My mother, determined to provide for us, had recently started working late shifts at a local factory. The house always felt a little emptier on those nights, the air tinged with the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the hallway. My father, whose job often took him far from home, was away more often than not, leaving me in the care of my mother’s friend, June. June was a woman who seemed to have been carved out of practicality itself—her frame was broad, her hands strong, and her face, though plain, was always set in a look of quiet resolve. She wore loose cardigans that hung from her shoulders like a protective shield, plain skirts that brushed her sensible shoes, and her hair was always pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. There was nothing flashy about her, nothing that drew the eye, and yet, in her own way, she commanded a room.
I remember the day my mother spoke to June about looking after me. The kitchen was filled with the clatter of teacups and the low hum of their voices. My mother, with a worried glance in my direction, told June she could discipline me if I misbehaved. “Feel free to give him a smack bottom if he’s naughty,” she said, her voice half-joking, half-serious. My heart thudded in my chest, mortified, as June turned to me with a glint in her eye and replied, “Oh, don’t worry, Joan – I will!” The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous, and I felt a chill run down my spine.
It didn’t take long for June to prove she meant what she said. One evening, my mother was working overtime, and I was to spend the night at June’s house. The spare bedroom had been made up for me, the sheets crisp and smelling faintly of lavender. After school, I’d planned to go straight to June’s, but the lure of the football field was too strong. My friends and I lost ourselves in the game, the grass cool beneath our feet, the sky slowly darkening above us. Laughter echoed across the empty field as we chased the ball, time slipping away unnoticed. Suddenly, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the world was cast in shadow. Panic set in as I realized how late it had become. We scattered, each boy running for home, hearts pounding with the thrill and fear of being late.
As I hurried down the quiet street, the familiar houses seemed to loom larger in the dusk. My breath came in short, nervous bursts. When I finally turned the corner, I saw June’s house bathed in the yellow glow of the porch light. She stood by the front door, her silhouette framed against the light, arms folded tightly across her chest. The moment she spotted me, she strode out, her footsteps sharp and purposeful on the path. She seized my hand, her grip firm and unyielding, and demanded to know where I had been. My voice trembled as I told her the truth, my apology tumbling out in a rush, but her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line.
June’s face, usually so unreadable, was now flushed with anger. The lines around her mouth deepened, and her eyes flashed with a mixture of worry and frustration. She ushered me inside, her hand never leaving my shoulder, and scolded me for making her worry. Her words were stern, each one landing with the weight of disappointment. I felt small and guilty, the warmth of the house doing little to ease the cold knot of dread in my stomach.
“Upstairs. Pyjamas. Bed. Now,” she ordered, her voice brooking no argument. As I trudged up the stairs, I could feel her gaze burning into my back. At the top, I paused, glancing over my shoulder. June stood at the bottom, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “I’ll be upstairs in a minute to deal with you,” she called after me, her tone making it clear that this was not an idle threat.
In the small, unfamiliar bedroom, I changed into my pyjamas, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the buttons. June’s earlier words to my mother echoed in my mind, each repetition making my heart beat faster: “Oh, don’t worry, Joan – I will!” The room felt colder now, the shadows stretching across the walls as I slipped beneath the covers, pulling the blanket up to my chin. I listened intently, every creak and groan of the old house magnified in the silence.
Suddenly, I heard a noise from downstairs—a chair scraping across the floor, the sound sharp and deliberate. My breath caught in my throat. June’s footsteps ascended the stairs, slow and steady, each one a drumbeat of inevitability. When she entered the room, she carried a heavy dining chair, which she placed by the window with a sense of ceremony. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw not just anger, but a flicker of concern. She motioned for me to get out of bed, her voice calm but firm. Then, with a practiced motion, she reached for the open-toed, maroon slip-on slipper with a sturdy rubber sole resting on the side table. The slipper looked ancient, its maroon top faded, the open toe revealing the worn lining, and the thick, sturdy rubber sole smoothed from years of use. It seemed to radiate authority, as if it had a history of its own. June sat down, slipper in hand, and patted her lap, her eyes never leaving mine.
(short pause) “You had me worried sick!” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “You have been a very naughty boy, and you’re going to get a good smack bottom with my slipper!” The words sent a jolt of fear through me, but there was something else in her tone—a strange mixture of anger, relief, and even affection. (pause) She pulled me gently but firmly over her lap, positioning me with a care that was almost tender. My face pressed into the blanket, the scent of lavender and starch filling my nose, while my heart hammered in my chest. I could feel the rough weave of her skirt beneath my cheek, the warmth of her body, the tension in her muscles as she adjusted my position. (pause: 0.3s) The slipper hovered for a moment, and in that pause, time seemed to stretch. I could hear June’s breathing, steady but heavy, and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. (pause) Then, the spanking began.
The first smack of the open-toed, maroon slip-on slipper with its sturdy rubber sole was a shock—a sharp, echoing sound that seemed to fill the room, followed by a sting that was deeper and more intense than any hand. The rubber sole bit into my skin, sending a jolt of heat radiating outward. I gasped, my legs instinctively kicking, toes curling against the cool air. June’s grip on my waist tightened, anchoring me in place. Each smack landed with precision, the rhythm unyielding—smack, pause, smack, pause—each one building on the last, the pain blossoming into a fiery ache that spread across my bottom and the tops of my thighs. (pause: 0.3s) The slipper’s impact made me cry out, my voice muffled against the blanket, but June’s movements were measured, never rushed, never cruel. (pause) I could feel the heat rising, the sting deepening, tears pricking at my eyes as embarrassment and pain mingled in a confusing swirl. The slipper’s sole left a tingling trail, each smack a reminder of my mistake, but also of June’s unwavering presence. (pause) The room seemed to shrink around us, the world narrowing to the sound of the slipper, the warmth of her hand, and the steady, relentless rhythm of discipline. (pause) I lost track of time, lost in the sensation, the humiliation, the strange comfort of boundaries being set and enforced. (pause: 0.3s) My body tensed and relaxed with each smack, my breath coming in ragged bursts, until finally, the rhythm slowed, the smacks growing softer, the anger in June’s face replaced by something gentler.
By the time June finished, my bottom and the tops of my thighs were ablaze with a tingling heat that seemed to sink beneath the skin. The pain was real, but it was different from a hand—deeper, more lasting, and oddly memorable. My skin throbbed, each heartbeat sending a fresh wave of heat through the tender flesh. I could feel the outline of the slipper’s sole, a ghostly imprint that would linger long after the sting faded. As the last smack echoed in the quiet room, I stopped struggling, my body going limp with exhaustion and relief. In that moment, I felt a strange sense of safety, as if the boundaries June had set were a kind of protection. The warmth of the open-toed, maroon slip-on slipper with its sturdy rubber sole, the firmness of her hold, and the certainty of her discipline all combined to create a feeling I couldn’t quite name—something like comfort, wrapped in the sting of consequence. (pause) I lay draped across her lap, breathing hard, tears streaking my cheeks, but beneath the pain was a deep, unexpected gratitude. June’s discipline was not just punishment—it was a reassurance that someone cared enough to set limits, to worry, to act.
I think June must have sensed the shift as well. Her smacks grew softer, almost playful, the anger in her face replaced by a gentle smile. “If you’re a good boy for me from now on, I won’t tell your mother I’ve had to give you a slippering, all right?” she said, her voice warm and teasing. I nodded, tears still glistening in my eyes, and promised to behave. Gratitude and relief flooded through me, and I managed a shaky “Thank you, June. I’m sorry.”
June kept me across her lap for a while longer, the open-toed, maroon slip-on slipper with its sturdy rubber sole resting lightly against my pyjama-clad bottom. She tapped me gently, almost absentmindedly, as she asked about my day at school, her tone soft and curious. The conversation drifted from football to lessons, from friends to dreams, and in that quiet, lamplit room, the sting of the slipper faded, replaced by a sense of belonging. June’s discipline, though strict, was never cruel. In her own way, she cared for me, and as I drifted off to sleep that night, I felt safe, wrapped in the memory of her steady hands and the warmth of her maroon, open-toed slipper with its sturdy rubber sole.
