In our younger days, whispers always floated about the family regarding how ‘mischievous’ Aunt Matilda had been, though the particulars were shrouded in mystery. I once caught wind that she’d played in a jazz band, but that was the sum total of her supposed wildness, and we, the younger generation, seldom crossed paths with her. Aunt Matilda was a figure of intrigue, her name often spoken in hushed tones, as if she were a character from a novel rather than a real person.
After Aunt Matilda’s passing, Mrs. Pennington, my mother, began sending Beatrice and me to visit Grandmother Agatha, perhaps to lift her spirits after her recent bereavement. Grandmother Agatha’s house was a treasure trove of memories, each room filled with relics of the past, from the ornate furniture to the sepia-toned photographs that lined the walls.
While rummaging through boxes brimming with relics of Aunt Matilda and Grandfather Reginald, we stumbled upon a trove of spanking magazines. The images of crimson-marked bottoms left us both thunderstruck, and we “borrowed” the most eye-catching volume to smuggle home. The discovery felt like unearthing a hidden world, one that was both thrilling and forbidden.
Once ensconced in our own bedroom, we pored over the glossy pages with a mixture of awe and mischief. Beatrice found it peculiar at first, but curiosity soon won her over. She tolerated my adolescent fascination and, with a conspiratorial nod, agreed to keep our secret. The magazines became our shared secret, a bond that brought us closer in our shared curiosity.
Alas, Mrs. Pennington must have glimpsed something amiss, for she soon unearthed the contraband magazine and summoned me for a reckoning. What followed was a spanking of such severity that I could scarcely sit for hours, each stinging slap a lesson in shame and obedience. Afterwards, I was made to stand in the corner, nose pressed to the wall, for what felt like an eternity—an hour at least. The punishment was a stark reminder of the boundaries we had crossed, and the consequences of our actions.
The spanking began with a sharp command to bend over the bed. My heart pounded in my chest as I complied, the anticipation almost worse than the punishment itself. Mrs. Pennington’s hand was firm on my back, pressing me down as she raised the wooden hairbrush high. The first strike landed with a resounding crack, the pain immediate and searing. I gasped, my body jerking involuntarily, but there was no escape from the relentless rhythm of the hairbrush. Each blow was delivered with unwavering force, the flat back of the brush smacking squarely across the tenderest part of my backside. The sound echoed in the room, a sharp, humiliating punctuation to each burst of pain. My skin burned, the sting intensifying with every stroke, and I could feel the heat radiating outward, spreading in waves across my bottom and thighs.
Each strike was a burst of fire on my skin, the pain building with every blow. My cries filled the room, mingling with the sound of the hairbrush meeting flesh. Mrs. Pennington’s face was a mask of determination, her movements precise and unyielding. She paused only to adjust her grip, ensuring each strike was delivered with maximum impact. The spanking seemed to go on forever, each second stretching into an eternity of agony. My legs kicked helplessly, toes digging into the carpet, but Mrs. Pennington’s grip was ironclad. The hairbrush found every inch of exposed skin, leaving no spot unpunished. The pain was sharp and biting at first, then deep and throbbing, a relentless ache that grew with every swat. My sobs became ragged, my voice hoarse from pleading, but the punishment continued, each blow a lesson hammered home with merciless efficiency.
When it finally ended, my bottom was a throbbing mass of pain, the skin hot and swollen. Mrs. Pennington’s voice was stern as she ordered me to the corner, her hand still gripping the hairbrush. I stumbled to my feet, my legs shaking, and made my way to the designated spot. The wall was cool against my forehead, a stark contrast to the burning heat of my punished skin. I stood there, tears streaming down my face, the shame and pain mingling into a potent mix of emotions. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through my backside, and I dared not rub or shift for fear of further angering my mother. The hour dragged on, each minute marked by the throbbing reminder of my punishment, the sting refusing to fade. My cheeks burned with humiliation as I listened to the quiet in the house, knowing Beatrice was somewhere nearby, witness to my ordeal.
Throughout my ordeal, Beatrice feigned ignorance, though she watched with rapt attention as Mrs. Pennington delivered a thorough, no-nonsense punishment. My mother never suspected that Beatrice was my silent partner in crime, nor did she realise she was unwittingly fanning the flames of our newfound curiosities. Beatrice’s eyes followed every movement, her expression a mix of sympathy and fascination. She saw the way my body tensed with each blow, the way my hands clenched the bedspread, the way my cries grew desperate and raw. She saw the red, mottled skin, the tears streaming down my face, the trembling in my legs as I was finally released to the corner. The memory of her gaze, silent and unwavering, lingered long after the pain had faded.
On our next visit to Grandmother Agatha’s, Mrs. Pennington insisted I return the purloined magazine and beg forgiveness. She recounted my misdeeds to Grandmother Agatha, which filled me with mortification. The walk to Grandmother’s house felt like a march of shame, each step heavy with the weight of my guilt. My bottom still ached from the spanking, every movement a reminder of my punishment, and I dreaded the prospect of further humiliation.
As the two matriarchs discussed my behaviour, they leafed through the magazine together. I could see every page from my vantage point, and my heart soared and plummeted in equal measure, grateful they couldn’t see the effect the whole scene had on me. The sight of them examining the pages with such nonchalance was both a relief and a torment. I stood awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, the soreness in my backside a constant companion as they discussed my fate in calm, measured tones.
After a while, Mrs. Pennington left us in Grandmother Agatha’s care. Grandmother gave a knowing sigh and said, “It’s nothing to fret about, really. Your Aunt Matilda was just the same—she used to sneak Grandfather Reginald’s magazines, too. You’re welcome to look at them here, but best not to take any home, for your mother’s sake—and your own bottom’s!” Her words were a balm to my wounded pride, a reassurance that my curiosity was not so unusual after all. Still, the threat of another spanking hung in the air, a warning I would not soon forget.
Over the years, Beatrice and I visited Grandmother Agatha several times a year. Each time, we’d steal away to enjoy a secret perusal of the magazines, always careful not to arouse suspicion. Those visits became a cherished ritual, a secret world that belonged to us alone. The memory of that first, brutal punishment lingered, a reminder to be cautious, to keep our secrets well hidden, and to never underestimate the sting of a wooden hairbrush wielded by a determined mother.
When Grandmother Agatha passed on, I quietly claimed the collection for myself, a peculiar inheritance and a lasting reminder of the lessons—painful and otherwise—of childhood. The magazines, now safely hidden away, were a testament to the complexities of growing up, a symbol of the secrets and discoveries that shaped our youth, and the vivid, unforgettable memory of the day I learned just how severe a mother’s punishment could be.
