I grew up in a working class family during the 1980s. Although corporal punishment was being increasingly discouraged by the parenting magazines etc, the reality was that a lot of kids still got a sore bottom when they misbehaved. That was certainly true for myself and my younger sister Tracy.
Where CP was concerned, ever since we were little girls our father had taken on the sole responsibility for tanning our arses. As far as Mum was concerned, Dad was head of the household and it was right that he did the smacking.
If we misbehaved when Dad was not there, Mum would send us to the room we shared with the classic threat of ‘wait till your father gets home’. We would lie nervously on our beds and not long after we heard his car pull up on the drive, Dad would come upstairs and smack our bums.
This was done with an old slipper Dad kept specially for the job. We would be given a classic bare bottom smacking, knickers down and skirt up over our father’s knee. Sometimes he would put his hand up our skirt and take down our pants first, on other occasions he would put us across his knee first, flip our skirt and then take our knickers down. As I got older, I definitely preferred the second method as it was more ‘modest’, though of course girls show pretty much everything they have in that position anyway.
The slipper had a hard rubber sole and stung like crazy. We never made any pretence of being brave – tears were expected and tears indeed were shed.
The punishment was almost always referred to by both Mum and Dad as ‘the naughty girls’ medicine’. As far as they were concerned, our misbehaviour was a sickness and Dad had the cure! After the slipper, we would be allowed to cry for a while in our room, then we would be expected to come back downstairs and apologise.
I’ve read other accounts here of kids walking in on their parents making love. I never did that, but I did quite often overhear them. My parents were fairly lax about privacy if they thought us girls were asleep (as indeed we should have been). Sometimes they would fuck downstairs in the lounge before retiring for the night (I overheard this a few times when stealthily popping to the toilet for a wee) but more often than not, they did it in bed.
By the time I was 10 rising 11, I had become fascinated with sex. Snooping around my parents’ bedroom one day when they were out, I discovered a much-thumbed copy of The Joy of Sex and was wide-eyed at all the graphic illustrations of the various positions and practices. It was all so mysterious and grown-up. Of course, I’d have had my arse comprehensively tanned by Dad if he’d found out I’d looked at that particular book!
Nevertheless, I learned a great deal from it and began to touch myself for the first time. And it felt naughtiest if I was listening to my parents’ grunts and moans coming from downstairs, or the bed rocking in the room next door.
As I got older, it dawned on me that there was a definite link between the ‘naughty girls’ medicine’ and the frequency of my parents fucking. Although he never spanked us without good reason or touched us inappropriately, it’s clear now that smacking his daughters’ bare bottoms was a turn-on for Dad, which he then sought relief for in the marital bed.