I have written before about Ingrid, the Jamaican housekeeper and nanny who was in full charge of the younger ones discipline in our house, and how she spanked me with both her hand and the belt whenever I was naughty enough to have earned a whipping.

As I mentioned before, she had spanked her own off spring in Jamaica before coming to work for my parents, and she told me once how she sometimes took a switch to her younger son and, once in a while, to the older one’s bottom too.

. Surprisingly, I didn’t consider Ingrid mean for doing that – and I also couldn’t help but wonder how a switch would feel put across my own bottom.

One day, I asked Ingrid some probing questions about whether she had ever considered taking a switch to me. Her answer was that we were not in Jamaica but in America, where the spanking customs were less strict.

That pretty much put an end to my questions. Nevertheless, everyonce once in a while I would ask again if I deserved the switch for my latest offence. Ingrid’s invariable reply was: “I know there’s a part of you that enjoys me spanking you, young man, and I ain’t gonna give you the satisfaction. Anyway, my hand and my belt hurt that bottom of yours enough for when you’re in need of it.”

To be honest, I think there was a big part of Ingrid which enjoyed spanking, and when we had these discussions about corporal punishment she would hold me close.

Then, one fine day, I got caught spray painting buildings in the town. Ingrid was so angry that she said I was going to get the switch after all – but not from her. Instead, she pointed at her own mother, who was visiting us and was in the room while my latest misdemeanour was being discussed.

Ingrid was a strong, heavy-set woman, but her mother was even more formidable – chubbier and even larger hands. “You’re gonna be one sorry boy,” was all she said to me. Then she rose, went into the kitchen and came back with two switches which she had evidently already cut for me.

Suddenly, the fantasy of being switched didn’t seem so appealing and I began to cry at the prospect. “Shush now, John – you need to take your punishment like a big boy. All right?” I nodded, trying to look brave.

Her mother spoken again: “Bend him over your lap with his bottom facing outwards.”

“Let’s just get his shirt out of the why,” I heard Ingrid’s mother say, then there was a brief brush of her hands against my bottom as she lifted my shirt to expose the target.

The next second, I felt a line of fire flash across from one buttock to the other as the switch hit home. The rods were light but so thin that it felt like my bottom was being cut each time they were brought down on my body. The pain soon increased beyond what any one could bear and I bawled like a banshee, as Ingrid’s mother wore out both switches on my behind.