As youngsters we were never shy, for we had grown up together and were used to the ways of our household. Janet and Linda, always the ringleaders, would sometimes pull down my pyjamas with a sense of mischief, and I, being the youngest, was easily overpowered. There was much laughter and squealing, but when it came time for discipline, Janet would seat herself upon the edge of the bed, draw me firmly across her lap. Janet would then give me ten sharp, resounding smacks on my bottom, each one delivered with the authority of an elder sister. The sound echoed about the room, and my skin would smart and tingle, though I would kick and squirm in vain. Sometimes, Linda would take her turn, her hand no less firm, and I would receive another ten smacks, each one a lesson in obedience. They, too, were subject to such discipline, though not as often as I.
Sometimes, the girls became rather enthusiastic, and I would find myself the recipient of several extra smacks, their hands falling again and again until my bottom glowed a bright crimson. I would struggle and protest, but their laughter filled the room, and I could not help but smile through my tears. The sting would linger long after, but it was all in good fun, and I cherished the warmth and kindness that followed. I suppose I was their little charge, and I did not mind in the least.
I do not believe Mother ever suspected the games we played when the girls were left in charge. As I grew older, the spankings became less frequent, though I confess I missed them dearly. I was not above mischief, and Mother would occasionally find cause to discipline me. Most often, she used her hand, but once, when I was caught taking sweets from the corner shop, she summoned her slipper.
Mother’s slipper was a most formidable object, quite unlike any ordinary house shoe. It was fashioned from sturdy brown rubber, the sole thick and unyielding, and the upper adorned with a faded floral motif, a testament to years of diligent service. The edges bore the marks of many a scuffle, and the inside was lined with soft, pale fabric, worn smooth by countless footsteps. It was always at hand, a silent sentinel of discipline, and its presence alone was enough to inspire the utmost respect in any child.
Seated upon the bed, she drew me over her lap and raised the slipper high. The first smack landed with a resounding crack, followed by nine more, each one delivered with unwavering resolve. My bottom burned fiercely, and I cried out, but Mother did not relent until all ten smacks had been given. The lesson was well learned, and I never dared repeat the offence. The pain was sharp and enduring, and as I lay in bed that night, I reflected upon my actions with a sense of remorse and resolve.
As I got older, I become rather well-behaved, though there were still occasions when Mother found it necessary to use her slipper or, at times, a table tennis bat or kitchen spatula. Each time, I was made to bend over the arm of the sofa, and Mother would deliver six firm smacks with the chosen implement. The flat surface stung dreadfully, leaving my bottom red and throbbing, but I accepted my punishment with fortitude, knowing it was deserved. The sensation of being disciplined reminded me of my sisters’ earlier lessons, and, curiously, I found a certain comfort in the ritual. The tingling that remained whenever I sat down was a constant reminder to behave.
I never resented my punishments, for I understood that Mother wished only to teach me right from wrong. A sore bottom was a small price to pay for the lessons I learned. After each spanking, when my bottom was hot and sore, Mother would always gather me into her arms, holding me close and assuring me that I was forgiven. It was a comfort to know that, even after a stern lesson, I was still loved.
In time, Mother replaced spankings with other forms of discipline, such as grounding. I missed the physical contact, though I never spoke of it. Once, I asked Linda if she remembered our childhood games. She laughed and said she would gladly spank me again if I wished. I blushed at the thought, imagining myself once more over her lap, her hand falling with the same authority as before. It was precisely what I desired, though I dared not admit it.
By then, I had discovered a talent for drawing, a gift I inherited from Mother, who was an accomplished amateur artist. Her paintings adorned the library and our home, and she even donated a few to the doctor’s waiting room. I took great pride in my own sketches, especially those of figures and scenes from our daily life.
My favourite subjects were figures, particularly my own. I would study my reflection in the mirror to capture the correct proportions, and often drew boys lying face down across a lap, sometimes with tears, but always with a hint of a smile. Before long, I had a small collection of such drawings, each one a tribute to the lessons learned and the affection that followed.
There were drawings of boys being spanked in bedrooms, gardens, and even over a log in the woods. My favourite depicted a boy beside a swimming pool, as he received a sound slippering. I always imagined myself as the boy, and the disciplinarians were always girls, a few years older and very much in command.
Naturally, I kept my artwork well hidden, though once I was interrupted mid-sketch and left a drawing face down on my desk. When I returned, I found it face up, and realised someone had discovered it.
I was mortified, expecting Janet or Linda to tease me, though they rarely entered my room. Mother, however, often did, to tidy or collect laundry. When a week or two passed without comment, I assumed the matter had been forgotten.
I was mistaken. One evening, while Mother was out, I went to bed early, tired from football practice. I was awakened by Susan and Linda standing by, grinning mischievously.
I tried to escape, but they held me fast and explained their intentions. The informed me we were all going to the living room for what was to come next.
Susan sat in the centre of the sofa, spreading a towel across her knees. Despite my struggles, they managed to wrestle me face down across Susan’s lap.
“You may as well submit,” she said. “We know from your drawing that you wish to be spanked. That was my lap in the picture, was it not?”
I pleaded to be released, but they were enjoying themselves far too much. together they began to spank me, taking turns to deliver firm smacks to my upturned bottom. They teased and laughed, pausing only to pinch or rub the sore spots, prolonging my ordeal.
Eventually, they escalated the punishment, each arming herself with a slipper each and delivering a most thorough slippering. For over five minutes, I endured a relentless barrage of smacks, my bottom growing ever more sore, but there was nothing I could do to halt their efforts.
At last, Linda ceased, leaving Susan to continue alone. With renewed vigour, she tested my endurance, pausing only to ask, “Do you miss it? The regular spankings, I mean.” Her words were punctuated by a particularly sharp smack, and I could only gasp in reply.
Another stinging smack followed. “You always seemed to enjoy it as a child. You never complained, though I know it must have hurt, for you sometimes cried. But even then, you laughed.” She set aside the slipper and delivered a flurry of hand spanks, making me writhe and twist. “But I believe this was your favourite, was it not?” she said. “I know I enjoyed it, feeling your little bottom bounce beneath my hand, just as it does now.”
The embarrassment was far worse than the pain. I felt as though I were five years old again, utterly at their mercy. My face burned with shame, and I could not answer. Then Linda said, “I should like to spank you some more. Do you mind?” “I do not appear to have much choice,” I managed to reply.
Susan laughed. “Let us make it just as it was when you were younger. Promise to cooperate, and you may climb across her lap yourself, as you always did. Would you like that?”
This was my opportunity. Once my arms were free, I believed I could escape. I pretended to consider, then agreed to cooperate, planning to make my escape as soon as I was untied.
“Remember your promise,” Susan said. I nodded. “Say it,” she insisted, and I did. I was about to run, but a sudden sense of shame stopped me. My sisters had always been kind, and my predicament was my own fault for leaving the drawing where it could be found.
I wanted to flee, but Linda declared it was her turn and sat in Susan’s place. I had no choice but to comply. I stretched across her lap and buried my face in the cushion, surrendering myself to her firm hand. The spanking was long and thorough, ensuring I would remember the lesson for many days to come.
As I entered my teenage years, my interest in discipline did not wane. I would sometimes ask Susan and Linda to administer a sound spanking. When they were in the mood, they obliged without prompting. When Susan went to university, Linda continued the tradition, and during holidays, both would join in, just as in our younger days. How we managed to keep it from Mother, I shall never know, but we did.
