In my youth, both at home and at school, corporal punishment was a customary method of discipline. Though I did not relish these moments, I accepted them as part of a well-ordered upbringing. Each correction was administered by a woman—never a man. My sole male teacher was a gentleman of natural authority, and I admired him greatly. I often wondered, in the privacy of my thoughts, how it might feel to be chastised by a man, imagining a firm but just hand delivering a lesson in proper conduct.
The female teachers, by contrast, were often stern and unyielding. Their reprimands were thorough, both in word and in deed. I recall vividly the lengthy lectures that preceded a spanking, and the solemn walk of the chastened child back to their seat. It seemed to me, even then, that some of these ladies took a certain satisfaction in maintaining order through discipline.
At home, it was always Mother who administered discipline. Father, though loving and present, never raised his hand to me. I sometimes wished he would, believing perhaps it would be different, but I would never have dared to ask. Such a request would have been unthinkable, requiring a courage I did not possess.
Mother’s approach was swift and decisive. There was no delay, no lengthy admonition. A few sharp slaps to the backs of my legs, accompanied by the familiar warning: “There will be more, and far worse, if you do not behave!” I never discovered what “worse” entailed, for the sting of her hand was lesson enough.
In senior school, discipline became more formal. Offenders were sent to a senior teacher’s office, where the cane was administered in private. This, at least, preserved a measure of dignity.
Generally, teachers disciplined children of their own sex. On rare occasions, a woman would cane a boy, and in such cases, the punishment was delivered to the seat of learning, as was proper. The regulation called for one or two strokes per hand, but boys often reported receiving six strokes upon their person. Though always over trousers, the pain was considerable, and even the bravest boys sometimes returned with red eyes and stiff gait. To my knowledge, male teachers never caned girls.
As I matured, my curiosity about discipline faded. Life’s priorities shifted to courtship, social gatherings, and the joys of young adulthood. The association between discipline and affection never occurred to me, and my childhood curiosity lay dormant.
In time, I married a respectable gentleman, and we were blessed with a son and a daughter. Our home was harmonious, and our life together was contented. Discipline, when required, was gentle and reasoned. I never raised my hand to either child, though I confess my daughter, in her early teens, tested my patience more than once.
We chose not to employ corporal punishment. Another mother might have found it necessary, especially during those challenging years, but I refrained.
Imagine, then, my surprise one afternoon when I discovered my son in tears. He was embarrassed, as boys often are, and I gave him time to compose himself before inquiring further.
As I turned to leave, he murmured something I could not quite hear. Upon my gentle prompting, he confessed, with remarkable honesty, that he could not stop thinking about being spanked. This admission, though startling, reminded me of my own childhood curiosity.
With gentle questioning, I learned that my son’s thoughts were inspired by a rumour at school: a senior female teacher had, it was said, spanked a boy rather than send a letter home recommending suspension. The boy, it was reported, preferred corporal punishment to the shame of parental disappointment.
The tale, whether true or embellished, had clearly made an impression on my son. He confessed that he could not concentrate in class, so preoccupied was he with the idea of being disciplined by this teacher. He had never been smacked in his life, and the curiosity troubled him.
I sensed what was coming. My son, with a courage I had never possessed, asked if I would administer a spanking, so that he might know what it felt like and put the matter to rest.
I considered whether this was a fabrication, a ruse to satisfy his curiosity. But after a heartfelt conversation, he assured me of his sincerity. He simply wished to understand, as I once had.
I reflected on how I would have felt had my own request for understanding been dismissed. I did not wish to damage my son’s confidence or trust.
Thus, we sat together, mother and son, at a crossroads. He did not know what to expect, only that he hoped the experience would quiet his mind. I doubted it would, but I resolved to help him.
The simplest course would have been to refuse, but I loved my son and wished to support him. I offered to administer a few smacks, not as punishment, but as a lesson. He agreed, requesting that it sting, but not excessively so.
We agreed: I would spank him, and he would promise to tell me if his curiosity persisted or if it affected his studies. He gave his word.
I ensured we would not be disturbed. My husband was occupied outside, and my daughter was engaged in conversation with a friend.
Returning to my son’s room, I found him pale and anxious. I explained that now was an opportune moment, and he agreed. To lighten the mood, I jested about a public spanking at dinner, which he declined with wide eyes.
I asked if his bedroom chair was available, and he cleared it for use. I placed it in the centre of the room, sat down, and reassured him that he could stop at any time. This was not punishment, but a lesson in understanding.
He hesitated, but I gently asked him to prepare himself. His hands trembled as he undid his trousers and lowered them to his knees.
“Come along, over you go,” I encouraged, patting my lap. I guided him gently into position, his hands and toes just touching the floor. He was trembling, and I reminded him he could stop whenever he wished. He replied, “Just do it, Mother.”
I placed my arm securely around his waist, adjusted his undergarments, and began with gentle pats to his person. His undergarments had risen, exposing most of his lower region. I mention this only to note the effect of my hand. After a few light smacks, his skin turned a delicate pink. He remained silent and still, though trembling.
I delivered approximately twenty-five mild smacks, pausing to ask if he wished me to stop.
“No, Mother,” he replied. As he showed no distress, I continued, increasing the firmness slightly. Each smack was deliberate and measured, alternating from one side to the other. His skin deepened in colour, but he remained composed.
There was no indication of impropriety, and I believe his nervousness precluded any such response. I asked again if he had had enough. “It is beginning to sting, Mother,” he said. “Shall I stop?” I inquired. “No, Mother—not yet.” “Very well, a few more, and then we shall finish. Are you ready?” “Yes, Mother.”
I tightened my hold and delivered several firmer smacks in quick succession. He straightened and drew a sharp breath. After a few more, he began to wriggle, his toes tapping and his head moving gently. I confess, in that moment, I felt a certain satisfaction in seeing the lesson take effect. He never asked me to stop.
At last, his skin was a healthy pink, and his breathing heavier. I ceased, and he slid to his knees, burying his face in my lap and weeping quietly. He repeated his thanks, and I comforted him, stroking his hair until he regained composure. “Do you feel better?” I asked. He nodded, “Yes—thank you, Mother.”
I reminded him of his promise to speak with me if the matter troubled him again, especially after lessons with the teacher in question. He assured me he would.
“Now, go and wash your face before your sister sees you,” I instructed, gently tousling his hair. I added, with a smile, “If I must ever discipline you again, it shall be more severe, you naughty boy!” He managed a small smile, and I knew he was well.
I felt I had acted rightly, though the experience left me with emotions difficult to describe. It had been an eventful afternoon, and I had yet to share it with my husband.
In time, my son confided that he felt much improved. Though a measure of curiosity remained, he no longer dwelled upon it, and his studies improved. He became more cheerful and sociable, and our bond grew stronger. He admitted he had feared the pain, and was embarrassed by the thought of tears, but found the experience cathartic.
