Up until a certain age, my mother would spank me over her knee with a slipper; hard enough to really make me howl.
I can still picture the scene as if it were yesterday: the living room, late afternoon sunlight slanting through the curtains. My mother would sit on the edge of the old floral sofa, her face set with a mixture of disappointment and resolve. I’d be summoned, heart pounding, cheeks already burning with shame and dread. She’d take me gently but firmly by the wrist, guiding me across her lap. The world seemed to shrink to the scratchy fabric of her skirt and the looming presence of the slipper in her hand.
The first smack always came as a shock—a sharp, stinging slap that made me gasp. Each stroke after that built on the last, the pain blossoming across my skin, hot and immediate. I’d kick and squirm, but her arm held me fast, and the slipper kept falling, each swat echoing in the small room. My cries would fill the air, mingling with the sound of the slipper and the steady, unyielding voice of my mother reminding me why I was being punished.
When it was over, I’d be left sobbing, my bottom throbbing and my pride in tatters. The aftermath was always the same: a few minutes spent in the corner, sniffling and rubbing away tears, the sting lingering long after the punishment had ended. Yet, even in my misery, there was a strange sense of relief—a line drawn under my misdeed, a chance to start again.
The sting of the slipper was sharp and immediate, leaving my skin red and my pride bruised. I remember the way the room would seem to close in around me, the walls echoing with my cries, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness that would wash over me.
However, after that, my parents felt I was too old for an over-the-knee slippering, so they would on very rare occasions cane me. I’d have to bend over the kitchen table, for up to eight strokes of the cane. The anticipation was often worse than the punishment itself; the sound of the cane slicing through the air, the cold surface of the table against my skin, and the sharp, searing pain that followed each stroke. I know that might not sound much but even two or three strokes would make me yell and I’d be sore for several days.
A typical caning at my mother’s hands was a ritual I dreaded. The kitchen would be silent, the air heavy with expectation. I’d be told to fetch the cane from its place above the pantry door—a thin, whippy rod about three feet long, smooth and menacing in my trembling hands. My mother would stand by the table, her expression unreadable, and instruct me to bend right over, gripping the far edge with white knuckles. The cold, hard surface pressed against my stomach, and I could feel my heart hammering in my chest as I waited, every muscle tensed. There was always a pause—a moment that seemed to stretch forever—before the first stroke landed. The sound was a sharp, whistling crack, followed by a line of fire across my skin. I’d gasp or cry out, the pain immediate and shocking, but there was no time to recover before the next stroke followed, each one building on the last. My legs would tremble, and sometimes I’d stamp my feet or bite my lip to keep from yelling, but by the third or fourth stroke, the tears would come, hot and unstoppable. The cane left raised, angry welts that throbbed with every heartbeat, and by the end, I’d be sobbing openly, my face pressed against the cool wood of the table. When it was over, I’d be sent to my room, the pain lingering, my pride in pieces, and the marks a vivid reminder for days. The emotional aftermath was just as intense—a mix of shame, relief, and a strange sense of closure, knowing the punishment was done and I could begin again.
The cane was about 3ft long and very whippy, and would leave marks right across my bottom. The welts would rise almost immediately, a testament to the force behind each stroke. The pain was a constant reminder of my transgressions, lingering long after the punishment had ended.
The last time I was caned, I’d just passed my driving test when a neighbour ‘kindly’ mentioned to my parents that they’d seen me going too fast in the family car. For that, I got the full eight strokes and not only did I yell, I was in tears by the end of it. The humiliation of being disciplined at an age when I felt I should be beyond such punishments was almost as painful as the caning itself.
However, my worst experience was about a year earlier. I’d been rude to my mother and to be honest deserved a caning – but worse was to come. The guilt and shame I felt were compounded by the knowledge that I had disappointed my parents, and the fear of the impending punishment was almost unbearable.
The next day my girlfriend came to tea, and Being caned was not something I’d told her about – it was my secret and was going to stay that way. I was anxious, constantly on edge, worried that she might somehow find out.
I’d been out of the room for a moment, leaving her with just my younger brother, who to make conversation regaled her with the full story; not leaving out a stroke or a howl, nor my subsequent very audible tears. The betrayal I felt was immense, and I could feel my face burning with embarrassment as I re-entered the room.
Lindy was, of course, delighted and pumped him for every last detail, which later she in turn related to all our friends. Most embarrassing! The impact on my relationships was profound; I felt exposed and vulnerable, my private humiliation now public knowledge. It took a long time to rebuild my confidence and trust in those around me.
