(gap: 2s) My childhood unfolded in a small, sun-drenched town where the days seemed to stretch on forever, and the air was always tinged with the scent of cut grass and distant woodsmoke. I remember the laughter of children echoing across the fields, the clatter of bicycle wheels on gravel, and the gentle hum of life that filled our quiet streets. Our family home was modest but warm, filled with the comforting chaos of siblings, the clink of teacups, and the ever-present watchful eye of my mother.
My mother was a woman of strong convictions, and she believed, with every fibre of her being, that a well-smacked bottom was the surest way to keep a child on the straight and narrow. Her discipline was never cruel, but it was firm and unwavering. Looking back, I can almost feel the sting of her hand, the sharp, sudden heat blooming across my skin, but also the security that came with knowing there were boundaries—lines I was not to cross. Oddly enough, I am grateful for her methods. The pain was sharp, but it was fleeting, and the lesson lingered long after the tears had dried. It was a deterrent that shaped my behaviour, a kind of tough love that, in its own way, made me feel safe.
I can still recall the first time I was spanked. I was four years old, a mischievous little thing with a mop of unruly hair and a knack for getting into trouble. My mother would sit on the edge of her bed, her face set in that familiar expression of disappointment, and gently but firmly pull me over her knee. The anticipation was always the worst part—my heart would pound so loudly I could hear it in my ears, my cheeks would flush with a mix of fear and shame, and I’d find myself fidgeting, trying to delay the inevitable. I remember the feel of her cool hands as she positioned me, the rustle of her skirt, the faint scent of her perfume. Her hand would fall three, sometimes six times, depending on the gravity of my mischief. Each smack landed with a crisp, echoing sound in the small room, the sting radiating outwards, making me gasp and squirm. My yelps would mingle with the soft murmur of her voice, reminding me why I was being punished. The pain was real, a hot, tingling burn that made my eyes water, but it was always followed by her gentle embrace, her hand smoothing my hair, her voice soothing me as the tears subsided. There was a strange comfort in the ritual—a sense that, even as she punished me, she was holding me close, keeping me safe.
As I grew older, the punishments changed. The hand was replaced by the slipper, and the ritual became more formal, more daunting. I would be told to bend over the table or the bed, my underpants offering little protection from the sting. I remember the cool feel of the tabletop beneath my hands, the way the room seemed to shrink around me, and the sharp, almost electric pain that followed each swat. The slipper was heavier, its impact deeper, leaving a throbbing ache that lingered long after the punishment was over. I would bite my lip, trying not to cry, but the tears always came, hot and silent, rolling down my cheeks as I clung to the edge of the table. Yet, even then, there was a strange intimacy to it—a sense that my mother was teaching me, guiding me, even as she disciplined me. Afterward, she would always hold me, her arms wrapped around me, her voice gentle, reassuring me that I was loved, that the punishment was over, and that tomorrow was a new day.
But there is one memory that stands out above all the rest—a punishment so different, so searing, that it has never left me. It was the day I learned what it meant to truly cross the line.
At the end of our road, beyond the last row of houses, ran a railway line. It was a place of mystery and danger, a forbidden world that beckoned to every child in the neighbourhood. My mother’s warnings were clear and absolute: never play on the tracks. She told me stories of accidents, of children who didn’t listen, and always ended with the same promise—a punishment I would never forget if I disobeyed.
Of course, temptation got the better of me. One golden afternoon, with the sun low in the sky and the world bathed in honeyed light, I found myself wandering too close to the rails. The stones crunched beneath my shoes, and the metal gleamed invitingly. I felt a thrill of rebellion, a flutter of fear and excitement. That thrill vanished the moment a railway policeman appeared, his shadow long and stern across the tracks. He marched me home, his grip firm on my shoulder, and my heart sank with every step.
When we reached the house, my mother’s face was a mask of fury and worry. She thanked the policeman, her voice tight, and then turned to me with a look that made my stomach twist. “Into the dining room,” she ordered, her tone brooking no argument. The room felt colder than usual, the ticking of the clock impossibly loud. I stood there, rubbing my behind in anxious anticipation, convinced I was about to meet the business end of her slipper once again.
“Are you going to spank me, mother?” I asked, my voice trembling. She nodded, her eyes steely. “Oh yes. Now, you just wait here.” The wait was agony. I stared at the faded wallpaper, the worn rug beneath my feet, and tried to guess how many strokes I’d get. My mind raced with memories of past punishments—the sting, the tears, the relief when it was over. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.
When my mother returned, she was holding something I had never seen before—a slender bamboo cane. It looked almost delicate, but I could sense its menace. I had heard stories of the cane at school, whispered among classmates, but it had always seemed a distant threat, something that happened to other boys. Now, it was real, and it was in my mother’s hand.
“I warned you not to play on that line,” she scolded, her voice trembling with emotion. “You have deliberately disobeyed me, and now you are going to pay the price. As you are so fond of train lines, I am going to provide you with some of your own by giving you two good hard strokes with this cane.” Her words sent a chill through me, and I suddenly understood the gravity of what I had done.
I was terrified, but there was a strange comfort in her certainty. At least I knew what was coming. “Right—bend over.” I hesitated, fear and shame warring inside me. “Oh no, mother!” I pleaded, but her reply was swift and uncompromising. “Do as you are told—or I will cane your legs as well as your bottom.” That was enough. With trembling hands, I bent over the table as she instructed, my hands gripping the edge so tightly my knuckles turned white. My heart hammered in my chest, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. I could feel the vulnerability , the anticipation building to a fever pitch. The silence was absolute, broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards as my mother positioned herself behind me.
The silence was deafening. I could hear my own breathing, the faint creak of the table, the distant sounds of life outside—a dog barking, a car passing, the world oblivious to my dread. I felt the cane tap lightly against my bottom, a warning, and then—whoosh…crack! The first stroke landed just above the middle of my bottom. For a moment, there was nothing, and then a searing, burning pain exploded across my skin. It was as if a line of fire had been drawn, the pain sharp and immediate, radiating outwards in a hot, throbbing wave. I gasped, clutching the table, my knuckles white, my eyes squeezed shut as I tried to hold back the tears. The second stroke followed, lower and harder, the sound echoing in the room, the pain even more intense. I couldn’t hold back the sob that burst from my lips, the tears spilling down my cheeks as I trembled, my whole body shaking with the force of it. It was only two strokes, but they hurt more than any slippering I had ever received. The pain was deep, a burning ache that seemed to settle in my bones, mingling with the shame and regret that flooded through me. I sobbed, the pain mingling with shame and relief that it was over.
“Now go to bed,” my mother said, her voice cold but not unkind. I stumbled to my room, my bottom throbbing, my face wet with tears.
