My first interest in smacked bottom started some years ago. My family is fairly large, with about fifteen years between the oldest and youngest, and we all lived very close—at the time, both of us lived with our parents, who all lived on the same street.

We had a very open-door policy, and the family used to go in and out of each other’s houses via the back doors.

On this day, I entered my aunt’s house as usual, but before I could call out, I heard my aunt’s voice raised in anger from the living room.

Always one to avoid a scene, I was about to sneak back out when something I heard grabbed my attention.

My aunt’s voice was sharp, trembling with fury. Her words came out clipped and forceful, each syllable heavy with disappointment and frustration. “That was unforgivable, young lady. You must be punished. For skipping school, you are going to get a jolly good smacked bottom. And I’m going to give it to you now,” she declared, her tone brooking no argument. Her body was rigid, shoulders squared, and her eyes flashed with a mix of anger and hurt as she glared at Sarah.

“Please, no mother!” Sarah cried out, but my aunt’s jaw was set, her lips pressed into a thin, determined line. She barely blinked, her whole posture radiating a fierce, unyielding resolve.

I paused, and to this day, I don’t know why I headed instead towards the hall. From there, I could see into the lounge through the half-open door. Sarah was standing in the lounge, her head hung down, while my aunt was scolding her. My aunt’s hands were clenched at her sides, her face flushed with emotion, and her voice rose and fell in waves—sometimes icy and controlled, sometimes breaking with exasperation.

Sarah was slim, almost elfin, and about five foot two. She had long dark hair that reached halfway down her back. She was dressed for school—a white blouse, blue V-neck jumper, blue pleated skirt, and white ankle socks.

Suddenly, my aunt grabbed Sarah with a swift, almost mechanical motion, her grip firm and unyielding. She bent her over so her backside was facing me directly. The tension in the room was electric—my aunt’s face was set in a mask of stern authority, her eyes narrowed, her breathing quick and shallow. This moment is engraved forever on my memory. Sarah looked so slight and helpless.

My aunt raised her hand, her fingers splayed and trembling with pent-up emotion, and brought it down on Sarah’s bottom with a loud, echoing smack. The sound was sharp, almost shocking, and Sarah let out a small whimper. My aunt’s face was flushed, her brows drawn together in a fierce scowl, and her lips pressed tight as she delivered the punishment. I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t move if my life depended on it. This was the moment I became interested in this type of discipline.

Smack, smack, smack. Three good hard smacks landed on Sarah’s bottom, each one delivered with unwavering force. My aunt’s hand was steady, her grip on Sarah’s back unbreakable. Her jaw was clenched, and her eyes never left Sarah, burning with a mixture of anger and determination. Sarah was wriggling, but my aunt’s hand held her bent over, not allowing her to escape. She tried to turn her bottom away, but my aunt’s blow landed cleanly every time.

By number five, Sarah was crying—I could hear her gulping sobs over the slaps. She screamed out, “Noooo. Pl..pl..pleeeaase stop, mother.” My aunt’s face softened only for a moment, but her anger quickly returned, her voice rising again, sharp and commanding.