I remember many spankings while I was growing up. It was always my mother who carried them out. I had to bend over, and the slipper would whack down across my bottom. (short pause) But the spanking I remember the most happened when my friend Dennis was sleeping over at my house. His mother always told my parents not to hesitate to give him a sore bottom if he got out of hand. And that’s exactly what happened this night.
We were both quite restless when we went to bed. I always slept on the floor of my room when Dennis came over, and he had my bed. The night was quiet at first, but then, out of nowhere, a pillow soared through the air and smacked me right in the face. I retaliated, and suddenly we were in the middle of a wild, giggling pillow fight. Feathers burst from the seams, swirling around us like a snowstorm as we ducked and swung, laughter echoing off the walls. Pillows thudded, bedsheets tangled, and the room became a blur of flying feathers and shrieks of delight. By the time I grabbed hold of Dennis, the air was thick with white fluff, covering the bed and carpeting the floor, our faces flushed with excitement and mischief.
Suddenly, the door burst open and my mother strode in. Her face was thunderous—eyebrows drawn together in a deep, furious line, lips pressed into a thin, trembling slash. Her eyes blazed with anger, scanning the chaos of feathers and tangled sheets. She stood tall and rigid in the doorway, shoulders squared, fists clenched tightly at her sides. The room seemed to shrink around her, the air thick with tension. Her voice, when it came, was low and sharp, each word slicing through the laughter that had just filled the room. “I can’t trust you at all, can I?” she said, her tone icy and trembling with barely contained fury. The weight of her anger pressed down on us, making us feel small and helpless. We froze—just the presence of my mother had us silent and scared. (pause) “I’ll be back.”
As the door closed behind her, dread settled over me like a heavy blanket. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat, each beat echoing in my ears. My palms grew slick with sweat, and I wiped them nervously on my pajama pants, but it didn’t help. My muscles tensed, shoulders hunched and jaw clenched, as I waited for the inevitable. Every second stretched out, the silence thick and suffocating. I could almost hear the faint creak of the wardrobe door as my mother retrieved the large rubber-soled slipper she always kept hidden away for moments like this. The anticipation was almost worse than the spanking itself—my stomach twisted into knots, and my breath came in shallow, shaky bursts. I stared at the floor, dreading the sound of her footsteps returning, knowing exactly what was coming next.
I was first. I had to bend over—my bottom felt so exposed and defenceless. Whack! The first stroke landed on my right cheek. Whack! Then on the left, and so on. I got three strokes on each cheek and every stroke increased the sting in my posterior. By the last stroke it was unbearable—I was crying like a baby.
Dennis had the same done to him. The first stroke was on his right cheek, just like me, and I saw the red imprint the slipper left on it. Mother smacked each cheek a total of three times. I was so surprised, because he didn’t once cry out.
She had finished and there we both were, clutching our sore backsides. “Now clean up this mess and get some sleep,” Mother ordered.
We did as we were told, and while I cleaned up, I asked Dennis how he could keep so quiet while mother slippered him. “Oh, I’ve had worse than that,” he said. “My mother takes the cane to me and that’s worse.” I couldn’t help feeling lucky that my mother only used the slipper.
