I grew up during the in France during the 1970s, and was raised by my single mother. I was an energetic child, whom she loved and spoiled whenever she could. However, I also had to live by her strict rules and disobeying them often resulted in a smacked bottom!
My experience of corporal punishment was pretty typical of the times. Smackings probably began around three years old, by having the seat of my trousers slapped when I misbehaved. When I was six, after a serious misdemeanour, I received my first formal, over-the-knee, bare bottom smacking. From this point on, my backside was usually naked for chastisement across my mother’s lap. Several months after that incident, my spankings escalated to a new level.
Mum had cancelled a visit to my cousins’ home after her car broke down. We could have used the public transport to go but it was quite a lengthy trip and Mum was tired after a hard working week. I was really disappointed at not being able to go and threw a tantrum, which had no effect – Mum wouldn’t change her mind. I then ran to my bedroom and angrily slammed the door. If Mum had felt sorry for me at first, this dispelled all sympathy.
She came to my bedroom and I realised that her compassion had gone – slamming doors was a big ‘no no’ in our house. Mum took my trousers and underpants down, sat on my bed and dragged me face down over her knee. Two dozen hard, rapid smacks rained down on my bottom.
After reddening my bum, Mum asked me if I had something to say to her. I should have answered with a sincere apology, as I was of course supposed to, but my frustration overcame my feelings of remorse. Between two sobbing hiccups, I muttered the French equivalent of ‘shit’. I must have underestimated the level of my reply because Mum – calmly but no less furious – asked me: “What did you just say?”
Suddenly, scared by the likely consequence of my rudeness, I answered with a genuine ‘sorry’, realising I really had done something naughty. I felt Mum’s chest pressing against my back along with her left arm, which was holding me in position. Her right leg was moving, too, for a reason I couldn’t figure. I finally managed to turn my head backwards and was surprised to notice Mum was wearing only her left fluffy wedge mule.
While I was wondering where her missing right slipper could be, I heard a loud ‘whack!’ – which was followed by a shooting pain across my buttocks. Before I could even react, Mum was once again crashing the sole of her removed slipper against my already sore backside. I began crying and howling like I never had before and would have apologised for every crime in the world in order to stop the continuous walloping of her slipper.
I can’t remember how long my first slippering lasted or how many smacks I got, but after Mum left me, confined to my room, I fell asleep almost instantaneously. After an unexpected nap of about two hours, I went to Mum, told her I was deeply sorry and was hugged during several minutes. She told me I was never to use foul language again, but I was now forgiven.
Thus began a long history of regular meetings between my bare bottom and my mother’s slippers!