Crichton’s shoe shop was once an institution in our town, but ceased trading when the owner died some 15 years ago. It was the epitome of elegance and luxury, and the prices were way beyond anything my mother could afford.
Except that once a year, Crichton’s had a sale. The spinster owner, May Crichton, was a member of our church and was quite good friends with my mum, despite being a good 20 years older. Miss Crichton was quite stern and austere in her appearance and mannerisms, but she had a warm spot in her heart for my mum. During the annual one-day-only sale, she would also bestow her friends and family discount on anything my mum chose to buy. This meant Mum could buy the most fashionable of hand-crafted shoes for less than a quarter of the usual price.
As such, for my mother, the annual sale at Crichton’s was an event not to be missed. She usually went to the sale on her own, without the distraction of children. However, one year the shoe sale happened to clash with the day that Alston’s (the school uniform shop, now also long gone) were measuring children for their new blazers and uniforms.
My little brother Billy was starting high school after the school holidays, so he needed a new uniform. I was going into my third year at high school and had also outgrown the blazer and other uniform purchased for me two years previously.
Alston’s was not a nice experience as a child. During the summer holidays, the last thing you wanted to do was stand in the hot sun in the inevitable long queue to get into the shop.
Once you were inside, the saleswomen were all quite surly and unfriendly. They poked and prodded as they measured you for size. They would openly remark on the size of your height, feet, waist and (most mortifyingly for a young teenage girl) your bust. They would then discuss with your mother whether they thought you should have a vest, a training bra or the real thing. Nor did they care who was listening – bear in mind my younger brother was always in tow, and there were plenty of other boys in the shop.
Then you had to try on many and various items of clothing and footwear to make sure they fitted and that there was ‘room to grow’. Once I had been done, I would have to stand and wait while my brother was put through the same process.
In short, the whole experience was hot, tiring and irritating for kids. On this particular day, my brother and I were just relieved it was over and pleading with Mum to buy us an ice cream or cold drink. But Mum was on a mission – she had purchased our stuff and now it was her turn. She dragged us, whining and moaning by her side, down to Crichton’s, with a couple of reminders to be on our very best behaviour, and of course the dire consequences that would follow if we were not.
Miss Crichton spotted mum immediately she entered and whisked her over to a comfortable seat while we children were left to stand near the door, holding the bags of newly-purchased school clothes. Miss Crichton told one of her staff to take good care of Mum and invited her upstairs to the staff room for some tea and a cake.
I don’t know who started niggling who, but Billy and I started to annoy each other. Mum was completely absorbed in choosing her shoes so wasn’t paying us much attention at all, otherwise she might have intervened sooner.
The niggling descended into name-calling and Billy, the red mist descending and fed-up with his big sister bullying him, gave me an almighty push, sending me flying backwards into a rack full of sale shoes. The falling stand then hit another and a whole load of displays came down like dominoes. The whole shop gasped at the spectacle.
Mum, needless to say, was hugely embarrassed and furious with us. She began apologising but Miss Crichton just put her arm around her. “Let’s get that cup of tea. My girls will clear all this up downstairs, while we take care of things upstairs.”
Miss Crichton beckoned Billy and I over to her, and guided the three of us through to the store-room and upstairs. As she passed the store room, she said to one of her junior members of staff: “Julie, be a darling and bring a slipper up for Mrs Henderson to try – size 6 or above, please.” I remember thinking that was odd, as Mum was usually a size three or four.
Miss Crichton gestured to Mum to sit down. We were not privy to the same invitation, and were left standing. Shortly afterwards, the junior came in with the requested slipper and Miss Crichton handed it to Mum. “Here you go, Helen. I assume you’ll be wanting to use more than your hand, pushing his sister like that and creating such a mess.
It was only at this moment that the penny dropped in my head and I realised my brother was going to get his bottom smacked with that slipper. Mum beckoned him over to stand in front of her, pointing to the exact spot required. Billy slowly made his way over to his mother, head hung low.
Mum wasn’t having that – she immediately put a finger under her son’s chin. “Look at me! What did I tell you about being on your best behaviour? Instead, you embarrass me in front of a whole shop full of people. Well, my lad, you’re the one who’s going to be embarrassed now.”
She began to undo Billy’s trousers and within seconds they were around his ankles. Mum walked him around to her right side and put him across her knee in a no-nonsense manner. Then, to my astonishment, Mum pulled down his underpants too and I was suddenly looking at my 11-year-old brother’s bare bottom for the first time in many years.
Mum didn’t start in with the slipper straight away, but raised her hand up above her head and began to give Billy a hard smacking. He began crying almost immediately.
After a few dozen hard slaps, Mum reached for the slipper, which had a leather sole. The crying became much louder and my brother’s little bottom – which had already turned quickly from white to bright pink with the hand smacks – now began to go a deep crimson from the slippering.
The whole experience was extremely loud, and I remember thinking that even with the usual background noise of the busy shop, customers and staff downstairs must have been able to hear exactly what was going on in the room above.
Mum was finishing with Billy at this point and made him stand again, but without pulling his trousers or pants back up. She reached into her handbag, took out a paper hanky and made Billy blow his nose, then handed him another tissue for wiping his eyes. That done, she stood up and marched him the few steps needed until he was standing in the corner. “Face the wall – and don’t move until I tell you!”
By this time, I was beginning to feel a little bit sorry for my brother. His bum was all red and sore, he’d been put across his Mum’s knee like a little child about to start primary school rather than secondary, and a relative stranger had seen some very private parts of his body.
It was at this point, Miss Crichton came over and stood in front of me. “Aileen, what do you think? It must be very embarrassing for your brother to have been put over his mum’s knee like that and have his bottom bared for a good, hard spanking?” It was as if she had been reading my mind. I nodded solemnly.
“What year are you’re going into this time, Aileen?” she asked. “Third year, Miss Crichton,” I replied. “Well, I’m sure that for a big girl your age, it’s going to be even more embarrassing now it’s time for you to go over Mum’s knee.”
I went beetroot and didn’t know what to say. For a brief moment, my mum look equally confused, but the shop owner continued: “I saw everything, Helen. This naughty girl started it all. She nipped Billy, then kicked him, then finally pushed him and he almost fell over. That’s when he pushed her back and, well, you know the rest.”
My mother’s angry face was now almost redder than my brother’s buttocks. Miss Crichton turned to me again. “So I’m right, aren’t I? Your skirt and pants are coming off for a spanking too.”
Mum sat back down on the chair, steam almost coming out of her ears. “You! Here! Now!” was all she said. I obeyed, albeit very slowly and reluctantly. I began to apologise profusely but Mum ignored me. She undid the button at the side of my skirt and then the little zip. After just a couple of tugs, my skirt lay on the floor. Then she hooked her thumbs under the elastic at the sides of my pants.
There was no point in pleading with Mum to spare my modesty – I knew she had made her mind up and that we were past the point of no return. Then I heard her say: “Might as well just take these off before we start.” With that, my underpants were pulled down to the floor and I was instructed to step out of them.
“Right, young lady – bend over my knee!” I had no option in the matter. Mum took my wrist, drew me round to her right side and promptly propelled me over her lap. Miss Crichton had been correct – I was indeed utterly embarrassed. At 13, even someone seeing me in my underwear was embarrassing enough. But to have my pants completely removed and be put over Mum’s knee for a spanking, at my age, was the ultimate humiliation – or so I thought.
While Mum moulded my buttocks together, readying me for the slipper, Miss Crichton had picked up my discarded skirt and then my white underpants. “Oh my!” I heard her say, “I didn’t expect to see this.” Despite my discomfort, I tilted my head to one side, only to see Miss Crichton holding my pants inside out, a brown stain clearly visible on the seat. Miss Crichton looked me in the eye as I turned. “Fancy, a big girl like you not being able to wipe your bottom properly!”
My mother landed a quick, hard smack on my right bum cheek. “What have I told you about wiping properly? I’m fed up of having to scrub and boil your underwear just because you can’t act like a big girl and clean your own bottom when you’re finished. Maybe I’m going to have to start taking you to the toilet again, am I? Like when you were a little girl, and wipe you myself?” I was horrified at the thought and could say nothing in reply.
Things got even worse. Mum turned to Miss Crichton: “May, could you pass me a couple more tissues from that box on your desk?” “Certainly, Helen!” Mum took the tissues from her with a word of thanks, while I pleaded: “No, Mum, please! I can do it myself!”
Mum ignored me, held my bottom cheeks apart and started wiping. “Well, clearly you can’t,” she said. “Look! Look at how dirty this tissue is!” All three of us were now staring at the smelly brown stain on the white tissue. I was absolutely mortified. After another few vigorous wipes, Miss Crichton brought the wastepaper basket over for Mum to dispose of the soiled tissues. I was happy that this part of the humiliation was over – but of course that just meant Mum was ready to move on to the original reason for taking my pants down.
If she was angry before, she was furious now about my dirty bottom, and she determined to give me the hardest spanking. It had been four years since I had been given corporal punishment, and I really had forgotten how much it hurt.
Just with Mum using her hand, it felt like the flesh of my bottom was burning, with each smack bringing fresh cries and tears. But then Mum picked up that slipper and my backside began to experience levels of pain I didn’t know were possible. Each smack sounded like a gun going off. Mum was taking her time and aiming her smacks precisely, so that my entire bottom was turned fiery red.
She placed the last dozen or so all on the same spot, right in the middle of my backside. These smacks were the very worst. At last, it was over and like Billy, I was ordered to stand and blow my nose. I no longer cared that I was nude from the waist down, with all my private areas exposed. The only thing on my radar was the burning pain in my rear end. I was ushered into the opposite corner of the room to my brother, with the same admonishment.
Miss Crichton put the kettle on and made tea for her and Mum. The two had a lovely time, chatting, drinking tea and eating cream cakes – all the while ignoring the quietly sobbing children in the corners, with their chastised bottoms on display.
“You may as well take that slipper home with you, Helen,” Miss Crichton told my mother. “You did the right thing and I’m certain it did the pair of them a world of good. As for Aileen, I think you’re right – you need to start taking her to the toilet yourself. A few weeks of having her bottom wiped for her like a baby again will soon teach her how to be clean.”
After that, the conversation between the two women turned to more convivial matters and I tuned out, focusing mainly on the throbbing in my bum.
After the adults had finished their tea, Miss Crichton picked up the phone and dialled downstairs. “Sandra, be a love and bring up those shoes Mrs Henderson was looking at earlier.” A moment later, Sandra – an elderly sales assistant – entered, carrying several shoe boxes.
“Well, I see we’ve dealt with the earlier problem,” she remarked as she clocked two children in the corner with red backsides on show. “Oh yes,” Miss Crichton laughed. “Mrs. Henderson always gets to the bottom of things!”
There was more embarrassment as the adults lightly discussed the importance of disciplining children, then Mum finally picked her shoes and Billy and I were allowed to put our clothes back on. Miss Crichton put the shoes into a bag, adding the slipper as she did so. “I’ve got a feeling there might be another dose of that on the way when you get home, children,” she said.
Mother bade Miss Crichton goodbye and we went downstairs to pay for the shoes. It felt like every person in the shop had heard me having my bottom smacked, and of course our stained faces told their own story.
The ride home, on the hard seats of the local bus, was particularly unpleasant – not only because of the uncomfortable ache in our bottoms, but also the dread of another slippering. Once home, we were both sent straight to our rooms while Mum sorted the various bags of shopping.
After a while I heard Mum coming up the stairs, and my heart dropped. She went into Billy’s room first and I could hear them talking in low voices. I braced myself for the sound of another slippering – but it never came. After a while, I heard Billy’s door shut and mine opened.
Mum sat down on the bed, whisked me round and began to take off my skirt and pants again. I was sure I was in for it, as the one who had started it all, but to my relief Mum merely inspected my bottom and said: “Well, that looks sore enough for now. But if you ever embarrass me like that again, you won’t sit down for a week, understand?” “Yes, Mummy,” I replied. It had been a few years since I had used the more infantile name for her, but somehow it felt appropriate at that moment.
Mum finished undressing me completely, then put on my nightie and ordered me into bed. The cool bedclothes felt good against my sore bottom. Mum sat on the bed beside me. “Your body is changing, Aileen. You got your first training bra today, and when I spanked you I noticed you’ve got your first hairs on your front bottom.” I blushed deeply.
“The problem is, you’re still behaving like a little girl at times. I shouldn’t be needing to spank you at your age, should I?” I shook my head, unable to look her in the eye. “And at your age, you should be able to wipe your own bottom properly, shouldn’t you?” “Yes, Mummy,” I said, hoping against hope that I wasn’t about to hear what I feared.
But I did. “Well, I think for the next two weeks, every time you need to go to the toilet for number two, you need to come and tell me and I’ll come with you. And we’ll make sure that bottom of yours is properly clean.”
I was on the verge of tears again. “Mummy – please!” “No, sweetheart. This has to happen and will be happening, so just accept it. And if you don’t, I promise your bottom is going to be even sorer than it is right now. Is that what you want?” “No, mummy.” “Me neither – so let’s be having a good girl with a nice clean bum, OK?” She drew me in for one last kiss, then left me to sleep off my spanking.
Mum was as good as her word, and those next two weeks were probably the most embarrassing of my life, especially when Billy or Dad was around and I had to ask Mum to take me for a poo. The slipper kindly supplied by Miss Crichton also revisited my bottom on several other occasions, despite my promises to be a good girl.
Contributor: Aileen