So this is the story of my last ever smacking with Mum’s hand. Later, and only very occasionally, she’d use one of my Dad’s old Dunlop tennis shoes. But that’s another story or three.

I was brought up in a rather lovely old crumbly house in the Welsh Marches, and in 1970 I was five years old and the family had lived in the house since 1968. We’d stay there until the early 1980s.

I got the odd smacked bottom at home from I don’t know when, four years old maybe, but they were quick, sharp, informal and all over and done with in a flash. I barely remember them and they’re not very exciting or vivid. About the only one I remember well must have been the last one she did with her hand, or nearly the last one. I was about nine at the time, and I can’t even remember my crime; here’s what happened:

Mum was angry with me, but in a controlled and rather determined kind of way that was frightening. She called me over to the little passageway between the kitchen and the hall. There was an airing cupboard there, and a space for coats and wellies, walking sticks and umbrellas. It was a bit dark and gloomy and what light there was came from the open kitchen door and the hallway on the other side. Mum opened the airing cupboard door which made things even darker; it almost closed off the passage to the hall.

“Take your jeans down, my boy!” She said in a rather curt way that surprised me. There was no ‘please’ and her tone, as much as the words, said this was a command, not a request.

I said something like: “Why? I don’t understand.”

“You’ll see.” Was her answer and, although I think I knew why, I was still a bit confused and didn’t understand what was happening. I slowly undid my jeans and pushed them down to mid thigh, still very mystified and not sure why I’d been ordered to do this.

Then suddenly and with no warning she grabbed me around my waist, tipped me forward and yanked my underpants down!

I started to say something like: “What are you doing?!?”

A really sharp smack right across my bottom cut me off with a gasp! It hurt, and I struggled to get away, still in shock and pain when she smacked me again and again and again. I stopped struggling and tried to take my punishment in some kind of good grace. She hit me four or five more times, maybe more, but the pain was building. I’d stopped counting and shut my eyes tight, trying to ride it out.

“What’s going on?” Came a scared but curious little voice behind us.

I shot upright and twisted around to see my youngest sister, Sue, peering around the airing cupboard door, wide eyed at seeing big brother with his pants down and a red backside.

“Never you mind! Leave! Now!” Shouted Mum, perhaps as embarrassed as I was, but more likely angry with two of her kids now instead of one.

Sue’s little face vanished.

It was squirmy, knowing Sue had seen my humiliation, but her interruption seemed to throw Mum completely. She released me and stood upright, breathing heavily. It took all of two seconds for me to pull my pants and jeans up and we stood facing each other. My bottom was warm and tingling and throbbing and tender. I could feel the material of my pants pressing on it.

“Right,” said Mum, trying to take control of the situation again. “We’ll say no more about it, shall we?”

“I’m sorry, Mum.”

“I’m sorry too,” she said and gave me a hug. It was the closest I came to tears the whole time. 

Later, I’d always think of that spanking as a kind of transition. There was a hint of formality to it that previous smackings had lacked. I wonder how long it would have gone on if curious little Sue hadn’t interrupted things. Normally Mum smacked until you were in tears. I’m sure most people would have forgotten all about it after a week or two, but for me it lodged in the mind immediately. There was something exciting about it; being that scared, being ordered about so curtly by someone who was normally so kind and polite.

For whatever reason, I’ve never forgotten it. It was the first hint of my interest for spanking, although of course I didn’t realise that at the time.