(gap: 2s) In the golden days of my childhood, the world seemed as boundless as a never-ending storybook, and each morning arrived with the promise of a new escapade. My most loyal comrade was Michael, a nimble and quick-witted boy a year younger than myself, who lived just a few houses away in a home that always smelled of cinnamon and freshly ironed sheets. Michael had two younger brothers—David and James—both positively fizzing with mischief and energy. Together, we were a merry band, forever plotting our next grand adventure.
(short pause) One particularly splendid afternoon, I found myself at Michael’s house after school. Sunbeams waltzed through the lace curtains, painting playful patterns on the living room floor as we huddled around the old television, hands clutching the controllers of a much-loved game console. The room rang with laughter, the gentle thud of feet on carpet, and the occasional victorious exclamation. David and James darted in and out, sometimes joining the game, sometimes tumbling on the couch, their voices a cheerful chorus echoing through the house.
(pause) Before long, the front door creaked open and in swept their mother, Mrs. Susan. She was a remarkable woman—tall, graceful, with glossy dark hair and eyes that could be both warm and commanding in a single glance. There was an undeniable magnetism to her presence; she moved with the poise of a queen who knew her own mind. I remember a flutter in my chest whenever she entered, a secret admiration I never dared to voice. She had that classic “come to Mama” air—a blend of beauty and authority that made you want to both impress her and avoid her displeasure.
(short pause) As she set her handbag down and surveyed the scene, a gentle but unmistakable air of disapproval drifted over the room. She said nothing at first, simply gliding from room to room, straightening a cushion here, picking up a stray sock there. I exchanged a nervous glance with Michael, wondering if we had crossed some invisible line. At last, she disappeared into her bedroom, just across the hall, and called for James, the youngest. Shoulders slumped, he shuffled toward her, dragging his feet like a boy summoned before the headmistress. It was clear he knew he was in trouble.
(pause) The rest of us tried to focus on our game, but the raised voices from the bedroom were impossible to ignore. Mrs. Susan was scolding James about his neglected chores—he had failed to take out the rubbish or tidy his room, and she was in no mood for excuses. James’s protests grew louder, his voice quivering as he pleaded for mercy, but Mrs. Susan was resolute. The sharp sound of a spanking echoed down the hall, each swat punctuated by a fresh wail. We sat frozen, the game forgotten, listening to the domestic drama unfold just a few feet away.
(short pause) At last, the bedroom door creaked open and James emerged, cheeks streaked with tears, hands rubbing his sore bottom. He tried to muster a brave smile, his voice trembling as he joked, “It was not so dreadful—she only used her hand this time.” We offered awkward smiles, uncertain whether to laugh or sympathize. The tension in the room slowly eased, but the memory of that spanking lingered in the air.
(pause) That night, as I lay in bed, the events replayed in my mind like a scene from a particularly dramatic story. I imagined the stern mother, the trembling child, the swift justice delivered with practiced hands. There was something curiously fascinating about it all—a blend of fear, curiosity, and excitement I could not quite name. Looking back, I realize that was the day I first became aware of my own complicated feelings about discipline and authority—a realization that would shape my thoughts for years to come.
(gap: 2s) A few days later, I found myself alone with David, the quietest of the brothers. We sat on the porch, sipping sodas and watching the world go by, when I gently steered the conversation toward the subject of spankings. He shrugged, a little embarrassed, and admitted he was seldom spanked, but both Michael and James seemed to find themselves in trouble more often. He confided that when Michael was truly in trouble, their mother did not simply use her hand—she reached for the belt.
(short pause) The mention of the belt sent a shiver down my spine. I tried to imagine the anticipation, the sting, the shame. It was a world I had only glimpsed from the outside, but now I was drawn to it, unable to look away.
(pause) Months passed, and the memory of that afternoon faded, replaced by new adventures and schoolyard chatter. Then, one Friday, my parents announced they would be out of town for the weekend. I pleaded to stay at Michael’s house, promising to be on my very best behavior. After some negotiation, they agreed, and I packed my bag with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation.
(short pause) When I arrived that evening, the kitchen was filled with the aroma of simmering stew and fresh cornbread. Mrs. Susan greeted me with a smile, but her eyes were as sharp as ever. She called me into the kitchen, her voice gentle but firm. “Now, Patricia, while you are in my house, you must follow the house rules, all right?” I nodded, feeling the weight of her gaze. “The boys all have chores, and I expect you to help. Curfew is nine o’clock sharp—no exceptions, understood?” I nodded again, my heart pounding. “Good, now call the boys in. Supper is ready.”
(pause) Dinner was lively, laughter and teasing bouncing around the table. Yet beneath the surface, I was already plotting. I had heard enough stories to know that breaking curfew was a serious matter in this house, and a part of me was curious—perhaps even eager—to see what would happen if we tested the boundaries.
(short pause) The next evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the streetlights flickered on, I convinced Michael and David to sneak out with me to the mall. We rode our bicycles through the cool night air, the wind whipping past our faces as we laughed and joked, losing all sense of time. The mall was a world of neon lights and endless possibilities, and for a while, we forgot all about the rules waiting for us at home.
(pause) It was only when we glanced at the clock in the arcade that panic set in. It was already nine, and we were at least fifteen minutes from home. We pedaled back as fast as we could, hearts pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. When we finally burst through the front door, breathless and sweaty, we found Mrs. Susan waiting in the living room, arms crossed, her face set in a mask of barely contained fury.
(short pause) She did not raise her voice, but her disappointment was palpable. She sat us down on the couch and delivered a lecture that seemed to last an eternity, her words sharp and precise, each one landing with weight. “That is quite enough talk. All you children are going to receive a proper whipping.” The room fell silent, the gravity of her words settling over us like a heavy blanket.
(pause) I was stunned, my mind racing. I had never been spanked at home, and the thought of facing Mrs. Susan’s wrath was terrifying. I managed to stammer, “Please, I do not get spanked at home.” She turned to me, her eyes blazing. “Well, Patricia, you do here. Your mother told me to treat you like my own, and that is exactly what I intend to do.”
(short pause) My protests fell on deaf ears. “I do not wish to be spanked!” I pleaded. She shook her head, her voice unyielding. “You should have thought of that before,” she said. “I am too old!” I tried again, desperation creeping in. “You are old enough to break rules, are you not, dear? You shall have your bottom warmed, just like my boys.”
(pause) The debate was over. She stood, her posture regal, and disappeared into her bedroom. A moment later, she called for David. “Prepare yourself!” she commanded. Despite his fear, he shuffled in, head bowed. “Please, Mother, not the belt!” he whimpered. “Lie down on the bed,” she replied, her tone brooking no argument.
(short pause) The air in the house seemed to thicken, every sound amplified—the creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the faint rustle of leaves outside. We sat in the living room, barely breathing, as the first sharp crack of leather on flesh rang out from the bedroom. It was a sound that seemed to vibrate through the walls, through our bones, through the very air. David’s cries started as muffled whimpers, but quickly grew into open sobs, each one raw and desperate. I could picture him, face pressed into the pillow, fists clenched, legs kicking helplessly as the belt found its mark again and again. The rhythm was relentless—each swat punctuated by a gasp, a plea, a promise to do better. The pain and humiliation were laid bare for all to hear, and I felt a deep, gnawing guilt for having dragged him into this, mingled with a cold, selfish relief that it was not me—at least, not yet. After what felt like an eternity, the sounds ceased. David stumbled out, face streaked with tears, his eyes red and swollen, and disappeared into his room without a word, the door clicking shut behind him like the closing of a cell.
(pause) The silence that followed was suffocating. Michael’s turn came next. He walked to the bedroom with trembling steps, his bravado gone, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a storm. I could hear his voice, thin and pleading, “Please, Mother, it was not my fault, please—” but Mrs. Susan was unmoved. “Lie down on the bed!” she ordered, her tone brooking no argument. The belt cracked again, a sound so sharp it made me flinch where I sat. Michael’s cries were different from David’s—louder, more frantic, as if he could somehow shout the pain away. After five strokes, he was crying openly; after ten, he was wailing like a child, his voice breaking with each blow. I was so frightened, I felt my own body betray me, a warm trickle of fear running down my leg. The shame of it burned almost as much as the anticipation of what was to come. Michael finally emerged, his face red and swollen, eyes puffy, and retreated to the room we were sharing for the weekend, not meeting my gaze.
(short pause) Then came my turn. “Patricia, come in here!” Her voice was calm but commanding, and I knew there was no escape. My legs felt like lead as I walked down the hall, each step echoing in my ears. The bedroom was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of leather and tears. Mrs. Susan stood by the bed, a thick leather belt folded in her hand, her posture as unyielding as a judge’s. Two pillows were stacked in the center, a makeshift platform for punishment. I noticed a damp spot on the top pillow, evidence of the pain the others had endured. My heart hammered in my chest, my mouth dry as sand. She looked at me, her expression softening just a little, but her resolve never wavered. “Prepare yourself,” she said, her voice almost gentle. My hands trembled as I lay down, my face burning with embarrassment, the sheets cool against my skin. Tears welled up before the first blow even landed. “Hush now,” she told me, “you will have something to cry about soon enough.”
(pause) The first stroke of the belt was a shock—a searing, white-hot line of pain that made me gasp, my body arching involuntarily. The second was worse, and I instinctively tried to squirm away, but her hand pressed firmly on my back. “Lie still!” she barked, and I forced myself to obey, gripping the sheets with white-knuckled fists. Each stroke was a world of agony, a burning ache that radiated through my body and left me breathless. I lost count of the blows—each one blurred into the next, a relentless rhythm of pain and shame. My sobs grew louder, echoing off the walls, mingling with the memory of the boys’ cries. I felt stripped bare, not just physically but emotionally, every ounce of pride and defiance beaten out of me. I believe I received twelve, just like Michael, though it could have been more or less—time lost all meaning in
