(gap: 2s) This story is a vivid memory from my childhood, set in the north of England during the late 1960s or early 1970s. The details are etched into my mind, as clear as the sunlight that used to filter through the kitchen window of our modest brick house. It is the story of the first time I ever received a smacked bottom—a moment that would shape my understanding of boundaries, consequences, and my mother’s resolve.
(short pause) My mother was a woman of her word, but until that day, her threats of a smacked bottom had always been just that—threats. She would warn me with a stern voice, “I am going to the cupboard to get my slipper to use on your bottom,” or, “Bad boys get their bottom smacked.” These words would hang in the air, heavy with possibility, but never followed by action. I had grown used to the idea that her warnings were simply part of the background noise of childhood, like the ticking of the kitchen clock or the distant hum of traffic outside.
(pause) On this particular afternoon, the kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of herbs and meat. My mother and her friend Anne were busy preparing some kind of stuffing, their hands moving deftly as they chatted and laughed. A large white plastic bowl, brimming with red meat stuffing, sat on the linoleum floor. The sunlight caught the bowl, making it gleam like a treasure chest to my young eyes. I was drawn to it, unable to resist the urge to play.
(short pause) With a mischievous grin, I decided it would be great fun to trample around in the stuffing. I leapt into the bowl, feeling the cool, squishy mixture ooze between my toes. For a moment, I was lost in the sensation, giggling at the mess I was making. But my mother’s reaction was swift and sharp. Her face darkened with anger as she lifted me out of the bowl, her hands firm but not unkind. “If you do that again, I will smack your bottom,” she warned, her voice low and serious. Then, she left the kitchen to fetch something, leaving me alone with Anne.
(pause) The temptation was too much. The bowl sat there, inviting and irresistible. I glanced at Anne, who was busy with her own tasks, and before I knew it, I was back in the bowl, stomping around in the red meat stuffing. The thrill of rebellion surged through me, mingled with a childish belief that nothing bad would happen. After all, my mother had never actually smacked me before.
(short pause) Anne’s voice cut through my fun. “Stop that at once!” she said, her tone sharp. I ignored her, caught up in my own world. But when she repeated herself, her voice rising in anger, I hesitated. “If you were my son, I would smack your bottom,” she declared, her eyes narrowing. Suddenly, the game didn’t seem so funny anymore. I clambered out of the bowl, my heart pounding, and stood awkwardly beside it, hoping to avoid further trouble.
(pause) The kitchen door creaked open, and my mother returned. Anne wasted no time in telling her what I had done. My mother’s face flushed with fury, her eyes blazing. In one swift motion, she grabbed me by the arm, sat down heavily on a kitchen chair, and pulled me over her knee. The world seemed to shrink to the small circle of light around us, the rest of the kitchen fading into the background.
(short pause) Fear gripped me. My mother had put me over her knee before, but only for a gentle warning—a swat or two, quickly forgotten after a promise to behave. This time, I sensed something different. Her grip was unyielding, her posture resolute. Panic rose in my chest, and I squirmed desperately, trying to wriggle free. For a brief moment, I almost succeeded, but her hold tightened, and I realized escape was impossible.
(pause) I pleaded with her, my voice trembling. “I’ll never do it again, I promise!” I cried, hoping my words would soften her resolve. But my mother’s face was set, her jaw clenched. My pleas fell on deaf ears.
(short pause) Then, with a deliberate motion, my mother reached for her slipper—the very one she had so often threatened to use. I remember the way the light glinted off its worn sole as she gripped it in her hand. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself. My heart hammered in my chest, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps as I waited, suspended in dread.
(pause) The first smack landed with a sharp, unmistakable sound—a flat, stinging slap that seemed to echo off the kitchen walls. The sensation was immediate: a hot, biting sting that blossomed across my skin, making me gasp. Before I could catch my breath, another smack followed, and then another, each one delivered with the unyielding authority of the slipper. The pain was sharper than anything I had ever felt, a burning heat that built with every strike, radiating outwards and making my legs kick involuntarily.
(short pause) My mother’s grip was ironclad, holding me firmly in place as the punishment continued. The slipper rose and fell in a steady rhythm, each smack punctuated by the soft thud of rubber against flesh and my own escalating cries. I could feel the texture of the slipper’s sole, the way it seemed to mold itself to the curve of my bottom, leaving behind a tingling, fiery ache that grew with every blow. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unchecked, blurring my vision as I sobbed and pleaded for mercy.
(pause) I looked desperately at Anne, silently begging her to intervene, but my mother’s voice cut through my cries: “It’s no use looking at Anne.” Her words were final, her resolve absolute. The spanking seemed to stretch on forever, each smack a lesson in consequence,
