There is something I never quite got to understand: why do kids feel the need to be polite only with their parents and not with those they meet occasionally?

Maybe it’s because they know their parents would punish them if they were too sassy and disrespectful, while they feel more comfortable with complete strangers because they know full well they wouldn’t lay a hand on them, no matter how much they’d deserve it. I guess this is a modern thing, because back in the ‘50s, for example, no adult would hesitate to administer a punishment even if he/she did not know the minor. The world has changed in this and many other ways. As for me, I never felt the need to be a disciplining figure for kids outside my family – mainly because I really, really don’t care if they grow up well-behaved or not; and then spanking wouldn’t be the correction of choice in my case. I fancy the act of spanking itself, and I must realise that it is effective under some circumstances, and yet I never brought myself to resort to it in real life. Being a single man of 26 years old, I hardly have children of my own, but I still do have a plethora of siblings and nieces, all aged less than me, who I can spank on occasion. I never did it. I never even wished I did it.

But two weeks ago my hands really itched, and I was dying to spank a particular child who had been so amazingly disrespectful to me and other people. I was travelling on a train from Manchester to London to reach my fiancée; it was late afternoon, and the coach was pretty much stuffed with people. There were some youngsters, of various ages, the eldest of which were sitting calmly aside their parents, reading a kiddy magazine, drawing, colouring. One girl was putting varnish on her feet nails, to her mother’s utter disgust. Two boys were discussing how Manchester UTD would fare in the next season without David Beckham, and I listened intently for a while, asking myself the very same question!

But there was this girl, aged eight or so, who just wouldn’t be friendly to anyone. When the attendant walked down the corridor to ask passengers if they wanted a drink or a newspaper, she disregarded her question with a sharp: “No way. Get off!”. The girl frowned and was off shaking her head, while the girl had earned a slap on her face from her mother, a stern-looking blond woman in her thirties who appeared fed-up of the child as she probably was. Inside myself – I was on a set ten feet away – I hoped she wouldn’t slap her, because that guaranteed twenty minutes of wailing and protests, which in fact came. Well, God knows how I hate violence when it’s up to children, but that sassiness really did deserve a strong response from her mother.

Another half a hour passed, boring but fortunately tranquil. When we were less than forty minutes from King’s Cross, I rose from my seat heading for the toilets. I waited in line as they appeared to be crowded, and when finally it was my turn I tried to step in. ‘Tried’, because this terrible kid wouldn’t allow me. She just stepped in ahead of me, totally regardless of the queue and not at all intimidated by the presence of four adults (other three were behind me by then). I, of course, remarked to her that she should wait for her turn to have a go. If she’d excuse politely and give me the usual puppy-eyed look only kids can deliver, I would let her in anyways with a smile and a ruffle on her bushy brown hair, but no: not only she entered the bathroom and closed it, but I also heard her curse under her breath. I’m not sure if the word was “fuck off” or “get the fuck out”, but I think the message got through. When she was locked away in the bathroom, I turned to the other people in the queue and an elder lady just opened her arms and shook her head.

She gave me a typical ‘kids-these-days’ speech, but I couldn’t help but agree with her.

“She could ‘se a goo’ beatin’,” said a man beside the lady, with a strong northern accent, and once again I found myself nodding my head. If I ever met a young girl in need of a spanking, that was she.

But then again, it wasn’t my task to educate her, and frankly I did not care. I can take an offence from a kid, no matter how bad it sounds, and judging from the exasperated expression on her mom’s face I could tell the woman knew well the child was a handful. So, when she re-emerged from the bathroom some two minutes later, I said nothing and let her run back to her seat – run: she wouldn’t stop for a second or even face us, probably knowing we’d be angry at her. So I shook my head and went in, and after that I returned to my seat without ushering a single word. In her seat not far from mine, the kid threw me a glance or two, probably wondering why I hadn’t told her mother of her misbehaviour.

That’s right, why haven’t I? I repeat it’s not my job to educate her, but it’s surely her mother’s, and as a good man and a good citizen I was to report the accident to her and let her deal with it the way she saw fit. It’s not a ‘spying’ thing, more of a duty I felt fit for the moment. Instead I just sat back down, half-sleeping until we got in London.

That is what happened.

And what follows is what I wish would happen, and what will happen if I found myself in such a situation again.

When the kid finally got out of the bathroom, I grabbed her wrist and pushed her in the coach, leading her to where her mother was sitting. The child screamed things like “Lemme go! Geroff me, you idiot!”, and various more obscenities I don’t even remember. What a smart mouth! When we eventually reached her mother, the woman stood up at once, preoccupied, watching me straight in the eye and asking what I was doing to her daughter. A normal parental reaction.

I explained calmly but thoroughly what had happened, and as I spoke I could see the woman’s stare shifting from me to her daughter, ending up throwing the child a venomous look. The kid was now totally silent, facing her mom’s stare with a mixture of fear, surprise and – yes – even dare in her eyes. I finished my recount with the words: “I thought you wanted to know,” without suggesting any course of action butting making it clear that I was indeed expecting some.

And I didn’t have to wait long. Before my very eyes, as I slumped back in my seat, the woman too grabbed the girl’s wrist and, after spinning her around, planted a sharp SMACK! on the seat of her pale green ankle-long sponge bottom, pairing with a halter top.

“Mummy, I’m sorreee!” the girl wailed in her high-pitched voice, but I could see the woman was getting desperate.

“What am I to do with you, Amanda?!”

As a low voice in my head asked: ‘Uh-oh, what have you started?’, another screamt: ‘That’s the way, come on!’. Ignoring the voices, all I could do was sit still and trying not to watch.

Now, I’ve travelled much this summer although it’s only mid-July. I’ve been in Germany, Italy, France and Switzerland, and I’m sure – damn sure – that in those countries half the train would rise from their seats and run in defence of the poor little girl being cruelly abused by her mean mother. But here I was in Great Britain, where I’ve lived since I was thirteen, and they (we) have a strong sense of reality, and, which is more important, they (we) DO mind their (our) own business. (There’s a typical joke about British people: “Two teenagers are making out on an English train and end up making love in front of everyone, and nobody objects. But when the boy lights up a cigarette, twenty passengers call the officer and have him arrest the boy for smoking in a non-smoking coach”. Well, that is not a joke! It really happened six years ago). And so the mother sat on the edge of her seat and unceremoniously dragged ‘Amanda’ over her lap to administer a sound spanking.

As I said, I’m against the corporal punishment for children, but that particular kid really deserved something more than a scolding, because apparently scolding was totally useless. Her mom must’ve known as well, because after bending the kid over she started slapping her upturned rump right away. Amanda’s wails had reached new heights when she realised her mother’s intentions, but though she was still screaming bloody murder I could tell she made no real attempt to escape the punishment.

Well, what I didn’t say about that joke is that no passenger ever dares to look at the teenagers while they make love, but I guess I’m not that strong, and I did look as Amanda’s eight year old buttocks were smacked as they should be. Her mom kept up for some thirty seconds, delivering slap after slap and never talking, before she stopped to remove the child’s bottoms. Amanda protested vehemently as she did so, but some extra-hard slaps on her now bared thighs made her think otherwise.

“How come it always comes down to spanking with you, Mandy?” said the woman in a desperate, almost tearful tone. I could understand her, given the circumstances. And as she spoke she bent down to grab one of Mandy’s flat-soled sandals, releasing it from the child’s foot and putting it to work on her bottom.

The spanking resumed, and as I heard the sound of plastic hitting bare flesh I realised Mandy’s panties had come down with her trousers. The woman proceeded slapping her bare buttocks, to the child’s obvious laments and to my utter confusion: I did not approve of this behaviour, and yet I was there, watching the whole thing out of the corner of an eye and nodding satisfied as Mandy was getting her just dessert.

Her small pert globes became a rosy pink and then a flaming red by the time her mother was through. The whole thing had lasted less than two minutes; when the kid received permission to get up, she hugged her mother, who returned the hug unconvinced and then sent her to me to excuse. Which she did, keeping her eyes low and muttering ‘I’m sorry’ in a meek voice. Then she replaced her panties and bottoms and sat down, uncomfortably, on her seat, to remain silent and thinking for the rest of the journey.

I’m no expert, but after that scene my doubts about corporal punishment were reinforced, because I was sure that little girl would start being bratty again in a matter of hours, if not minutes. What was needed then? Maybe a completely different approach, or maybe more and more spanking – as her mother seemed to have chosen – until she would be tired of having her bottom bared and welted in front of everyone and would just start behaving, for a change.

The thought kept me occupied for several days. As of then, I was sure the little girl had learned her lesson, but also that the lesson may have been largely insufficient for her.

Anyways, neither of these thoughts apply, because, as I said, this is what would happen if I reported her misbehaviour to her mother. Instead I was silent, and I don’t know if I did good to that child or hurt her even more. Sometimes I think I should have talked, and maybe watch her mother soundly spank her heinie, teaching the girl an important lesson in manners; but sometimes I believe that maybe I have given one hour of free time to a troubled child, who is rude and disrespectful because she has been spoiled, or because no one understands her, and that the parent who doesn’t hesitate to slap her face or bottom maybe has no other way to deal with her daughter.

Either way, I felt sad and a bit troubled myself after that encounter on the train.

– The End –

A truly fake story. I did see the kid, she did get a slap on her face, she was as sassy as one could be. The rest is mine.

This story does not necessarily represent the author’s point of view about anything. It is simply a work of fiction. The characters herein portrayed are invented and do not resemble reality to the best of the author’s knowledge. This account is entirely fictitious. Any similarities to other persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

This story is written for the sane amusement of adult readers. It does not intend harm and does not promote violence of any kind, including spanking. No offence is meant to any group, ethnicity or individuals.

The author does in no way endorse the non-consensual disciplinary spanking of actual children and/or teenagers.

Copyright © 2003 Haley Brimley. Contact for information and/or feedback.