(gap: 2s) My childhood, set amidst the gentle bustle of a 1950s English suburb, was a tapestry woven with laughter, grazed knees, and the ever-present scent of freshly cut grass. Yet, there is one particular day that stands out, shining with a peculiar brilliance—a day that marked the beginning of my own journey towards understanding right and wrong.
In the grand chronicle of growing up, this is simply the story of a boy—let us call him Kevin—who began to find his own way. It is the tale of a most unexpected and memorable chastisement, one that confirmed what I had quietly wondered: that discipline, when delivered with care, could be both formidable and formative.
I was raised in a cheerful, well-kept home. My father, Mr. Alan, managed his own business, while my mother, Mrs. Linda, worked part-time and later full-time as I grew older. I never truly lacked for anything.
By that time, corporal punishment had been abolished in English state schools, and my parents were not given to raising a hand in anger. Still, curiosity often got the better of me, and I would ask my friends, “Have you ever been punished?” The answer was invariably the same: pocket money withheld, toys taken away, or time in front of the wireless curtailed.
In truth, most of my friends—Paul, Gary, and Julie—rarely faced any punishment at all. Usually, there would be a serious conversation about what was right and what was wrong, and that would suffice.
Yet, for reasons I could not then explain, I found myself longing for a proper, old-fashioned punishment. I read about the days of straps, canes, and belts, and felt both horrified and strangely fascinated. My generation was fortunate, I knew, but the stories of bygone discipline held a curious allure.
As I grew older, this feeling only intensified. Eventually, I became a member of what I privately called the “punished club.” It was not the only time, but it is the one I recall most vividly.
When new neighbours arrived, the entire street—Maple Avenue—gathered for a welcome party. I was enlisted to help, carrying paper plates and napkins to the great wooden tables in Mrs. Davey’s garden. The benches could seat a dozen children with ease.
As I set the table, a lively group of children—Simon, Tracy, and little Mark—dashed about, daring one another to approach the mothers seated on the benches, their backs turned, feigning indifference.
One mother, Mrs. Sue, would lunge playfully at any child who ventured too close, causing the boys to squeal and challenge each other to even greater feats of daring. Occasionally, she would land a playful smack, and the “victim” would leap about, exaggerating the drama for the amusement of all.
Inevitably, someone was caught. Simon squealed as Mrs. Sue seized him, wrapping her arms around him while the rest of us roared with laughter.
As I placed the plates, Mrs. Sue smiled, “Now I have you!” Right before my eyes, she tucked Simon under her arm, positioned him firmly between her knees, and delivered a series of sharp, resounding smacks to his bottom. She did not hold back; her hand landed with a succession of crisp, unmistakable slaps, each one echoing through the garden. Simon laughed so heartily he nearly toppled over, but there was a gleam in his eye, a mixture of surprise and delight, as he wriggled and squirmed, half attempting to escape, half wishing to remain.
A surge of excitement coursed through me, as though I had been the one chastised. Simon scampered away, rubbing his bottom and grinning, and Mrs. Sue called after him, “That will teach you!” The other mothers applauded, and one—Mrs. Debbie—rubbed her hands together, eager for her turn. The air was thick with anticipation; the game was now in earnest.
The game paused as all eyes watched, then the children resumed their daring, each hoping to avoid capture. Soon, Mrs. Sue had another boy—Gary—over her knee, performing for the crowd and encouraging the other mothers to join in. Gary’s chastisement was more dramatic: Mrs. Sue sat down, pulled him across her lap, and administered a series of firm, rhythmic smacks, each one ringing out across the garden. Gary kicked his legs and yelped, but the laughter never ceased.
Mrs. Debbie caught Paul and, determined not to be outdone, placed him over her knee as well. She made a spectacle of it, raising her hand high and delivering a volley of stern, unmistakably real smacks to Paul’s shorts-clad bottom. The garden resounded with laughter as the boys wriggled and giggled, and the mothers joined in the merriment. In the confusion, it was difficult to tell whose mother was whose—everyone seemed younger than I, and the lines blurred in the chaos.
Then, a third mother—Mrs. Janet—caught little Mark, sat down, and joined the game. “In for a penny!” she laughed, as the girls watched from a safe distance, wide-eyed but not daring to be caught. Mark’s chastisement was gentler, more of a patting than a true smack, but he still squealed and wriggled, playing to the crowd.
I watched, my heart pounding, as the boys received their stern lessons. I was in the midst of a veritable “punishment festival”—three boys, all being properly chastised, right before my eyes. The sound of hand meeting fabric, the squeals and laughter, the way the mothers smiled and the boys squirmed—it was captivating, a spectacle that felt both innocent and deeply instructive.
One very small boy, scarcely more than a toddler, did not understand the rules. He ran straight into Mrs. Sue’s arms, received a few gentle pats, then toddled off to Mrs. Janet, who gave him a few more. He giggled, not quite comprehending the fuss, but clearly enjoying the attention.
Amidst the commotion, I failed to notice my own mother, Mrs. Linda, approaching from behind. Suddenly, she seized me and announced, “Look, everyone! I have caught a big one!” Before I knew it, she had seated herself on the bench, pulled me firmly over her knee, and my face was nearly in the grass, my bottom raised for all to see. I was astonished, the world spinning as I realised I was about to receive my first true chastisement, and in front of the entire gathering.
Someone called out, “Go on, Linda! Give him a proper one!” And then I felt it—my mother’s hand descending upon my bottom, the crowd erupting in laughter, the mothers encouraging her. The first smack was measured, almost experimental, but then she increased the tempo, delivering a series of brisk, stinging slaps that made my shorts snap against my skin. Each smack was accompanied by the crowd’s laughter and my own surprised exclamations.
For a moment, I was bewildered, but then the realisation struck me—I was over Mother’s knee, being properly chastised! I called out, half-heartedly, for her to stop, but it was all in good fun. The sensation was sharp, not truly painful, but certainly startling, and the embarrassment of being the centre of attention only heightened the experience.
The other mothers encouraged her, and I had no idea if anyone else was being punished or if I was the main attraction. I found myself enjoying every moment. Mother paused to laugh with Mrs. Sue, then adjusted me, pulling me closer and delivering a few more smacks, these ones rather firmer, her hand landing squarely on the seat of my shorts. I could feel the heat building, the tingling spreading, and I realised I did not wish it to end.
“Come now, Linda! Put some effort in! He will not feel it through those shorts!” someone teased. Mother obliged, smacking a little harder. I could feel the sting through my thin summer shorts, but it was more sound than pain. The rhythm of her hand, the way she paused to let the crowd react, then resumed with a flourish—it was all part of the spectacle.
I heard another boy squealing—perhaps Gary, perhaps Paul—so I was not alone. Mother laughed, “Might as well, while he is here!” and continued. I was in a state of exhilaration, relaxing into the moment, feeling a strange new excitement. The smacks came in waves, some light, some rather sharper, but always with a sense of care, never cruelty.
After what seemed an age, Mother allowed me to rise. Kneeling before her, I asked, “What was that for?” She smiled, “It looked like fun, so I thought I would join in!” The younger children teased, chanting, “You had your bottom smacked!” I rubbed my tingling backside, half embarrassed, half delighted.
I stood, gathered the plates, and as I did, Mother drew me in for a hug—more mortifying than the chastisement itself, truth be told. Her hand lingered on my back, and she gave me a reassuring squeeze, as if to say it was all in good fun.
She gave me one last playful smack and said, “Take those plates out, or Mrs. Davey will have a go next!” Secretly, I would not have minded if Mrs. Davey had joined in—I was positively aglow, wishing for more. The idea of being chastised by another mother, of being the centre of attention once again, sent a fresh wave of excitement through me.
Suddenly, I was the focus of all eyes. The mothers and children all smiled at me, perhaps because I was older than the rest. I could not count the smacks, but my bottom tingled in a manner that was oddly pleasant. My shorts offered little protection, but the sensation was more thrilling than painful. I could still feel the echo of each smack, the warmth lingering long after the game had ended.
I was elated—I had been properly chastised and found myself wishing for more. It is curious, when one is over someone’s knee, one cannot see what is happening. I would have liked to watch Mother administer my punishment, but all I saw was grass and bench legs. The mystery of it, the not knowing precisely what was coming next, only added to the excitement.
The arrival of food brought the games to a close, and everyone hurried to the tables. As I ate, I watched the mothers—Mrs. Sue, Mrs. Debbie, Mrs. Janet—chatting and serving food, just ordinary women, yet I had seen them all deliver stern but caring chastisements. Only the toddler escaped with a standing pat. The memory of those smacks, the way the mothers laughed and the boys squirmed, remained with me all afternoon.
Even better, I had been chastised as well. The more I reflected, the more I realised I was experiencing my first true feelings. That day, at that table, I connected discipline with mothers, with fun, and with something deeper. I caught Mother’s eye more than once—she smiled, blew me a kiss, and teased me all afternoon, sometimes miming a smack or winking when she thought no one else was looking.
I had butterflies for the remainder of the day, hoping the game might resume. The children ran about, but there were no further punishments. It was a splendid day, a marvellous party, and a memory I would cherish always. The echo of those stern but caring smacks, the laughter, the warmth—they became a part of me.
Later, the fathers—Mr. Alan, Mr. Davey, Mr. Thompson—retreated to the shed to discuss old motorbikes. The new neighbour possessed three, and Father asked if I wished to stay, but I chose to go home. I was on the verge of new feelings, eager to be alone and contemplate what had occurred, to replay every smack, every laugh, every moment over Mother’s knee.
Mother and I walked home. She placed her arm around my shoulders. “That was a delightful party, was it not?” I nodded. “And it has been years
