(gap: 2s) My mother, whose gentle hands and cheerful laughter filled our home with happiness, was taken from us when I was a small boy—along with Michael, , and my brother David, a year younger. The house, once so lively, became very quiet indeed. As the months passed and the world continued on, my father, perhaps wishing to bring back some cheer, introduced a new lady into our lives. Within a year, she was as much a part of our home as the ticking of the old clock on the mantelpiece.
Her name was Susan, and she took on the role of mother with briskness and a sensible manner. Her days were filled with the clatter of saucepans and the pleasant scent of beeswax polish, and her evenings were spent guiding us with firm but fair rules, just as one might find in a well-run school. She was not unkind, but she believed that the world was a place of order, and that boys, especially, must learn to behave properly.
Susan’s way of keeping order was the traditional one: a good, sound spanking. She would often say, with a sigh and a shake of her head, that my late mother, Linda, had been far too gentle, letting us escape the important lessons that a well-smacked bottom could teach. So, I became quite familiar with her lap, and with the things she used—a firm hand, a sturdy slipper, or, on rare occasions, a short leather strap for the most serious mischief. Each punishment was given with great seriousness, as though she believed it was her duty to help us grow up well.
The spankings, I must say, were never pleasant. Yet, as I grew older, I found my feelings about them rather mixed. There was pain, of course, but also a curious sense of order being restored, of boundaries being set once more. Susan, with her strong arms and sensible lap, seemed to be the very picture of authority. Before or after a punishment, she would look me in the eye and say, “Look at me, Michael!”—a command that allowed no argument and left me feeling both sorry and, in a strange way, comforted.
(short pause) One particular afternoon stands out in my memory, as bright as the sunlight that streamed through the parlour window. Susan was busy with the weekly washing, her sleeves rolled up and her brow furrowed in concentration. She called to me from the landing, asking me to place my soiled clothes upon my bed so that she might collect them.
In a little while, she entered my room, her arms already full of shirts and socks. She moved about with great efficiency, sorting and folding, until suddenly she stopped, her eyes falling upon the small pile of underclothes at the foot of the bed. “Michael,” she said, her voice calm but a little suspicious, “I last did the washing a week ago. There should be seven pairs of underpants here. Why are there only five?”
I felt my cheeks grow hot, and I stared at my shoes, twisting my fingers together in embarrassment. At last, I told the truth: there had been a couple of days when I had forgotten to change into a fresh pair, thinking, as boys sometimes do, that it did not matter very much.
Susan’s expression became very serious, her lips pressed into a thin line. “That is quite dreadful, young man!” she declared, her voice rising with proper indignation. “You are going to have your bottom smacked for that at once. Come here to me!”
(pause) The air in the room seemed to grow heavy with anticipation. My heart thudded as I walked forward, each step feeling like a march to the headmistress’s office. Susan sat down on the edge of my bed, her back straight, her eyes never leaving mine. She patted her lap firmly, and I knew there was no escape. My hands trembled as I approached, the familiar ritual feeling more daunting than ever.
By this time, tears had already begun to prick at my eyes, and my lower lip trembled as I tried not to cry. Yet Susan was not moved by my distress. She drew me into her arms, pressing my face gently against her shoulder—a gesture both comforting and inescapable. Her voice, when she spoke, was unexpectedly gentle: “Try to stop crying, my dear. Mummy is going to give you something to cry about now, but all will be well once you have been properly punished. You will be my good boy again.”
(pause) She let me go, and as I stepped back, I could not help but look down in embarrassment, my cheeks burning. As was her custom, Susan said nothing about my discomfort, her silence speaking more than words. She reached for the slipper, the very one that had become a symbol of her authority, and placed it nearby, though for now it was her hand that would do the work.
She told me, with the air of a judge, that I would receive a smack for each missing pair of underpants. Then, with a practised hand, she guided me gently but firmly across her lap, arranging me so that my face was turned away from the window and my feet dangled just above the carpet. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself; I could feel the cool air on my skin, every nerve ending alive with dread.
(pause) The first smack landed with a sharp sound, surprising me more than it hurt. But the next came quickly, and the next, each one stinging more than the last. I cried out, wriggling as any boy would, the sting of each slap teaching me the lesson she intended. My legs kicked, and I clutched at the bedspread, wishing for something to hold onto. The rhythm of her hand was steady, each smack accompanied by a stern reminder: “This is for your own good, Michael. You must learn to be clean and proper.”
The pain grew steadily, a hot, throbbing ache that seemed to fill the room. My sobs grew louder, mingling with Susan’s calm breathing and the faint ticking of the mantel clock. I could feel the tears streaming down my cheeks, my nose running, my pride quite gone. Yet through it all, there was a strange comfort in the ritual—a sense that the world, for all its difficulties, still made sense within these four walls.
When at last it was over, Susan paused, her hand resting lightly on my back. She did not scold me further, but simply allowed me to lie there for a moment, catching my breath and gathering my thoughts. My sobs became hiccups, and I felt her fingers gently smoothing my hair, her touch now gentle and kind.
She stood me up and let me bury my face in her shoulder, my sobs muffled against her dress. She held me close, her arms around me in a rare moment of softness. The anger and disappointment had left her voice, replaced by a quiet reassurance. “There now, it is all over. You have taken your punishment bravely, and I am proud of you for that.”
(short pause) “Are you going to be a good boy for me now?” she asked, her tone gentler than before. I managed a nod, my face wet with tears and my heart full of both shame and relief. “Well, you had better be, for if this happens again, it will be the slipper next time—do you understand?” Despite my tears, I found my voice and promised her, as earnestly as I could, that there would be no ‘next time’.
(pause) The rest of the day passed in a sort of daze. My bottom ached with every step, a constant reminder of my mistake and its consequences. Yet, as I went about my chores and later sat quietly at the supper table, I felt a curious sense of peace. The rules had been set once more, and order restored. Susan, for all her sternness, had shown me that discipline, though painful, was not without care. In her own way, she made me feel safe—anchored in a world that, for all its changes, still held fast to certain certainties.
