Most who grew up in a wealthy family may write to you and speak of maids, governesses, staff – we did not have that. We had a cleaner, but everything else was handled by my parents.
We lived in a six-bedroom house in London. With only two children and my parents, this left three bedrooms spare. One was a guest room, one was an office – and the last one was known simply as ‘The Room’. In spanking fiction it would be called the Discipline Room or something similarly gauche – but it was just ‘The Room’ to us.
It was the smallest bedroom; had it been used as a bedroom, it would only have fit a single bed and a small wardrobe.
My mother set it up differently: a wooden stool in the two corners of the room closest to the door, a small chest of drawers, and an old chaise lounge from my grandmother’s house.
The window had a blind – the rest of our house had curtains – and it was kept nearly permanently closed. The window didn’t even open. The lightbulb hung bare from the ceiling, and it was a cold white bulb, deemed not homely enough for the rest of the house.
The Room had many purposes over the years: hiding Christmas gifts, storing suitcases, keeping coats during a party.
But its primary purpose was discipline. Not necessarily corporal punishment: mother and father would often send us to sit on one of the stools facing the wall, at times for hours on end. The stools had no lower bars to rest our feet on, and in time our legs would ache and feet would go to sleep. The chest of drawers had a drawer full of paper and pencils, and sometimes we would be ordered to stand at the chest of drawers and write lines or an essay. Standing for hours writing lines is deeply unpleasant.
However, there was, of course, corporal punishment too. Mother would sit on the chaise lounge and tell us to prepare ourselves. This meant baring our bottoms: for me, removing my skirt and knickers; for my brother, removing his trousers and pants. Once prepared, we were expected to lay over Mother’s lap voluntarily, clasping our hands in front of us almost as if in prayer.
Then it would begin. Until we were 10 or so, she just used her hand: we’d be over her lap for several minutes, and our bottoms would be scarlet and would occasionally bruise. The expectation was for stoic silence and stillness throughout, though of course that wasn’t the reality.
Once we got older, we would receive the hairbrush or the cane. The cane was meant to be the ultimate deterrent, but as we only got three to six fairly mild strokes of the cane versus several long minutes of a hard hairbrush whacking our bottoms, the latter was far more feared.
This continued to be a discipline option until we were around 15 or so: I believe my brother got his last caning at 17, and I was 14 when I got my last hairbrush spanking.
Hearing ‘go to The Room – chop chop!’ was always terrifying. We’d sit on the chaise lounge and nervously wait, wondering what the sentence would be. If it was sitting in the corner or writing lines, we’d be grumpy about it, but a spanking was truly to be avoided.
I vividly remember the unbearable stinging, the urge to drum my feet, the sweat and tears. I also remember how I’d feel later, though. The burning would ease to a throbbing itch, and a warm buzzing would manifest in the front of my knickers. I’d slip a hand down my pants and rub myself, sometimes slipping the handle of my own hairbrush into my vagina.
Even now, in my 50s, memories of lying across my mother’s lap fuel my masturbation and sexual fantasies more than anything else.