This story isn’t really about me—it’s about my friend Alan from school. We were very different: I went to a Catholic school, where spankings from nuns, priests, or teachers were just part of life.
Alan, though, had never been spanked. His school barely used corporal punishment, and he’d always managed to avoid it. But everything changed the day Delia moved in.
When Delia entered Alan’s household, she didn’t just move in—she swept in like the classic demon stepmother from a fairy tale. She immediately took over, asserting her authority with a kind of ruthless efficiency. It was as if she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life, and now she was determined to rule the house with an iron fist.
Delia wasted no time introducing new rules, and at the top of her list was corporal punishment. Suddenly, spanking became the new law of the land. She made it clear that she was in charge, and that discipline—her way—would be strictly enforced. Her own daughters, whom she brought with her, always came first, and Alan was expected to fall in line or face the consequences. (short pause) With the arrival of corporal punishment, Alan quickly became Delia’s victim and, in many ways, her whipping boy. Whenever something went wrong, it seemed Alan was the one singled out for discipline, bearing the brunt of her strict new regime. (short pause) And with Delia, a smacking didn’t just mean her hand—she had a whole arsenal: the brush, the wooden spoon, the fly swatter, and, most dreaded of all, the slipper. Each implement had its own sting, and Alan soon learned that Delia would use whichever she thought would make the biggest impression.
Now, Delia was not just strict—she was also determined to be “modern.” This, unfortunately, was a battle she lost every single day. She’d strut around the house in what she clearly thought were the latest fashions: garish polyester blouses in colors that could blind a small child, skirts that clung in all the wrong places, and shoes with heels so chunky they looked like they’d been borrowed from a clown. She’d pile on costume jewelry with the enthusiasm of a magpie, and her attempts at trendy hairstyles usually ended up looking like she’d been caught in a wind tunnel. Some people might have called her “mutton dressed as lamb,” but Alan always thought it was more like “mutton dressed as mutton”—just with extra sequins. The effect was less ‘modern matriarch’ and more ‘fashion disaster on parade.’ Even her daughters would exchange glances behind her back, trying not to laugh as Delia declared herself “with it.” But if anyone dared to comment, she’d fix them with a glare that could curdle milk and snap, “This is what people are wearing these days!” (short pause)
Alan’s mother had left when he was young, so he lived with his father, a kind and fun man. But now, the entire dynamic at home shifted overnight.
Alan confided in me that Delia and her two daughters—both older than him—had moved in. He was anxious, because his father told him that Delia would treat him no differently than her own daughters, whom she was used to spanking whenever she thought it necessary.
Alan was uneasy about her from the start—she was strict and had already threatened him with a ‘very sore bottom.’ To make things worse, Vivienne, the older daughter, always tried to get Alan in trouble, teasing that he’d get his bottom smacked until he cried.
I felt sorry for Alan, but there was little I could do to ease his worries. He liked the younger sister, Maureen, who was kind to him, but even she would joke that she’d rub his little bottom after a spanking. Alan was a small boy for his age, not much over 4ft 6in, and neither of us showed any signs of puberty.
About a month after the new family moved in, I stayed for my first sleepover. I came over straight from school and we played in Alan’s garden for a while.
It was a hot summer’s day, and Alan suggested I borrow a pair of his swimming trunks so we could play in the small pool. I thought it was a great idea and agreed.
I can’t remember what I did to earn a beating at my own school, but I do remember having to touch my toes while Mr Abril used his rattan cane on me. Thankfully, the swimming trunks covered the marks, and we had a good time in the garden.
Maureen was there, sitting by the pool and watching us play. She found a plastic ball and tossed it in for us, and we laughed as we fought over it.
Eventually, Vivienne showed up and started taunting Alan. She mocked his swimming, saying he could only do ‘doggie paddles,’ and called his trunks ‘babyish’ because of the pictures on them. “They’re too small, and I can see most of your baby’s bottom,” she sneered.
Alan’s eyes welled up with tears from the teasing. Vivienne noticed and leaned over the pool, saying, “Aw! Is baby going to cry?”
That was Alan’s breaking point. His face flushed red, and he shouted, “beeping shut up!” at Vivienne, his voice trembling with anger and humiliation. The words seemed to hang in the air, louder than anything else that afternoon. For a moment, there was stunned silence—Vivienne’s eyes widened, and Maureen gasped. Even I felt a chill, knowing what those words would mean in Delia’s house.
Vivienne wasted no time. She dashed inside, her face lit up with the thrill of having caught Alan in a punishable offense. Moments later, she returned, dragging her mother behind her. Delia’s face was thunderous, her jaw set, and her eyes locked on Alan with a look that could freeze water. She stood at the edge of the pool, arms crossed, and barked, “Out. Now.”
Alan’s bravado vanished instantly. He started to cry, pleading, “Please, Delia, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!” But Delia was unmoved. She reached out, took Alan firmly by the wrist, and marched him inside, her grip unyielding. Alan’s small frame looked even more fragile next to her imposing figure.
The rest of us followed, hearts pounding. Delia led Alan to the living room, where she sat on the couch and stood him in front of her. Maureen hovered beside me, her hand squeezing mine for comfort. Delia’s voice was cold and sharp as she delivered a stern lecture about respect, language, and consequences. “In this house, we do not use filthy words. You will learn to mind your tongue, Alan.”
Alan’s lower lip trembled as Delia listed the implements she could use. “You know what happens when you break the rules,” she said, her voice low and deliberate. “You’re getting the slipper for that mouth.” Alan’s eyes widened in terror—he’d heard stories about the slipper, but never experienced it himself.
Delia wasted no time. She reached for the dreaded slipper—a heavy, old-fashioned thing with a thick sole. She placed it on the couch beside her, then pulled Alan across her lap. His head hung down, his feet barely touching the floor, and his wet swimming trunks clung to his skin. Delia peeled them down, exposing his bare bottom, which was still damp from the pool. The air felt cold, and Alan shivered, both from fear and the chill.
Delia started with her hand, delivering a series of sharp, stinging smacks to each cheek. Alan yelped and tried to twist away, but Delia held him firmly in place. “You will not speak like that in my house,” she scolded, punctuating each word with another smack. Alan’s cries grew louder, but Delia was relentless.
After a dozen or so smacks, she picked up the slipper. The first whack landed with a loud crack, and Alan howled. The slipper was far worse than her hand—each blow left a red mark, and Alan’s sobs turned to desperate, hiccuping wails. Delia alternated cheeks, making sure the punishment was thorough. She paused only to remind Alan, “This is for your language. Next time, it will be worse.”
Alan’s feelings were a storm of pain, shame, and helplessness. He felt exposed and powerless, his dignity stripped away in front of his stepsisters and me. The sting of the slipper was matched only by the humiliation of being punished so publicly. He pleaded, “I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!” but Delia continued until she was satisfied he’d learned his lesson.
When it was finally over, Delia let Alan up. His face was streaked with tears, and he clutched his swimming trunks, too embarrassed to pull them up right away. Vivienne smirked, clearly pleased with the outcome, and said, “Thank you—I don’t like being spoken to like that by naughty little boys.” Delia nodded, then ordered Alan to apologize to her daughter. When Alan hesitated, she delivered two more sharp slaps to his already sore bottom and barked, “Now!”
Alan, still sobbing, managed a choked apology to Vivienne before fleeing to his room. I followed, along with Maureen, who shot her mother a look of quiet disapproval.
In Alan’s room, he collapsed on his bed, burying his face in the pillow. Maureen sat beside him, gently pulling him onto her lap and rocking him like a much younger child. She stroked his hair and whispered soothing words, telling him he was brave and that anyone would have cried after such a sound spanking. Alan clung to her, grateful for the comfort, his sobs slowly subsiding as the pain faded to a dull ache.
The aftermath lingered long after the spanking was over. Alan was quieter for the rest of the evening, his spirit dampened. But Maureen’s kindness helped him recover, and by bedtime, he managed a small, grateful smile. That day, Alan learned just how serious Delia was about her rules—and how much a single word could cost him. (pause) But this was only the beginning. Not long after, Alan’s father and Delia got married, making Delia his official stepmother. With that, her authority in the house became absolute—and, as Alan would soon discover, even worse was yet to come.
