A Beginning
I was born in a very different disciplinary age from that we all live in now. The age of women's lib and all that, although part of our lifetime was not part of our upbringing. What I was brought up to expect was that my mistakes would be punished, and punished properly with a spanking or other types of physical punishment. I was also taught from an early age that a girl's role was one of submission and that was what would be expected of us when I grew up to be women.
The world I was brought up in had very different values compared with those prevalent today. In some ways it is very easy to analyse these differences. Today children are seemingly brought up to accept nothing and question everything, in my childhood I was taught to question nothing and accept everything. To be seen and not heard was the most important lesson of my childhood, to disobey this golden rule was an invitation to be in trouble. Children now have more freedom to express themselves compared with our generation they are corrected even persuaded more now, rather than punished and certainly the forms of punishment commonly used were very different from those often used today.
Being in trouble, as it was called, had a number of different guises. These included being shouted at, being sent to your room, no supper, gating so you couldn't go out, a slap, or even worse a smacking or a good spanking for your pains. It didn't seem to make much difference between what happened at home and at school. I knew children in our street who were punished just the same way at home as they were at school and woe betide them if they were in trouble at school; this was a certain receipt for further dose of punishment at home.
Up and down our street we were all used to be being punished regularly. Many a time I remember one of us in our street running out on to the road crying because of the smacking we had just received at the hands of our parents. Sometimes even a good spanking would be administered in public. I well remember Janet Carey, a girl about our age, being spanked by her father as she was coming down the street. I don't know what she had done wrong but she was certainly being given a real dose with her skirt up and the palm of her father's left hand spanking her hard across her knickers. At that time she was ten years old and crying bitterly as her father shouted at her, as he took her into the house. I never dared ask her what she had done to deserve such public humiliation.
On another occasion I watched Angela Thompson, then a fifteen year old running swiftly into the street clad only in her vest and brown school knickers being pursued by her father who was brandishing a cane. ‘Old man Thompson’ was known to use physical punishment on both his daughters. He was a local Freeman of the Borough who was allowed to keep cattle on the local common ground. He treated his daughters as he treated his animals giving them little room for flexibility or dignity. He believed in discipline and his girls did as they were told or he wanted to know the reason why. Such experiences had left Angela, although a tall and mature looking girl, shy and timid, and the owner of the best concerned look in the town at the time.
Clearly, she was about to be given a dose of her fathers favourite implement for all of his ‘animals’ and she had somehow escaped. Her bravado did not last though and, rather than running further down the street away from him, she came to the end of the low wall that surrounded their house and turned to face him. This demonstration of anxiety was enough to allow him to catch up with her and without much further fuss he too her hand she was meekly escorted back towards the house.
Before the front door closed she had already received two informal strokes across her bottom. Her screams and crying, which could be heard as the door closed lasted a great deal longer until her father's temper had been satiated. I don't know how many strokes she received but you could still see a number of deep purple and red bruising wealds across her bottom and the top of her legs as he struggled to change for PE the next day. Although we all knew what had happened, no one asked her about it or why she had received such a punishment but, in our hearts, we all knew really and were relieved it had not been us on the receiving end, at least on that occasion.
I have to confess that like Janet and Angela I was a naughty girl too. This naughtiness was not only a regular occurrence but also on many occasions deliberate. Looking back on it I gave my parents hell on many occasions and it seemed they could do little to thwart either my wilfulness or my temper. I was a headstrong and wilful child who was sometimes difficult to control.
Naturally, as you might expect consummate with the times, as a young child the smacked bottom was a common personal experience. I was often spanked, sometimes slippered for being cheeky, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, being in the right place too late, being late home from school and a million other things, or so it seemed. If I didn't go to bed with a smarting bottom at least once a week it was unusual. I was conditioned by my experiences and by the tingling feelings under my knickers.
If I were to do something wrong I knew my bottom would end up hurting. I could usually read the signs when it was going to happen but often I was not quick enough to prevent it doing so. I could also read situations when my brother and sister were also heading in that direction too. With my sister, who was a couple of years younger than me, it was particularly easy to see what was going to happen. She was generally less naughty than I and never deliberately so but also less able to read the signs, particularly from my mother.
It was with my mother that my first real disaster occurred. I loved my mum to bits and generally we got on so well together. Yes, she smacked me often enough but usually not too hard and, unlike dad, never used the slipper. I understood from her she was doing it largely because she loved and cared for me too. I thought she would never really hurt me. What I didn't realise was how much I could hurt her.
The incident started mildly enough. One day when I was just thirteen I arrived home from school in a really bad temper. It had been a difficult day. I had been told off in two lessons for talking and kept behind so I missed break. At the other break a boy I disliked had called me 'a cow' and pulled my hair so hard that some of it had come out. Elaine, my best friend, and I had also fallen out on the way home and, to crown it all my period was coming. It had been a difficult day.
To make matters even worse when I got home my mother shouted at me because I had forgotten to complete an errand for her. Normally, I would have apologised for my error and gone to do it. Today, however, she also had a complaint about the condition of my bedroom. I have to confess the room was untidy and I had said I would tidy it the night before but for deliberate reasons, hadn't done so.
"I really don't know what to make of you", she said angrily. "This will not do at all. I will see your dad about it when he comes in".
At this point I know I should have bitten my tongue and said nothing. It was possible that by speaking about me to dad I may be in line for a slippering. It was difficult to tell, sometimes if mum talked to dad about us we were told to bend over and dad lifted our skirt and soundly slippered our bottom. Even then I knew should have kept my mouth shut and said nothing.
But I couldn't! There was no chance of that. I was in early-adolescence, my hormones were going awry. The day had left me irritable and fed up. It would have been better to have broken down and cried and told my mother about my awful day. But that wasn’t me. Instead I became belligerent. I threw my school satchel across the kitchen and initiated the loosening of the connection between my mouth and my brain.
"For Gods sake mother", I shouted at her.
"I beg your pardon!!!" she responded, genuinely surprised I thought. "Who are you talking to?"
"It’s always the same", I said, and quite untruthfully in fact as I had no idea what was always the same. "I' m the one who does all the work, goes on all the errands is at your beck and call. Why don't you ask Jane or Peter sometimes instead of me?"
"Don't you take that tone with me", my mother responded sharply. "I will not have you talking that way to me, I'm your mother."
At this point she hit me with some force on my left arm, as if to emphasise what she was saying.
As if to deliberately encourage the fractiousness between us I shouted at her. "Don't you touch me like that! I'm not a little girl now you know." I added.
"I've told you once don’t you speak like that to me or you will be very sorry." She responded but now more quietly and in control.
This concept of ‘very sorry’ was a commonly used trigger my mother and I knew exactly what it meant. I was in trouble; trouble that my dad would probably be called upon to deal with.
Even then I ignored the signs and merely raised the stakes even higher. I was so wound up at this point I had no idea what I was saying. I resorted to my playground language and said again the words that I had said earlier to both my boy enemy and Elaine Spriggs.
"OH FUCK OFF MOTHER!!" I shouted at the top of my voice. "JUST BLOODY-WELL LEAVE ME ALONE!!"
There was a silence, a long painful silence. It was a silence where you could hear a pin drop. It was I realised then the ‘silence of the condemned’. At this point everything went so quiet I could hear the clock ticking on the kitchen wall. After a few seconds of total silence where my mother stared at me in that way which told me I was so far out of my depth I could not be rescued I actually felt I wanted to laugh. I didn't laugh though but I knew I had a smirk on my face. It was a nervous smirk; the smirk of the anxious bladder and the condemned backside. I hoped my mother hadn't seen it but I knew in my heart of hearts that she must have done so.
It was then, after this brief moment of silence, that I looked at my mother. I could then see what I had done and said had shocked her to the core. What I had done was so unlike my normal naughty behaviour at home, well beyond anything that I knew would result in a good beating from her and well outside any acceptable boundaries of behaviour. I stood in front of her, slightly calmer now but still full to the brim with resentment and anger. My face I realised was tight with a deep scowl. At this point I was to her a totally defiant thirteen-year old that was almost, but not quite, out of control. She knew as I knew that there was to be only one answer to this –my father, his slipper and my very sore bottom.
My mother was now totally back in control of herself and the situation. It was she who broke the silence.
"You're beyond me", she remarked as if it were a matter of fact. "I will have to see what your father has to say when he gets home. It is absolutely clear what you need, and I will see that you get it when he gets home from work". I will certainly see you don't forget this in a hurry. You will not sit down for a fortnight. You really are an unpleasant child and I'm ashamed of you", she added.
I wasn't really listening, "I hate you", was my heated response as I stamped my feet again in a paddy of rage at not being allowed to do what I wanted. "I don't want you for my mother any more so there!!" I added.
I realised then that I was in danger of losing control of myself again. It was not going to help me at all, whatever I did but I could still make the situation even worse if I carried on. I also realised I was saying things that I didn't really mean. In fact I knew that I was totally out of order and that I was almost certain to be on the receiving end of the proverbial 'biggest good hiding' I had had in my short life to date very soon after my father came through the door.
My mother picked up on not only my last remark but also this most recent thought. Very carefully and very quietly she said, "You wait until your dad gets home, my girl. You will get your just deserts when I've told him what you've said to me today and how you’ve behaved. You deserve a bloody good thrashing for your behaviour today, young lady and that is what you will be getting when he comes back from work! Go to your room immediately and wait there until he comes home."
At this, pleased to be out of the same room as my mother, I ran away upstairs, continuing to shout obscenities as I went. Once upstairs I slammed my bedroom door shut, sat on the bed and stamped my feet in temper. I didn't really believe that I would be given 'a good thrashing', as my mother called it, bloody or otherwise not from my dad at any rate. I was the apple of his eye. I told myself that I didn't care either. My cursing and swearing continued for some time, albeit at a lesser volume, until my energy ran out.
At this point I felt awful. Increasingly I realised what I had done and that the consequences my mother suggested were not only going to be true but probably literally so. Bloody probably would mean just that in this case. ‘Oh God’ I thought. Oh ‘bloody hell’ I stroked the back of my school skirt gently with my hand in my increasing fretfulness. My little bottom was too little for a ‘bloody good hiding’ I thought but I knew I was the only one of my mother, father and I who would think so.
Not long after anger subsided totally subsided and I started to cry softly into my pillow. I couldn’t stop big tears rolling down my cheeks. That was all there was no sounds of crying just the gently rolling of tears which I couldn’t stop.
Eventually, I heard the front door open and immediately close again. A cheery greeting indicated my father had returned from work. I listened intently for noises that would give me some idea of what was going on down there but I could hear nothing beyond the distant rumbling of voices, which did not carry with any clarity upstairs.
For what seemed an age nothing happened, only these low, distant voices. No doubt I was being discussed at some length and my recent behaviour being explained. I tried to tell myself that I didn't care but I knew I did. In a groundless fit of optimism and bravado at one moment I felt confident that I would not be punished in the way my mother had suggested. What was a 'good hiding' anyway, I asked myself. At other times though I knew my punishment was inevitable and through my tears I knew I was really in for it this time. In reality I hadn't a clue; although I felt I wasn't going to be able to live in ignorance much longer.
However, at this, my thoughts were interrupted. I was somewhat surprised to hear the front door open again out of curiosity I looked out of the bedroom window. To my consternation I saw that my mother and young brother were walking away down the short garden path to the street. This was highly unusual, particularly at teatime when generally every day the whole family sat down together to eat and talk almost as soon as dad arrived home. At this point I realised that the conviviality of the normal teatime was, today, clearly not immediately on the family menu. It was at this point I knew my fate was sealed. The house had been cleared. I was going to get this promised ‘bloody good hiding’.
After a brief pause, as my mother and brother had disappeared down the street, I heard the sound of my father's footsteps coming up the stairs. Increasingly as he got nearer to my bedroom door, I became even more conscious of the true nature of what I had done, why I had been sent to my room and what was likely to happen now. I now knew that what I had done and said to my mother had been wrong. I realised that my only possible escape would be to apologise to my father for my awful behaviour and that my father would see that this was done.
Hopefully, hope beyond hope really, I prayed that I would be grounded and my pocket money stopped. After all I was thirteen now surely I was too grown up for my father to smack me, particularly as I was expecting my period. The thought crossed my mind that in the final analysis I would tell him so and he wouldn't want to hurt me.
At first, as the footsteps drew nearer to my bedroom door, somewhat naively, and in one of my last great optimistic moments, I imagined that to give an apology to my mother was the only reason why my father was coming up the stairs to see me. Then when I had apologised I knew my punishment would be meeted out. Nevertheless, I could feel my stomach churning with the anticipation of a good telling off.
I would have liked to visit the loo.
By this time, my father's footsteps had reached the top of the stairs.
The anxiety of his arrival made me even more nervous. I caught myself again anxiously smoothing my hands roughly down the back of my skirt and increasingly touching my backside under it in my uneasiness. I was feeling increasingly agitated as my father's footsteps got as far as the upstairs landing. I could feel my buttocks tightening underneath my school skirt with the apprehension and mounting tension. ‘Calm down’, I told myself. ‘It'll be all right’. ‘He won’t kill you’.
Of course it will be all right, I reassured myself. I recalled that my father had last smacked me some two months ago for my naughtiness. Realising the parlourlessness of my situation my thoughts turned to the possibility of this form of punishment happening to my again.
Momentarily, I remembered my worst childhood experience. I recalled the tears and the pain of one particularly painful spanking I had suffered from my dad. That had been bad enough but the final indignity had been having my panties taken down over my little, six-year old botty in front of my younger brother and sister to receive punishment across my naked backside. I remembered it being so embarrassing, so undignified and so very painful.
My father's footsteps had by this time stopped and, noticing this I heard the door of the airing cupboard on the landing open. Curiosity got the better of me at this point and I opened my bedroom door just slightly. What I saw took my breath away. My father had, at this point, turned purposefully away from the cupboard with a long, thin and clearly very whippy cane in his right hand.
At this sight, I couldn't keep quiet at all and I flung open the bedroom door widely. "No Daddy! No!" I shouted, involuntarily. "Please daddy, don't cane me….I'm sorry Daddy, honestly… Daddy I'm sorry really" I shrieked. This was the first, but far from the last time, I was to say or think those words that evening.
The thin cane in his right hand allowed me to anticipate the next series of events very clearly. The anticipation I can tell you now was not the half of it, in reality; the next few minutes and the hours of pain as a result of the consequences of those few minutes, would be worse than I could have ever imagined. It was to be a wakeful nightmare from which at times I thought I would never escape.
At this point my emotions became very confused. A mixture of fear, apprehension and oddly a form of excitement overwhelmed my stomach and I desperately wanted the loo even more than earlier.
My first instinct was fear. Fear of what I now knew was coming. Secondly, it was sorrow; at this moment I felt very sorry for myself. The threat of a caning had been used to quell my brother and sister as well as myself on occasions before and, although we had been shown the bamboo instrument occasionally, as far as I knew it had never been used on any of us. I quickly saw that this was about to change. Clearly this fearsome object was going to be used to some effect on my bottom, and what's more I realised it was going to be used almost immediately.
My father came in through my bedroom door without asking to enter. He said nothing to me at all except "put yourself over that chair."
I looked at where he was pointing. In the corner of my room was an old upholstered chair. It was towards this that he was directing me.
Momentarily, I hesitated, but my father did not delay at all. He immediately pulled me roughly towards the intended chair. As a consequence of my father's pushing and my own anxiety to do what I was asked, I fell over one of the padded arms and across the seat of the chair. My momentum had propelled my so that my bottom was now up in the air and my rather loose-fitting summer school skirt well above my waist. Although I didn't realise it at the time I was strategically, in just the position he wanted.
Immediately, though somewhat misguidedly in the circumstances, I tried to get up. Although my intention was to reorganise myself more comfortably across the chair and to readjust my clothing, my father misunderstood this, saw it as a form of refusal and held my down so firmly my face was buried into the rough upholstering that covered the chair.
The chair was old and smelt sharply at such close quarters of ancient feathers and body odours. I remembered once wetting myself sitting on this chair. At close quarters I felt I could smell my own urine on it. It wasn't something I had noticed before and this time wasn't really a time to register it either, before my school skirt was lifted further up my back, almost up beyond my waist and the first smack of my father's hand registered heavily on my knickered backside.
The continuous spanking I was receiving was stinging my bottom hard. If this was a 'good hiding' I was receiving it hurt immensely. My tightly knickered bottom was really getting a pasting. The pain was enormous, continuous and seemingly never ending. My father's large hand had the same effect on my backside now as it had when I was much smaller. My bottom blazed from the pain and I screamed, as I had never done before.
I knew then I had to go to the loo. I also knew that was not going to happen.
I knew what I was receiving was the consequences of my father's anger at what my mother had told him. His temper was usually well controlled but this time there was nothing I could do to abate it. I realised that I would just have to take what I was being given.
I continued to be held down tightly by one of my father's hands as he spanked me with the other. No amount of struggling and wriggling made any difference to the punishment I was receiving. Initially, I had tried kicking my legs out to keep his hand at bay. However, this didn't last long as my father told me to "quit that" in a tone of voice that allowed my no freedom of choice. It was this voice that also added; "if I didn't stop I would receive a great deal more than I might have expected."
I restrained my legs and now nothing could stop my bottom being the focus of my father's attention. Every blow that rained down on it was increasingly painful. He was well into a rhythm of very, very hard smacks across the plumpest part of my bottom and across both of my buttocks. The pain which had started as merely excruciating was now impossible to deal with. My dad continued to hold me down firmly with the one hand over while the other steadily spanked me.
"How dare you talk to your mother like that?" my father in due course said somewhat breathlessly to me, without stopping the thrashing he was giving.
"You're an extremely naughty girl", he said to repeated spanks of his hand. "I'm ashamed of you", he added "I hope this will teach you a lesson", he said, again to the rhythm of his right hand on my bottom.
At this point I was so overwhelmed with the pain I cried out loud to him to stop. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry!" The incessant pain was so bad I no longer thought about going to the loo. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry", I shouted over and over again as his hand continued to come down on my bottom.
"You will be by time I've finished with you", he responded, again pushing my skirt further away from my bottom and pulling my knickers down to expose the plumpest part of my bottom, presenting a bigger, open target for him to hit. At the same time he unfailingly continued hitting me.
The thrashing I was receiving was relentless and in an attempt to escape the pain I had moved further across the chair. In fact this only resulted in setting my bum higher in to the air, making it easier for my father's hand to find its target. My brown, tightly knickered buttocks were now almost totally exposed for him to deal with. It was only these school knickers across my cunt that gave my any modesty.
His hand rained down time after time, increasingly without much thought as to direction, as long as he hit me, my arse or the top of my legs he didn't seem to mind where. My summer school skirt had now risen well above my waist, exposing my entire backside to his attention. At least I still had my knickers on. They gave me no absolutely no protection but at least I was spared some of my modesty. I was thirteen I didn’t want him ‘looking’ at me that would have been even more embarrassing than what was happening to me already.
However I tried to struggle I could not escape, there was no remission at all. It was a sheer agony that was totally unrelenting and an experience that I had had no preparation for. I had no real idea how many times my father's hand hit my. Nor if he had been asked would he have had either. I had no chance of counting and my father had no interest in doing so.
It seemed to be an age before my father's temper subsided and the thrashing began to end. Eventually he stopped and, even more breathlessly, said to me "you deserved that. What you did today was absolutely inexcusable. In future you make sure you obey your mother or there will be more where this lot came from."
Ignoring the blubbering and writhing mass that now was his daughter he added, in a straightforward, matter of fact tone that held its own menace, " I doubt if you’re through yet either. I‘ve told your mother to deal with you, as she feels necessary when she comes up to you. You will wait there until she comes." He then pulled up my knickers with a rough movement over my buttocks, which he must have known would be agony and moved away from me.
At that he was gone. The bedroom door shut firmly behind him, leaving me to my absolute and total agony.
The real significance of what my father was saying was, at that moment lost on me. I wasn't listening, or rather I couldn't listen. My pain in my buttocks was so great. My tears flowed unceasingly and my bottom hurt in a way that is impossible to describe. In my agony I did not realise what there was to follow from my mother. My tears flowed unceasingly long after my father left.
My bottom hurt in a way that I could not have possibly ever imagined. It felt like a sheet of fire, with an insistent throbbing that would not go away whatever I did. My struggling during the actual punishment became no easier to bear after it had finished. I could not sit and I certainly could not stand. All I could do was to lie across my chair on my stomach squirm and wriggle my rear end in the hope that the incessant hurt would go away.
I wanted to touch my buttocks and rub the pain away, except I couldn't do so, the pain was so intense that I could not touch myself at all and I could feel the heat of my thrashing coming from my rear through my knickers. I would have liked to take off my knickers except that I couldn't do that either; the pain was so great. When I thought about it, I felt that my father, in his temper, must have spanked my bottom at least fifty times, maybe more.
I was alone for a long time. When my father had come up to me it had been teatime about six o'clock. Now on this fine summer evening it was approaching dusk. I saw the change in the light outside my room window and recognised that it was now getting late. I realised in the aftermath of my punishment that I must have been there about three hours, alone and feeling very sorry for myself.
Perhaps, I thought, I had been asleep. I had been exhausted with crying and maybe I had dropped off to sleep, despite the pain I was in. Even after all this time I ached all over, not just in my nether regions where I might have expected to hurt but also everywhere else on my body ached with the experience I had been through.
As I made a conscious effort to pull myself together my fighting spirit began to emerge once more. It was all so unfair thought, "I didn't deserve this", I muttered to myself in the misplaced bravado I had shown earlier.
As the streetlight came on and shone into my uncurtained bedroom window I realised that my pain had receded slightly and I felt a little better, enough to try to move off the chair where I had lain. My bottom still hurt like hell and my body likewise was unsteady from all my tears.
I raised myself slowly and attempted to inspect the damage. My bedroom mirror was strategically placed to afford a good view of what had been done to my. I took off my skirt and noticed that with my knickers on there were many red and purple marks on my exposed skin. A few red blotches at the top of my legs, particularly where my father had mistimed his strokes and some redness in my lower back, which was the result of similarly poor target practice. That, at first glance, was all that I could see.
At this point I rolled my school knickers down over my bottom and down my legs and was horrified at what I saw. Both of my buttocks were a mass of red wealds and purple blotches, where my father's hand had thrashed me. Momentarily, I wondered about the state of his hand and if it had hurt him in the same way it had my. I was doubtful. I realised now what the phrase 'you won't sit down for a week' really meant. At that moment I felt that I might never sit down again, ever.
Just as I was inspecting myself properly my bedroom door reopened and my mother stood there, silhouetted by the light on the landing. As my father had done earlier, my mother immediately walked across the room towards me. Without saying a word she drew the curtains and switched on the table lamp by the bed.
Immediately she saw that, even after the time I had been allowed to recover, I was still in the state of some distress. I had turned with some surprise at my mother's entrance and I had lost control of my knickers, which had dropped to my ankles. A mere glance at my bare buttocks showed her that my first punishment had been completed very well and I had got what I deserved.
Despite her not acknowledging me, on seeing my mother I broke into tearful, loud sobs and tried to cling to her. She, although clearly wanting to comfort me, pushed me away from her. It was then she spoke to me.
"It's no good feeling sorry for yourself now", she said, in a voice that was so strangled that neither of us really recognised it. She cleared her throat and continued with a greater feeling of conviction, "You deserved what you got from your father. Your bottom shows clearly that the punishment you received was appropriate and it must have hurt you. "Nevertheless ", she continued after a short pause, "your behaviour today warrants that you must also be punished by me as well."
As I heard this I gasped. I had completely forgotten what my father had said when he had left me. I wondered what my mother was going to do. I was sure that I would be more lenient; after all she could see the effects of what I had received already.
"What do you mean mum", I asked at the same time as I was trying to regain some dignity by pulling my school knickers up.
At this my mother seemed to be watching my antics with some amusement as I tried to cover myself up quickly and struggled to keep my balance.
It was then I noticed the cane was on the floor by the bed. I realised then my dad hadn't used it on me. My mother must also have seen it at about the same time too. She walked across the room and picked it up. Turning to me she said, "You can leave your knickers off now." At this point I realised she was going to use tat cane on me.
I mouthed to question the order but thought better of it. My intuition told me that this was not the time. I stopped pulling up my knickers and paused.
"Take them off properly", my mother told my. As I had been told to, I lowered my knickers, stepped out of them, and waited.
With my bottom exposed I turned to face my mother. I shivered. The shiver was from cold as well as fear. My buttocks still hurt enormously from the thrashing that they had received from my father. My mother, holding a cane in her hand as she spoke to me looked ominous. I didn't need a fortune-teller to predict what was going to happen next.
I needed the loo so badly I thought I was going to pee on the carpet at any moment.
Again, in a voice that I did not really recognise, I heard my mother say to me "For my punishment I will give you a lesson with this cane. As your father did before I will give you a proper lesson and one that I shall make sure that you will never forget. Your behaviour to me earlier this afternoon was intolerable. You will never do anything like it again ever. Do you understand?"
I recognised that I was in unknown territory again for the second time this afternoon and all I could do was to agree. I had realised earlier that I had gone too far but at that time I also realised that I couldn't retract.
"Yes mum", I said, and added, "I'm sorry mum", in the vain hope that this would dissuade her from her stated intentions.
My mother, however, was in no mood to be side-tracked. "Should anything like your behaviour today occur again then you can expect me to use this again", she said, showing me the cane. "For every time I do have to use it in future" she added, "you will receive double the number of strokes I gave you the previous time. Do you understand?"
I understood well enough. What I had just heard was too horrible to contemplate. Again I responded by saying, "Yes mum". "I'm sorry mum", I added again. At this tears welled up in my eyes. "Please mum", I cried. "Please mum don't hurt me", I blubbered. "I'm sorry, honest. I didn't mean it. I really will be good".
Mum can I go to the loo?
She ignored my request. "Being sorry is too late now" said my mother, too late to save your pretty, sensitive skin. You should have thought of that when you called swore at me earlier'. You were out of control and this will help you to remember discipline. You deserve what you will get. I am your mother and this will also help you remember that."
"But my dad has already punished me", I cried, sobbing profusely again. My bottom still hurts from what he did to me. "I'm sorry mum I'm sorry! I promise I won't do it again. Please mum, let me off without the cane", I begged. I cried big, genuine tears and shivering with apprehension tried to cope with my fear.
I knew I was going to piss myself before long.
"Enough of this nonsense", shouted my mother. "You are not the first girl to be punished in this way" she continued. "In my opinion a sound caning now will do you the world of good. Clearly, you do not respect me" she said, adding, "perhaps you will respect what the cane can do". Now stop crying this instance. Your blubbering will not change a thing."
My sobbing turned into a wail. "Noooooooo!" I shouted. "Nooooooooo, mum pleeeeeeeeeese"
At this point my mother hit my hard across my face and I stopped the noise instantly. "No more", said my mother. "That is quite enough. If you don’t bend over that chair this instance I will send for your father and he will give you a second helping. Is that what you want?"
I knew this was a watershed. I could continue to plead, argue or perhaps defy my mother but the though of my father's return petrified my. I couldn't face a caning from him. My mother would be bad enough but I knew that the pain from a caning by my father on top of what he had already done was too much to think about.
I also knew I was not to be allowed to go to the loo.
I hesitated at this point. I understood what I had to do but was still unable to do it. I stated at my mother, part in disbelief and part in fear. This was it, I knew that time was no way out. My father, I now realised, had thrashed me in anger. The beating I had received from him was largely emotional and from his heart. He had hit my in part because of his temper and partially to defend his wife from the verbal abuse I had received.
My mother, on the other hand, was going to punish my in a much more deliberate and formal way. It was not only that this time there was the distance of a piece of whippy bamboo between them but also a certain emotional distance as well. My mother would punish me in a way that was more aloof and deliberate. This was to be a formal punishment; similar to those a head teacher gave to naughty children at school.
Now I was scared. Really scared, not only because of the coldness in my mother's voice and in her eyes but also because I realised that time was to be no modesty for my in this punishment. While my father had smacked my through my knickers, my mother was going to do it on my bare bottom. All I was as a thirteen-year old girl would be revealed to my mother.
It was so embarrassing. My young adolescent girl private parts would be openly exposed, not only to receive the cane but also for my mother to see. Even though I knew, biologically, she was no different from myself I was so ashamed that she would see all of me. I saw my knickers lying on the carpet in front of my as if to emphasise the fact that my totally exposed bottom was to be basted, probably severely, without any protection.
My mother gave me a long hard stare and pointed to the chair across the room. "Put yourself over that chair ", she commanded. "No more dawdling now." "You hold on to yourself now", she said. If you wet yourself I shall increase the number of strokes you get."
I did as I was bidden and lay slowly over the upholstery again. My body was now draped over the high back of the upholstered chair. My hands were placed on the seat with my bottom up in the air in a way that it hadn't been when I had received from my father. My buttocks were exposed totally.
At this point I realised I was starting to wee myself like a small child.
As a consequence, at first I failed to open my legs wide enough for my mothers liking. When told to do so I did open them a little but not enough to show my fanny, or enough as it turned out to meet my mother's requirements.
As if to emphasise this fact, my mother immediately smacked my once across my right buttock and commanded my again to do as I was told. I cried out loud with the pain and moved my legs a little.
I pissed myself a little more.
If I thought this would be wide enough, my mother had a different idea. Ignoring my increasingly desperate state she said "You are being deliberately disobedient, this will not do", she said loudly and smacked my again, on exactly the same place as she had before on the right cheek. "You will do as you are told right now", she said, raising her voice.
I cried aloud again at the pain and moved my hand in a vain attempt to subdue its effect across my tenderness. Again, rather unfortunately for me, I again noticeably failed to move my legs wide enough apart for my mother’s liking. At this point and without warning, my mother brought the cane hard down across my buttocks to emphasise the point "I said wider, she shouted and that stroke will not count", she added.
My mother then seemingly decided to change tack. "Stand up!" she commanded. Thinking that my luck was in, I stood up and turned to face her. I smiled, as if in relief as the urine continued to run down my leg.
"Your posture is all wrong on that chair", she said.
She came across and moved the chair further into the middle of the room. "You will get over the chair-back properly now and open your legs as wide as you can. I want to see all of your naughty bottom, your fanny and your arsehole, so that I can deal with you properly. Do you understand? You can piss yourself as much as you want", she said. "It won't make any difference to what I'm going to do."
I was shocked by her language and her attitude. Mothers didn't even know such words as far as I knew, let alone use them. I looked at her in amazement. She just pointed to the chair and indicated that I should get over it again as she had instructed.
The position, as my mother had so cleverly seen, was just right for what she wanted to do. I could get across the chair back with some ease, my feet were just able touch the floor and, with my legs spread wide, as I had now done properly, it afforded my mother the opportunity of giving me at every stroke of the cane across my very private parts. This, I now realised was her intention. If her aim was true I was to be given no mercy. I knew now my cunt and arsehole would hurt like hell for days afterwards. At this point, when I was fully stretched across the back of the chair my mother, with great deliberation, explained to me what I was to receive.
With an oddness of syntax that I had never heard before, I heard my mother say, "I was going to give you six strokes of the cane for what you did this afternoon. However, as you have even less control than I thought and because you have wet yourself he chair and the carpet I have decided to award you ten strokes of the cane".
I gasped with horror but she ignored this and continued.
The first stroke will start at the top of your bottom and each other stroke will be placed across your buttocks lower than the previous one. You will not get up or rub yourself at all throughout the time you are receiving the punishment. If you do I'll start again from the beginning from the top of your buttocks. If you wet yourself I will increase the number of cane strokes you will receive. Do you understand?"
I merely said that I did understand what my mother had said and waited for the inevitable. My mother moved towards me.
I felt I was beginning to wet myself again.
She was as good as her word and the first stroke swished through the air almost immediately and stung the top of my fleshiest parts. The pain was intense and I roared with the agony and, in a complete error of judgement, rose from the chair. I turned to face my mother and saw the steely look in my eye.
"That stroke will not count", my mother said "get back down over the chair".
I resumed my position as I had been told. In fact on my return over the chair I inadvertently opened my legs wider than ever and my mother was pleased to see her target was easier to hit. I knew of the pain of a smacking across the cunt region and the effect of this first hand. "Do not move now", my mother warned my.
I tried so hard to obey her as she brought that rattan down across me another twelve times. I continued to wet myself, the chair and the carpet throughout the caning. The longer it went on the more I pissed.
The caning I received was long, deliberate and severe. My buttocks absorbed the strokes of an even measure. As my mother had said would happen, she brought the implement lower down my buttocks at each stroke. Each stroke also cut into me with some venom. I knew that my mother meant each one, as it landed firmly and squarely on my already punished flesh. How I kept from getting up remains a mystery to me. I just clung on to the chair, my knuckles white with tension.
As with the thrashing I had received earlier, my tears flowed liberally from the start of my punishment. I cried the bitter tears of a girl who knew I was receiving a beating of the severest kind. This was a lesson in life, and one that I would never forget.
My mother put every effort into each cut of the cane as she brought it down across my flesh. Every stroke reverberated through my bottom with a report that must have been heard all over the house. At the finish every cut was there to be seen and counted from the top of my bottom to its base.
As I expected she would, I was caught smack across my cunt with two of the hardest strokes. Although I didn't realise it at the time, my mother saw that with each stroke she was giving me I was rising further on to my tiptoes, a gesture that was exposing my cunt as a target more and more as the punishment progressed. This was an action that also made my bottom stick out more, so that it looked like an act of defiance asking to receive every stroke.
My mother had counted correctly and after the twelfth stroke she stopped, her heavy breathing from the action of using the cane undetected under my howling and crying.
"I hope you've learnt you lesson now my girl", she said eventually, above the noise I was making. "I don't really want to repeat the exercise again but I will if you make me" she said, putting the cane down on the bed. She said to me softly, as if in confidence, "I was thrashed many times when I was a girl and when I was far younger than you are now and for far less than what you did today I can tell you. You've been protected far too long. "And", she continued ominously "I love you but mark my words so does my cane love your naked bottom and if I feel you need it again I shall not hesitate to use it".
"Now", she added, "pull yourself together wash you face and tidy yourself up and come down for supper. When you come downstairs you will stand behind your chair and you will explain what you have received to your sister and brother. You've got ten minutes to be dressed properly and clean this floor and the chair. Don't keep us waiting or I'll consider repeating the dose you've just had immediately."
"No mum", I said as quickly as I could, retrieving my knickers from the bed and pulling them gingerly over my still scorching bottom. I ached all over and felt terrible. The pain was again unbelievable. My bottom stung as if a hive of wasps had stung it all over. "God what a lesson," I thought, as I tried to pull my knickers up. How long would this pain last?
After a very short time I struggled my way downstairs. I hurt all over and shivered constantly with the pain. My bottom would be sore for ages. I knew I couldn't sit down. I did as I was told I cleaned myself up and did my best with the chair and the floor. I could smell that smell though even when I'd finished.
When I got downstairs my mother and father were waiting, still grim faced. In front of my brother and sister I was told that my behaviour had been unacceptable and also that during the punishment my mother had given me I had peed myself. This, like my behaviour earlier, was unacceptable and I was informed I could expect further punishment from my mother when I got home from school in a weeks time.
After more than twenty years after the event I still shudder at the memory. As I told the story of the bloody good hiding to my husband some thirty years afterwards one night as we cuddled on the settee. I said, "It hurt so much, Jim I was only thirteen but I'll never ever forget it... ever! The cane cut into my bottom and the ridges were there for nearly a fortnight. It took weeks for the bruises to go. My cunt hurt so much as well. And the humiliation of explaining what had happened when I wet myself to Jane and Peter", I added. "My botty hurt for weeks after but I suppose it taught me all the discipline that I ever needed.
"Did you get the cane again the week after" he asked caressing my naked bottom. I knew then what he had in mind for us and it was far more pleasant than any thrashing!
"I did…"
I started to reply but I got no further for at that moment our attention was distracted by a small noise, seemingly near the dining room door. My husband reached out for the door handle. He pulled the door open sharply. Wendy our twelve-year old daughter almost fell into the room looking like a startled rabbit in the headlights of a car. It was obvious that she had been time some time and had heard much of what we had been said.
"You've been listening", her father said rather obviously. Wendy made no attempt to reply, although it was clear from her expression that this was the case.
"You know the answer to your problem then", he added. Again Wendy made no attempt to comment. She just stood there motionless.
"I think its time now, Jim", I said to my husband. "After all I was almost the same age as she is now when I received my punishment and its not as if she's been a good girl recently either. "I think that its time our Wendy learnt one of the most important lessons in life", I said "and now seems as good a time as any other. I want her to know, as I did at the same age, that any punishment in this house involves pain from now on."
"I agree", her father responded. "Wendy", he commanded pointing at the dining table, put yourself over the table. To his surprise just for once I did exactly as she was told and bent over the table.
Her father stood up and went towards her. At this point he looked a little unsure, as if he didn't really know what to do. He had come from a family where corporal punishment was disregarded and he had little experience to go on. By the look on his face, as he regarded the well formed and well-covered bottom of his twelve-year-old daughter thrust across the dining table it looked as if his inexperience was going to be a handicap.
I knew that it was no good smacking Wendy through her skirt. She would feel nothing; except perhaps at best a slight embarrassment and would certainly share her experiences with her sister Jane in a way that would make both of us look ineffectual and foolish. I knew to make any real impact my daughter's skirt would have to be moved even removed and her bottom punished only through her knickers at the very most.
"Wait Jim", I said interrupting him again. "We need to make an impression and we need to do things a little differently. It's no good smacking her through her school skirt. She will feel nothing and we will look incompetent."
Jim stopped in his tracks and watched, with no little surprise as I strode across the floor and lifted my daughter's maroon school skirt well above her waist to reveal a tightly knickered bottom. Wendy's red school knickers were drawn across her cheeks in a way her father had never seen on anyone before. He looked at me with some admiration, as well as a certain curiosity.
Again to his surprise, Wendy made no complaint throughout. She merely remained silently lying across the table, her bottom ready to be smacked. Again her father seemed amazed as there was neither a note of dissent, not an aggressive word from Wendy. I could see this was again something he felt was really odd.
"Well Jim” I said to him that's better; with her skirt raised perhaps you'll be able to make a better impression now. "Are you going to smack her with your hand?” I added.
"Yes why not", he responded "or have you any better suggestions?"
"Well" I said pausing for effect, "not if you really don't want to. Personally I'd use the slipper on her, let her know what it's really like, or you could remove her knickers and do it across her naked arse if you wanted. It's up to you; just give her a good hiding and we'll see how you've got on afterwards."
Again throughout this exchange Wendy remained silent, bent low over the dining table her bottom continuing to be neatly exposed for what she knew she was to receive.
"If only they knew the truth they would just get on with it and, at the very least, slipper me", she thought but of course being a wise young girl she continued to say nothing.
