Strictly speaking, I became a member of the smacked bottom club on Christmas Day. It was not a particularly severe smacking, but it was, nevertheless, a beginning.
Until then, I had managed to avoid any such punishment throughout my childhood—a rather disappointing state of affairs for one so fascinated by the subject. I even succeeded in escaping such discipline during my school years, which was quite an achievement in those days.
Let us return, then, to Christmas Day, 1972. My mother, father, and I had been invited to Aunt Barbara and Uncle Alan’s house for Christmas dinner. Other family members were present as well. Aunt Barbara, my mother’s sister, was a rather striking woman, and by this age, I had developed a certain admiration for her. She was lively, enjoyed a cigarette and a glass of sherry, and possessed a mischievous sense of humour. I was exceedingly fond of her.
Aunt Barbara would often threaten me with a smacked bottom. “I shall smack your bottom for you, young man,” she would declare, or, “If it were up to me, I should certainly smack your bottom.” These pronouncements were made in a playful manner, never as genuine threats.
My mother resembled her sister in both appearance and temperament, though she was rather more reserved. She did not smoke, though she occasionally enjoyed a glass of sherry. Not once did she threaten me with a smacked bottom, nor did she ever actually administer one.
On that Christmas Day, the room was filled with family. Presents were scattered about, the wireless was on, and most of the adults were in high spirits, having enjoyed both Christmas fare and good company.
Aunt Barbara was searching for a plate or dish for more food. She was bending over, her head nearly inside the sideboard, when Uncle Alan entered the room. Seeing an opportunity, he could not resist and gave Aunt Barbara a resounding smack on her bottom. I observed the entire scene from my chair, peering over the top of my book.
Aunt Barbara’s reaction was most entertaining. “Oh, Alan, you are incorrigible!” she exclaimed. The smack caused her to jerk upright and bump her head on the sideboard, which made me laugh aloud—I was, I confess, prone to fits of giggles.
Aunt Barbara turned on her husband and threatened him with all manner of retribution—all in good humour, of course. There were calls for her to return the favour and some rather grown-up banter, if memory serves. The room was filled with laughter. It was my grandmother who pointed me out to Aunt Barbara, for by now I was curled up in a ball, overcome with mirth.
Aunt Barbara turned her attention to me. “Just look at Mr. Gigglechops there!” she announced to the room. “He finds it most amusing to see his aunt receive a smacked bottom. Let us see how amusing he finds it when he receives one himself!”
At this point, I was quite helpless. My fit of giggles was in full force, and tears streamed down my face. I could scarcely speak. Aunt Barbara approached my chair and gently lifted my legs to one side, which gave her access to only one side of my bottom, but I offered no resistance. I was still laughing uncontrollably.
“Very well, Gigglechops, I am going to smack your bottom, and we shall all have a good laugh with you!” Aunt Barbara declared, playing to the room. And so it happened. Three smacks to one cheek, only the last of which was of any consequence.
As the final smack landed, I cried out in my best imitation of Aunt Barbara, “Oh, Alan, you are incorrigible!”
This remark caused the entire room to erupt in laughter. Aunt Barbara herself laughed heartily, dropping my legs back onto the chair. “Impudent boy,” she said, “I ought to turn you over my knee for such language!”
My mother and father were both laughing, so I knew I had escaped censure for my cheeky remark. At that moment, all that mattered was that I had joined the smacked bottom club. Even more thrilling was Aunt Barbara’s threat to turn me over her knee—the first time I had heard that expression. Thus, my first spanking was complete—I was now a member of the club.
Aunt Barbara had spanked me! The reality was perhaps less delightful than the fantasy, but I suspected there was more to come.
When we returned home, I was permitted to stay up and enjoy hot chocolate with whipped cream—a rare treat. There was no mention of my impudent remark or my smacked bottom. I lay awake for hours that night, likely due to an excess of food and excitement, thinking about Aunt Barbara’s threat to turn me over her knee for a proper smacked bottom.
On Boxing Day, my father and the other gentlemen of the family went to watch the greyhound racing. It was a popular event—they enjoyed a few drinks, shared laughter, and returned home with tales of near victories and narrow defeats.
While Father was away, I played with my new toys, but the events of the previous day were still foremost in my mind. I resolved to ask Mother a few questions.
I found her busy in the kitchen. I sat at the table and requested a glass of milk, pondering how to begin. Mother had her back to me as she worked. She wore her new Christmas slippers, a jumper with small pom-poms, and a grey skirt. I believe it was the first time I noticed her legs—she wore dark tights.
My opening was rather awkward, but at last I blurted out, “Mother, do you think Aunt Barbara would truly turn me over her knee?” Even uttering the words was thrilling, and I felt a curious sensation within.
Mother glanced at me and replied, “I doubt it—but if she did, it would only be in jest. It is simply her way.”
Emboldened, I continued, “Did Grandmother ever smack you and Aunt Barbara when you were young?” “Indeed she did!” Mother replied. “She had us hopping about the room on more than one occasion, I can assure you!”
Her answer was both surprising and, I must admit, rather exciting. I pressed on.
“What do you mean by that, Mother?” “What, hopping about the room?” Mother still had her back to me, busy with her preparations. “Yes,” I replied, eager for her explanation.
“It means that when one receives a proper smacked bottom, one hops from foot to foot and tries to rub away the sting.” “Oh!” I managed to say. After a brief pause, I asked the question that had been on my mind: “Why have you never smacked me, then?”
Mother stopped what she was doing, turned, and brought a towel with her, wiping her hands as she pulled out a chair opposite me. She sat down, crossed her legs, and considered for a moment.
Then she spoke, quietly but seriously. “When you were born, your father told me, in no uncertain terms, that you were never to be spanked. I do not know for certain, but I suspect he was beaten as a child and therefore disapproves of any physical punishment. He has never spoken of his reasons.”
Mother looked very serious. “Now, you must promise me you will not tell your father what I have just told you.” “I promise,” I replied, “cross my heart.”
Then I added, “So, if it had been up to you, I might have received a smacked bottom when I was naughty?” “Yes—there is a great difference between beating a child and a smacked bottom. There were occasions when I was tempted—but I made your father a promise.”
I could not resist asking, “Would you agree with Aunt Barbara that I deserved a smacked bottom for saying that word yesterday, Mother?” I grinned, having now said the forbidden word twice. Mother simply chuckled and said, “If only I had not made that promise to your father all those years ago!”
The conversation was both enjoyable and intriguing. Looking Mother straight in the eye, I said, “I promise not to tell if you will not, Mother! If Aunt Barbara were here, she would turn me over her knee!” Mother stood up. “Do not tempt me—and be careful what you wish for, young man!” She turned to resume her work.
Spurred on by excitement and curiosity, I said, “Go on, Mother—make me hop about the room. I shall not tell!”
She turned back to me. “You will be sorry you asked!” It was a fair warning, but at that age, who ever heeds such things? “I did say a rude word twice, Mother!” That was the final straw. “Very well, young man—but do not say I did not warn you!”
If only I could have bottled my feelings at that moment! Excitement, anticipation, and a touch of fear. I was about to receive my first official smacked bottom—I could not have been more excited if I had been given the keys to a sweet shop!
Mother sat down again, and I walked over to her obediently. She adjusted the chair to make room for me, and now my nerves outweighed my excitement.
Mother looked at me. “This is a private matter between us. I am going to smack your bottom for using improper language, is that clear?” “I promise I shall not tell anyone, Mother,” I replied earnestly. “When this is over, you will understand all about hopping from foot to foot, mark my words!”
All I could do was look down at Mother’s waiting knee and nod. My nerves now surpassed all other emotions—I was moments away from my first ever trip across my mother’s knee. “Come along, then! Over you go—this may take a while.”
With Mother guiding me, I leaned forward, pressing my legs against her nearest thigh. I placed a hand on her knee and went over. Mother manoeuvred me forward, and my feet left the ground. On the other side of her lap, my fingertips could barely touch the floor.
Then Mother said, in a stern voice, “Christmas or not, that sort of language is quite unacceptable!” And so my first official spanking began, on a Boxing Day morning.
I lay still at first, as Mother set about her task at a steady, measured pace. She smacked me in silence—there was no accompanying scolding, only the sound of her hand meeting my increasingly sore bottom.
I struggled a little and made faces. Mother held me firmly around the waist and continued. She must have known it was beginning to sting. I stretched my legs and pointed my toes, gasping for breath as my mother’s hand continued without pause. My wriggling became more desperate, and I flailed my arms and legs, but it was to no avail.
Suddenly, Mother increased both the force and the speed of her smacks. It stung dreadfully! I kicked, squirmed, and cried out, but it made no difference. In fact, I suspect it only encouraged Mother, who was determined that I should soon be hopping from foot to foot.
My bottom was aflame—it burned and stung most painfully. The initial sharpness gave way to a deeper, more lasting discomfort. For someone who had never before smacked a boy’s bottom, Mother did a most thorough job. Tears rolled down my face as she finished with a dozen or so particularly firm smacks. It was quite an education!
At last, Mother stood me up. I found myself facing her, rubbing my bottom vigorously—and, indeed, hopping from foot to foot. In truth, it was more of a war dance.
Mother folded her arms, crossed her legs, and regarded me with a satisfied expression. When I had calmed down, she remarked, “It does sting, does it not?” It was impossible to disagree. Yes, it did sting, and the sensation lingered for quite some time.
“Hopping from foot to foot does not help much, does it?” Mother asked. I shook my head. I had both hands pressed to my bottom, occasionally removing one to
