On this particular day, Catherine and her friends were stretched out on towels, sunglasses perched on their noses, chatting and giggling in the dappled sunlight. Jeremy and I, desperate to impress, launched ourselves off the diving board, tossing a battered rubber ball back and forth, each leap more dramatic than the last. We whooped and splashed, hoping for a glance or a laugh from the girls, but they barely looked up, their indifference only fueling our antics.
The turning point came when I missed one of Jeremy’s wild throws. The ball bounced across the hot patio and landed right at Catherine’s feet. With a sly grin, she snatched it up, holding it just out of reach. “If you want it, you’ll have to come and get it!” she teased, her friends giggling behind her. Suddenly, the game shifted—now it was keep-away, and the girls were surprisingly agile, darting around the pool, shrieking with laughter as Jeremy and I tried, and failed, to reclaim our prize. The air was electric with excitement, the boundaries between us blurring in the shared chaos of the moment.
Then, in a split second, everything changed. I lunged for the ball, my heart pounding, and my arm accidentally struck Catherine in the throat. The laughter stopped instantly. Catherine’s face twisted in pain as she clutched her neck, gasping for air. The world seemed to freeze. I stood there, paralyzed by guilt and fear, as she made desperate, wheezing sounds. My apology caught in my throat, useless and small. The other girls stared, wide-eyed, their earlier amusement replaced by alarm.
One of Catherine’s friends bolted into the house, her footsteps pounding on the flagstones. Moments later, Jeremy and Catherine’s mother burst onto the scene, her face a mask of worry and anger. She took one look at her daughter, then at me, and her voice rang out, sharp and commanding: “How many times do I have to tell you kids? No rough-housing!” I tried to stammer an apology, my cheeks burning, but she cut me off with a glare that could have melted stone. “I’m going to make sure you’re sorry,” she declared, her words echoing in my ears.
Before I could process what was happening, she bent down and slipped off her sand shoe—a faded, rubber-soled slipper, the kind every mum seemed to have by the back door. The sight of it in her hand made my stomach drop. She sat on the grass, pulled me over her lap, and with a practiced motion, raised the sand shoe high. The world shrank to the anticipation of that first smack. The slipper was heavier than it looked, the sole cool and slightly gritty against my skin. When it landed, it made a sharp, unmistakable crack—louder than I’d ever imagined—echoing across the yard and making the girls flinch. The sting was immediate and biting, a hot, spreading pain that seemed to bloom with each swat. The texture of the sand shoe—worn canvas, rough at the edges, and the solid, unyielding rubber—pressed into me with every blow, leaving a tingling, prickling sensation that lingered long after the next smack fell. I could feel the weight of her arm behind each swing, the rhythm relentless, the embarrassment mounting with every slap. My yelps grew louder, my legs kicking helplessly, but there was no escape from the humiliation of being spanked in front of everyone. The girls stared, mouths open, a mix of shock and awkward fascination on their faces. Jeremy looked away, his cheeks burning with secondhand shame. The sound of the slipper—crack, crack, crack—seemed to fill the whole world, drowning out the birds, the pool, everything but my own mortification. Each smack was a reminder of my mistake, but also of my utter helplessness, my pride dissolving with every blow. I could feel tears prickling at my eyes, not just from the pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming embarrassment of it all.
The spanking felt endless, though it probably lasted less than a minute. Each second stretched out, my embarrassment growing with every blow. Finally, Catherine, her voice hoarse but steady, pleaded with her mother to stop, insisting through gasps that it was an accident. Her intervention was my salvation. Released from the maternal grip, I scrambled to my feet, snatched up my towel, and fled the yard, my face burning with shame. I couldn’t bring myself to look at anyone—not Jeremy, not Catherine, not even the ground beneath my feet—as I hurried home, the sting of the spanking lingering long after the pain had faded, a memory I would never quite shake.
