In this rather unusual contribution, our correspondent writes his story from the perspective of his younger self…
Hello! My name is Ian, it’s 1972, I’m nine and a quarter and I live in a town in provincial northern England. I’ve got one sister, Jen, but she’s 21 and a nurse. I live at home with my Mummy and Daddy. I love them both very much, but they’re quite strict and it feels like I’m always in trouble for something or other.
I’ve had all sorts of punishments, like having my pocket money stopped or not being allowed to watch TV. When I was little, I used to have to go and sit on the naughty step at the bottom of our stairs and now I still sometimes get sent to my room, or even sent to bed when it’s not bedtime. But worst of all, if I’m very naughty my mummy smacks my bottom.
I hate being spanked more than anything else in the whole world! It really, really hurts and even though I’m a big boy now, it makes me cry. I try really hard not to cry, of course, but you just can’t help it when you’re having your bottom smacked.
The spanking part itself is horrid – it stings and burns and you can’t sit down afterwards without it hurting. But I hate everything else about it too – especially having my pants pulled down so everyone can see my bare bottom and my willy. It’s so embarrassing!
My mum doesn’t care about that, though. She says that if I don’t like it, then I shouldn’t be naughty and then she wouldn’t need to spank me. But she’s always talking about it and saying things like: “Do you want me to smack your bottom?”
I mean, what kind of question even is that? It’s not like I’m going to say: “Yeah, thanks Mum – that’d be great”!
The other week, we were out shopping. I was bored and kept asking to go home until, right in the middle of the shop, Mum asked: “Do you want me to pull your pants down and smack your bottom right here?” She said it really loud, so loads of other people could hear and I saw them all looking at me – some of them smiling and laughing and others tutting and shaking their heads. I just wanted to die!
If I’m lucky, sometimes I just get away with her smacking the seat of my pants or slapping my legs. That’s bad enough – it hurts and it’s embarrassing, especially if we’re out and other people are looking. But it’s nothing like a real ‘pants down’ spanking.
My last one was a few weeks back. I got caught mucking about with matches in the garden. Mummy was really cross! She yelled at me and took the matches away, then gave me a lecture about how dangerous it was and how I could have hurt myself or burned the house down.
Finally, she said the words I really didn’t want to hear: “That’s it! I’s not like you haven’t been warned about this, young man! You have a been a naughty, disobedient little boy and now I am going to smack your bottom!”
When you hear those words, it’s like the whole world stops. Your heart flutters and your tummy starts to churn. I start to panic and my only thoughts are of anything I can do to get out of my spanking. I think momentarily about running away, but Mum is right there, so I start by pleading: “No, Mummy please! I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again! Please don’t spank me – I’ll be a good boy, I promise!”
But before I know what’s happening, I find myself being grabbed by the ear and dragged back into the house. I keep pleading and squeal as my ear is twisted and I have to trot along behind my mother. I know I’m in big trouble and my heart is pounding.
More often than not, I get spanked in our living room, where Mummy can sit down on the couch, but sometimes it’s in the kitchen and sometimes it’s my bedroom.
I don’t like it anywhere but my bedroom is probably the worst because mum makes me go and sit and wait for her there. I hate that – me sitting on the bed, just waiting to be spanked and not knowing how long I’m going to be there before she comes through the door.
Often, I’m sent to my bedroom because Mum’s gone to get Dad’s slipper, which is bad. Also, if we’re in my bedroom then I know I’m going to be sent to bed afterwards – lights out, with a burning bottom. That’s so horrible!
This time, though, I am taken through the kitchen, where Mum picks up the wooden spoon off the worktop and she takes me all the way through to the living room before she lets go of me and sits in the middle of the sofa.
She has me standing right in front of her as she starts to tell me off again. “I’m very disappointed in you, Ian. I’ve told you time and again about playing with fire and yet what do I find?”
I’ve got no choice but to stand there and take the scolding and punishment. I’m already starting to cry. I don’t know why – you just have so many feelings at this point. Obviously I’m scared about what’s going to happen, especially seeing the spoon there on the sofa. I’m mad at myself for having got myself into this mess – and I’m so ashamed that I’m about to have my bottom bared.
The lecture goes on and to make it worse she’ll ask me questions like: “What did I say would happen if we ever found you doing something like this?” I have to reply: “You said you’d smack my bottom.”
I just stand there, my face burning with shame and wishing we could get it over with. Your mouth goes dry and you have butterflies in your tummy and your legs are all wobbly and then my heart sinks as she reaches forward and starts to undo my trousers.
I try holding onto the fastening but that just makes her even more cross and she slaps my hands away and makes me put my hands on my head. So I just have to stand there and let her take down my trousers, pushing them down all the way to my ankles and then finally doing the same with my underpants. I hate that bit almost more than the spanking – standing there with my trousers at my ankles and my willy on show, while mum carries on telling me off.
“Look at you – are you proud of yourself, Ian? You think you’re so big and clever but here you are, trousers and pants down, about to get your bare bottom smacked like a little toddler! What do you have to say for yourself?” By this time, I’m already crying and I just want the floor to open and swallow me up – but it doesn’t, so all I can say is: “I’m sorry, Mummy.”
That’s usually the point when Mummy orders me over her knee and I have to shuffle forward and partly bend over and partly be hauled into place, my bare tummy and willy sliding over the material of my mother’s skirt. I can do no more than stare at the floor and grab the chair legs, my legs sticking awkwardly out behind me, weighed down and held together by my trousers and pants.
I feel my mother’s warm hand resting on my cool bottom and grit my teeth as I feel her hand rise up and then it connects with my bottom, with a resounding smack, landing across both cheeks and producing a sharp, hot sting that quickly radiates and makes me gasp. It is not long before the next one lands and then the next, each smack bringing its own nasty sting, which steadily stokes the fire building in my bottom. I squirm and kick and cry with ever-growing urgency.
Mummy smacks and smacks, sometimes across both cheeks, sometimes slapping just one and moving up and down to my thighs. I am soon squealing and writhing, in floods of tears, and my legs flap about so much that my trousers come off altogether.
But Mummy pays no attention and carries on spanking as she continues to scold and chide me: “You are a naughty, naughty little boy, Ian.” Smack, smack, smack! “It’s time you learned to do as you are told.” Smack, smack, smack!
I am soon crying hard and pleading through my sobs: “Ow! I’m sorry, please Mummy. That’s enough, I’ll be good, I promise!”
Eventually the smacking stops and I lie there gasping, only to realise that my mother has now picked up the spoon. Whack, whack, whack! The spoon really makes me squeal and buck, but Mummy holds me firmly. Whack, whack, whack! I don’t know if it stings more, but it certainly hurts more, the smacks penetrating deeper than her hand. The spooning continues relentlessly as my mother ignores my pleas and spanks me until she thinks I’ve been punished sufficiently.
It is only some time after I’ve started to think I can’t take any more that mummy actually stops and then helps me up off her lap.
As I stand there unsteadily, all I want to do is cry and rub my blazing bottom – but Mummy doesn’t like me to do that. Instead, she takes my hands and puts them up on top of my head and pulls out a tissue. She wipes my face and makes me blow my nose. I hate this, because I’m nine and I can blow my own nose, but more because my bottom is so stingy that I can hardly stand still and hop from foot to foot, wiggling my hips and trying to shake the sting away.
However, without another word I am escorted to the living room corner and told: “Now, you stand there, just like that, showing off that spanked bottom, until I tell you to move. And if you turn around, you’re going straight back over my knee – do you understand?” I say nothing but nod my head and stand facing the wall. “And I want you to think about what you did, young man, where it has got you and how you are going to learn from today!”
With that, I am left to stand and think. At the beginning, still snivelling and tearful, I am grateful to be left to recover. But in probably only a handful of minutes of just staring at the wall, my sobs have begun to subside and I start to feel awkward. I can hear movement behind me, but cannot – dare not – do any more than swivel my eyes left and right.
I see nothing, so I look down. I see my bare willy sticking out and it makes me conscious that, bare below the waist, I am exposed to the room. With nothing else to think about, my mind starts to cycle through all the possibilities of what could happen. Who might see me like this? What would happen if my aunt came round? Would mummy let her see me like this – maybe make me turn round and tell her what I did? What if one of my friends came by? All these thoughts make me shudder and squirm as I stand there, bored, bottom throbbing and ashamed.
Corner time feels like it goes on for hours. My legs and my bare front are cold. My bottom isn’t, though – it still hurts lots. It’s not so much of a sting now – more of a warm, prickly ache.
Eventually, I hear my mother’s voice. “All right then, that’s enough. Come here, please.” I turn and see my mother sitting on the sofa again, just where I was spanked. I make my way over and stand in front of her.
“What do you have to say for yourself, young man?” I reply, honestly: “I’m very sorry, Mummy, I won’t do it again.”
She pulls me up and sits me on her lap, her hand gently stroking my bare bottom. “Good boy – I forgive you. I don’t like having to spank you and I don’t want to have to do it again. But if I have to, you know I will.” We stay like this for a while as she hugs me, until at last I am told to put my pants back on.
I mope around for much of the rest of the day, a rather sad and sorry little boy. I wince each time I sit down and I am subdued. But Mummy doesn’t mention it again until she inspects my bottom at bedtime.
I hated every minute of my punishment, and the aftermath. But it’s over with now. I don’t feel resentful – just a little sorry for myself. But I won’t play with matches again, and tomorrow will be a new day.