gap: 2s) I have a younger brother—just thirteen months my junior, which, in the grand tradition of British understatement, meant Mother and Father wasted no time at all! We were a pair of rascals, thick as thieves, and our house was a veritable circus of giggles, squabbles, and the occasional flying sausage roll. If you listened closely, you could hear the wallpaper sighing in resignation.
As for spankings, I was the recipient of the odd ceremonial tap to the backs of my legs—nothing to write home about, unless you fancied a dramatic retelling. Mother, with the air of a general marshaling her troops, would occasionally threaten a “good hiding,” which sounded rather like a trip to the gallows. I only ever witnessed my brother’s bottom meet the palm of justice once, but the mere threat was enough to keep me on the straight and narrow—well, mostly.
I never confessed to my parents, but I did receive a legendary slippering at junior school. I was ten, and, in a moment of wild rebellion, myself and two other girls were caught not in the act of smoking, but by the telltale cloud of Eau de Cigarette that followed us into class. We were promptly frogmarched to the deputy headmistress, a woman so formidable she could curdle milk with a glance.
She produced a tartan slipper of such size and vintage it might have belonged to a Scottish giant. Each of us, in turn, was instructed to bend over her desk for ten resounding wallops. The slipper, well-worn and possibly enchanted, covered our entire posteriors with a single swat. I half expected it to start reciting Shakespeare.
The deputy headmistress swung with the gusto of a Wimbledon champion. Even over our sturdy school knickers, the pain was considerable. The slipper didn’t sting so much as it delivered a sort of magical thud, as if it were bestowing wisdom with every smack. I managed not to cry—at least not openly—but my eyes were as watery as a British summer. The humiliation was almost as bad as the pain, and I resolved to avoid both in future.
The lesson was learned: from then on, I only smoked after school, and always with a pocketful of mints. I hid the evidence of my slippered bottom from my parents, though the faint tartan imprint lingered for days. I became a model student, or at least a sneakier one, determined never to face the tartan terror again.
I can only imagine what Mother and Father would have done had they found out—likely a lecture so long I’d have grown a beard by the end, and a week’s imprisonment in my room. That, dear listener, is the sum of my own disciplinary adventures. My parents were loving but firm, and believed in discipline, though they preferred words to wallops.
But as I hinted, I did once witness my brother receive a spanking so legendary it’s still spoken of in hushed tones. The memory is as vivid as a technicolour film, and Mother’s wrath was a sight to behold—she could have tamed lions with that look.
The crime? Pilfering coins from Mother’s purse to fund a sweetie spree. Mother, with the efficiency of a Swiss train, hauled him over her knee and delivered a spanking that could have powered the National Grid. No words, just the rhythmic sound of justice and my brother’s bottom turning a shade of crimson usually reserved for postboxes. He never stole again, and I never so much as looked at Mother’s purse without permission.
(pause) Allow me to paint the scene for you, as if it were a page from a Just William story, brimming with the sort of detail that would make even Richmal Crompton nod in approval. The living room, bathed in the gentle glow of afternoon sunlight, was transformed in an instant from a place of innocent play to a veritable court of justice. My brother, cheeks flushed with the guilt of his misdeed, stood before Mother, who had assumed the air of a judge about to pronounce sentence. Her eyes, usually so warm, now flashed with a steely resolve that brooked no argument.
With a swift, practiced motion, Mother drew up the nearest chair and seated herself, her back straight and her expression grave. My brother, realising that all hope of reprieve had vanished, shuffled forward with the reluctant gait of a condemned man. There was a moment—a brief, breathless pause—when the entire house seemed to hold its breath. Even the clock on the mantelpiece ticked more quietly, as if in deference to the solemnity of the occasion.
Mother reached out and, with a firm but not unkind hand, guided my brother across her lap. He dangled there, his legs kicking in the air, his face a study in mingled dread and indignation. The room was so quiet that the faint rustle of his corduroy trousers seemed as loud as thunder. Mother, ever methodical, adjusted his position with the precision of a craftsman, ensuring that the target area was presented to best advantage.
Then, with a calmness that belied the drama of the moment, she raised her right hand. It hovered for a second, casting a shadow across my brother’s upturned posterior, before descending with a crisp, decisive smack. The sound rang out, sharp and unmistakable, echoing off the walls and sending a shiver down my spine. My brother yelped—a high, indignant cry that would not have been out of place in a William Brown escapade.
Mother was not one for half-measures. She delivered each smack with unwavering consistency, her arm rising and falling in a steady rhythm, as if she were conducting an orchestra of discipline. My brother’s protests grew louder, his legs flailing in a most undignified fashion, but Mother remained implacable, her face set in an expression of determined justice. Each smack was accompanied by a stern admonition—“You must never steal!”—delivered in tones that brooked no contradiction.
The spectacle was both awe-inspiring and, in a curious way, rather comic. My brother’s attempts to shield his bottom with his hand were met with a gentle but firm, “Move your hand, young man!” and the spanking continued, each smack landing with the same measured force. His bottom, once pale, now glowed a vivid scarlet, a testament to the thoroughness of Mother’s efforts.
At last, when it seemed the ordeal might never end, Mother delivered a final, resounding smack and released her grip. My brother scrambled to his feet, rubbing his posterior with a mixture of indignation and relief, his eyes brimming with tears. Mother, her duty done, stood and straightened her skirt, her expression softening as she regarded her chastened son.
Without a word, she pointed to the staircase. My brother, sniffling and subdued, began the slow ascent, Mother following close behind. With each step, she administered a parting smack, the sound punctuating his progress like the tolling of a bell. I watched, wide-eyed, scarcely daring to breathe, as the two of them disappeared from view, the echoes of justice lingering in the air.
The whole episode was so dramatic, I half expected the neighbours to send flowers. It was, in every sense, a scene worthy of William and his Outlaws—a moment of high drama, a touch of comedy, and a lesson never to be forgotten. The image is forever etched in my mind, as vivid as any illustration in a beloved storybook.
Watching that spectacle was all the deterrent I needed. Mother’s steely gaze, my brother’s flailing legs, and the general air of doom convinced me that mischief was best left to the imagination. The image is forever etched in my mind, like a cautionary tale from a Victorian storybook.
I must confess, as a child, spanking held no mysterious allure for me—unless you count a morbid curiosity. The whole business seemed more a matter for philosophers than for pleasure. It wasn’t until much later that I pondered its deeper meanings, but as a child, it was simply a thing to be avoided, like Brussels sprouts.
Around the time of my brother’s epic spanking, new neighbours moved in next door. They brought with them a son named Peter, who was my age and possessed the sort of charm that could talk a cat out of its dinner. He was shorter than me, but what he lacked in height he made up for in mischief. We became fast friends, partners in adventure, and occasional co-conspirators.
In those days, children were expected to vanish after tea and return by dark, or risk a sore bottom. Most of us tested the limits, but Peter, it turned out, was a pioneer. My brother confided, wide-eyed, that Peter sometimes stayed out late on purpose, just to earn a spanking. Apparently, he relished the “afterburn” like a badge of honour. I was both scandalised and intrigued—was this boy a secret superhero?
My brother, still smarting from his own encounter with Mother’s justice, couldn’t fathom Peter’s enthusiasm. I, on the other hand, found it all rather fascinating. The idea that someone could enjoy the aftermath of a spanking was as peculiar as a talking dog, but I was hooked.
One day, emboldened by curiosity, I asked Peter if it was true. He grinned, shrugged, and admitted that while the spanking itself was beastly, the tingling sensation afterwards was, in his words, “simply marvellous.” I half expected him to start a fan club.
After that, Peter and I often discussed his mother’s spankings in the same way others might discuss cricket scores or the weather. I learned all the details: the warnings, the anticipation, the methodical approach. It was like listening to a recipe for disaster, with a dash of excitement.
When Peter’s mother decided he needed a smacked bottom, she’d issue a warning, then send him to his room or the kitchen. The wait, he said, was almost as bad as the spanking itself. I imagined him pacing like a condemned man, rehearsing his lines for the inevitable drama.
She always placed him across her knees, and as he grew, she’d pin him with one leg to prevent escape. The spankings were thorough, and Peter described them with the precision of a scientist. I pictured charts and diagrams, perhaps even a family crest featuring a slipper.
Unlike my mother’s rapid-fire approach, Peter’s mother was methodical, delivering a dozen smacks to one spot before moving on. It was less a spanking, more a symphony—each note carefully placed. Peter always cried, but afterwards, he’d bask in the afterglow like a sunbather on Brighton Beach.
Peter and I became inseparable, though we never so much as kissed. He was my best friend, and I was his confidante. I suspect I was falling in love, or at least in deep fascination with his tales of maternal discipline. (They’re still close, by the way—though I suspect he’s more careful about curfews these days.)
Time marched on, as it does, and we lost touch when I went to university and Peter started work. We both found other sweethearts, but Peter was never far from my thoughts. His stories became the stuff of legend, recounted at parties to much laughter and disbelief.
Years later, at a raucous New Year’s Eve party, someone crept up behind me, covered my eyes, and whispered, “Guess who?” I guessed correctly, spun around, and planted a kiss on Peter that would have made the Queen blush. It was like something out of a romantic comedy, only with more confetti and less decorum.
We talked into the wee hours, reminiscing about old times and new adventures. At some point, emboldened by champagne and nostalgia, I blurted out, “If I were to spank you like your mother used to, would you go out with me?” Not exactly Shakespeare, but it did the trick.
Peter said yes, and the rest, as they say, is history. I discovered I rather enjoyed the whole business—far more than I’d expected! Our relationship took on a new, playful dimension, full of laughter, love, and the occasional well-timed smack.
Our first foray into spanking was a logistical challenge—spankings are not known for their stealth. Kisses are quiet, but a proper spanking sounds like a round of applause at the Royal Albert Hall. We waited until Peter’s parents were out
