(gap: 2s) Before I commence, allow me to introduce the principal characters in this account—each one as distinct in my recollection as the rooms in which we dwelt.
(short pause) First, there is myself, Benjamin. As a boy, I was rather diminutive for my age, with a mop of unruly brown hair and wide, inquisitive eyes that always seemed to be searching for a place to belong. My complexion was pale, and I had a tendency to bite my lower lip when anxious. I was exceedingly shy, with a gentle voice and a mild manner, preferring the company of books and the tranquillity of the garden to the boisterous pursuits of other children. My years in foster care had rendered me cautious, ever watchful, and ever eager to please.
(short pause) Then there were Mr and Mrs Johnson, my foster parents for a time. Mr Johnson was a tall gentleman, broad-shouldered and imposing, with neatly combed dark hair just beginning to grey at the temples. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles perched upon a strong nose, and his eyes, though stern, would occasionally soften with a glimmer of kindness. He moved with a certain briskness, always purposeful, and was invariably attired in pressed shirts and slacks, even on weekends. He was a man who valued order and discipline, believing that structure was the foundation of a proper upbringing.
(short pause) Mrs Johnson, by contrast, was petite and energetic, with sharp blue eyes and a quick, efficient manner. Her hair was always drawn back into a tidy bun, and she wore floral dresses with crisp aprons tied at her waist. She possessed a gentle yet firm touch, and her voice could be both soothing and commanding. She was the heart of the household, ensuring everything ran smoothly, and she believed most sincerely in the importance of routine and good manners. Though she could be strict, there was a warmth to her that would occasionally reveal itself, particularly when she thought herself unobserved.
(short pause) Their daughter, Susan, was a year my senior. She was tall for her age, with long, straight blonde hair and a mischievous smile that hinted at her quick wit. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence, and her laughter filled the house. Susan was clever and outgoing, always ready with a witticism or a clever remark, and she seemed to move through life with an ease I greatly admired. She was kind to me, in her own fashion, sometimes teasing but never unkind, and she often acted as a bridge between myself and her parents.
(short pause) These were the individuals who shaped my days in the Johnson household, each with their own strengths and foibles, each leaving an indelible mark upon my childhood.
(gap: 1s) My name is Benjamin. I was born in the year 1971, an era when the world seemed to move at a gentler pace and the days stretched long and golden, especially for a child. Much of my early childhood was spent in the foster care system, moving from one home to another, until, at last, I was adopted by a family who welcomed me with open arms and warm smiles. I always considered myself rather fortunate, for not every child is chosen at an older age, and I cherished the feeling of finally belonging somewhere.
(short pause) If my memory serves me correctly, I resided in three different foster homes before my adoption. One of those homes belonged to the Johnson family. Mr and Mrs Johnson were a lively couple, probably in their thirties, with a certain briskness in their step and a fondness for order. They had a daughter, Susan, who was a year older than I, and she possessed a quick wit and a ready laugh. I went to live with the Johnsons for approximately eighteen months, and their home became a world of its own, filled with the scent of baking bread and the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
(pause) The Johnsons were not unkind people, but they seemed to hold the belief that any boy who found himself in foster care must surely be a troublesome case. This notion coloured their every interaction with me, and they were convinced that I required regular, strict discipline to keep me on the straight and narrow. Yet, I was not a wild or unruly child. In truth, I was exceedingly shy, with a quiet voice and a tendency to shrink from attention, preferring the company of books and the gentle hum of the garden outside.
(short pause) It did not take long for me to discover that discipline in the Johnson household was administered by means of a leather belt. To be fair, these were not cruel or harsh beatings, but rather what one might call spankings—sharp, stinging reminders that left my skin red but never bruised. The pain was real, but it was the anticipation that truly made my heart race, as I waited for the inevitable.
(pause) Whenever I committed what the Johnsons deemed a punishable offence, I would be sent upstairs to their bedroom to “prepare for your punishment.” This ritual was always the same: I would ascend the creaking staircase, my heart thumping in my chest, and enter their tidy room, where sunlight filtered through lace curtains. I would open the top drawer of the dresser, retrieve the belt, and place it carefully on the bedspread. Then, with trembling hands, I would lie face down over the side of the bed, the familiar scent of lavender and polished wood filling my nose.
(short pause) After what felt like an eternity—usually five or ten minutes—Mr and Mrs Johnson would enter the room, closing the door softly behind them. There was never any scolding or lecture, merely a quiet, determined air. Mrs Johnson would sit beside me on the bed, her hands gentle but firm as she took hold of my wrists, ensuring I could not reach back. I recall the coolness of her touch, and the way she would say, “This is what happens to little ones who do not behave in this house.” Mr Johnson would double up the belt, and with a slow, methodical rhythm, he would deliver each stroke. The pain was sharp, and I would cry out, tears streaming down my cheeks, but the ordeal would end only when they decided I had learnt my lesson.
(pause) The spankings themselves were a ritual, almost ceremonial in their consistency. Mr Johnson would always fold the belt in half, gripping it tightly, and stand just behind me. I could hear the faint creak of leather as he flexed it, a sound that sent a chill down my spine. Each stroke was delivered with a measured force—not enough to injure, but enough to sting fiercely. The belt would land across the seat of my pyjamas or trousers, sometimes on bare skin if the infraction was considered more serious. The first stroke always made me gasp, the sting blooming instantly, and I would clench my fists in the bedspread, bracing for the next. The sound of leather meeting fabric and skin echoed in the quiet room, and I would count the seconds between each blow, never knowing precisely how many there would be.
(short pause) Mrs Johnson’s role was to keep me still, her grip unyielding but not unkind. She would murmur softly, “Almost done, Benjamin,” or “Be brave now,” as the belt fell again and again. Sometimes, if I squirmed excessively, she would tighten her hold, and I would feel her steady presence beside me, a strange comfort in the midst of pain. The spankings were never hurried; Mr Johnson took his time, pausing between strokes to let the sting settle in, to ensure the lesson was learnt. My cries would begin as muffled whimpers, but as the punishment continued, I could not help but sob openly, my face pressed into the bedspread, hot tears soaking the fabric.
(pause) These spankings occurred about once every week or two. I rarely did anything truly wrong, but the Johnsons believed in discipline for even the smallest infractions—forgetting to remove my shoes, leaving a book out of place, or speaking out of turn. Each time, I would resolve to be more careful, but childhood is full of small mistakes, and the belt was never far from reach.
(short pause) In addition to these punishments, the Johnsons had another tradition: the “reminder spanking.” Every Sunday evening, as the sun dipped low and the house filled with the comforting aroma of roast dinner, I would be reminded that the week ahead required good behaviour and diligence in my schoolwork. These spankings were not for any particular misdeed, but simply to keep me mindful of my responsibilities.
(pause) After dinner, I would be sent upstairs to take my bath and change into my pyjamas. The bathroom was always warm and steamy, and I would linger a little, dreading what was to come. Once dressed, I would make my way downstairs, my feet padding softly on the carpet, and announce to Mr and Mrs Johnson that I was ready. Sometimes they would be occupied with a chore, and I would be told to go ahead to their bedroom and prepare myself, the belt already waiting on the bedspread.
(short pause) Most often, however, the Johnsons would accompany me upstairs. Mr Johnson would fetch the belt from the dresser, while Mrs Johnson guided me gently but firmly to the bed. She would sit beside me, holding my wrists as before, and I would brace myself for what I knew was coming. Though they never counted aloud, I soon realised that a dozen strokes was the usual number on Sunday evenings, each one a reminder to be good and do my best in the week ahead.
(pause) The Sunday spankings were different from the others. There was a sense of inevitability about them, a routine that made the anticipation almost worse than the pain itself. I would lie across the bed, my heart pounding, and listen to the quiet preparations—the belt being folded, the soft click of the door closing. Mr Johnson would stand to one side, Mrs Johnson to the other, and together they would begin. The strokes would come, slow and deliberate, each one spaced out so that the sting lingered, building upon the last. By the sixth or seventh, my resolve would crumble, and I would sob openly, my body shaking with each blow. Mrs Johnson would sometimes stroke my hair or whisper encouragement, but the punishment continued until the full dozen had been delivered.
(short pause) I was, as I have said, a shy and modest boy, and the pain of these spankings was matched only by the embarrassment I felt. During those first months with the Johnsons, I would blush furiously, wishing I could disappear into the bedspread, my cheeks burning with shame as much as my skin stung from the belt.
(short pause) Sometimes, the Johnsons would have company on Sundays—neighbours or friends who would gather in the living room, their voices drifting up the stairs in cheerful conversation. On those evenings, my dread was even greater. After my bath, I would have to go downstairs, my hair still damp, and announce in front of everyone that I was ready for my spanking. The mortification was almost unbearable, and I would keep my eyes fixed on the floor, wishing I could vanish.
(pause) Mrs Johnson would excuse herself and Mr Johnson, saying, “We shall return in five minutes—unfortunately, Benjamin is to receive the belt before bedtime.” My face would turn crimson, and I was certain that everyone in the room could hear my heart pounding. Once upstairs, behind the closed door, I was sure that my cries would carry down to the guests below, and I imagined them whispering about me, knowing precisely what was happening.
(short pause) The only small mercy was that, after these Sunday spankings, I was sent straight to bed. I would lie beneath the cool sheets, listening to the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation drifting up from below, and eventually, the gentle ticking of the clock would lull me to sleep. Even in those difficult moments, I found comfort in the small things—the softness of my pillow, the moonlight on the wall, and the hope that tomorrow would be a better day.
