“Have you tried spanking her?”

I couldn’t believe at first what she was saying. I was sitting with Joanne, a friend of many years and the mother of Ursula, a classmate and good friend of my daughter, Niamh, both working hard some of the time towards their final exams.

“Well, you don’t, do you?”

“Not now but I have done, twice; two good hard spankings, and things got sorted out,” replied Joanne.

“But Ursula is a lovely girl. I am surprised, but why two?”

“Yes, she is, thank you, Cara, but she went through a bad patch and she needed my attention. It wasn’t just the spankings; she needed a lot of care and love as well but we got through it and we’re pretty happy with each other now. I think Niamh is great, but I also think she needs the same as with Ursula; love, attention, and a sore bottom, just like we got when we were growing up. It was twice because she sort of tested me again by slipping back into how it was before the first one, maybe to see if I was alert and would nip it in the bud, and I did. It might be the same with Niamh, you never know.”

“I’m really going to have to think about this. I never wanted to. It won’t come easy.”

“It was the last thing on my mind, never even thought of it even as a last resort.”

“So, why did you change your mind?”

“My mother. Dad was the disciplinarian in our house, but just twice my mother spanked me and those were the ones I really remember, not because they hurt more physically but they were very personal because I loved her probably more than my dad; she was always there for me.”

“Yes, I think it was the same for me when I look back.”

“Niamh sees you as a role model, she loves you but she needs to know you still love her.”

“So, I am supposed to show I love her by spanking her, hurting her? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s completely illogical, I know, but if you just do nothing or if you just shout at her, so she shouts back, you’re getting nowhere. You’re both just hurting yourselves. I know this, I’ve been through it. Take some time out, tell her why you are doing it, give her the best spanking you can, and it will break the spell. It will give her back the guidelines she has lost, and it’ll prove that you’re not giving into her or giving up on her.”

“So, it worked with Ursula, why would it necessarily work with Niamh?”

“Try it, you’ve got two chances.”

I looked at Joanne quizzically; she had a habit of talking in riddles.

“It works or it doesn’t. Your risk, but you have to try. I did and the result was just fine. And make it personal, your hand on her bottom first and then whatever you like when your hand starts stinging.”

I was doubtful.

Still seeking advice, I was talking with my mother in a coffee shop. I see her as often as I can because we are really good friends and she likes coffee. She’s gone a little bit deaf so compensates by talking louder than she needs to; people often look up from their coffees. She knew Niamh and I were going through a bad patch, as she and I had when I was in my teens.

“Well, Cara, you know what changed things don’t you?”

“Don’t embarrass me, mum. There’s no need to say it.”

“She needs two good spankings like you did, that sorted it out.”

We became the centre of attention, not surprisingly, with amused grins all round.

“Mother!”

“What dear?”

****

Another day, another row. The last year with my daughter had been difficult for both of us, and the older she got, the more we seemed to be at odds and drifting apart. She is strong-willed, determined, and never wrong but arguing with her and the shouting/swearing matches that ensued had left me exhausted, and maybe, I will be honest, less interested in motherhood than I should have been. She was for ever complaining that I appeared to have lost interest in her, and, sadly, to an extent she may have been right.

It was a two-pronged row over the fact that Niamh had been collecting parking tickets on my behalf and now a speeding fine. The secondary argument was about the dress she planned to wear to her Uncle Joe’s wedding. It was clear the group photograph would draw the eye to the expanse of uncovered leg, rather than the happy couple in the middle. But of course, it was all about her selfish mother, obsessed with herself, not caring about anyone else and certainly not her poor neglected daughter. It was a typical argument between a mother and her teenage daughter with the added spice that all I ever did was pick on her and criticise her. I had had enough. I suppose the speeding ticket was the last straw, if I needed an excuse, the corporal offence.

“Come here, Niamh!”

“Why?”

“Because I say so!”

I turned the bedroom chair around, and ensured that my wooden backed hair brush, inherited from my mother with memories to accompany it, was within easy reach.

For once Niamh obeyed. I assume it was the sudden and clear authority in my voice that brought her to stand in front of me. For once my daughter was silenced.

“I am going to do something I should have done a long time ago. If you think I don’t care then watch this space; I wouldn’t bother otherwise. I care that you could have had an accident and got hurt because you were speeding, and I care that you will make a fool of yourself wearing that dress and you will regret it. And most of all, even though you’re seventeen and behaving ridiculously, I still care about you and always will. Now get over my knee.”

“What are going to do?”

“I’m going to give you the spanking you’ve needed for some time.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. I’m fed up with your behaviour and your rudeness, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to carry on like this either.”

“So that justifies you hitting me? Because you are fed up? You don’t want me to get hurt speeding and yet you want to hurt me now?”

“There is a huge difference between a smacked bottom and broken bones or worse.”

“If you say so, mother.”

“Something has to break this cycle of damage, and yes, like it or not, I am blaming you. I’m going to spank you like all mothers have done through the ages, when they’ve needed to discipline a naughty child. You should be well past that point by your age, but clearly, you’re not. Now come here!”

“No!”

“Niamh! You get over my knee, now!”

She could easily have walked out of the room but she didn’t. Whether it was shock or the belief that the vicious cycle we were in needed to be broken, she did not struggle at all as I guided her over my knee. If anything, she co-operated. I prayed that Joanne was right. Neither did Niamh resist when I pulled her shorts down. The knickers could have stayed because they were so flimsy. Very little of her bottom was covered, but the point was to be made, and down they came too.

I began spanking her with my hand, as Joanne had suggested. I had to do it alternate cheeks because although her bottom is not big, my hands are relatively small. Nonetheless, within a short space of time I had enriched those cheeks with a rosy colour. Niamh was just taking it at that stage although I had noticed that her breathing had become louder, as had mine with the effort. My hand was stinging as I hoped was her bottom.

I picked up the hairbrush and the hard wood soon started to get results. Her heavy breathing became gulps and gasps. I think I was getting through. She started to wriggle and I tightened my grip on her waist. She started to kick and I put my right leg around hers to keep her safe and secured. I didn’t want her falling off and hurting herself. I had by no means finished. She started to cry out and I felt the end of the beginning was in sight. I continued to apply the hairbrush generously as her responses became louder.

“Mum, please stop! You’re hurting me!”

I did not reply but it was a good sign, time to start thinking about winding down. I slowed the pace but deliberately made them harder. This was going to be the spanking of her life. I had no wish to do it again. The cracks when wood struck the purple flesh were sharp and echoey. The cries from Niamh became louder. I gave her ten really hard smacks with the brush.

I stopped and released daughter from the waist and legs. She got up slowly, clutching her beetroot-coloured behind.

“Jesus, mum, you’ve really hurt me.”

“That was a spanking; you earned it and you got it.”

She pulled up her knickers and picked up her shorts before walking towards the door, slowly and painfully, then turned, with tears on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, mum.”

Job done? I had no idea. The next two days saw cordial but not close relations. I had no idea where we had ended up, but we weren’t shouting and swearing. The most notable change was that ‘mother’ had become ‘mum’. I much preferred that.

I was late home on the Friday night and Niamh had to go out for her lifeguard volunteer stint at the local pool. She had waited as long as she could but I was too late. On the kitchen table was a beautiful bouquet and a box of chocolates with a note.

I love you, mum. I am sorry for all the things I said and did. You should have done that a long time ago before things got so bad. It was all my fault. I hope it never gets like that again but if it does, please do it sooner, for the both of us. I needed to know you still cared, and in my weird head what you did proved it. Why else would you have bothered? I won’t say thank you because I wouldn’t mean it, it really hurt! I’m just so glad you are my mum again.

XXX

When she got back, we hugged, we cuddled, she sat on my lap in the chair and we talked, and we shared far too many chocolates. I got her a new dress for the wedding but somehow just above the knee became a lot above the knee, though unlike with the other one, her bottom was well protected. I did not envisage it would need any more protection from me. I smiled to myself when I saw her in it.

****

Things had been going really well, but a few weeks later disaster struck; a humdinger of a row over very little plus an even shorter skirt she was planning to go out in, and the door was slammed, my daughter had gone. By midnight, I was more than worried. My husband was away on business and I was alone and becoming increasingly distraught. By 1.00 am I was driving around pointlessly in my car; by 2.00 am I was on the phone to the police. They had kind words but it was Friday night and they could only do their best. By 3.00 am I was sitting with the phone on my lap. I had rung everybody I knew, getting most of them out of bed. Even still, they all had kind words.

At 3.30 am the doorbell rang. At first, I just saw two police uniforms through the frosted glass and thought the worst, the very worst, bursting into tears. Then, when I opened the door, I saw that the lady police officer was helping to support Niamh, while PC Jones, the more senior officer, introduced himself and explained.

“We found your daughter, Mrs T, quite a lot the worst for wear and alcohol, I’m afraid. And I’m also afraid to say that we caught her, um, er, relieving herself in an alleyway, number one of course. An offence, as you must realise, as well as drunk and disorderly, but she was sweetness and light in the car if a little slurred, so polite and apologetic, we have decided not to charge her or caution her on this occasion. We’re going to leave it to you to, um, er have a word with her, a bit of discipline maybe?”

Niamh managed to walk into the house, just about.

“So sorry, mum, I’ve really messed up, I feel awful, can we talk in the morning?”

She turned and staggered slowly up the stairs, holding tight to the rail, that shortest of dresses exposing virtually everything, or would have done but for the pair of surprisingly sensible knickers.

PC Jones looked up the stairs, looked at his colleague and then leaned towards me, as if to whisper, but spoke in a normal voice.

“A good spanking wouldn’t go amiss, if you don’t me saying so. Maybe a dozen with the slipper so she remembers it. The trouble is, these days girls don’t get the slipper in school and they really need it sometimes, to get back on life’s proper pathway. I don’t think she’d get into trouble again. Like they say, it’s got two chances, but I’d put the wallet in my back pocket on that girl of yours being a credit to you in the end.”

The constable tapped his nose in an advisory capacity. I looked up the stairs; Niamh had nearly made it to the top. I suppose I should have been behind her to stop her falling, but was otherwise taking advice, or instruction; one or the other. Almost certainly she would have heard what he said.

****

I slept fitfully, so grateful that Niamh was home safely but fearful of how things might be in the morning and daunted by my task ahead. I decided to let her wake in her own time, a kindness that many would criticise me for but we both had to come to terms with reality in our own way. Niamh came into the kitchen at midday, made herself a coffee, and me a top-up, took a painkiller for her headache, and promised to be back in a few minutes. I heard her take a shower, and then there was some opening of doors before she returned, back in her pyjamas, about half an hour later.

“First, let me say I am so sorry, mum. I lost it completely, went on a bender, and put you through hell. No words are good enough really. I just hate myself for hurting you like that.”

At that point, she started to cry. I wanted to hug her but knew there had to be some distance before forgiveness. It should not be that easy. Niamh, to be fair, was not expecting any easy way out.

“The policeman was right. I need a spanking; I certainly deserve a spanking. I broke the law and that means some sort of punishment. They let me off official charges and official punishment, so I am sorry, mum, but you’re going to have to do it. I really am so ashamed.”

It was clear from PC Jones’ tone of voice that in return for them letting my daughter off charges or cautions, I had a serious role to play in the disciplinary process. I had no idea whether they might come back and check that it had been done.

Niamh presented me with two implements. She had been in my room and collected the hairbrush, which she passed to me first.

“This is because I put you through hell last night, and this is because I broke the law and had to be brought home by the police.”

In her other hand was a plimsoll.

“I think this is what they used to use in school for naughty girls like me who broke the rules. I don’t think they used an actual slipper. It was the closest I could think of for an official-type punishment. Probably not as big as a school slipper because my feet aren’t that big. Maybe there’s something of dad’s, if you would prefer.”

I took them both, while Niamh, cleared a portion of the kitchen table, removed her pyjama trousers and bent over it. Believing she wanted me to deal with the police affair first, I put the hairbrush down and approached my daughter with the plimsoll. She was holding on tight to the other edge of the table, so obviously expected me to make good use of the shoe’s flexibility. I did not disappoint. It seemed that Niamh had thought about how she wanted this to happen, but I needed to take back the imperative.

I gave her twelve strokes of the plimsoll applied across her bare bottom, complying with my instructions under the law. Though not the biggest, the implement was large enough to arrive on both crowns at the same time, so I applied most of the strokes down the middle and hard, with a pause between each stroke to let the sting sink in. I remembered how my headmistress had done it with me. She took it bravely but by halfway, she was gasping and yelping by the end, especially as I applied the last two on separate cheeks gratuitously low on her buttocks just like my headmistress did.

I let her get up and have a good rub. I saw no harm in that. Then I took her by the hand, positioned myself on a chair and coaxed her down gently over my lap. She showed no resistance. What had gone before was police business, now it was mother and daughter business.

Like when I spanked her before, I used my hand on alternate buttocks. They already looked red and sore but I was determined to finish the punishment. That just had to be the last time. Niamh was hurting, the fire in her bottom would still have been building; she was gasping, groaning, and wriggling, but taking it as she knew she must. This was the important one, the spanking that would lead to forgiveness.

The sting in my fingers was becoming painful but I was determined to give it all I could. In the end I resorted to the hairbrush, despite it being more impersonal, just to finish the job, with ten slow, hard strikes. And then I stopped. Niamh just lay there over my lap, sobbing quietly. I rubbed her back gently to show I had finished. I wanted to run my hand over her bottom to cool it down, I really wanted to ease the pain for her a bit, but thought better of it, she needed to absorb it and feel it fully.

She got up slowly, and I helped her because her movements were uncoordinated due to the pain in her rear end. As she stood, she cupped her cheeks. Tears rolled down her face, I think as much from emotion as pain. I stood and held her for a moment; I kissed the top of her head.

“I love you Naimh, please don’t make me have to do that again.”

“I love you, mum, I promise never again.”

She picked up her pyjamas and took her very red bottom back to her room. I passed by a bit later and heard her still sobbing; for certain by then more about the last twenty-four hours, the disgrace she had made of herself and the hurt she had caused, than the pain from the two spankings. I chose not to go in; she needed some space. Half an hour later, she was back in the kitchen, searching for the painkillers again and some more coffee. I wasn’t cruel enough to deny her either. I was just curious as to whether the analgesic was for her headache or her sore bottom, and if the latter, how long it would take to reach it. Before leaving the room, she came up behind me and put her arms around my waist. “I love you, mum.”

It was over; as with Joanne and Ursula, twice proved to be enough. Niamh and I had the occasional hiccup but she never had to go across my knee again. Our relationship began to flourish and we became the best of friends. In my view, though, she still wears her skirts far too short, but there were no more parking tickets. In reality, neither of those things were the real reason she went over my knee.

The End

© Jenny Tomlinson 2025