My mom rarely spanked me and my big sister (three years older) but nevertheless we did get our share of sore behinds growing up.
Mom would have to be pretty mad at us to bring out the paddle she kept for our bottoms, and I guess because of the anger she was cautious about spanking us straight away, so in nearly all cases she would send us up to our bedroom to wait for her to come and administer the punishment in due course.
Our mom was a smoker, and she would almost always have a cigarette before she came upstairs with the paddle. She told us in later years that the cigarette helped her to calm down, assess the situation properly and make sure she didn’t hurt us too much when the spanking was actually given.
For the naughty child, the wait is undoubtedly the worst part of a spanking. In our home, the other sibling would usually go very quiet, the house would descend into an eerie silence so the child waiting to be spanked would hear more or less everything that was happening downstairs as well as up.
I can vividly remember, many times, sitting on my bed nervously, waiting to be dealt with, and hearing the distinct scratch of the match against its box as Mom lit up a cigarette. Before too long, the strong smell of the tobacco would waft up stairs and reach my nose, and I knew it wouldn’t be too long before I had a very sore bottom indeed.
Mom took her time with her smoke, but inevitably it was only a few minutes before her heavy footsteps were heard on the stairs. There was a brief diversion to her own bedroom to pick up the paddle from the drawer where she kept it. Then your own door would open and you knew the time of execution was upon you.
“Stand up!” Mom would order, and you’d obey if you knew what was good for you. Mostly your eyes would be on that paddle, and thinking about how much it was going to hurt your behind in a few moments. It was an old Jokari paddle and pretty much covered the whole of our bottoms with each swat.
Mom would then take my place on the bed, draw me towards her and take down my pants and briefs. Then came the lecture, and being lectured with a bare bottom and front concentrated the mind, let me tell you. All the while, you could smell the cigarette smoke lingering on her clothing.
Finally, Mom would say: “All right.” That was your signal to bend over her knee, and again you didn’t want to hesitate, never mind disobey. There was a little moment of adjustment as she got you into the position she deemed best for the spanking – I remember very well how intimate it felt to have my mother touching my bare bottom as she put me exactly where she wanted me.
After that, it was all about the spanking. As I say, we were rarely spanked, but when we were, we were spanked good. I never got less than five minutes across Mom’s knee, and often longer. Naturally you’d be crying your eyes out long before it was over – and you’d better be, too. Tears were expected and required. As was an apology, after which you got a hug and all was forgiven and forgotten.
I have never smoked myself, and even today I find the smell of tobacco quite triggering. It instantly transports me back to the past, and I am once again a small child waiting for his mommy to come up and make his bottom sore.
Contributor: Nathan