1961, a year I’ll never forget. At the tender age of 11, my mother, a single parent, calmly informed me one Friday night that she was sick of my general attitude and laziness. I had a choice, she said, I either lost my freedom and pocket money until she deemed I was back on track or I could pull down my trousers and pants and bend over the kitchen table to receive a one off short sharp shock treatment.
To cut a long story short, in a show of bravado I opted for the latter, thinking a spanking would soon be over and wouldn’t really hurt. Wrong on both counts!
With my trousers and pants round my ankles, bent over the table, my hands gripping the sides, my cheeks tensed in anticipation…
Crack! A howl left my lips and my eyes flooded with tears, rapidly followed by a succession of stinging blows. So much for my cocky assumption that this was an easy way out.
“I hope you’ve learned something,” she said, and sent me up to my room.
Nothing more was said until the following Friday morning, just as I was about to leave for school, when I was informed that she was still not satisfied and I was to present myself for further punishment that night at 7.30. This was obviously in my mind all day but if I am truthfully honest a little bit of me was looking forward to my ordeal.
This weekly session went on for two years and, to a degree, helped shape my life before the sessions finished as abruptly as they had started. I am now 66 and would love to find someone now for my weekly punishment session.