A miscarriage of justice

At the end of our road where I grew up was a large abandoned factory complex. All the kids from the area played there. Of course, we were not supposed to be in there – but we went in anyway. In any case, there were no windows left to be broken – I would estimate hundreds of windows had been broken on the site over the years.

One day, my brother and I were in there, kicking a ball around. We heard some older boys approaching from the other side of a building. My brother seemed keen to avoid these other boys so we ventured deeper into the factory grounds and found a hangar-like open shed we hadn’t explored for a long while. This was very exciting.

We were just nosing around when we heard something quite large or heavy dropping to the floor not far away. It made a hell of a noise and there were loud cheers from what we assumed was the gang of older boys. We decided to make ourselves scarce, as security would be coming to see what the noise was.

Alas, as we walked around the corner we came face to face with a security man. Normally, if you met one of these old men they just told you to clear off. But this was different – he wanted to blame us for the loud crashing noise. We protested our innocence but he was having none of it, and walked us back to the gatehouse. He told my brother he knew who he was, so there seemed little point in running away. Besides, we were genuinely innocent and so believed we had nothing to fear. 

Another old security man arrived, and we were driven home in a van. The guard told our mum we had damaged the factory and laid it on thick – we shouldn’t be in there, it’s dangerous, next time he’d call the police etc.

Once she got us inside, Mum looked very stern. Again, we protested our innocence but Mum ignored us. She looked at my brother and said: “Do I deal with this or do we wait for your father?”I wasn’t entirely sure what this meant – we had already been given a fair old telling off.

I looked at my brother, who protested further that we had done nothing wrong. Eventually, Mum said: “Well, I’m waiting.” My brother, deflated, resigned to not being believed, answered: “You, Mum.” He was sent to his room.

When he had gone up, I looked at Mum and told her for the umpteenth time we didn’t do anything. To no avail. I was asked a similar question: “Do you want me to deal with this now, or do you want to discuss this with your father’s belt?” I had never been threatened with the belt before. I had suffered the backs of my legs being slapped, and I had even been whacked once in passing by a slipper, but this prospect was terrifying. 

“What are you going to do?” I asked. Mum simply repeated her question. “Me or your father – what’s it to be?” “You, Mum,” I answered, oblivious to what was coming my way. Whatever it was, I hoped it would be less than the serious threat of dad’s belt.

“In there!” Mum indicated towards the dining room. She closed the door, prepared a chair, and sat down on it, pulling me close. My shorts were down in a second and my underpants quickly followed, which was a hell of a shock.

I was hauled up over my mother’s knee and spanked until I was beyond bawling like a baby. I was reduced to a blubbering, hiccuping, puddle of tears and dribble. I couldn’t have told you my name by the time Mum stopped smacking my backside. My god, it hurt! I hung across her lap like a wet rag, my throat was raspy and my arm hurt as Mum had grabbed it to prevent me shielding my poor, defenceless bottom from the ferocious onslaught. It was a world class spanking! 

I slid back to the floor, on my knees sobbing, holding the raging fire that used to be my bottom. Mum returned the chair to its usual place, then all I remember is being dragged by one arm to my feet. If memory serves, I mumbled utter rubbish through great sobs and breaths. My shorts and underpants were recovered and thrust into my chest and as Mum ushered me upstairs to my room, I carried my lower clothes with one arm while my other hand did its best to comfort my bottom. 

That hobble to my room, with a blazing red backside, remains one of my all time worst memories. I had been soundly spanked on my bare bum for absolutely no reason – I was innocent!

One we were in my room, Mum took my shorts and pants from me again and turned me around to inspect my bottom. She added at least half a dozen more unnecessary smacks for good measure and sent me to bed. “No supper for you,” rang in my ears as she closed the bedroom door. I curled up on my bed, feeling very sorry for myself, and a fresh wave of ‘tears overcame me. I lay there crying on and off for ages.  

Shortly afterwards, I heard my brother getting what I assumed was the same treatment, this time in Mum and Dad’s bedroom. He screamed, hollered and begged for England. The spanking which inevitably followed seemed to go on for ages. All I could hear were sharp smacks and my brother crying uncontrollably.

I found out later he had been spanked with mums hairbrush, and he showed me the results the day after. Even then, his bottom was still a deep red, and in places some bruising was coming out. In some places, shocking to me at the time, I could see partial outlines of Mum’s hairbrush.

I learned later it was my brother’s second offence with regard to the factory (even though this time at least he was not guilty). So Mum’s discipline strategy appeared to be a well-smacked bottom (such as I had received) for a first time, and the hairbrush for a second offence. I assumed that a third offence would mean a meeting between your bare bottom and Dad’s belt. I never got to find out, thankfully. Whatever my innocence, that spanking from Mum did teach me a lesson, and had hurt quite enough, thank you very much.

For years after those two well-smacked bottoms, I continued to protest my innocence. Mum’s answer was always along the lines of: “Well, you had probably had done something else to deserve a spanking, so we’ll call it quits!”

She was right, of course – I had. But I kept very quiet about that!

Contributor: Tim

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