(gap: 2s) Growing up on a Surrey council estate in the 1960s, life was simple but tough. The flats were all roughcast and the grass verges patchy, with battered old Fords and Metros parked along the uneven tarmac. Kids like me played football in our wellies, while mums gossiped by the bins or outside the corner shop, clutching Co-op bags and keeping an eye on us.
It was on one of those grey Sunday afternoons, the estate quiet except for the distant hum of a milk float, that I first heard my mother use the word ‘spanked’. Even the word felt out of place among the clatter of the estate, but it sent a shiver of excitement through me. I admitted, “It probably wouldn’t be very nice – I don’t really know, as I’ve never been spanked. But I promised I would never hate you if you did.”
I was about to ask her if she’d ever spank me for poor school work, when she stood up, put her sewing aside, and said, “Come with me.” I thought I’d blown it. I followed her up the narrow stairs, past the patterned wallpaper and the smell of Sunday roast lingering in the air.
My heart was pounding as we reached my bedroom. She pushed the door open wide. It was a mess, as usual – clothes and shoes everywhere, comics and toys scattered, bed unmade, dirty washing on the chair. Just a typical boy’s room on a council estate.
She looked around and said, “Peter, look at your room! Imagine if I was Pritpal’s mother from number 12. Do you think she’d put up with this? By the sound of it, she’d give you a proper spanking and make you clean it up.”
“Then, next week, if your room looked like this again, you’d get another spanking, but longer. And the week after, another – even longer. How would you feel, knowing you’d get another hiding next weekend just for leaving your room like this? That’s how Pritpal feels walking home.”
My head spun. Was mother really suggesting she’d spank me right now? “Well?” she asked. “Sorry, mother, I’ll tidy it up,” was all I could manage. “Good. I’ll come back in half an hour to see how you’re getting on.”
As she walked away, I blurted out, “Mother – I won’t hate you, I promise. When you come back, are you going to spank me?” There, I’d said it. “We’ll see,” she replied, heading downstairs. I suppose my untidy room had finally got to her.
I tidied my room in a daze, the sounds of the estate drifting in through the window – kids shouting, a dog barking, the distant clink of milk bottles. In half an hour, I might be getting my first real spanking. I couldn’t think straight.
When mother’s footsteps came back up the stairs, I pointed out what I’d done, nervously reminding her I wouldn’t hate her if she spanked me.
She stepped in, looked around, and smiled. “So that’s what colour the carpet is!” she joked. “Looks better, doesn’t it?”
She pulled out my battered bedroom chair and sat down. “Sit down, Peter.” I sat opposite her, watching as she folded her arms and crossed her legs, her skirt and beads catching the light from the window.
“Do you think we could keep it looking like this without me having to spank you every week?” “I promise to keep it tidy, mother – I will.” “Good.”
There was a pause, then she looked me in the eye. “And do you still think you deserve a spanking for letting it get into such a mess?” Suddenly, it felt real – like something that happened to kids on our estate all the time.
I nodded shyly, staring at mother’s legs. “I won’t hate you, mother – honest.”
She finally said, “Come on, then – up you get!” My heart thudded. I stood and approached her lap.
“Peter, I hope this will remind you to keep your room looking just like this. I don’t want to repeat myself next weekend, understood?” “Yes, mother.” She uncrossed her legs, straightened her skirt, and guided me over her knee.
I’d never been spanked before, nor seen a real one. My head was full of stories from the estate – who got what from which parent, who was the strictest. Would it hurt? Would I cry? I remembered a mate saying Mrs Slater at school smacked harder than anyone’s mother or father.
As I leaned forward, I felt the nylon of mother’s tights as she helped me over her knee. My feet dangled above the worn carpet. Was this how Pritpal’s mother did it? Was this how Mrs Slater did it? My mind raced, but it all happened in seconds as mother adjusted me into place.
Then came the shock of reality.
Hanging there, surprised, I heard mother ask if I was ready. With my bottom up, I felt that mix of fear and anticipation for the first time. “Yes, mother,” I replied, though I wasn’t ready at all.
Then came the smacks. I couldn’t tell you how many or how long it lasted, but mother could smack hard – just like the other mothers on the estate.
At first, she smacked at a steady pace. I remember thinking it wasn’t so bad – the sting was there, but I almost enjoyed it. After all, it was what I’d been curious about.
But the warmth built up, and soon it was properly uncomfortable. I gasped for air, held my breath, and winced at each smack. Being upside down made me dizzy, my arms waving as my head bobbed up and down.
My bottom stung – far more than I’d imagined. The floor blurred. I didn’t exactly cry, but I was close. Being upside down made my eyes water, but there were no excuses – mother had me right on the verge of tears.
Mother spanked like she did everything else in our flat – steadily, methodically, making sure the job was done right, never rushing.
I struggled, but there was no escape. I remember trying to cover my bottom with my hand, but she held it firmly in the small of my back. All I could do was promise I’d learned my lesson and my room would never be left untidy again. From that day, I had the tidiest bedroom on the estate.
Mother said something, but I can’t remember what. Nothing mattered except the sting. It took a few seconds to realise she’d stopped. I lay still, breathing hard, eyes wet, nose running, mouth dry. I hadn’t called out, but I knew now how much a proper spanking stung. Mother had done a thorough job – just like she did with everything else.
She gave my bottom a couple of gentle taps. “Up you get – all done!” I wiped my face as she helped me up. As my feet touched the floor, I rubbed my stinging cheeks and did a little smacked bottom jig – rubbing was all I could think about.
Mother asked the classic question: “Now, Peter, does that sting enough to remind you to keep this room tidy from now on?”
To hide my embarrassment, I hugged her and repeated that I didn’t hate her for smacking me.
