When I was a naughty boy, I would usually be sent to fetch Mum’s slipper from her shoe cupboard (unless she happened to be wearing it at the time, of course). Mostly, she would be sat in her favourite chair and I would be ordered to lie over her knee so I could be given a thorough smacking with my pants down. I got the majority of my encounters with corporal punishment from about seven to 13 years of age.
If I had really blotted my copybook (told a lie, for example), I would be sent upstairs to wait for Mum outside her bedroom. On those occasions, I knew I really was in for a good thrashing and that I wouldn’t be sitting comfortably for a day or so, already well aware of how much it was going to hurt from past experience.
By the time I heard Mum get up to go and fetch her slipper, my eyes would be brimming with tears. The person who gave birth to you, who was supposed to be your main carer, was going to deliberately come and cause you a tremendous amount of pain.
Of course, Mum didn’t think of smacking – or a ‘slipper-bottom’, as she invariably referred to it – like that. She had herself been brought on a regular sore bottoms by her own mother and firmly believed that children, and particularly me, had their control panels buried just beneath the surface of their buttocks and that regular, vigorous attention to this part of their anatomy was definitely beneficial to producing desired behavioural outcomes.
When she had collected her weapon, Mum would come upstairs, sweep past me and enter her bedroom. Shortly afterwards, she would call me in to the room. She would sweep past me and enter her bedroom, glaring at me, and shortly after, would call me in to her.
I would go in, by now trembling slightly, and find her sat on the side of my parents’ double bed. Without further ado, I would be ordered to take down my trousers and drape myself across her ample lap. Once I was in position, I would feel a sickening sensation as Mum’s warm hand went into the back of my underpants and peeled them away from my boyish bottom. While she was baring my bum, Mum would talk to me about the reason I was where I was, and what was about to happen to me.
I would usually already be crying by this point, although I dare not cause too much of a fuss, as I would be simply told to be quiet as I would soon have ‘something to cry about’. I would promise to be good, but of course it never helped. “All naughty boys promise to be good when they are over Mummy’s knee getting a good spanking,” she would remark. “It’s Mummy’s job to carrying on warming his bottom until he’s learned his lesson.”
She would sometimes start by smacking me with her hand for a few minutes, to get me properly warmed up. This happened more when I was younger and even at 13, I occasionally felt the excruciating intimacy of her palm against my bare bum. However, as I got older, and for more serious things, it would be straight to the slipper, which of course hurt a great deal more.
Mum had a very precise way of going about things. First, each bottom cheek would be given around half a dozen good whacks, one after the other. Then she would begin slippering alternate cheeks, with the occasional telling blow across my bum crack, which really hurt, especially if it was a low one.
That rubber-soled slipper made a really good job of her son’s bottom. For those who’ve never had it, let me tell you the slipper can feel quite innocuous at first. However, after the whacking has been going on for a few minutes, you get more and more sensitive to the sting of each spank and the heat building up in your backside becomes unbearable.
It never failed to make me cry, which of course was the idea, and by the time Mum decided to switch her attention to the top of my thighs, I would roaring the house down. In fact, I made so much noise that the old lady in the adjoining semi would sometimes bang on the dividing wall – though I suspect she was only upset about the din, rather than concerned with the welfare of my buttocks!
After I had been done, my bum would be as red as a postbox and I would usually be made to face the wall, slippered bottom on show and hands on my head. This wasn’t so bad if we were in Mum’s bedroom, but if I’d been spanked downstairs there was always the anxiety of somebody seeing my little chastised bum through the window or, even worse, a surprise caller who would see this naughty boy in all his glory. On other occasions, I was sent straight to bed – usually lying on my tummy as I cried myself to sleep.