George and I were inseparable – we played basketball in the driveway, tossed a ball in the backyard, and rode our bikes until the tires wore out.
George was tall and lanky, with a mop of unruly brown hair that always seemed to fall into his eyes. His face was dotted with freckles, and he had a mischievous grin that hinted at the next adventure or prank he was planning. His deep blue eyes sparkled with curiosity and a hint of defiance.
We often found ourselves in trouble for typical childhood mischief. Usually, our parents would ground us for a few days. In my case, depending on the offense, I might also find myself over my mother’s knee for a spanking.
George claimed he never got spanked. But one late summer day, I discovered he was lying.
It happened when I was staying at George’s house for a few days while my parents went on a second honeymoon. One evening, during dinner, his mother informed us we had to accompany her to his oldest sister’s softball game. We begged to stay home, but she insisted we go. At the ballpark, we acted like complete brats, running around, disturbing people, and screaming at the top of our lungs.
Our real trouble began when we took too long at the snack bar. Although we did get ice cream, we also went to the pond at the park.
We had been warned not to go there, but George and I wanted to skip rocks. His mother, worried, eventually found us. Although she remained calm, her silence spoke volumes about her anger.
George’s mother, a tall woman with a stern yet kind face, exuded authority. Her eyes, usually warm and inviting, now burned with quiet fury. She commanded respect without raising her voice, and her presence alone made us feel the weight of our misdeeds.
After the game, she informed us in the car that we would be spanked when we got home. I glared at George.
On the drive home, George’s mother made small talk with his teenage sister, not mentioning the spankings again. However, she didn’t change her mind. When we arrived home, she directed us to the den. I was surprised – I thought she would at least spank us in George’s bedroom, but no such luck.
George’s mother told me that since I was a guest in her house and she was responsible for me, I would be spanked just like her son.
I was very embarrassed. George’s sister was in the den and turned on the television. Although she wasn’t staring at us, she was allowed to stay in the room. George later told me she had witnessed many of his spankings, as they were always given in the den.
His mother then pulled out a chair from the living room desk. George must have known the routine by heart, as he walked straight over to her without being told.
In one motion, she pulled him over her lap. After delivering eight to ten firm hand smacks on his bottom, she stopped.
George’s face turned red, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. His mother’s hand came down with a firm, practiced rhythm, each smack echoing in the room. George’s body tensed with each impact, but he remained stoic, only letting out a small whimper towards the end.
Then it was my turn. I was embarrassed about being in front of his mother, but she told me: “I’ve seen lots of bottoms before” – which was probably true, since she used to work in a children’s hospital as a nurse. I gave in with little struggle and also got my backside tanned.
As I was pulled over her lap, I felt a rush of heat to my face. The first smack was a shock, and I couldn’t help but yelp. Each subsequent smack seemed harder than the last, and I squirmed, trying to escape the relentless hand. Tears welled up in my eyes, and by the time she was done, I was openly sobbing.
After the spankings, we were told to go bathe and then come back and say goodnight. What a shock it was when we returned downstairs – George’s mother greeted us each with a hug and an ice cream soda!
