During my university years in Heidelberg, Germany, I found myself living in a sprawling, sunlit house on the edge of the old town. The house belonged to Petra, a widow in her late thirties, with striking auburn hair and a presence that filled every room. She lived there with her two sons, Stefan and Lukas, and rented out a few rooms to students like me. The place always smelled faintly of fresh bread and old wood, and laughter—or sometimes raised voices—echoed through the halls.
(short pause) Petra was warm but firm, the kind of woman who could make you feel at home and on your best behavior at the same time. I’d often see her in the mornings, bustling around the kitchen in her slippers, humming to herself as she prepared breakfast for her boys. Over time, I grew fond of the family’s routines, the gentle chaos, and the sense of belonging that came with living under Petra’s roof.
(pause) One afternoon, after a long day of lectures, I realized with a sinking feeling that my grant payment hadn’t arrived. Rent was due in a few days, and I knew I’d have to ask Petra for an extension. The thought made my stomach twist with anxiety. I rehearsed my words as I walked down the hallway, my heart thumping in my chest. Petra was usually in the living room at this hour, reading or knitting by the window.
(pause) As I approached the closed door, I heard sharp clapping sounds—like hands striking flesh—and the unmistakable sound of a child’s muffled sobs. My hand froze mid-knock. I felt a wave of embarrassment and uncertainty. Should I wait? Should I leave? Before I could decide, Petra’s clear, commanding voice rang out: “Come right in!”
(pause) I hesitated, then pushed open the door. The scene before me was both shocking and strangely intimate. Stefan, the older boy, was draped over Petra’s lap, his face flushed and streaked with tears. Petra, her expression stern but not unkind, held a sturdy hairbrush in her hand. She paused, glancing up at me with a calmness that made me feel even more self-conscious.
(pause) “Stefan is getting his bottom smacked with the hairbrush because he has been very naughty at school,” Petra explained, her tone matter-of-fact. “Sit down while I finish spanking him, then we’ll talk.” Her words left no room for argument. I found myself sinking into an armchair, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and a strange, inexplicable curiosity.
(pause) Stefan’s sobs grew louder as Petra delivered a few more firm smacks, punctuated by her gentle but firm scolding. “You know better than to talk back to your teacher, Stefan. Actions have consequences.” Stefan squirmed, his hands gripping the edge of the sofa, but he didn’t protest. I could see the mix of shame and relief on his face—he knew the punishment was deserved, and that it would soon be over.
(pause) As I watched, I was flooded with a jumble of emotions—awkwardness, fascination, and a surprising sense of nostalgia. Memories of my own childhood surfaced: the sting of discipline, the comfort of boundaries, the odd security of knowing someone cared enough to correct you. I wondered, fleetingly, what it would be like to be in Stefan’s place, to feel Petra’s firm hand and her unwavering attention.
(pause) When Petra finally finished, she set the hairbrush aside and helped Stefan to his feet. “Go stand in the corner and think about your behavior,” she said gently, guiding him to a quiet spot by the window. Stefan sniffled, rubbing his eyes, but obeyed without complaint. Petra turned to me, her expression softening.
(pause) “Now, what did you want to talk about, Jurgen?” she asked, her voice returning to its usual warmth. I stumbled through my explanation, my words tumbling out in a nervous rush. “My grant payment is late, and I was hoping I could pay the rent a little late this month. Just until the money comes in.” I could feel my face growing hot, and I avoided her gaze.
(pause) Petra listened patiently, then nodded. “Very well,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind. “But this must be the one and only time, do you understand?” She fixed me with a look that was both maternal and authoritative. “I won’t throw you out, Jurgen, but as you have just seen, I don’t stand for any nonsense!” Her words carried a weight that made me feel, for a moment, like a little boy again.
(pause) I mumbled my thanks and retreated to my room, my mind racing. Did Petra mean she would spank me, like Stefan, if I didn’t pay my rent? The thought made my heart pound with a mix of fear and something else—an odd, almost comforting longing for the clarity and certainty of childhood discipline.
(pause) That night, as I lay in bed, I replayed the scene in my mind. The sunlight slanting through the curtains, the sound of the hairbrush, Petra’s steady voice. I imagined myself in Stefan’s place, over Petra’s lap, learning a lesson the old-fashioned way. The fantasy was vivid, almost real, and it lingered with me for days.
(pause) After that day, I never dared to be late with my rent again. But I often found myself watching Petra with a new sense of respect—and, if I’m honest, a secret, wistful curiosity about the lessons we learn, and the ones we remember most.s warm lap. It was something I had experienced myself often as a child, and I kind of missed it.
When she had finally finished, Petra put Stefan – still bare-bottomed – in a corner to ‘think about’ his behaviour. The boy’s bright chubby, red bottom was directly in my sight line as Petra asked me what I wanted. I stammered through my explanation and blushed again as I lodged my request.
“Very well,” Petra said at last, “but this must be the one and only time, do you understand?” It felt like I was being lectured like a little boy now. “I won’t throw you out, Jurgen, but as you have just seen, I don’t stand for any nonsense!”
I went back to my room. Did Petra mean that she would spank me, bare bottomed like her son, if I didn’t pay my rent? Part of me wanted to find out – but I never dared be late with my rent again.
After that time, I hung around near the living room hoping to see another spanking, or maybe just overhear one, but I never did. However, I did construct a vivid fantasy of being spanked like a little boy over Petra’s lap for not paying my rent, and jerked off to that fantasy more than a few times during my college years – and ever since, if I’m being honest!
