Sunday School in 63 5

Since we couldn’t see what was happening out in the playroom, we listened for clues. Each whimper, each little protest, each quiet plea for mercy helped paint a more detailed picture. When I was sent to Mrs Wiseman. More than anything else, the lowering of my briefs brought home the fact that a strong, non-nonsense woman was about to give me a good spanking and there was nothing I could do about it. I had the same response when spanked by other women such as my Mother or Mrs Bigwither, the nurse who handled all spankings at our school. I felt an extra surge of juvenile helplessness and dependency as if I were still a toddler. Since I had been spanked regularly for misbehavior since I was two, each spanking invariably triggered memories of much earlier punishments. No wonder the baring of my bottom made me feel so “naughty”. Yet even while I felt terribly apprehensive, I also felt strangely safe and in an equally childish way. With my feet waving in the air and my head near the floor, I felt like I had given up control of my body to the very capable hands of a older, maternal figure who was about to teach me a lesson I had earned. Not that I wanted to learn any such lessons. Quite the contrary. Yet because I was never spanked without reason, I always understood why I was being spanked and why it was for my own good as I was usually reminded. Back in those days, all young ones who were bad got spanked. It was a simple as that.