If you were to be put over the knee, you’d be pulled to the side of a chair, lowered down, and the spanking would begin. Your pleas and the sharp sound of the spanking would echo through the apartment, doors usually left ajar so everyone could hear—and sometimes see—what was happening.
When it was time for the strap, you’d be told to get ready. That meant going to your room, lying face down on the bed, and waiting. The walk to your room, the sound of footsteps in the hallway, the knowledge that others might pass by and peek in—it was all part of the humiliation. But once the strapping began, embarrassment faded, replaced by the raw sting of the leather.
The strappings from Mary were the harshest. Maybe she felt she had to prove herself, being younger than the adults. She’d ignore our desperate promises—“Mary, please, I’m sorry! I’ll be good!”—and deliver the punishment with a determined snap of the strap, each stroke burning and leaving us gasping.
Mary always made it clear: we shouldn’t expect any less from her than from our parents. The strap would rise, then fall with a sharp crack, each blow searing into our skin, drawing out promises to behave that we’d repeat through tears.
As I got older, our family moved to the country, and those city days faded into memory, except for the occasional visit. I tried to keep in touch with friends, but it was never quite the same.
One summer, I was allowed to visit a friend in the city and stay with Aunt Hariot. She agreed, and when vacation started, my dad drove me in. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d changed. I was more confident, maybe even cocky. When Aunt Hariot told me to be back for dinner, I replied with a casual “sure,” not the respectful tone I’d used as a child. She gave me a puzzled look, but I brushed it off.
I spoke to my aunt as if she were a neighbor, not the second mother she’d always been. I never would have dared use that tone when I was younger.
About a week into my stay, I was out with my friend. We saw some water pistols in a store—tempting, but out of our price range. On impulse, we slipped them under our shirts and tried to walk out. We were caught almost immediately. The manager called both our homes, and soon my friend’s mom and Aunt Hariot arrived.
My friend’s mom was furious, promising him a strapping he’d never forget. She apologized to the manager, making it clear there’d be consequences.
Aunt Hariot, on the other hand, was calm. She told the manager she’d handle it, and I naively thought she’d just call my mom when we got home.
We left the store together. My friend’s mom scolded him the whole way, describing in vivid detail how he’d be strapped until he couldn’t sit. Tears welled in his eyes.
Aunt Hariot was silent until we parted ways with them. Then, in a quiet, steady voice, she said, “I hope you realize that when we get home, I intend to treat you like a son.”
I didn’t answer. She pressed, “What would I do to a son?” I stayed silent. “I’m waiting,” she said. There was only one answer: “You would give him a good licking with your strap across his backside.”
I froze. Aunt Hariot took me by the arm and gave me a firm shove forward. My mind raced, knowing exactly what was coming. The bravado I’d felt earlier vanished, replaced by dread and a growing sense of panic. Tears pricked my eyes as I started to beg for another chance, promising I’d never do it again.
It only got worse when we reached the house. She pushed me up the stairs, and I broke down, blubbering like a much younger child. “Please, Mommy! I promise I won’t do it again! I don’t want to feel the strap!” It had been years since I’d called Aunt Hariot “Mommy,” but in that moment, I was desperate.
When we got to the apartment, she uttered the dreaded words: “Get yourself ready for the strap.” My cousins overheard, and I realized this would be even more humiliating than when we were little. I was supposed to be a “big boy” now, but I felt anything but.
I went to the guest room, my heart pounding, and got ready. My cousins walked past, sneaking gleeful peeks. I lay face down on the bed, my stomach twisting, every second stretching out as I waited for the inevitable.
“Are you ready?” Aunt Hariot called from the kitchen. My voice trembled as I answered yes, and the tears started in earnest. The sound of her footsteps grew louder, and then she appeared in the doorway, the strap dangling from her hand—a thin, worn piece of leather, but in that moment, it looked like an instrument of pure torment. The strap itself was a faded brown, its edges darkened and softened by years of use. It was about two inches wide, supple but heavy, with a faint, musty scent of old leather that seemed to fill the room. The surface was smooth in places, but cracked and creased in others, and when she flexed it, it made a quiet, ominous creak. I could see faint imprints from past punishments, ghostly lines pressed into the leather, a silent record of every lesson it had delivered. Just the sight of it made my skin prickle, and I knew from experience the kind of angry, red welts it would leave—raised, burning stripes that would throb for hours, sometimes days.
I began to sob, pleading, “Please, Mommy! I’ll be good, I won’t do it again! Please, another chance—please!” But Aunt Hariot was unmoved. She stood beside the bed, her face stern, and delivered a lecture: “Your backside and the back of your legs are going to get a licking you won’t forget for a long time, and you will call me Mommy when you stay here.” “Yes, Mommy,” I choked out, my voice barely above a whisper.
The moment those words left my lips, the strapping began. The first lash landed with a sharp, stinging crack, the pain immediate and intense. Each stroke seemed to burn deeper, the leather biting into my skin, leaving fiery welts that throbbed and pulsed. The pain was overwhelming, a hot, searing ache that radiated from my backside down to my legs. The strap’s heavy, flexible length seemed to wrap around, the edges leaving their own distinct, raised lines—each one a vivid, angry mark that would linger long after the punishment ended.
I lost all composure, my blubbering turning into full-on bawling. I clenched my buttocks, kicked my legs, twisted from side to side, and tried to shield myself with my hands, but Aunt Hariot was relentless. If my hand got in the way, she aimed for my legs. If I grabbed my legs, my backside bore the brunt. There was no escape, no relief—just the relentless rhythm of the strap, each blow a lesson I’d never forget.
The humiliation was as sharp as the pain. I was old enough to know better, old enough to feel the sting of shame as much as the strap. My cousins’ muffled giggles from the hallway, the knowledge that everyone knew what was happening, made it all the more unbearable. I repeated the humiliating plea—“Mommy, please!”—over and over, my voice raw with desperation.
The punishment seemed to go on forever. My skin felt aflame, every nerve ending alive with pain. I remembered from childhood that turning over or trying to escape would only earn me extra strokes, so I stayed put, sobbing into the pillow, my pride in tatters.
When Aunt Hariot finally finished, she stood me up, still bawling and blubbering, and marched me to the corner. “You stand there and think about what you’ve done,” she said. My backside and the backs of my legs throbbed with every heartbeat, the pain lingering long after the strap was put away.
The consequences of that strapping lasted far beyond the physical pain. For days, every movement reminded me of my mistake. Sitting was agony, and the welts took their time to fade. But the lesson stuck with me—the memory of that punishment, the shame, the pain, and the knowledge that my actions had disappointed someone who cared for me like a mother.
