When my sister Dotty died, I became guardian of her daughter, Joanne. My own mother had given very strict punishment with a belt, leaving bruises for days, and bad memories of those spankings meant Dotty had never spanked Jo, even mildly. I had no plans to do so either, but things don’t always go according to plan.

That summer, Jo was having her birthday without her mother was very hard for her. The cost of the funeral had drained my resources dry, so there was no vacation for us, just a summer spent in the terrible heat with plenty of time to get on each other’s nerves. I am a teacher, so I generally feel I understand young people, but with Joanne, it was becoming impossible.

We were both sad and angry, and discontent. The fights became bigger and bigger until one exceptionally hot night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed at Jo to go to her room, and expect what I should have had at her age for the same behaviour – a spanking like the ones my mother gave.

I went and found a heavy belt. I was so angry that I felt light-headed – almost disembodied. When I burst open the door to Jo’s room, however, I came back to myself: I was completely unprepared for the sight of her body.

She was standing there, trying to look defiant. I hadn’t laid eyes on a woman’s body other than my own since I couldn’t recall when. She was so womanly – I was shocked. I stood there holding the belt at my side, feeling foolish. She just stared at me until I said: “Are you scared?” She nodded, and tears appeared on her cheeks.

“I am, too,” I told her, and then we both started crying. We hugged and sat on the bed. I held her in my arms while she sobbed. We talked for a long, long time, about how difficult it was for both of us, how angry and disappointed we were with the situation, and with Dotty. Admitting she was mad at her mother for disappearing was a big step for Jo, and I felt that we had done all that was needed to make a new start. After a moment of silence, I was about to tell Jo to put her gown on and go to bed when she pulled away suddenly.

“How do you want me, Aunty?” she asked, staring at her knees. I just looked at her. She explained very lucidly that she felt that if her behaviour had pushed me to want to whip her the way my mother had – and she had heard enough stories to know what that meant – then I ought to do it.

“Are you sure?”” I think so,” seemed the best she could muster at first – but then she added: “Yes. Yes, I am sure.”

I thought about it for a minute. I must explain, my mother’s spankings were not jokes. Each stroke was a terrific blow and would leave welts. Bruises lasted for days afterwards and made it uncomfortable, sometimes even to wear clothes. My decision to go ahead with this spanking was not taken lightly.

However, it occurred to me that if I was going to threaten spankings, I should learn what that meant in practice. Jo was going to be living with me for a long time, and I needed to be honest about what I thought was right and fair and what I was willing to do about it. I told her to stand in the middle of the room and hold her ankles.

I could tell she was scared. Who wouldn’t be scared, standing in what is a very embarrassing position, about to have her first-ever spanking, and knowing it was going to be a hard one? I was scared, too, and it was some time before I found the presence to get up, to approach her.

I asked if she was ready, and she looked up at me and said: “Don’t forget, Aunty – just like Grandma would.” “I won’t forget,” I told her.

My mother usually gave between 6 and 12 slaps with the belt. I had counted every single one, and so I knew that although she had no set number in mind, it was always around that much. I decided to give Jo 512, but didn’t tell her. I had never known how many I was going to get, and having no certain end to look forward to seemed important to the nature of the punishment.

The first few tries were not very successful. Joanne barely flinched, on about the fourth or fifth one, though, I broke the barrier–whichever barrier it was that was keeping me from really letting go, really spanking. The belt whistled, and Joanne jerked violently. She tried hard to stay still and not make noise. She was very brave.

As I kept going, it became easier and easier to spank: although I could see that her pain was increasing, I was aware it wouldn’t break her, and the release I was getting was unparalleled.

When I finally reached 12, I had to force myself to stop. It felt to me as if an extra two or three hits wouldn’t make that much difference. I did stop, though, and helped Jo to stand up.

Suddenly, I was glad I had stopped. Although she had been audibly crying, I was not expecting her face. Her bottom lip was trembling, and she was breathing in that stuttered, shallow way that comes from crying. I saw in that face all I had felt myself as a girl after putting my bottom at the mercy of my mother.

I lay Jo down on her stomach on the bed, and rubbed her back as she cried. I eventually left her to cry herself to sleep.