Children born in the North of Scotland during the 1950s and early 1960s had a tough upbringing. Parenting was Puritan and very strict, and since my brothers and I engaged in our fair share of mischief, our bottoms were regularly set alight. However, even then, there were well-entrenched differences in how I and my brothers were dealt with. Many of their misdeeds were dismissed as ‘boys being boys’ and dealt with by a severe talking-to. By contrast, I was not given this leeway by Mum. Every failure to meet her standards was tackled in the same robust manner: the hairbrush or plimsol applied to my bottom, with the number and ferocity of her smacks varying according to her level of anger.
At the time, I hated Mum for her rough treatment. But I forgave her once I found out the reasons for it. She was supportive and generally lenient with me during my early years. However, the ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ brigade, who held sway then, got wind of her supposed laxity, and she became their target. For them, the traditional strict discipline approach was the only way to raise children, and any new-fangled ideas were a sin. Sadly, their extreme views were all-powerful, and Mum eventually succumbed to relentless pressure and began disciplining me in a proscribed manner. I hate to admit that it worked. While I was never a badly behaved child, I could be feisty and argumentative. However, regular warmings of my bare bum at appropriate times soon taught me those traits were improper, and I steadily became a sweet, docile daughter, at least most of the time.
After talking with other girls, I realised that Mum’s punishments were, in fact, far less severe than those inflicted on their daughters by most mothers. So, Mum was adhering to her initial instincts. But given all the eyes upon her, how did she get away with this? Perversely, it was due to supposedly perfect, image-conscious mothers insisting their daughters not create unseemly scenes when they were punished. That would never do, would it? The result was that girls generally bottled up their anguish and, unlike me, kept relatively quiet while pain seared through their bottoms. While I initially reacted that way, Mum encouraged me to let my feelings rip. So, I often shrieked like a banshee at every hit to my bare bum.
To my utter astonishment, the effort of screaming somehow diminished the pain of each strike and made my punishments more bearable. Furthermore, my very vocal reactions allowed Mum to reduce the severity of her smacks until they were the minimum necessary to cause me to shriek at each hit. This clever approach left no one in doubt that Mum was doing her job, but it also allowed her to limit the actual amount of pain I suffered. For that, my bottom and I are eternally grateful.
I was a goody-two-shoes at school. So, until I was eighteen, I had no acquaintance with the school tawse or cane. However, this blissful situation ended once I moved into an all-girl class taught by Miss Mabel Marshall. While I knew of her reputation as a strict disciplinarian, I assumed that if I worked as hard as I had up to then, I would avoid any unpleasantness. There was not a chance. Free use of the tawse was Miss Marshall’s way of keeping control, and she made no exceptions. So, even the most well-behaved girls routinely encountered the fiery kiss of her tawse. I, therefore, presented Miss Marshall with a quandary. Having never experienced the behaviour-changing pains of the school tawse, I might be a free-spirit who would disrupt her class. So, she decided to put me firmly in my place at the first opportunity. I was called to the front of the class mid-morning on my first day.
“Miss Yates, you seem to be daydreaming. You need some help focusing on your work. Hold out your hands this instant.”
As I did so, I heard a collective gasp from the others in the room as Miss Marshall took a heavy two-tailed tawse from her drawer. I knew of its fearsome reputation and quickly learned it was well deserved. Excruciating pain surged through my right hand and then my left as the belt caused its venomous mark. I howled at every hit and wailed like a baby as she put extra effort into the sixth and final strikes to each hand. My extreme reactions pleased Miss Marshall on a job well done. Furthermore, I was even more shocked to find she was not the only one happy about my downfall. The smiles on my fellow students' faces told me they loved that 'Miss goody-two-shoes’ had got her just desserts and was now just another pupil in the class.
My classmates did not get to gloat for long because, in the weeks that followed, one by one, all thirty endured the not-so-loving kiss of Miss Marshall’s belt. At first, I thought it was just my bad luck to be the first chosen for her remedial education. However, that notion was soon dispelled when I was again called to the front of the class two weeks after my first encounter. I was ordered to bend over Miss Marshall’s desk on this occasion. As soon as I was in place, she unleashed six withering blows of the heavy tawse onto my bottom. Believe me, skirt and knickers give little protection. The pain from each strike was much worse than any hit to my bare hands, so I shrieked and howled at every strike. You could have heard a pin drop-in class as Miss Marshall put her tawse away, for the girls were in shock, afraid that they might be next. By contrast, Miss Marshall looked serene, almost at peace with the world.
Sadly, the class’s worst fears came to pass. All the girls were belted on the bottom after that. However, while most were spanked by Miss Marshall only once over any six weeks, I suffered her special treatment at two-week intervals. Moreover, while the others continued to get six on the skirt each time, Miss Marshall soon progressed to belting me on my panties and session on session increased the number of hits from six to nine to twelve and occasionally to fifteen if she was particularly outraged. My bum can confirm that she had a heart of stone and never showed any mercy.
An unforeseen consequence of my thrashings at school involved my Mum. Before I joined Miss Marshall’s class, she had never faced the task of giving me a second spanking in the evening after school. But the jungle telegraph ensured that she and our neighbours got the message of my downfall at school well before I got home, leaving her no choice but to thrash me for supposedly bringing disgrace to the family. Worse still, the pious great and good could savour the fruits of their labours by listening to every smack and howl of my shame. In the following days, our neighbours always took great delight in thanking me for the free entertainment.
Miss Marshall thrashed me three times during my initial six weeks in her class, and Mum spanked me again in the evening after the first and second occasions. However, in the third instance, Mum's attitude changed dramatically when she saw the severe damage Miss Marshall’s heavy tawse had done to my tushie. She gasped and began to cry.
“Oh, my poor baby, Miss Marshall obviously has a total downer on you, just like a horrible teacher had on me. My tormentor took great pleasure in regularly flaying my bottom in front of the whole class. Sadly, Miss Marshall must be cut from the same cloth and is just as untouchable. So, like me, you will have to button your lip and take it on the bum for as long as you are in her class. You may not believe it now, but you will survive and be the better person for it. From now on, I will help you get through this. I will never again punish you after a belting at school, no matter how much the Puritan rabble howls.”
“I am angry that Miss Marshall can get away with this, but knowing I am not the only one to have suffered like this helps strengthen my resolve. Miss Marshall will not break me. I will survive.”
“That’s my girl. I am so sad you must deal with this, but I am proud of your determination not to give in. In the end, just like my tormentor, Miss Marshall will taste nothing but the bitterness of failure as she watches you blossom in ways she never attempted.”
At that very moment, I now understood Mum’s evident reticence to punish me. As a result of her own experiences, she did not want to inflict pain per se. Still, she needed to create enough familiar noise that our neighbours, and of course, the wider great and good, would know she was doing her duty. As this insight sunk in, I made an astounding decision.
“Mum, your life will be hell if you do not reinforce Miss Marshall’s punishments. I do not want you to have to deal with that. I can cope with your after-school thrashings, so stick with them. Together, we can put on an unforgettable show that leaves the listening audience no doubt about how much pain you are inflicting.”
“Oh my, you are willing to do that.”
“Yes. But promise me you will not go feral like you regularly do when you catch me acting up at home.”
“You get what you deserve on those occasions, but I guarantee I will not go overboard with any after-school spankings. You are an exceptional daughter. I am so proud of you.”
That evening and at roughly two-week intervals after that, Mum and I put on highly vocal performances for the neighbourhood. Mum’s smacks to my already tender rear were more about noise than pain, not that anyone would have known that from my shrieking reactions to them. That evening also marked another major shift in my relationship with Mum: we began forming close mother-daughter bonds.
Mum handed me a pair of pyjamas and said, “Put these on and slip into bed while I get changed. I remember only too well the horrors of being all alone after a severe thrashing. The pain and fear never seem to go away, and all you really want is to be hugged and reassured that things are going to be okay. Up to now, I have usually been the scary Mum, but tonight, I will be a loving, caring Mum.”
My eyes were out on stalks as Mum stripped off because I had never seen her naked. Wow, she was all woman, and I was shocked to find I had some very undaughterly thoughts that came to the surface. Fortunately, they disappeared as Mum put on her PJs and slipped into bed alongside me. Intuitively, we snuggled up together, and for the first time since I was a baby, I fell asleep in Mum’s arms.
I awoke the following day looking across our shared pillow into Mum’s eyes. She smiled and kissed me on the lips. Then, I felt her hand slip inside my pyjama bottoms.
I recoiled a little. “What are you doing?”
She pulled me back and said, “Shush, this is the first step in learning about your body.”
I already knew my front bottom was sensitive. Still, nothing prepared me for its amazing reactions to that first touch of Mum’s fingers. I gasped with delight when the lips trembled and tingled, and a wave of pleasure swept through my fanny. These joyous feelings increased rapidly as her fingers explored and stroked the labia. They then went through the roof when she uncovered and gently massaged a very sensitive pearl, which she later explained was my clitoris. Soon, my labia were engorged and sensitive to the merest touch. I began to worry that something was wrong when my body started to tense up. Then to my utter delight, I was taken to the seventh heaven when my twat tremored like mad and flooded with juices as wave upon wave of sweet sensations surged out from it. I was unsure what had just happened, but I did not care. I was in ecstasy.
Mum kissed me on the lips before saying, “Congratulations, you have just had your first orgasm. That pleasure is how your pussy reacts when it gets highly aroused and is taken over the edge. It is just one of the many joyous secrets of the female body. You are lucky to learn about it, for many girls and women go through their whole life without ever experiencing one.”
“But why? Surely, girls have a right to know about themselves.”
“Ah, my poor dear. Keeping girls in ignorance is all about preserving male dominance. They know the wheels will come off their self-serving culture if females feel able to ask questions and make demands. So, everything is done to ensure that cannot happen. While that itself is bad, this wall of silence about female matters has far more deleterious consequences. Females know little or nothing about their bodily health and well-being and suffer badly because serious problems often go unnoticed until it is too late.”
“That is terrible. Why is that permitted to go on?”
“People in authority, mostly men but sadly also some women, do not want social change. But rest assured, things will get better. Many pioneering women are campaigning for improvements. In the meantime, I will pass on enough knowledge of things female to ensure you have a happy and healthy life."
“How can you do that with eager ears all around?”
“Well, my bedroom is safe because the boys never come here. So, once they have gone to bed at night, you can come through here and, as I did many times with Grandma, spend the night with me learning the female essentials.”
So, from that day, Mum and I regularly shared her bed, chatted, and played until late. Our pillow talks were often graphic, and the games we played could be highly embarrassing. Still, they provided me with the basic feminine knowledge, including intimate matters, I needed for the future. Amazingly, while Mum taught me how to find pleasure in my lady bits, she always declined when I offered to share the joy with her.
"Thank you for the kind offer, but this time is all about you.”
“The Puritans believe that girls will run amuck and lead boys astray if they have knowledge and are allowed to be together unchaperoned. So, they must be strictly kept apart and in ignorance.”
“Wow, these people must live blinkered lives. Girls and boys are inherently fascinated by each other, and the fact that adults keep us apart just stokes the fires of adolescent curiosity and ingenuity. Even in my innocence, I know couples who liaise regularly when the mood takes them.”
“Well, it is good to hear that some things are the same as in my youth. Have you ever been with a boy?”
“No need to fash yourself, Mum; I have not gone down that road so far. However, I know of quite a few girls who secretly engage in regular ‘rest and recreation’ with pupils from the local boys' school. What astounds me, and I can only speak about girls, is that the majority who engage in these illicit activities come from very traditional ultra-strict families.”
“That is no surprise. Girls raised in a very restrictive environment often want to break free and have fun; the more rebellious, the better. The pity is that they are innocents who know nothing about the risks they are taking. Sadly, all too many of them find out the hard way.”
“Too right. I know of at least three girls who were badly beaten up because they would not put out for their bit of rough boyfriends and another who got pregnant when she did. Worst of all, she had no idea why it happened and ended up being thrown out of her home for bringing dishonour to the family. As to be expected, the boy got off scot-free. I certainly do not want to put myself at risk like that?”
I was stunned when my prim and austere Mum said, “I am glad you have not made out with anyone yet, but I hope you have not been completely put off by what happened to those girls. You need to find a partner or partners with whom to get up close and personal, and quite soon.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Girls are fed a lot of rose-tinted tosh about marriage, but the reality can be very dark for most if they know nothing about the good and bad of being a couple and how to cope with its challenges. Once a girl ties the knot, she loses her right to think and act for herself unless her husband permits it. Typically, that is unusual. Instead, the husband will be an old-school dominant, and she will be left with no choice but to serve without demurring his every demand as a housekeeper, plaything, and baby maker. Sadly, for our Puritan masters, this often-loveless existence is their ideal. It is no wonder that many married women become bitter and twisted or, in the worst of circumstances, completely doolally. However, it does not have to be like that if you acquire the necessary feminine know-how before you take the plunge.”
“You are scaring me. But I assume it was not like that for you and Dad.”
“At first, he was quite traditional in his thinking, so it could have been. But by then, my Mum, your grandma, had taken things in hand and become my sexual guide and mentor.”
“The critical thing to know about boys is that while virtually all of them act the rough macho sex machine in front of their mates, once they are one-on-one with you, the majority are just as clueless and scared of intimacy as girls. The fear of humiliation due to failure to perform is all-consuming for them. So, by...
