(gap: 2s) My childhood in England, during the gentle years of the 1970s and early 1980s, was filled with golden afternoons, the scent of freshly mown grass, and the steady ticking of the clock in our sitting room. The world felt safe and proper, but there was always the understanding that mischief would be met with swift and certain justice. In those days, a sound spanking was as much a part of growing up as jam sandwiches and muddy knees. My own mother, brisk and resolute, believed firmly in the value of a well-administered punishment, and I became well acquainted with her lap and her strong right hand between the ages of five and thirteen.
(short pause) At school, the rules were clear and the teachers even clearer. I managed to avoid anything more than a sharp smack to the back of my legs from a stern teacher, and the dreaded cane was reserved for only the gravest of mischief. Yet, there was one day—a day that stands out in my memory as if it were carved in stone—when I came perilously close to the cane, and instead received the most memorable spanking of my life, one that would echo in my mind for years to come.
(pause) I sat beside a clever, mischievous girl named Ingrid. One ordinary afternoon, as the sun streamed through the classroom windows, we began flicking tiny wads of paper at each other, stifling our giggles behind our hands. Ingrid, always daring, placed her pen between her lips and grinned at me. In a moment of foolish bravado, I reached out and pushed the pen further into her mouth, thinking it would be a harmless joke. But to my horror, the pen slipped in too far. Ingrid’s eyes widened, she gagged and spluttered, and then, with a wail, burst into tears.
(pause) The teacher, stern and sharp-eyed, rushed to Ingrid’s side as she sobbed and clutched her throat. I felt my heart sink. The teacher, her face thunderous, led Ingrid away to the school nurse and ordered me to wait outside the deputy head’s study. I sat on the hard wooden bench, my legs swinging nervously, the corridor echoing with the distant sounds of lessons continuing without me. My stomach churned with dread.
(pause) The school secretary, a formidable woman with spectacles perched on her nose, informed me in grave tones that I was in very serious trouble. My mother had been summoned and was on her way. I was to wait in an empty classroom, alone with my thoughts and the growing sense of doom. I knew Miss Jones, the deputy head, was strict, but my mother—when roused by naughtiness—was a force of nature.
(pause) Time seemed to stretch endlessly, but at last, the door swung open. In swept Miss Jones, my mother, and Ingrid’s mother, all with faces set in stern disapproval. I felt tears prick my eyes as the three women stood before me, their voices rising and falling in a chorus of scolding. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that Ingrid could have been badly hurt, and that my behaviour was wicked and thoughtless. I felt smaller and smaller, wishing I could disappear into the floor.
(pause) Ingrid’s mother, her cheeks flushed with anger, demanded to know how I would be punished. Miss Jones explained, in her crisp, no-nonsense way, that violence towards another pupil was a grave offence, and that the cane was the usual consequence. As she spoke, my knees began to tremble and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. The thought of the cane—its swish, its sting—filled me with terror.
(pause) But Miss Jones went on to say that only the headmaster, Mr. Pym, could administer a caning, and he was away for the rest of the week. The three women exchanged glances, and my mother, her lips pressed into a thin line, suggested that she deliver a spanking right then and there. The other two nodded in agreement, and I watched in horror as my mother placed a chair in the centre of the room, directly in front of Miss Jones and Ingrid’s mother. She took my arm in a firm grip, her eyes flashing, and guided me to her side as she sat down.
(pause) I felt utterly exposed, my cheeks burning with shame as the two women settled themselves to watch. There was a fleeting moment of relief as my mother guided me over her lap, but it vanished as she adjusted my position, raising my bottom high for all to see. I was acutely aware of the view I was giving the others, and my embarrassment was almost as sharp as my fear.
(pause) Then, without further ado, my mother’s hand descended with a loud smack. The first blow was harder than any I had received before, and I squealed in shock. The second followed swiftly, and then the third, fourth, and fifth, each one landing with a resounding crack. My mother established a steady, relentless rhythm, alternating between my left and right buttocks. The pain built quickly, sharp and stinging, and I realised with horror that this was to be no ordinary spanking.
(pause) I began to squeal after each smack, my legs kicking helplessly. Tears spilled down my cheeks as my mother continued, her hand never faltering. She delivered a full twelve smacks, each one harder than the last, and by the end I was sobbing and gasping, my bottom ablaze. But she was not finished. With a stern voice, she announced that for such wickedness, I deserved extra punishment, and she delivered six more smacks—each one a lesson I would never forget. That made eighteen in all, and I howled as each one landed, my shame and pain complete.
(pause) At last, my mother paused and held me firmly over her lap. Through my sobs, she ordered me to apologise to Ingrid’s mother. My voice was barely a whisper, choked with tears, but I managed to stammer out an apology. My mother, unsatisfied, declared that I did not sound sorry enough, and delivered another six sharp, rapid smacks, bringing the total to twenty-four. Each smack was delivered with precision, her palm striking the same tender spot, and the sound echoed in the silent room. I cried out, promising to be good, and repeated my apology over and over until at last she allowed me to stand.
(pause) I stumbled to my feet, my face streaked with tears, my hands clutching my burning bottom. I no longer cared who saw me or what they thought. My mother told me sternly to stop making such a fuss, and both Miss Jones and Ingrid’s mother congratulated her on a job well done. I was led from the room, my head bowed in disgrace, the lesson of the day burning as fiercely in my mind as it did in my backside.
(pause) I never did receive the cane at school, but the story of my spanking spread quickly. Ingrid, who had heard every detail from her mother, teased me mercilessly for the rest of the term. Yet, looking back, I know that the lesson was well learned. In those days, a sound spanking was not merely punishment—it was a reminder to be kind, thoughtful, and above all, to remember that actions have consequences.
