No match for discipline

This is a true story from my childhood in 1980s New Zealand. One day, when I was about eight years old, I decided to play with some matches I found in my parents’ bedroom.

My fun didn’t last long, as after a few minutes Mum came into the room and caught me red-handed. The room was full of the sulphur smell of struck matches, so it was impossible for me to deny what I had been doing.

Needless to say, my mother was absolutely furious, and quite rightly so. For starters, she delivered herself of some quite serious spanks to the seat of my trousers. This was bad enough – but much worse was to follow.

Still in a fury, Mum marched me out of the bedroom and into the lounge, calling to my dad to join us there. When Mum told Dad what I had done, his face turned to thunder too – I guess I would have severely punished my own child in such dangerous circumstances.

“What he needs is a proper smacked bottom,” was Dad’s verdict, and without further ado, Mum unzipped my trousers and lowered them to my ankles, then followed them quickly with my underpants in the same direction. By eight years old, I was quite embarrassed at even Mum and Dad seeing my bare bottom and my penis – but I didn’t have long to think about modesty.

Mum put me over one knee, while Dad grabbed my hands and held them out in front of me so I couldn’t interfere with what was to come. Then Mum gave me a serious spanking on my bare bottom. It had been quite some time since I had been given a proper one and with no protection whatsoever for my bottom, it stung like hell and I cried proportionally.

Suddenly, the smacking came to an end – but only so that Dad could sit down and swap places with Mum. I remember Dad positioning me carefully across his knee while Mum held my hands firmly out in front of me. With Dad’s left hand firmly in the small of my back, I was held in place his right hand was free to deliver another agonising tanning.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get much worse, they swapped places again and Mum finished me off, her now-rested spanking hand hitting home with full effect, as I roared, screamed and wriggled across her knee.

Our lounge had full-length glass doors. I don’t know if our neighbours were in at the time, but if they had been, they would have been afforded an excellent view of Mum and Dad thoroughly smacking my little bare buttocks. Afterwards, I ran out through the open doors into our front lawn, rubbing my very red and sore bottom, and now oblivious to any thoughts of modesty.

If anyone saw me, I’m sure they would have just laughed at the whole event. Spanking was a commonplace aspect of family life in the country back then, and no-one would have thought much about a little boy nursing a sore bottom. Indeed, just down the road from us was a family with two girls, whose parents kept a cane for when they were naughty. So in retrospect I probably got off quite lightly.

That was one of only three times I was properly spanked during my childhood, but each one taught me an important lesson and my parents made a ‘proper job’ of it every time it was needed.

Contributor: Anonymous

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