Of my parents, Mum was definitely the biggest spanker, although I did get a few from my father as well. She only ever smacked me on the bare bottom, too.
If we were out in public, she would take me somewhere private to be done, such as a shop toilet or sometimes back to the car.
If we were at home, I’d normally be given my (usually quite justified) punishment in my bedroom, but that wasn’t set in stone. Sometimes, Mum would take me to my parents’ bedroom to smack me, occasionally I’d get tanned in the bathroom and even on one memorable occasion in the living room, with my bare bottom facing the windows out on to the street.
However, no matter what the circumstances, the spanking would always be administered to my naked behind. I remember one hopeful time, when I was about eight or nine. Mum had just got my trousers down to my ankles when I begged: “Mum, please, I’m really sorry. Not on the bare bum!”
“Why not?” she enquired, raising an eyebrow sceptically.
“Because it really hurts that way!”
“Owen, don’t you understand that’s precisely why I take your pants down to smack you? This is meant to hurt – to teach you the lesson you need to learn.”
Without hesitation, she pulled down my pants to join my trousers in a puddle around my ankles, and placed me in the traditional spanking position over her knee.
Another spanking I recall vividly was when I was about 11. I was in my pyjamas, ready for bedtime, but I was delaying the latter time after time, as I was playing a video game. Mum finally ordered me to bed in a most peremptory fashion and, not thinking, I told her to ‘shut up’.
That was it – I knew I was in big trouble immediately. I don’t really know what came over me, as I was certainly not accustomed to talking by to my mother like that – I wouldn’t have sat down for a month of Sundays, had I done so.
Without hesitation, she dispatched me to my room, where I sat nervously on my bed, wondering what was going to happen but having a pretty good guess at it. My blood froze when I heard a drawer opening in the kitchen below and the rattling as Mum retrieved the wooden spoon she kept for use on her son’s bare backside.
There was little delay between that and the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. She came into my room, smacking the spoon experimentally against her hand in a most unambiguous manner.
“Lie down on your tummy – now!” I complied, then briefly felt her warm hands against my buttocks as she pulled down my pyjama bottoms.
“Why do I smack you bare bottom, Owen?” she asked. “To – to make it hurt, Mum.” “Yes, it is going to hurt very much. I think you’d better hug your pillow – you’re going to need it to cry into and I’m sure you don’t want the whole street to know you’ve been a bad boy.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I buried my face, already leaking tears, in my pillow to muffle the cries and screams we both knew the spanking spoon would elicit.
I felt Mum placing a firm hand in the small of my back to hold me still for my punishment, then there was a tremendous burning across my right buttock as the spoon found its target. This wasn’t just a spanking – it was a beating, and Mum wanted to be sure I would never, ever speak to her in that manner again.
In retrospect, I can’t say I blame her. I have given both my own children a really harsh spanking whenever they have shown open disrespect like that. But I knew from my own experience as a child just how much they suffered when I took their pants down to do it.
When she thought I’d had enough, Mum ordered: “Make yourself decent and stand up.” I did so and stood there in front of her, crying like a much younger child.
“Are you ever going to speak to me like that again, Owen?” “No, Mum, I promise!” “Well, you’d better see you don’t. I think it’s about time we got a cane for you, my lad!”
I was left to cry myself to sleep. Mum never followed up on the threat of the cane, but in truth she didn’t really need one. The spoon made my backside tender for days, and there were oval marks on both buttocks too.