My mother was an accomplished disciplinarian. She used a two-handed grip, and the handle of the paddle was about a foot long. Even the first stroke sent pain shattering throughout my body. She waited at least fifteen seconds before licks and a minute between sets. This just made the pain build up exponentially.
My mom kept a paddle in plain view in the family room. It was an unvarnished, about three-quarters of an inch thick, with a long handle and three sets of dime- sized holes so that my bare butt would be blistered as well as bruised. It rested on a low bookcase which in itself was embarrassing as hell. There was also a punishment chair. If I was going to be disciplined, and this happened fairly often as a teen and young adult, I’d have to go to the family room, strip down to me jockey shorts, pull them down to my ankles and grab the front legs of the punishment chair so that my glut muscles were taut. It didn’t matter who was around. Mom would usually have me wait fifteen or twenty minutes before she was ready to paddle me.
She was always a strong, athletic woman. The minimum punishment was 10 whacks and the maximum 25. They were always delivered in groups of five. Mom always aimed very carefully. She’d deliver the first two just beneath the tail bone. The next two just beneath that. The fifth in the tender area between buttock and thigh. Then she’s repeat the same pattern going up. Then, if more than 10 whacks, down again up to 25. She used a two-handed grip, and the handle of the paddle was about a foot long, swung all the way back and laid on my bare ass with all her strength. Each lick sounded like the crack of a gun. Even the first stroke sent pain shattering throughout my body. She waited at least fifteen seconds before licks and a minute between sets. This just made the pain build up exponentially. Often enough, the beating was interrupted by a phone call. Mom would calmly explain that she was disciplining me and say she would call back.
Try as I might to avoid it, silent tears would fall down my cheeks after the first five whacks. Then gasps, muffled screams and, if the paddling was long enough, actual screams I was unable to muffle. It took all my strength to calmly pull up ,y jockey shorts and walk to my room afterwards. I’d be required, the door open, to take a cold shower, shampoo, soap, towel briskly then lay naked on a towel on my bed. Mom would sponge my butt with alcohol then swab it with iodine.
My butt was black and blue of course. The holes would raise blisters and, usually, the skin broken in several places. I still have faint marks from these paddlings and the whippings I’d receive Friday nights if I’d been paddled more than twice in one week. I’ve never been with a woman who hasn’t asked about them. At 25, I got a tattoo over the worst ones on my left cheek to distract attention. It had the opposite effect. Of course, this is nothing compared with the embarrassment at the time….