(gap: 2s) The most unusual spanking I ever received happened on a sun-drenched afternoon in 1978, the kind of day that seemed to shimmer with possibility and stretch on forever, as only childhood summers in Devon could. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and distant sea salt, and the sunlight poured through the windows of Loraine’s house, painting golden rectangles on the faded carpet. I can still hear the distant hum of a lawnmower, the clatter of dishes from an open kitchen window, and the shrill, happy cries of children at play.
Loraine was my age, and her house was a second home to me. She was one of five sisters, each with their own distinct personality. There was Linda, the quiet one with a mischievous smile that always hinted at some secret plan; Louise, the eldest, who carried herself with a kind of effortless authority, and two older sisters whose names have faded into the background of my memory, like the wallpaper in their hallway—always present, but rarely noticed. The house was always alive with the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the clatter of cutlery, and the constant, overlapping chatter of girls. I felt like an honorary sibling, swept up in their world of games and gentle chaos.
That afternoon, the four of us—Louise, Loraine, Linda, and me—were gathered around the backyard pool, a battered inflatable thing that always seemed to be half-deflated by the end of the day. The air was heavy with the smell of sunscreen and the faint tang of chlorine. We dared each other to make the biggest splash, our laughter echoing off the garden walls. I remember the rough feel of the concrete under my feet as I ran, the sun burning my shoulders, and the exhilarating moment of flight before I crashed into the water. (short pause) The world exploded into bubbles and noise, and when I surfaced, triumphant, I saw the tidal wave I’d created had drenched not just my friends, but also a neatly folded pile of towels and clothes—Loraine’s mother’s best towels, no less—left too close to the pool’s edge.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze. The laughter died away, replaced by a collective gasp. Louise, who was in charge that day, immediately transformed from playmate to babysitter, her face settling into a mask of stern responsibility. My heart thudded in my chest, and I felt a cold knot of dread in my stomach. I pleaded with her, my voice trembling, promising I hadn’t meant to, begging her not to tell my mother. I knew all too well what a real spanking felt like—the sting, the shame, the way it made you want to disappear. I could almost feel the ghost of my mother’s slipper, the one with the worn leather sole, waiting for me at home.
Louise listened, her expression softening as she watched me squirm. She promised she wouldn’t tell, but said I needed to learn my lesson. There was a glint of mischief in her eyes, and I sensed that something was about to happen—something that would be both mortifying and hilarious. She called Loraine and Linda, and together we marched inside, my wet feet leaving little prints on the linoleum, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation.
Upstairs, the bedroom was cool and dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon glare. The air smelled faintly of talcum powder and the lavender sachets Loraine’s mother tucked into every drawer. Louise sat me down on the bed, her voice gentle but brimming with exaggerated seriousness. She took my feet in her left hand, lifting them so my legs and bottom were angled up towards her, and with her right hand, she began the most theatrical, pretend spanking imaginable. Each “smack” was a gentle pat, accompanied by a dramatic scolding that was more pantomime than punishment.
“What am I going to do with you?” Louise declared, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “You’ve soaked all the towels! This is a very serious offense!” Loraine and Linda joined in, piling on with their own over-the-top warnings—“You’ll be banned from the pool for a week!” “No more snacks for you!”—their voices quivering with suppressed laughter. The room was filled with giggles, and even I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I remember the way the sunlight filtered through the curtains, turning the dust motes into tiny, swirling stars as we played out our little drama.
The “punishment” went on for what felt like ages, but it was all in good fun. Louise would pause every so often to wag her finger at me, her eyes twinkling with mischief, and the girls would gasp in mock horror at my supposed misdeeds. I wriggled and squirmed, not from pain, but from trying not to burst out laughing. There was a sense of freedom in that room, a feeling that we were all in on the joke, that the world outside—parents, rules, real consequences—couldn’t touch us here.
When Louise finally stopped, she scooped me up in a warm, forgiving hug, holding me close like a mother comforting her child after a scolding. Even as she hugged me, she couldn’t resist one last bit of mock severity, turning to the others and saying, “Take a good look, because this is what you’ll get too if you don’t obey me!” Loraine and Linda nodded solemnly, but their faces were lit up with barely suppressed grins. I remember the softness of Louise’s jumper against my cheek, the way her arms felt safe and strong, and the sound of our laughter echoing down the hallway.
Despite the mock severity, there was a sense of camaraderie in the room—a shared secret, a memory that would stick with us for years. Even though all the girls had already seen my bottom countless times during our childhood games, it felt oddly different to have it bared in this context, as if I were both the culprit and the example. Looking back, it was a strange, funny, and oddly affectionate moment—one of those childhood memories that lingers, vivid and bittersweet, long after the laughter and the pretend sting have faded. I can still feel the warmth of that room, the closeness of those friendships, and the way we all seemed to understand, without saying a word, that this was just a game—a way to make sense of the world, to practice being grown-ups, to test the boundaries of authority and forgiveness.
(pause) What made this pretend punishment so memorable was how completely different it was from the real spankings I sometimes got at home from my mother. Louise’s version was all laughter, gentle pats, and exaggerated scolding—her “smacks” were soft, her voice playful, and the whole thing was wrapped in a sense of fun and togetherness. My mother’s spankings, on the other hand, were serious business. I remember the sharp sound of the slipper against my skin, the way her voice would drop to a low, stern register, and the heavy silence that followed. There was no giggling, no playful warnings—just a stern lesson meant to make sure I remembered not to repeat my mistake. The contrast in tone, intent, and emotional impact couldn’t have been clearer: with Louise and the girls, it was about play and belonging; with my mother, it was about discipline and consequence.
Sometimes, when I catch the scent of lavender or hear the distant sound of children laughing, I’m transported back to that afternoon in 1978. I remember the sunlight, the laughter, the sting of embarrassment quickly replaced by the warmth of friendship. That difference—between punishment and play, between fear and affection—is what makes the memory of that day stand out so sharply, even now. It’s a reminder of how childhood is shaped not just by the things that happen to us, but by the people who share those moments, and the love and laughter that turn even a “slipper incident” into a story worth telling.
