I am a guy in my mid 50s who was brought up in the 1960s and 70s when corporal punishment was common place and a fairly normal method of dealing with poor behaviour. During my youth my father worked away a lot and my mother was therefore responsible for dealing with my sisters and I on her own for extended periods. Whilst we were not bad children it is fair to say we could be challenging at times, and therefore my mother resorted to what seemed like fairly harsh punishments, but in truth were only ensuring we didn’t stray too far over that fine line between boisterous behaviour and serious trouble. From being around 6 or 7 any bad behaviour would result in me having to bend over the sofa arm whilst mother went to the sideboard and collected one of father’s old leather carpet slippers. When she returned she would pull down my shorts and pants and then give me a series of hard whacks on alternate cheeks of my bare bottom and culminate with about 6 stinging blows across both cheeks. I was then allowed to get up and pull up my pants and shorts and resume my previous activity.

In the summer holidays before going up to senior school, so when I was about 10 or 11, this changed and punishments became more formal. I forget what transgression caused the first of these punishments, but I had expected to be going over the sofa arm. Instead, I was sent to my room to change into my pyjamas and wait until 8pm when I was to return to father’s study. This was a terrible wait as it was only just after lunch, but at 8pm I went to the study and just walked in. Mother yelled at me to get out and knock on the door and wait for permission to enter. I knocked and awaited her call, following which I gingerly opened the door and entered.

Mother gave me an almighty telling off and said that as a big boy slipperings were not having the required effect on my behaviour and that from now on my punishments would be before bed in the study and with the belt. I remember being terrified at the thought, but mother told me to get the belt for her from the hook on the study door, and I was horrified to see a heavy 3″ wide thick leather belt hanging there.

I retrieved the belt and handed it to her and was then instructed to drop my pyjama bottoms and bend over and touch my toes. I bent over and felt the coolness of the room on my bare bottom and heard mother moving around behind me taking up her position. Then, without warning, there was a whoosh and a searing pain swept across my bottom, like nothing I had experienced before. I leapt up rubbing my bottom and begging for her not to do it again. Mother waited until I had stopped and told me to get back over as I had 11 more strokes to come, and that if I jumped up again she would start again from the beginning.

I went over again and the second stroke hit. She delivered the remaining 11 in measured succession. I was sobbing by the fifth and remember thinking I could not take the full punishment, but I did. When I had received all 12 strokes I was made to stand in the corner with my hands on my head, whilst she busied herself tidying things away, after which I was allowed to pull up my bottoms and was sent to bed. My bottom was bright red, and welted where the belt had overlapped.

This continued on an increasingly regular basis for the next few years until at age 13 I arrived in the study one evening at 8pm to see a crook handled school cane on the desk. I was no stranger to the cane, having received a number of canings at school, but over my uniform trousers. This experience was going to be very different.

The usual telling off was followed by instruction for me to bare my bottom and bend over the desk, gripping the far side. I was quite short at 13 and had to stand on my tip toes to be able to perform this position. Mother stood to my left and I felt a few gentle taps of the cane across my bottom. There then seemed an eternity followed by a racing swish and a dull impact across my bottom, then suddenly a fire-burning sting grew across the whole width of my bottom. It was absolutely excruciating, and I yelled out loud but kept hold of the far side of the desk for all of my strength, my knuckles white with the force. I was not going to jump up and have to receive this again.

In her normal style, Mother delivered another five full strokes in expert manner, parallel strokes each about 1″ from the previous. I could feel the welts raising and pulling the skin across my bottom. As with the earlier beatings I was made to stand in the corner before being despatched to bed, where I lay face down crying into my pillow, having received what was to be the first of many bare bottom canings.

I was caned for the last time by my Mother when I was 17, but the whole experience was the start of a life long desire to receive corporal punishment from mature ladies.