I remember many spankings while I was growing up. The memories are as vivid as the scent of polish on the wooden floors and the distant chime of the brass bell above the shop door. Mother was always the one to carry them out, her presence filling the room with a quiet authority that made my heart race. I would have to bend over, my hands trembling as I gripped the edge of the bed, and then the slipper would come down—sharp, echoing, and final—across my bottom.
But of all those moments, the one that stands out most clearly in my mind happened the night my friend James slept over at our house. James was a wiry, quick-witted boy with a mop of unruly hair and a mischievous glint in his eye. His mother, a stern woman with a reputation for discipline, always told my parents not to hesitate to give him a sore bottom if he got out of hand. That night, her words would be put to the test.
The evening air was thick with the scent of cut grass and the distant hum of traffic as we got ready for bed. I always gave James my bed and made a nest of blankets on the floor. The room was dim, shadows flickering on the walls from the streetlamp outside. We were restless, our energy refusing to fade with the setting sun. It started with a single, playful thump—a pillow swung in jest, feathers bursting into the air like snowflakes. Laughter bubbled up, wild and uncontrollable, as we pelted each other, the room filling with the soft thuds of pillows and the rustle of sheets. In the chaos, I grabbed James, and suddenly feathers were everywhere—drifting down onto the bed, the floor, and even clinging to our hair and pajamas.
Suddenly, the door creaked open and Mother appeared, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. We froze, the laughter dying in our throats. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with dread. Her eyes swept over the mess, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I can’t trust you at all, can I?” she said, her voice low and tight with anger. The words stung more than any slipper. “I’ll be back.”
(short pause) My stomach twisted with fear as we waited in silence, the only sound the soft flutter of feathers settling on the floor. I knew exactly what was coming. Sure enough, Mother soon re-entered, her footsteps deliberate, carrying the large rubber-soled slipper she always kept in her wardrobe for moments like this. It was an old, heavy thing—navy blue, with a thick, sturdy sole and a faded patch on the toe. The rubber was worn smooth from years of use, and it looked almost comically oversized in her hand, dangling from her fingers with a sense of finality. When she brought it out, the room seemed to shrink even further, and all I could focus on was that formidable, unmistakable slipper.
The air was thick with anticipation, every second stretching out as Mother stood before us, slipper in hand. My heart hammered so loudly I was sure James could hear it. She called my name first, her voice calm but unyielding. My legs felt like lead as I shuffled forward, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. I could feel James’s eyes on me, wide and anxious. Mother pointed to the edge of the bed, and I bent over, my hands gripping the blanket so tightly my knuckles turned white. The cool air prickled my skin, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself.
The first stroke landed with a sharp, echoing crack—right across my right cheek. The pain was immediate, a hot, stinging jolt that made me gasp and jerk forward. Before I could catch my breath, the second stroke came, this time on the left, just as fierce. Each smack seemed to ring out in the small room, the sound bouncing off the walls and mingling with my ragged breathing. The slipper was heavy, its rubber sole biting through my thin pajamas, leaving a burning ache that grew with every blow. Mother was methodical, her movements precise and unwavering. She delivered each stroke with the same measured force, never rushing, never hesitating. The pain built steadily, a deep, throbbing sting that made my eyes water and my breath hitch. By the last stroke, tears were streaming down my face, hot and silent, my shoulders shaking as I tried to stifle my sobs. The room felt impossibly small, the world reduced to the sharp sting on my bottom and the sound of my own crying.
When it was James’s turn, he stood up slowly, his jaw clenched and his fists balled at his sides. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he squared himself as if preparing for battle. He bent over the bed, his back straight, and waited. Mother raised the slipper and brought it down with the same unyielding force—three times on the right, three on the left. Each smack echoed in the silence, but James didn’t make a sound. His face was pale, his eyes fixed on the wall ahead, but he didn’t flinch or cry out. I watched in awe and disbelief, my own pain still throbbing, as he endured the punishment with a stoic resolve I couldn’t imagine.
When it was over, we both stood there, clutching our sore backsides, the sting lingering long after the slipper was put away. The pain radiated in waves, a deep, pulsing ache that made it hard to move. “Now clean up this mess and get some sleep,” Mother ordered, her voice softer but still firm. The room was quiet except for the rustle of feathers and the occasional sniffle as we tidied up, the weight of what had happened settling over us like a heavy blanket. Every movement sent a fresh jolt of pain through me, a constant reminder of the lesson I’d just learned.
As we worked, I couldn’t help but ask James how he managed to stay so quiet while Mother slippered him. He shrugged, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, I’ve had worse than that,” he said quietly. “My Mother takes the cane to me, and that’s much worse.” I stared at him, a mix of shock and relief washing over me. For the first time, I felt almost lucky that my Mother only used the slipper. Of course, that would change later—but for now, I clung to that small comfort, the memory of pain softened by the knowledge that it could always be worse.
