Growing up in the Midwest, my sister and I were raised by a strict but loving mother. When I was very young, spankings tended to be quick – a few smacks over the skirt – but as I got older, they became more ritualised.
When my behaviour warranted punishment, Mom would inform me that I was going to get a spanking. Although she would not administer it immediately, I gradually discovered that the anticipation worsened the actual punishment.
Then, in the evening when I had had my bath and was in my nightgown, Mother called me to my room, shutting the door behind me.
She would make me sit on my bed while she sat on a chair, and then ask me if I knew what I had done to deserve a spanking. I usually replied ‘yes’ and meekly stated the offence. Mom would tell me that I had been naughty, and she had to punish me because she loved me and wanted me to be a good girl.
After talking to me, my Mom made me come to her right hand side and, if I had been particularly bad, she would lift up my nightie to expose my naked backside for spanking. She would then bend me over her knee and deliver 15 to 30 hard slaps to my buttocks. The first few times I tried to resist, but I soon found out that struggling would only make punishment longer and more painful.
When the spanking was complete, Mom would tuck me into bed with a kiss. But sometimes, when she had left, I pulled back the covers to look at my reddened fanny.