(gap: 2s) In the earliest days of my boyhood, when the afternoon sun would slant through the parlour window and the mingled scents of beeswax and baking drifted through the air, I found myself possessed of a most singular curiosity. It was not the sort of thing one could easily confide in a schoolfellow, nor even in a kindly aunt. No, it was a secret longing, a fascination with the notion of being properly disciplined by a lady of firm yet kindly disposition, the sort who believed in the salutary effects of a well-timed reprimand.
(short pause) I cannot say with certainty whence this idea originated. My own parents, though loving and just, were not given to excessive punishment. On the rare occasions when I transgressed beyond the bounds of acceptability, my father would deliver a swift, perfunctory slap, more for the sake of form than for any real correction. There was no grand ceremony, no ritual to the act. Yet, as I grew older and the world of childhood gave way to the more complex landscape of adolescence, this curiosity did not fade. Rather, it deepened, taking on the quality of a secret adventure, a story I told myself in the quiet moments before sleep.
(pause) At last, emboldened by the impetuousness of youth, I began to broach the subject—ever so delicately—with certain older ladies of my acquaintance. I would drop a hint here, a casual remark there, always careful not to betray the true depth of my interest. My heart would thump in my chest as I awaited a reaction, but I never quite dared to ask outright. The prospect was both thrilling and daunting.
(short pause) It was in this manner that I came to know Miss Brenda. She was a colleague at work, brisk and efficient, with a twinkle in her eye that suggested she had seen much of life and was not easily surprised. Our friendship blossomed over cups of tea and shared confidences, and soon I found myself calling at her house on the occasional evening, ostensibly for a chat, but in truth drawn by something deeper.
(pause) What truly captivated me about Miss Brenda was her forthright attitude towards discipline. I recall one afternoon, as the rain pattered against the windowpanes, she made an offhand remark about some local boys who had run afoul of the constabulary. “If they were mine,” she declared, her eyes flashing, “they would not be sitting comfortably for a week, I assure you!” The words sent a shiver down my spine, and I resolved then and there to pursue the matter further.
(short pause) Seizing my opportunity, I told Miss Brenda—somewhat disingenuously—that I had been regularly chastised as a child. She nodded approvingly, her lips curving into a smile. “Quite right,” she said. “Your parents did the proper thing by you, young man.” Her approval was like a benediction, and I felt a curious mixture of pride and anticipation.
(pause) That conversation marked a turning point. I became a frequent visitor at Miss Brenda’s house, always hoping for another glimpse of that stern, maternal side of her character. The anticipation was delicious, and I would replay our conversations in my mind, searching for hidden meanings and possibilities.
(short pause) One evening, as the fire crackled in the grate and the shadows lengthened on the walls, I summoned my courage and steered the conversation once more towards the subject of discipline. My heart hammered as I asked, “Did you have to discipline your own children, Miss Brenda?”
(pause) Miss Brenda regarded me with a steady gaze, her expression unreadable. “Indeed,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact. “They grew out of it by their mid-teens, of course. Not only did they dislike the discomfort, but the prospect of their mother seeing their bare posteriors at that age was a powerful deterrent, I assure you!” She chuckled softly, and I felt my cheeks grow warm.
(short pause) “What did they receive?” I ventured, my voice barely above a whisper. Miss Brenda’s eyes twinkled. “I kept a belt for them,” she said simply.
(pause) I hesitated, choosing my next words with care, as though I were tiptoeing along a garden wall. “So, if I had been your boy, and you had punished me, I suppose I would remember it for a long time—would I not?” Miss Brenda’s eyes narrowed in amusement, and she laughed. “Forever!” she declared.
(short pause) There followed a silence, heavy with possibility. I felt as though I stood on the edge of a great adventure, my heart fluttering like a caged bird. Then, in a voice softer than before, Miss Brenda asked, “Would you care to try?” The question hung in the air, and I felt my face flush crimson. I nodded, scarcely trusting myself to speak.
(pause) Miss Brenda said nothing more, but crossed the room to a chest of drawers. With a deliberate air, she withdrew a belt—not the sort one wears with trousers, but a sturdy, purpose-made implement of light tan leather, thick and unyielding, just over a foot in length. My breath caught in my throat as I realised the seriousness of what was about to occur.
(short pause) With a gentle but firm hand, Miss Brenda led me to the side of her sofa. “Bend over the arm,” she instructed, her voice calm and authoritative. I obeyed, my mind whirling with a mixture of dread and excitement. The fabric of the sofa was cool beneath my hands, and I could hear the faint ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
(pause) The moment seemed to stretch, as if the very air in the room had thickened. I felt the leather belt being measured across my seat, its weight a silent promise. Then, without further warning, Miss Brenda brought it down sharply. The first stroke landed with a crack that seemed to echo through the room, and a searing sting blossomed across my skin. It was not at all like the perfunctory slaps of childhood; this was a deliberate, measured act, each stroke delivered with a precision that spoke of experience and resolve. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the sofa, and I bit my lip, determined not to utter a sound. Yet, with each successive stroke, the sensation intensified—a curious blend of pain and exhilaration, as though I were being tested and, in some strange way, found worthy. Miss Brenda delivered a dozen strokes, each one unhurried, her presence behind me unwavering and composed. The room seemed to shrink to the narrow world of the sofa, the belt, and the steady rhythm of discipline. My eyes prickled with unshed tears, but I held fast, pride and embarrassment warring within me. When at last the final stroke fell, I felt a curious sense of accomplishment, as though I had crossed some invisible threshold.
(short pause) “You may stand up now,” she said at last, her tone gentle, almost maternal. I straightened, my face burning with embarrassment and something else—an odd sense of accomplishment, as though I had passed some secret test. The room seemed brighter, the air clearer, and I was acutely aware of the warmth lingering where the belt had done its work.
(pause) The conversation that followed was awkward, both of us skirting around the subject of what had just transpired. I worried that I had overstepped, that I had jeopardised our friendship. But as I prepared to leave, Miss Brenda gave me a playful swat and said, “If you ever require that little bottom chastised again, you come and see Mother, do you understand?” I blushed furiously, but managed a shy “thank you.”
(short pause) For several weeks, we maintained a careful distance, as though both of us were unsure how to proceed. Work became tinged with a new awkwardness, but beneath it all, my longing for Miss Brenda’s discipline only grew stronger. At last, unable to resist, I called upon her again one bright Sunday morning.
(pause) This time, Miss Brenda wasted no words. “You are here for what I think you are here for?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. I nodded, my heart pounding. “Very well—come along, young man.”
(short pause) She retrieved the punishment strap from its drawer, but this time, she linked her arm through mine and led me upstairs to her bedroom. The room was neat and sunlit, with a small chair standing in one corner. Miss Brenda drew it to the centre of the room, her movements deliberate and assured.
(pause) “This is going to be most unpleasant,” she said quietly. “Bend over, now.” I obeyed, my nerves jangling. The first stroke landed with a force that took my breath away, and I realised at once that Miss Brenda was not holding back. The pain was sharp, immediate, and utterly inescapable, radiating outward in a way that made me gasp. My resolve, so carefully marshalled, began to crumble after only a few strokes. I found myself pleading for mercy, my voice trembling with emotion, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. There was a peculiar dignity in Miss Brenda’s manner, a sense that this was not mere punishment, but a lesson—one that must be learned, however unwilling the pupil.
(short pause) Miss Brenda, however, was unmoved. She continued the punishment with unwavering determination, the strap rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Each stroke seemed to drive home not only the lesson, but a strange, cathartic release. At last, when my bottom was numb and my eyes brimming with tears, she set the strap aside and gathered me into her arms. I wept unashamedly, comforted by her gentle embrace and the soft murmur of her voice as she soothed me, as though I were once again a small boy in need of reassurance after a tumble or a fright. In that moment, the pain faded, replaced by a profound sense of safety and belonging.
(pause) Not long after, a change in Miss Brenda’s family circumstances required her to move to the other side of the country. I often think of her, wondering if she still dispenses her unique brand of discipline to wayward young men. One thing is certain: in my memory, Miss Brenda remains undefeated—a true force of nature, and a legend in her own right.
