Around the age of seven, in 1986, I went through a patch of stealing. Mum and dad were deeply honest people and naturally found my habit disgusting.
I remember that Mum once smacked the palms of my hands with her hairbrush to try and show me ‘what naughty hands would get’. I made the mistake of laughing about this – it made Mum furious, and she bared me and gave me a properly spanked arse.
My stealing habit probably reached a peak close to my eighth birthday, when I stole some cool birthday candles that lit up in different colours from our local corner shop.
Mum discovered these in my room and naturally, I had no good explanation about how they might have been honestly come by. She was furious and her shouting could probably have been heard several streets away.
Mum led me upstairs, smacking the seat of my trousers all the way up, and into my room. Once there, she pulled down off my trousers and pants entirely, leaving me naked from the waist down apart from my socks.
Then it was across her knee. Mum’s hand was hardened from housework and it really burned as she smacked my arse over and over again. She went right down my legs, too, and even gave my calves some slaps. Needless to say, I hated it.
She must have easily smacked me around 50 times before finally putting me face down on my bed and shouting: “If you take anything else, I’ll make that feel like a tickle, dirty boy!” She left the room and I had a bit of a cry.
I’d like to say that the spanking cured me of stealing, but I’m afraid it didn’t. I carried on stealing bits here and there, albeit less frequently and more subtly. But I did eventually get another good arse-warming for stealing, this time when I was 10. As Mum had promised, it was indeed much, much worse.