Back in the later years of my youth, I went to visit my Aunt Joyce in Somerset. Aunt Joyce was a typical aunt of the 1960s—never married, quite comfortable in her own way, plain looking, and with noticeable bingo wings. She had a penchant for floral dresses and always wore her hair in a neat bun. Aunt Joyce was known in the neighborhood for her strict demeanor but also for her kind heart. She had worked as a schoolteacher for over 30 years, shaping the minds of many young children. Her home was filled with books, and she had a particular interest in local folklore and history. I was to stay with Aunt Joyce for one month. Although I was now older and approaching early manhood, she was instructed to handle all discipline in any way she saw fit.
Aunt Joyce’s house was a treasure trove of curiosities. Each room was filled with artifacts from her travels, old maps, and ancient books. She had a particular fascination with the mystical and the occult, which was evident from the numerous talismans and charms that adorned her shelves. Her garden was a wild, enchanting place, filled with herbs and plants that she used for her various potions and remedies.
I had just been there about three hours and I wanted to run to the mall. Aunt Joyce said: “Very well, but be home before supper at 6.30.” “No problem,” I replied.
Needless to say, I got carried away and forgot to keep looking at my watch. I finally checked the time at 7.55 and realized that I was very late, and rushed back to her house.
Aunt Joyce was waiting for me in the living room, her face flushed with anger. She asked me: “Who do you think you are, young man? I think it is time someone taught you respect. Go to your room and wait for your punishment!”
I waited there for what seemed an eternity. Aunt Joyce finally came in, her eyes still blazing. She began her lecture: “You think you can just waltz in here whenever you please? You have responsibilities and you need to learn to respect other people’s time. Missing supper and coming home this late is unacceptable. You need to understand that actions have consequences.”
Aunt Joyce was menacingly waving around a plastic spatula. It was a bright red, flexible tool, with a slightly curved edge that looked like it could sting like a swarm of wasps. The spatula had a spanginess to it, bending easily with a flick of her wrist, promising a sharp, biting sensation with every strike.
Pulling me over her knee, she told me: “You’ve had this coming a long time, young man.” The first smack landed with a sharp crack, sending a jolt through my body. The sting was immediate, a fiery sensation spreading across my skin. Each subsequent smack seemed to amplify the heat, the pain building with a rhythmic intensity.
After a dozen or so smacks, I began to get a very strange feeling inside me. The pain was mingling with an unexpected warmth, a peculiar mix of discomfort and something else I couldn’t quite identify. The sensation was almost electric, each strike sending a shiver down my spine.
Over the years, I had had many a smacked bottom from my own mother. These smacked bottoms were given as no-nonsense type spanking and there was nothing pleasurable about them whatsoever. But this was different. The spanking from Aunt Joyce had a certain deliberateness to it, each smack measured and precise, as if she knew exactly how to elicit the maximum response.
Being spanked by an outsider such as Aunt Joyce was a different kettle of fish altogether. I had no idea why I was feeling this way, all I knew was that I was. The combination of her stern lecture, the sharp sting of the spatula, and the strange warmth spreading through me was overwhelming.
The next day, Aunt Joyce took me on a tour of the local area. We visited ancient ruins, old churches, and even a few sites rumored to be haunted. She shared stories of local legends and folklore, her eyes lighting up with excitement as she recounted tales of witches, spirits, and mystical creatures. It was clear that her passion for history and the supernatural was deeply ingrained in her.
One evening, Aunt Joyce invited me to join her in her study. She showed me her collection of rare books on witchcraft and the occult, explaining the significance of each one. She even performed a small ritual, demonstrating her knowledge and skill in the mystical arts. It was a mesmerizing experience, one that left me in awe of her abilities.
The next day, I wanted to confess that I liked being spanked by her and ask if she would give me my birthday spankings.
However, I never did.
