feet and sent me to the corner,for a little while. Once I had stopped crying, Mother called me back to her. I thought my punishment was over – it was not.
Mother gave me another short lecture about biting. Then she said: “You know, biting hurts.” Saying that, she took my arm, raised it to her mouth and bit me herself. I screamed and cried with the pain. Mother pointed to the marks her teeth had left on my arm and said: “Now, that hurt didn’t it? How do you like that being done to you?” You can guess my answer.
She added: “Every time you bite someone, I will spank you and bite you again.” Then her face became softer and she said: “You know, Sarah, I only punish you to teach you right from wrong, and because I love you.”
I wish I could say that this was the end of my behaviour but there were three or four more occasions when Mother had to spank and bite me before she won the battle and her little girl finally learned her lesson.
