I grew up in a typical middle-class 1960s household in the midwest, the middle child in a three-daughter family. When we were quite young, my parents would sometimes rely on spankings to correct their brood, but they weren’t severe and were soon forgotten.
They consisted mainly of a couple of swats on the seat preceding a lecture, although I have vague memories of a couple of trips across Mom’s lap for a more serious smacking on the panties. I think Dad may have even used his belt on us once or twice, but even the details of that are fuzzy.
The one spanking I do remember in vivid detail is the last one I ever received, at age 14. It was a very hot summer day and I remember being dressed in one of my dad’s old shirts, tied in a knot under my budding breasts along with a ragged pair of very short cut-off jeans. I was barefoot and had my hair in a ponytail.
I asked for and received permission from Mom to visit my best friend Patty who only lived a couple of blocks away. Mom stipulated that I must come home before three o’clock so I wouldn’t miss my piano lesson.
As you might imagine, Patty and I lost all track of time. We were so busy playing records and talking about boys that it was almost a quarter to four when I arrived home again.
Mom, of course, was angry. After a good scolding, she informed me that I was totally grounded for three days. That meant no television, no telephone and no leaving the house. That was pretty standard punishment at the time, since none of us girls had been spanked since age six or so.
After announcing my sentence, Mom left to go to the grocery store. Taking advantage of the opportunity, I sneaked into the kitchen and used the wall phone to call Patty and tell her what happened.
I guess we chatted longer than I realised. I had just told her I had to go since I didn’t want Mom to catch me on the phone when I looked around and saw Mom standing in the doorway, holding a bag of groceries.
As I hastily hung up the phone, Mom set the bag down on the table and grabbed a pink plastic flyswatter she had just purchased. She used one hand to grab my left arm and the other to wield her weapon.
While I sang the ‘I’m so sorry song’, Mom used that flyswatter all over my bare, dancing legs. The spanks were rapid and hard. I couldn’t believe how much they stung!
She covered the entire backs of both legs, from thighs to calves, and repeatedly smacked the outside of my right thigh. I was soon crying hysterically, both from the shock of being spanked and the intense stinging of the licks.
Mom was persistent, continuing to spank while she said over and over: “You will not disobey me that way, young lady!”
After a good 25 or so smacks, Mom finally stopped and told me to go to my room. I ran there sobbing, my nose running like a river, where I stood in front of the mirror and surveyed the damage. Both legs were covered in angry red blotches. It looked and felt like my summer tan had suddenly turned into the world’s worst sunburn.
Almost as bad as the spanking itself was dinner that night, when Mom announced to Dad: “Guess what? Suzanne’s not too old for a spanking after all!” She proceeded to tell the story in great detail while my sisters sat there and grinned at me.
Dad was not amused at my disobedience and he followed up Mom’s story by telling me that my next misbehaviour would be met with a ‘good dose of strap oil’ from his belt.
I remember thinking at the time that surely even that couldn’t compare with Mom’s flyswatter from hell. I never found out, though, because I mended my ways quickly – just in case!