My parents split up when I was very young – my mother ran off with a friend of my dad’s, and after about six months they went off together to live in Spain, leaving my dad to bring me up alone.
That all changed when he met Elaine some years later, when by now I was eight years old. I liked Elaine a lot and when Dad told me that they were to be married, I wasn’t at all unhappy with the idea.
However, soon after the marriage and Elaine moving in, I discovered an unexpected snag – my new stepmother was much stricter with me than Dad was. I suppose my father had gone a little easy on discipline, given the fact that I had been pretty much abandoned by my birth mother, and looking back I was a bit out of control and pushing boundaries to an unacceptable level.
At first, this discipline consisted of telling offs from the person I had now been taught to call ‘mum’. She would often squat down so she was looking me right in the eyes while scolding me about my behaviour, her right index finger wagging from time to time to make her point clear.
After a couple of telling offs, the discipline was escalated to me being sent to my room for a while, and one day, as I trudged up the stairs, she called after me: “…and if your behaviour doesn’t improve, Martin, we’ll have to see what a smacked bottom will do!” Part of me was mortified about being spanked like a baby (as I saw it) by my new mother, but there was part of me which, strangely, also desired it.
I decided there was no way Mum would actually follow up on this threat – after all, I was a ‘big boy’ and this was long past the days when there was corporal punishment at school, for example. I couldn’t ever remember either my dad or birth mother ever smacking me, although they may have I suppose.
For a while there was no further mention of the sanction – just telling offs and being sent to my room – but then one day, I got into trouble at school for hitting a girl who had been annoying me on the playground. I was sent to the headteacher and while she didn’t punish me herself, she sent a note home to my parents.
My stepmother was furious. There was no way, in her view, that a boy should hit a girl in any circumstances, whatever the provocation (which I, of course, protested about at length). She looked me straight in the eye and said: “Right, young man, you’re upstairs for a smacked bottom right now – you can’t say you don’t have this coming.”
She grabbed my hand and firmly marched me upstairs to my bedroom. I had a desk and chair in there for doing my homework, and Mum drew the chair out quickly and sat down. “What you need is some old-fashioned discipline, Martin, and that’s exactly what you’re going to get.”
Her hands went to the button of my school shorts. “No, Mum, please!” I shouted, but she took no notice. Very deftly, she unbuttoned and unzipped me, then put my shorts down to my ankles. To my absolute horror, she then put her thumbs in the waistband of my underpants and tugged those down too. I was used to bathing myself by this point and this was the first time my stepmother had even seen my bum and privates – it was excruciatingly embarrassing.
I didn’t have long to think about that shame, though, as the next thing I knew I was being placed face down across her knee and the palm of her hand came down on both buttocks at once. I yelled as I felt my bum begin to burn from that first spank. “Don’t cry yet – I’ve only just started!” Mum warned.
She then spanked me as thoroughly as any child has ever been spanked. She had a strong arm and a hard hand – slap after slap rang out in the room as she spanked my bare bottom red and sore. By the conclusion, I was bawling like a toddler. When she had finished spanking me, Mum bundled me on to my bed, pants still around my ankles, and told me: “You can stay there until you think you’re ready to come back down and say sorry.”
Well, it took a while to control the tears but I eventually stopped sobbing, examined my (very red) backside in the mirror and hastily pulled my lower clothes back up. After a quick visit to the bathroom to was the tears from my face and have a wee, I slowly descended the stairs.
“Well?” Mum said, spying me creeping into the kitchen. “I’m sorry!” I choked and began to cry again. Mum drew me to her bosom and allowed me to let it all out.
That was the first of many spankings I got from my stepmother, but the hugs and kisses afterwards (almost) made it worthwhile to suffer the occasional sore bottom!