I grew up in northern Italy in the 80s, as the only child in a fairly middle class family. Although spanking was definitely looked on as old-fashioned by that time – indeed, my mother was unashamedly old-fashioned – such discipline didn’t attract the stigma or indeed the state intervention that it would today.
However, the incident I’m describing here is not about me but about a friend of mine and his formidable mother. Luca and his family came to live near our house during the summer. Luca was a year older than me.
Luca’s father was a senior officer in the military and often abroad, and so he spent most of his time at home with his mother, a tall, full-figured and quite attractive lady in her late 30s. Luca was an intelligent, good spirited boy and we soon became friends. We went to the same school, although he was in the year above me – and we usually walked to and from our lessons together.
I had already noticed that Luca was a very obedient boy and that just a look from his mother was enough to settle him down if he was ‘getting out of hand’, as she would put it.
This particular day, my parents went out to dinner with my father’s colleagues, and I was due to have dinner at Luca’s and stay there until my parents came to collect me. We boys spent the afternoon riding our bikes, then we found a creek that ran along a path not too far away from our houses. We caught crayfish and frogs in the pond. Then, somehow, we got into a splashing contest, and we both ended up pretty wet.
We were expected back at Luca’s well before dinner but with all our playing and having fun, time got away from us. When we realised it was already nearly seven, we hurried back home. We rode our bikes to Luca’s house and all the way home, he urged me to go quicker – he looked so worried!
When at last got to Luca’s house and walked into the kitchen, Luca’s mother was standing there, waiting for us, hands on her generous hips. “Do you realise what time it is?” she demanded. “You know the rules in this house – you are to be home by 6.30 – and clean, and at the dinner table, by seven.” Her voice got louder and angrier at every word. “And you are not supposed to play in that creek full of mud and nasty animals. Didn’t I already tell you all this, young man?”
Luca looked down at the kitchen floor but managed to reply quietly: “Yes, ma’am.” I realised that he knew he was in deep trouble now. Luca’s mother pointed to the clock – it was now 7.30 and we were an hour late. She scolded us about breaking curfew, messing up our clothes and going where we were not supposed to go.
Finally, she said: “Go into the living room and wait for me.” When we got there, Luca was white as a sheet. I looked at him and whispered: “Do you think your mother’s gonna punish you?” He blushed a little but just said: “Yes.” I felt a lump in my own throat, a mixture of pity for my friend and fear for myself.
Luca’s mother returned to the living room carrying a towel and some of my friend’s clothes. She ordered me to go to the bathroom, dry myself off and change into them. I dared not disobey, so did as I was told, stripped and dried myself. I began to put on my friend’s clothes – they were slightly too big for me, as Luca was larger than me and a bit chubby, but at least they were dry.
While I was changing, I began to hear the unmistakeable sound of a hand slapping flesh, sharp and echoing through the hallway, followed by Luca’s yelps and cries. The noise was so sudden and intense that it made my heart pound in my chest. I stood there for a moment, frozen, not knowing what to do. On the one hand, I was scared to leave the bathroom, but on the other, my curiosity to see my friend being punished was overwhelming. I had never witnessed a spanking before, and my imagination had often wondered about how such punishments actually happened. So, with my heart thudding and my hands trembling, I tiptoed out of the bathroom until I could just see around the living room door.
The sight that greeted me was both shocking and strangely mesmerizing. Luca was draped over his mother’s lap, his body tense and small against her broad frame. She sat upright in a sturdy wooden chair, her skirt hiked up to her hips, her face set in a mask of stern determination. The room was filled with the heavy, charged silence that comes before a storm, broken only by the sharp, rhythmic sound of her hand connecting with Luca’s bare skin.
Each slap landed with a loud, almost explosive crack, echoing off the walls and making me flinch with every blow. Luca’s bottom was already a deep, angry red, and with every new smack, he jerked and kicked, his legs flailing helplessly. His cries grew louder, raw and desperate, as he pleaded with his mother to stop, promising through sobs to be good forever. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the faint, powdery smell of the towel she had brought, mingling with the sharp tang of fear and humiliation.
My own mother sometimes used a hairbrush on me, but watching Luca’s mother, I realized she needed no such implement. Her arm was strong and relentless, her hand broad and unyielding, each spank delivered with unwavering force. The sound was like pistol shots, sharp and final, and Luca’s resistance crumbled with every blow. He seemed to shrink before my eyes, his bravado and teenage pride dissolving into the helpless, blubbering sobs of a much younger child. His words became incoherent, lost in the flood of tears and the hiccuping gasps of breath.
Only when his mother sensed he could take no more did she finally let him up. Luca scrambled to his feet, clutching his burning bottom with both hands, hopping from foot to foot in a desperate attempt to ease the pain. His mother, her face flushed from the effort, watched him with a mixture of stern satisfaction and a hint of amusement, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath.
But her face was nothing compared to Luca’s. His cheeks were streaked with tears, his eyes red and swollen, his nose running freely. His mouth hung open in a silent wail, the last of his cries still echoing in the room. The transformation was astonishing: moments before, he had been a confident, healthy young teen; now, he was reduced to a sobbing, chastened little boy, utterly humbled by his mother’s discipline.
His mother stood and opened her arms, her sternness melting into a sudden, overwhelming tenderness. Luca rushed into her embrace, burying his face in her shoulder, his body shaking with the aftershocks of his sobs. She held him tightly, murmuring soft words I couldn’t quite hear, her hand gently stroking his hair. The room felt heavy with emotion, a strange mix of pain, relief, and the deep, unspoken bond between mother and child. While they clung to each other, I slipped back to the bathroom, my own hands shaking as I finished changing, the sounds and sights of the spanking replaying in my mind.
When I returned to the living room, Luca was still in his mother’s arms, his sobs finally subsiding into quiet sniffles. She gently told him to follow my example, to go to the bathroom and get dry and changed. Luca obeyed without a word, shuffling out of the room, his face still blotchy and his body limp with exhaustion, all thoughts of modesty forgotten.
His mother turned to me, her eyes sharp but not unkind, and pointed at Luca’s well-smacked bottom. “I hope your mother does the same for you when I tell her what a bad boy you’ve been.” Her words sent a chill down my spine, and I could only nod, unable to meet her gaze, my own guilt and fear swirling inside me.
Needless to say, I didn’t escape punishment either. Once my mother heard what had happened, her hairbrush came out and was used comprehensively on my bottom. The memory of that night, the sounds, the sights, and the raw emotions, have stayed with me ever since.
