I was born and brought up in the south of Germany during the 70s in a middle class family, where the husbands worked hard and the women raised their children.
Until I was seven years old, spanking was no more than a threat by my mother, with warnings such as: “I know what you need – a sound spanking on your bare bottom” or “Another word from you, and you will get a very sore behind!”
In some situations, the threat increased: my mother went to the kitchen drawer, took out the wooden spoon and placed it on the kitchen table. Just the presence of that spoon was, for a while, enough to make me behave again.
The wooden spoon was mom’s favourite implement for spankings – I think it was because most of her day was spent in the kitchen, so she had a quick access ‘in an emergency’ to a very handy and very effective instrument. I had had some swats on my rear end with her hand before this, but I wouldn’t call it a spanking, even if it was always on the bare.
The first time I received a real spanking when I was seven. I was back from school, resting in the kitchen with my mother. She was preparing dinner for the family and asked some questions concerning the school day. What she got were very naughty answers.
We got into a dispute, I began to shout and the next moment she had grabbed me by the arm, unzipped my pants and pulled down my underpants.
I remember her words: “That’s enough – you will soon have a very sore, crimson bottom and we’ll keep doing this until you behave!”
With that, I was put on the kitchen bench. I heard her feet marching to the cupboard, and I remember the noise as she searched for the wooden spoon in a drawer. Again, the sound of slippers on the floor.
“I will show you!” I cried, begged and sobbed as she spanked me, all to no avail – she applied the wooden spoon furiously on my bare buttocks, and the sound of loud smacks filled the air.
I had never felt such a pain as those 20 strokes. When she stopped, I turned around and saw a deep red behind, in some locations already becoming blue and welted. I cried like hell. My mother warned me: “You stay here on the bench with your pants and panties down, and you don’t move or rub your rear end.”
With that, she took the wooden spoon off the kitchen table next to me and I heard her as she continued preparing the family dinner, me crying, sobbing and silently cursing – although not silently enough, because mom returned to me, grabbed the wooden spoon and applied it five more times to my sore buttocks. I think I had to stay on the bench for about an hour.
Later she put my sore bottom in the bathtub, carried me to bed and gave me a warm and lovely hug. With that, she turned off the light and marched out.