To say that I had a tough start in life would be quite the understatement. When I was younger, my father was sent to prison and my mom could not take care of me because she was in a rehab facility. My uncle was always in trouble with the law as well. So, I wound up living with their mother and my aunt. My aunt worked, so Grandma took on the role of primary care giver. Her name was Crystal and everyone in the neighbourhood knew her as ‘Big Crystal’. She was a heavy-set woman with a hard hand (as I was to find out), muscular arms, large thighs and a generous, motherly bosom. Looking back, I think Grandma felt she had not done a good enough job with raising her own children, particularly my uncle, and she was determined that I would not turn out like them. She made that clear the day I arrived, taking me aside to give me a stern lecture, all the while smacking her lap with her right hand. Certainly, the message was loud and clear, I was certainly embarrassed at the possibility of ending up over Grandma’s knee for a spanking like a naughty little boy.
But a bigger shock was to come, as I found out that Grandma wasn’t just speaking theoretically – she called me over to stand in front of her “But I haven’t done anything wrong yet!” I complained. “No, you haven’t – and this is to make sure it stays that way,” Grandma replied shortly. She perched me, on her right thigh. She looked down briefly, then she looked me solemnly in the eyes and extracted promises to behave, do well in school, remember my chores etc. I promised, of course, then Grandma said: “Now it’s time for that reminder. Lie face down over my knee – this is going to hurt.” I began to cry in anticipation of the pain but Grandma gently but firmly manhandled me into the required position, so that my naked bottom was on top of her lap.
The first spank on my bottom burned like fire – I could not believe how hard Grandma could smack my bottom with that hand that had treated me so tenderly in so many other ways. The spanks continued to come as I cried rivers of tears. Finally, after begging and pleading ‘no more’ for a few minutes, Grandma suddenly stopped spanking me, raised me to her breasts and cuddled me while rubbing my behind to make it better. She spoke tenderly to me. “John, I hope that lesson will prevent future misbehaviour. But I won’t hesitate to spank you when it’s needed. I only because I love you.” “That won’t be a problem in future because it’ll be the slipper, young man. Hands are for loving.” Not surprisingly, in bed that night I I replayed the spanking in my head. Looking back, I had already developed a fetish but that experience over Grandma’s knee cemented the way I came to equate spankings with love. As an adult, I would go on to re-enact such punishments with various others, including the woman who eventually became my wife.
In the days of my youth, when the world seemed both vast and uncertain, I, young Henry, found myself upon a most unexpected path. At the tender age of eleven, my life was turned upside down. I was a slight, pale boy with a mop of unruly brown hair and anxious, searching eyes that always seemed to dart about, as if looking for a safe place to land. My voice was soft, my frame thin from too many skipped meals, and I carried with me a small, battered backpack—my only constant companion. My dear father, a tall, gaunt man with a gentle smile but troubled soul, was sent away, his absence leaving a hollow ache in my chest. My mother, a delicate woman with tired eyes and a kind heart, was overwhelmed by her own hardships and taken to a place of healing. My uncle, too, was a man of restless spirit—broad-shouldered, with a wild mane of hair and a reputation for mischief, his name often spoken in hushed tones by the neighbors.
Thus, I was brought to the humble home of my grandmother, Mrs. Margaret, whom all affectionately called “Big Maggie.” Grandmother Margaret was a formidable woman, both in stature and presence. She stood tall and broad, her frame sturdy from years of honest labor, with hands roughened by work but capable of surprising tenderness. Her hair, once jet black, was now a crown of silver, always pulled back in a neat bun. Her eyes, sharp and blue, missed nothing, and her voice could fill a room with warmth or command silence with a single word. The house, with its gentle scent of lavender and polished wood, became my new haven. My Aunt Dorothy, Grandmother’s only daughter, was a woman of quiet resilience—petite, with soft brown curls and a gentle, tired smile. She worked tirelessly as a seamstress, her nimble fingers always busy, her laughter rare but genuine. Yet it was Grandmother Margaret who became my guiding star, her presence both comforting and commanding. As I would soon discover, her hands could be as firm as they were kind.
In reflection, I see now that Grandmother Margaret bore a heavy heart, believing she had not done enough for her own children—especially my uncle, whose wild ways troubled her deeply. She was determined that I, Henry, would not stray as he had. On the very day of my arrival, she summoned me to the parlor, where the afternoon sun danced through the curtains, and delivered a most earnest lecture. Her right hand tapped her lap with each word, her gaze steady and unwavering, her voice carrying the weight of both love and regret.
The meaning of her words was clear, and I felt a blush rise to my cheeks at the thought of being treated as a wayward child, threatened with a spanking across Grandmother’s knee. Yet, I did not expect how swiftly her words would become action. Without delay, Grandmother Margaret called me to her side, her voice firm yet gentle, and bade me stand before her. My heart thudded within my chest, my hands clammy as I obeyed, my small frame dwarfed by her imposing figure.
“But Grandmother, I have done nothing amiss!” I protested, my voice quivering, my eyes wide with confusion and fear. Her reply was calm and resolute, her tone brooking no argument: “No, Henry, you have not—and this is to ensure you remain on the right path.” She drew me gently, yet firmly, onto her right knee, her grasp unyielding but not unkind. She looked down at me, her expression softening for a moment, then fixed me with a look of solemn purpose. She made me promise—to be well-behaved, to study diligently, and to remember my duties. Each promise weighed heavily upon my heart, her words etching themselves into my memory.
I gave my word, my voice scarcely more than a whisper. Then Grandmother’s tone grew serious, and she said, “Now, Henry, it is time for a reminder. Lie across my knee—this will sting, but it is for your own good.” (pause) My breath caught in my throat as I hesitated, but her hands guided me, gentle yet insistent, until I was draped across her lap, my face pressed into the coarse fabric of her skirt. I felt her fingers at my waistband, deft and unhurried, as she drew down my shorts and undergarments, exposing my bare skin to the cool, lavender-scented air. A shiver ran the length of my spine, anticipation and dread mingling in my chest.
(pause) The first spank landed with a sharp, resounding crack, the sting immediate and electric. My body jolted, a gasp escaping my lips before I could stifle it. The sensation was searing, a hot bloom spreading across my skin, and before I could recover, another spank followed—then another, and another, each one delivered with unwavering precision. Grandmother’s palm was broad and unyielding, her rhythm steady, each blow falling upon the tender flesh of my upturned backside. The pain built swiftly, a burning ache that deepened with every strike, until my legs kicked involuntarily and my fingers clawed at the hem of her skirt.
(pause) Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the faded patterns of the carpet below. I whimpered, then sobbed, my voice rising in desperate pleas—“Please, Grandmother, I promise! I’ll be good!”—but her resolve did not falter. Each spank was a lesson, each pause between them a moment of anticipation more agonizing than the last. The heat radiated outward, my skin prickling, my pride dissolving into helpless, childlike wails. I felt utterly exposed, vulnerable, and yet, beneath the pain, a strange sense of safety—her arm holding me fast, her presence unyielding and sure.
(pause) The minutes stretched, each second marked by the echo of palm against flesh, the room filled with the sound of my cries and the steady cadence of Grandmother’s discipline. My body trembled, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the pain now a deep, throbbing fire. I could sense her own struggle—her jaw set, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her love and sorrow mingling in every motion. At last, when I thought I could bear no more, the blows ceased. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by my shuddering breaths.
(pause) Grandmother gathered me into her arms, lifting me from her lap and pressing my tear-streaked face to her bosom. Her embrace was warm, her hand stroking my hair with infinite gentleness, her voice a low, soothing murmur. My sobs subsided, replaced by hiccuping breaths and the lingering ache of discipline. She rocked me softly, her presence a balm to my wounded spirit, her love as tangible as the pain that still throbbed across my skin.
“Henry, I trust this lesson will guide you well,” she whispered, her words both admonition and comfort. “But remember, I shall not hesitate to correct you when needed. I do this only out of love.” She paused, her hand resting gently. “Next time, it shall be the slipper, my boy. Hands are for loving.”
That night, as I lay beneath a patchwork quilt, the house hushed save for the distant city sounds, I pondered the day’s events. The sting of discipline lingered, but so did the warmth of Grandmother’s love. Even then, I sensed a change within me—a new understanding of the bond between guidance and affection, correction and care. As the years passed, that memory became a touchstone, shaping my notions of kindness and responsibility. In time, I would carry those lessons into my own life, ever grateful for the gentle wisdom and indomitable spirit of Grandmother Margaret, the woman whose strength and love shaped the course of my childhood.
