I think we’ve all done things wrong as children (and maybe adults too) that we’re really ashamed of, even if they happened a very long time ago, like this story of mine.
Even now, I’m deeply ashamed to confess that when I was 13, I got in with a bad lot of girls at my secondary school and we were all involved in the prolonged and merciless bullying of a girl in the same year as ourselves. I still can’t bear to be specific about the things we did and said to that poor girl, but they were all deeply horrible and we all should have known much better.
The matter came to a head one Monday afternoon when we were all called into the headmaster’s office. It transpired that our victim had finally had the courage to tell a sympathetic teacher about what was happening and as a result, the five of us who had been dishing out the teasing and, yes I blush to say it, violence were all sent for.
We pretty much denied all the allegations the girl had made against us, some more so than others, but I don’t think the headmaster bought any of it for a moment. Basically, our victim was believed and we were not. Eventually, the poor girl was dismissed and our little gang was left to face the music.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your opinion) corporal punishment in schools had been outlawed in British schools for some time by then, but we were all handed three-day suspensions and a note sent home for our parents.
Obviously all this went down like a lead balloon at home when I reluctantly handed over the note and was forced to tearfully confess to my mum and dad exactly what I and the others had put that girl through. My dad was particularly upset because although I didn’t know it at the time, he had himself been very badly bullied as a child, and the thought that his daughter had engaged in such behaviour shocked him to the core.
It wasn’t long before my mum, her face like thunder, took me by the hand and said: “Right, my girl – you come with me.” My relief at being at least out of sight of my dad and little brother (two years younger) was tempered by the anticipation of what my punishment at home might be.
Mum took me into her and Dad’s bedroom, then said: “Stay there!” She went out and I heard her going into my own bedroom. When she came back, she was holding one of the rubber-soled plimsolls I wore for gym class at school, and I had no doubt what it was going to be used for now!
“Well, Carla,” Mum said, “it’s a shame your school doesn’t use the slipper anymore. I got it at your age and it did me a lot of good. Never mind – I don’t have to worry about silly laws in my own house! Raise your skirt, take down your pants and bend over.”
Now, although Mum was strict with us, I hadn’t had my bottom smacked since I had hit double figures, and even then it was just Mum’s hand that was used. I knew even before I sampled it that the slipper was going to hurt much, much more.
I tried to argue and plead, but eventually Mum stopped the argument dead in its tracks by saying: “Unless you are bending over, bare bottomed, in five seconds I’ll call your father upstairs to deal with you. Now, which is it to be?”
Well, there wasn’t much choice. Blushing profusely, I felt up my skirt for my knickers, lowering them to my ankles, then bent over and flipped the rear of my skirt over my back, all the while trying not to think of the view I was giving Mum of my body.
I had barely got in position before the first whack landed. The slipper was heavy and stung like crazy, sending shock waves across my right cheek as Mum found the target. Four more whacks on alternating buttocks followed, ending with a hefty blow right across my bum crack.
I had done my best not to cry, but when Mum said ‘all right, stand up’ my eyes were definitely watery with tears and my face was probably even redder than my bottom. Still, I told myself, I had managed to get through it without crying out and my Dad and brother hearing it downstairs.
Then Mum dropped a bomb. “Don’t think this is over by any means, Carla. I’m going to slipper you every night for a week to make sure you learn your lesson. As soon as tea is finished, you will come upstairs with me and we’ll have another six of the best. Once I’ve whacked you, you will go to your room to do your homework, then you will go straight to bed. Do you understand?”
“Please, Mum, please!” I wailed, now in a full flood of tears. Mum was in no mood for mercy. “You’ll do as you’re bid, unless you want your father to see what I’ve just seen?” I shook my head vigorously. “All right. Homework, now! I’ll get the school to send in some more while you’re suspended – we don’t want you getting behind, do we?”
I fled to the sanctuary of my bedroom, where despite my previous bravado I had a damn good cry before settling down to do my homework. Sitting at my desk on a hard wooden seat was not a comfortable experience at all!
Mum was as good as her word. Every evening for the next six days, as soon as we had finished eating, she would rise from the table and say: “Right, Carla – slipper time.” The fact that my dad and brother knew I was getting my bottom smacked every night was really just as bad as if they’d been there in person, staring at my bare bottom and privates.
Each time, upstairs in her room, I got a fresh six of the best applied, adding to the marks accumulating from my previous whackings. By the time I went back to school, on the Friday, my bum was a mottled mess of marks and bruises and it hurt like crazy to sit down on it. We didn’t have PE again until the following Tuesday but my bottom was still far from its usual pristine ‘peaches and cream’.
Needless to say, the state of my behind didn’t go unnoticed when we stripped off to shower afterwards. I told the girls who asked me about it that I had fallen down our stairs and ‘butt-surfed’, but I don’t think any of them really believed me. At least one of the other girls involved looked to me like she had also been put through the mill. Several years later, she confided in me that her father had taken his belt to her bare backside, the resulting marks taking nearly a fortnight to disappear entirely.
We were all made to write formal letters of apology to the girl we had bullied, which in some ways did me even more good than having a sore bottom for a week. Nowadays no doubt my mum would be in trouble with the law but I can say without doubt that being slippered for seven nights in a row taught me a lesson I never forgot. As I say, even now I’m truly, deeply ashamed of what I did, and the punishment I received.
Before I sign off, I should add that in later life I did discover that I quite enjoy getting a moderate ‘smack-bottom’ off my husband before we have sex – hence, how I found your website!
Contributor: Carla