My mum was a stickler for cleanliness, especially in matters of personal hygiene. If, while doing the laundry, she came across a pair of my underpants which had skid marks on the seat, she would tell my dad about it – and that evening, my bum would be getting a visit from his slipper or plimsoll.
One memorable whacking I got relating to personal hygiene occurred when I was 10 years old. I had been out playing in the local woods with my friends but before too long, I realised that I needed a poo. Now, some boys would no doubt have just found a quiet corner of the wood, dropped their pants and squatted down there and then, maybe wiping their bum with a dock leaf. But I was quite a shy boy and would have been mortified for other boys to see my bare bum and penis, let alone me doing my business.
I decided to head home. I needed to go, but there was time for me to make it home. Unfortunately, when I got back to my house, I found that my parents had popped out to the shops and the house was securely locked up. By now I was desperate to poo, but didn’t know what on earth to do.
In desperation, I frantically tried to get into the house through an open kitchen window. But as I attempted this, it happened. I felt my anus opening and a crackling sound coming from my bottom. I could only climb back down and fill my pants with smelly poo.
When it was over, there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t take off my dirty clothes as I didn’t want the neighbours to see my bottom etc, so I just sat on the steps, a picture of misery. To be honest, I quite enjoyed the sensation of the warm, squishy poo against my bottom – but I knew I was in serious trouble.
Sure enough, when Mum and Dad came back they were livid. “Go straight up to the bathroom and wipe your bottom,” Mum told me. “Get it as clean as you can, then I want you to run a bath and clean yourself up properly. Your father will be up afterwards to slipper you. That’s a very naughty boy!”
Shame-faced and stinking, I crept upstairs and went into the bathroom. I eased down my shorts and pants, and looked at the mess I had made in them. I got most of the solids down the toilet, then spent what seemed an age wiping my bottom clean. As I was running my bath, by now stark naked, I blushed as Mum looked in to scoop up my dirty clothes. “I don’t know how I’m going to get these clean, John,” she told me. “Honestly, only babies poo their pants like that! You’re going to get such a good sore bottom, young man!”
The bath finished filling and I hastily dipped myself in it. I soaped up a flannel and washed carefully around my bottom and privates, sticking a soapy finger up my bumhole at one point to make sure I was ‘really clean’.
Meanwhile, Dad had been to his wardrobe to collect the plimsoll he kept for smacking my bottom. I was just getting out of the bath and preparing to dry myself when he burst into the bathroom, carrying the instrument of correction. “You needn’t bother to dry yourself,” he said. “You’ll do as you are.” He sat down on the toilet, put a towel over his lap to protect himself and then placed his errant, wet son face down over it.
I’ve often heard people say that a bare bottom smacking is even worse when your bum is still wet and I found that out to be true that afternoon – Dad turned my little white bare bottom red all over, and I howled the place down. It was always bare bottom with him, but it was the first time I’d had it straight from the bath.
The only comfort was that my mother wasn’t there to watch me being whacked. Usually, if she caught me doing something that she thought needed the slipper, she’d order me to tell Dad what I’d done. Once I was in my room with my pants off, she’d often come in just as Dad was starting to slipper me. It was almost like she was making sure I got what was required – although the howls coming from my room would have confirmed that! On this occasion, however, the bathroom was so small that, thankfully, she wasn’t present.