Home punishments (girls)

 

Argentina, large city neighborhood, ‘60s

(original in Spanish, gracias, Mónica)

 

With reference to my punishments, my mother’s ritual was nothing special or worth mentioning. What bothered her was my lying and disobeying, never for bad school grades or for a normal girl’s pranks.  I remember that she kept the cord (she used always the same one), on a kitchen drawer.

 

When she found me guilty of something she thought should be punished, she took the cord and – unlike other children that were taken to a closed place for avoiding them running away – she took me from the ear (which was painful in itself) to a little courtyard behind the utility room, outside but without witnesses.  I knew that, at that time, nobody could save me from the flogging.

 

She took me by my arm, lifting me until I barely touched the floor, and without any word, without scolding or lecturing me, she began to flog my legs, that were always bare because I used short skirts, dresses or shorts, never jeans. The cord was like the ones used for clothesline. She doubled it up, holding it from the free ends, and punishing me on my legs with the folded part.

 

Even when she held me by one arm and I had the other free, there was very little I could do to protect me with it. In the flogging’s madness, I could only cry, howl and kick out.

 

She never looked angry, and if she was, she waited until calming down before punishing me.

 

When she thought I had enough, she just went away and left me crying.

 

The punishment was lighter than that of a leather whip or quirt, but I can tell you that I wouldn’t like to go back to those tender years and live that again.

 

It wasn’t terribly painful and the marks went away soon, but at the moment it was hell… how it stung!  I actually hated and feared that cord!

Mónica"

Published: 12/15/03

 

Argentina, rural area, ’70s

(original in Spanish, gracias, Andros (the narrator is his wife))

 

"There was no special reason for me being punished by my mother: she could do it with any excuse, that I didn’t eat enough (I was never fat, or ate too much); it could also be because I took something for playing that she didn’t like, or because she had an argument with somebody, my father, my father’s parents, or whoever.

 

But rituals as for repetition and ways of doing it, she had them.

 

Logically, the first thing was getting me, which was difficult because I, knowing my fate, ran away and, living at the countryside, finding me was not easy.  But sooner or later I had to go back for food or water, or because I wanted a toy, or something else, and then I was caught.

 

My mother was very strong, and her country woman’s hands would be more than enough, but not satisfied with that, the first thing was shouting and scolding me, and locking me out in the shed.

 

According to her, it would make me think about my errors and the reasons for being punished.

 

I could be there for hours, in the darkness, with light from the cracks in the wood.

 

After that, I was taken by a lock of  hair on the back of the neck to the kitchen, which was the punishment’s place.

 

I had to lift up my skirt, and pull down my pants at ankle level, and then hold the skirt with my hand (usually the right) and lean with the other against the wall, which had a window to the courtyard, with my feet apart. Holding the skirt with one hand, and trying to keep the other from sliding on the wall for not falling down left me totally defenseless.

 

And there began the next part of the ritual. Between complaints and scolding, she looked in the corner for a wicker rod; she had several, of different lengths and thickness, and chose the one that she thought I deserved for that day’s misbehavior.

 

I was already crying, quietly of course, for avoiding further angering her. I had learnt that relaxing was better than tensing, and I let my buttocks hang as much as I could, even when, being in the skinny side, there was not much for letting hang down.

 

I would hear her approaching slowly, and then the swishing of the rod in the air, and my buns stinging like hell.

 

When I was lucky, two or three were enough, at other times it got to more than ten, I suppose, because the last thing I did in those moments was counting.

 

What is curious about this is that afterwards she rushed looking for ointments and oils, and she treated me, and, of course, it was always “my fault”.

 

A few times she used her hands and had enough with that, at other times used a rebenque (quirt) and even a coathanger, but the wall’s ritual was never left.  

 

Things changed with the years, but this lasted a least from 6 to 13. After that, I went to live with some relatives.

 

I don’t remember this now as gratifying, but I like misbehaving, being scolded, and receiving some slaps on the buttocks. I feel this exciting.  I got feelings, feelings that I’m just beginning to discover.

 

I don’t think I will choose anything like a rod or a cane, but maybe I dare getting it with a belt some day. By now, I like role games, and the loving hand of my husband on my buns, which is special for me, because I know there is love, in him like in me.

 

We are just beginning to learn this and to live the feelings, but the fact that I can speak to him about my fantasies, looking for agreement, and practice them in good conscience, and from the quest for something for both of us, is wonderful and is worth the pain, (that isn’t).

 

And as a hint, and only to show how things can change, which is the position I like? Yes, exactly. A hand on the wall, and the other holding my skirt. Ha!

Andros"

 

 

 

 

Published: 12/15/03