I grew up in what would now be called a cult – there was strict dress, non-mainstream schooling, extreme entanglement with the church and little outside influence.
I am an only child, as Mother nearly died giving birth to me and had a radical hysterectomy very shortly after giving birth. She resented me for this. Worse, the church connected her health problems with my ‘original sin’. So ironically, in a setting where having many children was actively promoted (women were to be kept barefoot and pregnant, basically), I was seen as evidence of sin and was shunned.
I knew of my spanking fetish from a young age. It would have been impossible not to be, because from the age of three to around 17, I was spanked at least once a week – usually more.
Mother, Father, or any number of Misses and Misters (any other adult in the church) could punish any of us. It was in the name of God, allegedly.
I quickly grew to lust after the feeling of an adult’s knees underneath my tummy and their hand against my bare bottom. I hated the hairbrush and the wooden spoon which were sometimes substituted in more serious circumstances. Those two implements were just an application of pure pain, but although a smacked bottom made me cry, I appreciated the sting and the building warmth an adult’s hand could bring to my behind.
We were taught by my Aunt Naomi. She taught me and my cousins on all sides in my Uncle Stephan’s lounge, as it was the largest room available. The education, such as it was, was of pretty poor quality and I’m still not very good at writing.
Naturally, with 50-odd children of all different ages crammed into such a room, Aunt Naomi had to keep control. She did this with her spanker, in reality a small wooden bread board. This paddle was about half an inch thick and when applied vigorously to a child’s bottom, it made an horrific noise and left deep, burning pain. Perhaps not surprisingly, I was generally quiet and obedient in school and rarely caught enough of my aunt’s attention to get done.
From around the age of 13, spanking definitely began to feel overtly sexual to me. I didn’t need to misbehave to earn more because I already my bottom smacked so much. anyway. I would obediently place myself over whoever’s lap I was ordered to, and lie submissively and limply to take my punishment.
Later, back in my bedroom, I would masturbate to the memory. My hands would go down the front of my pants and I would rub my vulva and clitoris, becoming more and more wet as I did so, the sexual impulse fuelled by the residual warmth in my bottom from the spanking. After a while I would put a finger in my vagina to complete the job, occasionally raising my wanking hand to my nose to smell my own arousal.
The only spanking I got as a child that I truly think did me some good came from my much older cousin Leah. Leah was always kind and sweet to me growing up, and is one of the few family members I have contact with in adulthood.
Leah and I had been trusted with some money to buy some food, and I had stolen the change to buy sweets. Leah realised what I’d dpne and replaced the change from her own purse to prevent me from getting into serious trouble.
But then she took me to my bedroom when we got back and spoke to me seriously. She explained why stealing was wrong and the negative impact it could have on our family, and explained that she wanted me to make better choices in the future.
Then she put me over her lap for a good hand spanking on the seat of my knickers. Afterwards, she hugged me close and reassured me that she still loved me. That spanking taught me not to steal, and it was the love as well as the smacks that taught me.
I have four children of my own – Abbie is the eldest, then come Ben, Connor and Daisy. Although my husband was raised in a household with no spanking whatsoever, naturally I had already been exposed to a great deal of CP. So it seemed natural to smack the children, and my husband agreed to my using it.
Abbie was by nature well-behaved and needed very little discipline. Ben, by contrast, was a real tearaway and was put over my knee quite often.
Connor was quieter– he was labelled as ‘slow’ at school and later diagnosed with several learning disabilities – but would get pulled along by Ben and earned his fair share of sore bottoms.
Daisy was the naughtiest. A late addition to the family, she got babied quite a lot and thought she could get away with anything. It didn’t matter how many times she was punished, she was always convinced she’d get away with naughtiness.
For more of Harriet’s reminiscences of motherhood, see this story in our Red Bottom Club.