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Domestic Discipline

The Teacher

When my big brother and I were growing up in Wyoming during the 1980s, my mom spanked us pretty often. The tool she used for our discipline was an oval wooden paddle which she referred to as ‘The Teacher’ – a pretty apt name, since it taught me and my brother a number of important lessons during our childhood!

Mom was a struggling single parent who worked two jobs to keep us afloat so she stood no nonsense when it came to our behaviour – it was simply a distraction she didn’t need.

When you had been naughty, you were taken to Mom’s room for your punishment. The screams and cries of the boy being spanked would echo around the house, as would the sound of the wood coming down upon his bare bottom.

I remember being taken for my first time very vividly. Up until that point, I had had my legs slapped if I was playing up, but by the time I got to five years old, I was considered quite old enough to see The Teacher. I remember Mom grabbing my hand and marching me up the stairs to my doom. Until I got spanked with it myself, I had not seen The Teacher but of course my brother delighted in regaling me with scary tales about it – tales which the sound of his own crying reinforced whenever he got taken upstairs for it.

I can’t now remember what I had done wrong, but I do remember Mom closing the bedroom door behind us, then going over to her dressing table and extracted The Teacher. It wasn’t huge but back then I had a little bottom and the paddle was big enough to easily cover both my buttocks at the same time!

Mom sat on her bed and called me over to stand by her knee. There was a lecture – brief and to the point – and then my shorts were taken down, swiftly followed by my underpants. As I say, I was used to slapped legs but that rarely required the formality of pants being removed.

Mom showed me how to lie across her lap, and I was trembling with fear, already crying pretty badly. This crying turned to wild screaming as she held me firmly and brought The Teacher down on my now defenceless bottom. I had never felt so much pain in my young life and the next few minutes were just a tearful, snotty blur, to be honest. I have no idea how many she gave me.

After I was let up off her knee, I stood there bawling for a few minutes, then went to pull my undies up. Mom landed another painful slap across my bare behind, this time with the palm of her hand, and said: “Oh no you don’t, mister! You just go over to the dressing table mirror and look at your backside. I want you to remember what a naughty boy’s bottom looks like!”

I did as I was told and was horrified to see that my bottom was red, almost purple, from the paddling I had just been given. The Teacher had made his point all right! Finally, she stripped me and packed me off to bed early.

Visits to The Teacher continued into our early teens for both of us.

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