The part of spanking stories that appeals to me the most is the embarrassment. I’m not sure why, but as long as I can remember, it’s been that way. This story is pretty commonplace – but the aftermath is interesting, and that’s where the embarrassment, that makes it so memorable, comes in.
(short pause) I grew up in a Scottish council estate in the early 1970s, a place where the air always seemed tinged with the scent of coal smoke and damp concrete. Rows of brick flats stood shoulder to shoulder, their facades weathered by years of rain and wind. The stairwells echoed with the shouts and laughter of children, and the walkways were worn smooth by generations of feet. Mothers gathered outside, chatting as they pegged laundry to lines strung between windows, their voices mingling with the distant hum of traffic and the clatter of kids’ games. The estate was a world of its own—tight-knit, sometimes nosy, but always alive with the rhythms of working-class life.
(pause) Inside our modest flat, patterned wallpaper curled at the edges, and the furniture was simple but sturdy. My mother, a formidable woman in her 1970s skirt and cardigan, ruled the household with a mixture of love and strict discipline. I was very much in the stage of life that is marked by knowing it all and having a bad attitude. Unfortunately for me, my mother was quite proficient at adjusting attitudes. We got into some argument – I’m not even sure about what now – and she sentenced me to a spanking. Bent over with hands on the knees, five hard whacks with her old school paddle, followed by me jumping around and hollering. The sound of it seemed to echo through the thin walls, and I always worried who might be listening.
(short pause) It was all very normal and, at this difficult stage of my life, pretty commonplace – I found myself getting spanked for my attitude every other week, if not more often. The embarrassment didn’t end with the sting; it lingered in the glances of siblings, the knowing looks from neighbours, and the awkward silence at the dinner table when I couldn’t sit comfortably.
(pause) The afternoon is when this story begins to become more interesting. I was on the swim team, as I had been for most of my childhood. Our practices were held at the local pool, a stark, echoing building with the sharp smell of chlorine and the constant drip of water from the tiled ceiling. I had just gotten moved up to an older age class, but still I was very much on the young end of the spectrum on the team. The older kids seemed so much more grown up, their voices deeper, their bodies already changing in ways mine hadn’t.
(short pause) After our first practice, I discovered that nearly everyone on the team had already started to go through the changes of puberty. I had not, so I got into the habit of changing as discreetly as possible. I would face the locker, practically leaning into it, then change as quickly as possible, hoping no one would notice my awkwardness or my childishness. The locker room was always noisy—slamming doors, laughter, the splash of showers—but I felt exposed, as if every eye was on me.
(pause) Most days that was not a problem – but having just had a spanking in the past few hours, it showed. I did not realise how noticeable it would be and changed in my normal fashion, as quickly as I could – which was not quick enough. The red marks stood out starkly against my pale skin, and I felt a flush of panic as I heard footsteps behind me.
(short pause) I heard from behind me: “Oh my gosh! Did you get a spanking?” It was one of the oldest girls on the team, tall and confident, the kind of girl I desperately wanted to impress. Her voice rang out, drawing the attention of the others. I tried to ignore the question – that definitely didn’t work. “Jillian, were you a naughty girl? Did your mommy spank your hiney?” she asked, laughing. The other girls turned, some giggling, others wide-eyed with surprise. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my heart pounding in my chest.
(pause) I turned around, hoping to quiet the situation down before my butt became a topic of conversation for the whole team. Another chimed in: “I can’t believe you still get spanked! I haven’t been spanked since I was a little girl.” There was some more laughter, a few whispers, and I started to tear up, the humiliation washing over me in waves. Some of the younger girls looked at me with sympathy, while the older ones seemed amused, their eyes sparkling with mischief.
(short pause) Surprisingly, the first girl came to my rescue. “Lay off,” she said, her tone suddenly protective. “I bet most of us have had a whipping every once in a while. Tell me what happened.” The room quieted a little, the teasing replaced by a curious hush. A few girls nodded, and I realised I wasn’t as alone as I’d thought.
(pause) I told her that my Mother had spanked me, but she wanted more details. She pressed me until I told her that I had mouthed off, that my Mother used a paddle, and that I cried. She laughed at me throughout my account, but not really in a mean way – kind of like a big girl teasing her little sister. The others listened, some giggling, some nodding in understanding, and a few even shared their own stories in hushed voices.
(short pause) After that, it was never mentioned again. The embarrassment faded, replaced by a strange sense of camaraderie. In the world of the council estate and the swim team, we all had our secrets, our moments of shame and laughter, woven into the fabric of our everyday lives.
