Tales of Her Girlhood

Hello everyone. This was originally going to be a 101 Interesting Things About Kirsten, in the style of a piece recently completed by Celticgirl, but then I thought since I’m a storyteller I’d give you some short autobiographical episodes instead. These first two are accounts of the last spankings I received as a child, from each of my parents. Obviously since these happened over 20 years ago there’s a certain amount of licence to fill the gaps, but most of the facts are true as they are remembered by me, them, and the witnesses

Fuchsia

Sunday 26th July 1987.
Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens
Hobart, Tasmania.
(Kirsten is 15 years, 0 months, 3 weeks, 3 days old)

A precise date and location, I remember this occasion well as it was my very last “childhood” spanking, my mother agreeing with me that since I was now fifteen which is the age at which a Tasmanian child may leave school if she wishes, I was old enough to not be smacked any more. Little did she know!

The scene is the RBG on Hobart’s Queen’s Domain, and particularly the visit of some of my Irish-New Zealander cousins, my mother’s brother and his two boys. The Ellison girls have taken the McDonagh boys to see the Japanese Garden.

“Kirsty, can we look in that house?” Martin was nine and had an interest in enclosed spaces. We were walking down from the car park towards the Japanese Gardens and were passing a low maroon coloured wooden shed. We two were walking together in front of the others, Martin holding my hand. (Not bad considering he was nine!)

“Mummy?”

“Yes Kirsty that’s fine, but make sure you catch us up.”

“Thanks mum, c’mon Martin.”

“It’s dark in here.”

“Yes, this is where they keep the…”

“What does that say Kirsty, does that really say what I think it does? Why does it say that?”

“That’s what this type of flowers is called.”

“Really? Okay, let’s go see the Japanese thing now.”

“Aunty Louisa, guess where we went?”

“I saw where you went Martin, did you like the flowers in there?”

“Yes Aunty Louisa, but they have a very rude name don’t they?”

“Do they?”

“Yes, they’re called Fuck Seeya. That’s rude words in Taranaki.”

“That’s rude words in Hobart too Martin, it’s pronounced few-sha. Kirsten Ellison! That’s more than enough; stop that laughing immediately young lady.”

“Sorry mummy.”

“I’ll see you in your room when we get home.”

“Mummy no!”

“Don’t you say no to me!”

“Sorry mummy.”

“Your room, as soon as we get home.”

“Yes mummy.”

And so the action shifted, to our home in Kingston and particularly to my bedroom, which was at the back of the house and looked over the deck where dad, uncle, and boys were barbequing in the rain, (recall: July is winter in Tasmania). Aunty was in the kitchen with the girl cousin making salad, the Ellison girls were in my room.

“Do you know why you’re here Kirsty?”

“Yes mummy, I was laughing at Martin.”

“I don’t disagree that what he said was humorous, but you didn’t set a good example. You’re the eldest of the McDonaghs Kirsty...”

“I’m an Ellison, mummy.”

“…you know what I mean young lady. Is rudeness at this point more likely or less likely to end well for you? Well?”

“Less likely mummy, sorry.”

“Right. You are fifteen years old, Martin is nine and Karl is six. I expect you to demonstrate maturity in their presence.”

“Yes mummy.”

“Right, so you know what comes next, how many will it be?”

This was my mum’s standard question, the number of smacks depended upon the location. I could have twelve over her knee, or nine over my bed: the understanding being that since she had more swing room if we were standing apart she could hit harder. I had experimented with this quite a bit, it was always better to opt for the lesser number. I could also have six on the bare, over the knee but that was usually imposed rather than a choice. Spanking was usually on the knickers, and always with the black hairbrush.

“Nine please mummy.”

“Thank you Kirsty, bend over.”

I pulled down my trousers and bent over my bed, hands on the mattress, arms straight.

Whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack!

“Anything to say?”

“Ouch! I’m very sorry mummy, for being rude and not setting a proper example for my little cousins.”

Whack-whack-whack!

“But I’m not the biggest McDonagh mummy, Ciaran is bigger than me.”

(Stupid girl, can’t I count? That was nine!)

“True Kirsten Ellison…”

(Crap, “Kirsten Ellison” is the in-trouble name, mummy doesn’t go with “Kirsten Louisa” since she’s “Louisa”.)

“…but Ciaran is not here is he, and you are the eldest grand-daughter. No, no don’t stand up, bend over young lady. If you want to discuss this…”

Whack-whack-whack!

“…I’m quite happy to chat.”

“Sorry mummy.”

“Stand up and put your trousers back on, Aunty needs help in the kitchen.”

And that was it: I was never ever punished as a child again! Next spanking I was twenty-two and bare bottom over my first University boyfriend’s knee. He spanked me with an egg-flipper. He was a prick.



Kirsten Louisa is a Very Pretty Name.

September 1984
TAA end at Hobart Domestic Airport
Hobart, Tasmania
(Kirsten is 12 years, 2 months old.)

Less precise dating, although I could probably work it out with a calendar. Yet again I am at the wrong end of a conversation with my New Zealander cousins, but these ones are Ellisons under a different name.

“You look very pretty in your dress Kirsty.”

I smiled very broadly; every little girl loves compliments from the man in her life.

“Thank you daddy, I’ve got gloves and a hat too.”

“I see that, you’re a proper lady today: your cousins will be very pleased to meet such a delightful young lady.”

“And pantyhose. Not lumpy tights from school but shiny pantyhose, like mummy has.”

(I specifically remember that, these were my first pair of sheer, flesh-coloured tights, rather than the ribbed dark coloured varieties I wore all the way through Primary School.)

“I’m very happy to see you looking less lumpy today.”

The Hobart Ellisons were very excited. David’s sister and her family were visiting Tasmania for the first time since David had moved to take up an engineering position in 1978, and whilst they’d been back to Auckland to visit this was the first time anyone had come to Tasmania to see them. In celebration of the event Kirsty had indeed been dolled up, with real pantyhose (little ones), a frilly dress, gloves, hat, and even a little bit of mummy’s lipstick.

(Kirsty had also had her first “lady time” two weeks earlier, she was nearly a woman now.)

I remember feeling very grown up, and I had been practicing my speech because daddy had said that I could be the one to give the official welcome. Even so, I still wasn’t allowed to sit in the front seat on the drive up to Hobart, or even across to the airport after we stopped in the city for cake.

“Here they come.”

Daddy waved casually, but mummy began bouncing up and down on the spot. “Ellisons! Ellisons, over here!”

My uncle pointed to us and waved. There were three of them, Uncle and Aunty, and my cousin Michael, (who was seventeen). I’d seen the adults on our holiday in Auckland, but Michael had been away so I was meeting him for the first time in eight years.

“Ready Kirsty?”

“Yes daddy.”

“Big voice, make us proud!”

“Yes daddy!”

They came closer.

“GOOD AFTERNOON. Welcome to Hobart, I hope you had a nice flight from Melbourne today. I’m Kirsten Louisa!” I very proudly stuck out my hand to Michael.

He sneered at me.

He scoffed.

He said “Cursed and a Loser, what a stupid name!”

My little lip quivered.

My little nose sniffled.

My little hand closed up, I dropped it and swung it.

His fat ugly nose exploded.

“Aaagh!”

Daddy swung his arm down and around my waist, and picked me up in one movement. Before anyone knew what had happened he had carried me over to the seating area, dropped onto a chair with me over his knee, and was into the third very solid smack on my very pretty dress’s very thin cotton backside.

I was crying. Very.

“Oh daddy, he was so mean, OUCH, daddy!”

“Kirsten Louisa SMACK I’m very disa…SMACK…pointed in you; that is SMACK SMACK not ladylike be…SMACK…haviour at all!”

“Oh but OUCH oh daddy he was so mean SOB SOB.”

He flipped up the back of my dress.

SMACK “That’s not the…SMACK…point Kirsten Louisa, we…SMACK…taught you better than…SMACK…that.

“OUCH…I’m sorry daddy, I’m…OUCH…very very sorry daddy.”

“Will you apologise?”

(He’d stopped, but I was still over his knee with my dress up.) “Yes daddy, of course.”

SMACK SMACK SMACK “Stand up.”

We go back over to the others. Michael has my mum’s hanky covering three quarters of his face, there’s blood seeping through and his fingers are brown. Mum is fretting messily around him; Uncle and Aunty are in stitches of laughter.

“Dear God, David, she’s a beauty! What a lovely girl, what a niece! Promise me Kirsty, promise your uncle this, you’ll only ever support the All Blacks.”

“Yes. I pwommis.”

“Are you crying because you hurt Michael, don’t you dare, he was very rude to you.”

“No Aunty, I’m crying because daddy just spanked me.”

“He…David? No, you didn’t! Oh David!”

Now what do you think? Daddy claims this was Kirsty’s last spanking because “the manner of women was now upon her”. I am becoming more convinced that it was not so much that as the bollocking he got from his big sister.

Michael and I are best mates now, he’s turning forty in two weeks’ time and in fact I have his card to post him on the desk beside me. I can’t believe none of them saw me get smacked that day, it was pretty public after all. Michael still teases me about my being spanked in the middle of a busy airport, but then I remind him of the time when he had his nose smashed in by a twelve year old girl in white gloves, a frilly dress, and a hat. That usually shuts him up pretty quickly!