My brother Peter and I, though twins, were as different as chalk and cheese, yet bound by an unbreakable bond. Our mother, ever the vigilant observer, delighted in recounting how Peter, by a mere ten minutes, claimed the title of eldest. She would often regale us with tales of our arrival, her eyes twinkling with fondness as she described the chaos and joy that filled the room that day. From the very start, our lives were a tapestry of shared adventures and gentle rivalries, each moment stitched together with laughter and the occasional tear.
Our childhood was a symphony of shared experiences. We delighted in the simple pleasures of life—our favourite toys, which bore the marks of countless adventures, and our unisex play clothes, always a little rumpled from our endless games. The bedroom we shared in those early years was a sanctuary, filled with whispered secrets and midnight giggles, a place where the world outside seemed to fade away.
We were, by and large, well-mannered children, our days filled with joy and curiosity. Yet, as is the way with spirited youngsters, we occasionally found ourselves on the receiving end of a firm reprimand. When our voices grew too loud or we dared to tease our elder sister Susan, our parents would not hesitate to deliver a sharp word or, more often, a swift, stinging swat to our bottoms. Sometimes, Mother would sit on the edge of the bed, pull us over her lap, and deliver a series of crisp, resounding smacks to our upturned backsides, each one echoing through the room and leaving our skin tingling and hot. The lesson was always clear, and though the discipline was harsh, it was given with a sense of care and moral purpose. Susan, nine years our senior, regarded us with a mixture of exasperation and affection, her own adolescent concerns often at odds with our childish exuberance.
Our infrequent and spontaneous spankings happened no matter how we were dressed. Whether fully clothed during the day, fresh from a bath with only a towel wrapped around us, or in our pyjamas if we got in a squabble at bedtime, Mother or Father would take us firmly by the arm, bend us over their knee, and deliver a brisk, no-nonsense spanking. The sound of each slap was unmistakable, and the sting would linger long after, a vivid reminder of the boundaries set for us.
We sometimes spanked each other too. Because he was older by 10 minutes, Peter claimed spanking rights over me when I annoyed him, but it was part of our play, and he let me paddle him too if he bugged me. Our games would often end with one of us draped over the other’s lap, our hands delivering a flurry of playful yet surprisingly firm smacks to each other’s bottoms, the sound of laughter mingling with the sharp cracks. If Mother or Father discovered one of us bottoms up over a twin’s lap, they paid little attention, just warned us not to hurt each other.
We lived in a warm climate with very short winters. We had an above-ground swimming pool in the back yard and were in it a lot from spring through autumn.
We’d play games in our rooms and if we got into a dispute, we would flip a coin to determine who would spank whom to settle the argument. It was great fun to smack each other’s bottoms, sometimes with our hands, other times with a slipper or even the back of a hairbrush, the sharp sting making us squeal and giggle. If we made too much noise doing it, Mother might come upstairs and give us each a play spanking herself, her hand landing with a practiced snap, then make us put on some clothes.
As young ones will do, we sometimes played forbidden games like ‘doctor’ with our friends, and giggled while nervously examining each other’s bodies. Peter and I were never shy the way some of our friends were – it was old stuff to us, having been so closely entwined physically ever since birth.
Three and a half acres of forest bordered our subdivision, an almost private playground for us. It was exciting to risk having an occasional hiker discover us playing tag or hide-and-go-seek among the trees.
In those less politically correct days, our favourite backyard games were cowboys and Indians and cops and robbers. With the exception of whoever was in the role of a cop, we could always expect to be captured and tied to a tree. It was fun trying to escape, which we usually could because we weren’t too good at tying knots, and our toy handcuffs had built-in escape levers.
The rules of the game allowed us five minutes to get free. If we couldn’t, or pretended that we couldn’t when in the mood to pay a penalty, cowboys or Indians were ‘scalped’. That meant being tied up on the ground in the middle of the yard. Convicted robbers were spanked, right out in the open. The unlucky one would be bent over, trousers pulled tight, and given a series of hard, ringing smacks on the seat, each one delivered with gusto and watched by the others. Peter and I were excited and happy to be victims of such innocent discipline. We never wanted to be cops!
There were no fences between our houses and I’m sure we were often watched by parents and neighbours alike.
We abandoned our primitive games, however, when some of our friends became too self-conscious. Peter and I never developed hangups about it, though. We continued to enjoy the physical games we played with each other.
There was nothing improper about our relationship. As twins, we seemed like one person living in two bodies, each sensitive to the other’s needs and reactions to the world around us. It was as if we could read each other’s minds. Whatever our mood, our twin was the most preferred playmate, whether for checkers, Monopoly or just a joyous spanking.
Peter found a paddle in the local shop showing two cartoon animals, a Bambi standing in front of Yogi Bear, and the words ‘for the cute little DEER with the BEAR behind’. When he brought it home, he insisted on being first to use it. He took the drawing seriously and insisted that I be in that condition, so I got over his lap. The paddle was cool and smooth at first, but as Peter brought it down with a sharp smack, a fiery sting blossomed across my bottom. He delivered several brisk swats, each one leaving a vivid, tingling heat that lingered long after. We both laughed, but the lesson was not soon forgotten.
As adolescence loomed ahead of us, our interests changed and evolved. We were both good students, and Mother and Father emphasised the need for us to excel in our studies. We seldom disappointed them and brought home mostly A grades on our report cards.
Outside of school we sometimes got out of hand in other ways, for which we could expect to be grounded or denied privileges until we shaped up. We were always repentant for misbehaving, and would go to one of our bedrooms to trade some very severe paddling. That was our personal, mutual and voluntary atonement. We would take turns bending over, the other wielding the paddle or slipper with a firm hand, delivering a series of hard, stinging blows that left our bottoms red and throbbing. The ritual was solemn, and the pain was real, but it was our way of making amends and starting fresh.
We always left the door open so Mother and Father could hear us spanking each other – our way to prove to them that we were honestly sorry. All Mother ever said was that they respected our special relationship as twins, and that we had the right to discipline each other any way we saw fit when we knew we deserved it.
All of this occurred many years ago. Peter and I now live many miles apart, and have raised families of our own – two boys for me and two sets of twins for him, each set a mixed bag like we were. We try to visit each other at least once a year, and he has many stories to tell about his brood that bring back pleasant memories of our own formative years.
I haven’t been spanked in a long time and neither has he, but Peter divulged that one set of his twins engage in the kind of games that we did, and they discipline each other too. Heredity plays strange tricks sometimes!
