When I was growing up in the late 40’s, 50’s and early 60’s, it seemed to me that every child got his or her bottom smacked at one time or other.
Most of the time it was an impromtu spanking, the culprit hauled unceremoniously over the irate parent’s or guardian’s lap, and a flurry of smacks landed on whatever part of the struggling culprits clothed anatomy was available to the descending hand.
Not in our home though! Corporal punishment, when carried out on me, or my siblings (there were 7 of us with me second oldest), took the form of a ritualised ceremony.
Mother was the prime disciplinarian, Father only played a role if you were stupid enough to resist! In that case you got a thrashing from father, with his hard hand, then he left you to the tender mercies of mother, who proceeded to give you the same smacked bottom as you would have gotten originally!
We learned early to co-operate!
Let me describe to you what I would call the stages of the discipline in itself.
There was something in the way mother called “Megan!” that sent shivers up my spine.
I just knew from the tone I was in big, big trouble.
I would slowly enter the living room, a slight flicker of hope that perhaps I was mistaken.
But a glance at mother’s face as she sat cross-legged on one of the soft padded chairs, staring hard at me, her mouth set, told me to abandon hope!
Sometimes ‘the call’ took a little longer, when I was dispatched to school, with a sound whap on my skirt-clad bottom, and “We’ll see about that when you get home, young lady!,” ringing in my ears, as I made my way down the driveway to the school bus.
All day I sat at my desk watching the big second hand on the wall clock push the minute and hour hands closer and closer to quitting time and my awaiting fate.
That walk up the drive, with some of my brothers and sister’s, seeing mother at the door, her arms folded under her ample bosum, her legs apart, eyes flinty, as she snapped “Hurry up, Megan!”
The lecture was always long and excrutiatingly painful -mentally, though, not physically.
Physical pain was to come!
Mother was an expert in getting the truth, and twisting your words to make them even more incriminating.
I would stand in front of mother, hands wringing, shifting my weight from foot to foot, feeling the emotions rising from the pit of my stomach, and trying to choke back the tears, as I tried desperately to think of any way to get our of what was about to happen!
Her bosom heaving, she would cross and uncross her legs, as the tone of her lecture, and interrogation, rose and fell!
I can still hear that soft swish from her nylons, as her thighs brushed together, and I glanced down at her large lap, picturing myself across it, bottom bare, yelping from the pain!
Often father would be sittng in there, as would one or two of my brothers or sisters, pretending to do homework, or reading a book, but really focussed on what mother was saying, and glancing from time to time taking in my discomforture.
I had watched my sibs in the same predicament so knew just how enjoyable and exiting they were finding the whole thing! And so, so glad it was not them!
Like all good things the lecture finaly drew to a close!
Was it a relief? Maybe! Hard to tell!
My mind by that time would be spinning, my stomach would be in knots, my hands would be dabbing tears from my eyes, my knees would be quaking, and I would be trying desperately not to cause too much of a scene in front of my siblings, and certainly not in front of father, in case he determined I was ‘resisting’ a little to much!
Mother would stand, heavily, and smooth the front of her skirt down over her ample thighs.
With a curt, “Come along, Megan!”- normally I was ‘Meg’, but if my bottom was in trouble, it was always “Megan!”
She took me firmly by the shoulder or arm, and we walked slowly out of the living room across the hall into the bathroom.
Mother always used the bathroom when we were younger, if we were due a smacked bottom.
I think she liked the idea of its closeness, and the privacy it gave her when she locked the door.
Although, as I will tell you in detail later, she would on occasion leave the door ajar, if she wanted an audience to really appreciate what a smacked botom was all about in our home!
In our later years, the lecture was the same, but we were then dispatched alone to our bedroom, via hers to pick up the strap or cane, to ‘prepare’.
That meant, I would face the wall, bare bottom facing the door and await mother’s arrival!
But here I am describing a bathroom spanking.
I can still remember the awful ‘click’ that lock made, emphasising all was lost.
The bathroom was big- large white porcelain tub and toilet.
There was linoleum on the floor, which had such a floor wax, musty, urine smell when my nose was pressed to it, as I lay over mother’s lap.
White ceramic tiles covered the walls.
There was a big wooden vanity, with a large white sink set in it, and a couple of cupboard doors below, and a big mirror above.
The acoustics in that room were superb in that the sounds of hand or hairbrush impacting with my buttocks, my mother’s stern lecturing, and my yelps and cries, would reverberate off the wall and mix together into such a cacophony of sound.
I know when I listened to one of my sibs ‘get it in the bathroom the sounds were incredible!
To this day, bathrooms have a special place in my psyche.
When I visit my parents I still walk into that room, a little trepidation in my heart!
The Room Preparation
Having firmly locked the door, mother would turn and sternly stare at me, looking for even a trace of resistance, then brush by and bend heavily at the waist, legs straight, and open up the cupboard below the sink.
I was faced by her bottom, the material of her skirt pulled tight across it.
“What would it be like to smack that?”, I wondered.
I never tried, of course.
As well as the bottom facing me, I noted mother’s skirt had ridden up, and I had a good view of the tops of her nylons, the straining elastic garters, the frilly hem of her corset, and the expanse of white thigh ‘tween stocking top and corset.
I wondered if my brothers had experienced such a view, and what they thought of it?
She rose heavily, her face florid from the exertion of bending, as she turned to face me, slapping the hairbrush (large oval Canadian maple wood) on her left palm!
My heart sank even further!
She laid the brush on the side of the bath, then took the bath mat and laid it down in the middle of the floor, pushing me roughly aside!
Then one leg at a time, she knelt down on the bath mat, sat back on her heels facing me, and with her hand guided me in front!
The lecture renewed.
Oh how well she described what I had done wrong and what was about to happen!
My tears started anew and I tried a little pleading but I knew it was to no avail.
Never did mother put me over her lap, then let me up unsmacked!
As she lectured she reached for the hairbrush, and I quickly withdrew.
I know only too well what a crack on the knuckles feels like from that brush!
Not like my best friend Jill.
She gets spanked too, but by her father mostly.
He takes her over his lap, and smacks over her skirt or slacks,
Satisfied that I am properly prepared, mother pulls me to her right side.
I shuffle, trying not to trip.
I look down at the skirt-clad lap below me.
Time to go over!
She half hauls, half pushes me over her lap.
I kind of resist, but dare not!
I place my hands on the floor on her left side and lower myself on to her lap.
How hard the linoleum feels on my elbows and knees, and how soft does her lap feel
She carefully adjusts my hips so that my bottom is ideally placed for a sound smacking.
I clasp my fingers together, to ensure my hands don’t stray over my bottom to provide protection, press my head onto the floor, squeeze, and clench my buttocks as tight together as I can, to make as small a target as possible, and pray for deliverance! -it never came!
As mother gazes down, she lectures some more then raises her right hand and
“Smack!” brings it down full across both the widest plumpest portion of both cheeks.
No matter how often I am spanked, nothing can prepare me for the pain of that first smack!
I try to imagine what it will be like, but when it arrives it is always 10 times worse than I remembered!
The cane and strap are even worse-if that is possible!
Mother starts up a steady rhythm of lecturing and spanking.
I always try to be brave, but as the spanking continues and the pain increases I start to blubber, then really cry!
I am aware initially that my brothers and sisters will be listening.
I have heard them in distress often myself- but with the pain I really do not care what they hear!
From my own experience, I know now that mother smacked until her hand was too uncomfortable to continue.
She then picked up the hairbrush from the side of the bath and delivered a few vigorous “Smack! all over my bottom and halfway down my thigh.
The pain is so bad, my fingers release and my hand shoots back to cover. Mother pauses, and says “Megan!- 2 seconds to move that!” “One… Two!!“Smack!
I was too slow and feel the pain lancing up my arm from the crack on the knuckles she gives me.
My hand withdraws rapidly and I hold it tightly with my other as the hairbrush continues its round of my buttocks and highs.
By the time she finally stops, my crying is hoarse and I am one well-punished young lady!
With a contemptuous push, mother spills me off her lap onto the floor, where I lay, like a little hedgehog, curled in a ball, my hands squeezing my bottom trying desperately to ease the pain.
With an “I hope you have learned a good lesson today, Meg!”, mother unlocks the door shutting it behind her.
It is over except for the embarrassment of facing my father and my brothers and sisters.
Though since my siblings have often gotten the same,
I really do not understand why it was so!