This is my earliest memory of corporal punishment from my father – I was about five years old at the time, I think.
As was natural for a young, inquisitive child, I was always being warned against touching various things around the house, especially things which could physically harm me or easily break.
This particular day was a cold, wet one and I was stuck indoors feeling rather bored. At some point I wandered into the living room – there was no-one else there. Out of boredom and curiosity, I reached up to the mantlepiece over the fire and took down a pottery ornament which I knew was a favourite of my father’s.
You can guess what happened next. I accidentally dropped the thing and it fell on the floor, smashing into several pieces as it did so. I was obviously horrified at the turn events had taken. Even though what follows is my earliest memory of a smacked bottom, I’m sure I had already been spanked several times before and was aware of the likely consequences of my actions.
In desperation, I gathered up all the bits and tossed them into the fire which was burning in the grate. Naturally, that didn’t help and in any case, the tinkling of broken china had alerted my father, who was somewhere nearby, and he came into the living room and caught me in the act.
He was naturally very angry about the breakage, but I think even more angered by the fact that I had tried to conceal my disobedience.
By the time my mother had also come into the room to see what was happening, my father had sat down, pulled me to him and taken down my shorts and underpants.
Mother stared at my bare bottom. “What’s going on?” she demanded. Father told her and she also looked very angry. “Right – carry on,” she said and left us alone.
My father turned me to face him. “You were told before not to touch that, weren’t you?” I nodded, tears welling up. “Never mind crying,” Father said, “you need something to cry about. I’ll show you what happens to naughty boys who disobey their parents.”
He grabbed my left wrist with one hand and with the other on my naked bottom he guided me down to lie across his knee. Then, with his left hand now firmly on my back, he began using the other one to give me a good hiding.
I cried and cried as the spanking was administered, looking through watery eyes at the flames from the hearth as my own young bottom was raised to (it seemed to me) a temperature even higher than the grate.
After my bottom had been thoroughly and methodically tanned, Father called Mother back into the room with instructions to put me to bed for the rest of the day, with nothing but water to drink. She inspected my well-smacked bottom for a moment, then – apparently satisfied – pulled my pants and shorts back up, took me by the hand and escorted me to bed.
It was a hard lesson I learned that day, but learn it I did – I didn’t dare touch anything like that ever again.
Contributor: Anthony