My grandpa and grandma weren’t really farmers, but they had a small parcel of land at the back of their property with a few animals, which ran into dense woodland, which they harvested for fuel.
I was sent to stay with my grandparents for a few days while my mother and father had an anniversary break. I loved staying with them because they were always so mild and easy going; I could get away with murder compared with my home environment. Or so I thought.
The other really neat thing about staying with grandpa and grandma was helping with feeding the animals, collecting the eggs their chickens left all about the place. I was indulged and very happy for those initial few days.
The one thing which was forbidden was to go into the woods. Grandpa said there were wild animals in there you wouldn’t want to meet and that it would be easy for me to get lost.
However, youngsters – as we know – think they know it all, and I was really curious to explore those woods. On about the third day of my stay, I got my chance. Both my grandparents were busy with indoor jobs, so I slipped out, saying I was going to play in the yard. As soon as I got outside, I went through the back gate which gave out on to the woods and ran in among the trees.
I had a wonderful half an hour pretending I was hunting, following every small sound of creatures moving around the undergrowth. Then I realised I was lost. Really lost. I went in what I thought was the right way for home, but nothing looked familiar. I began to cry.
After about 10 minutes, I heard my grandpa shouting: “Glenn? Are you out there? Glenn!” I called back and eventually, with a huge surge of relief, I saw Grandpa standing in a small clearing, and I rushed into his arms. He was just so delighted to find me, he gathered me up in his strong arms and cuddled me, then took my hand and walked me back to the house.
When we got there, I was astonished to see that my grandma had obviously been crying. She also hugged me, but then stood me away from her and looked me angrily in the eye. “That was an altogether stupid thing to do! Weren’t you told not to go into the woods? Upstairs to your room, right now!”
I scuttled up the steep staircase but before I was halfway up, I could hear my grandparents talking about my recent escapade. My grandpa, ever the mild-mannered gentleman, said: “Maureen, I really think you should leave this to Millie to deal with.” My grandmother shot back: “He needs to learn his lesson now, not in a few days’ time!”
I didn’t wait to hear any more but scrambled into my bedroom. And waited.
Eventually, I heard footsteps coming slowly up the stairs, and the door of my bedroom opened. It was Grandma, and in one hand she held an oval, ebony hairbrush. The hairbrush itself was a fearsome thing—about ten inches long, with a broad, flat back that gleamed a deep, polished black. Its handle was thick and solid, carved from heavy wood, and the bristles were set into a dark, glossy base. The whole thing looked like it weighed a ton in her hand, and the way she gripped it made it seem even more intimidating. The smooth, cold surface caught the light, making it look almost menacing, and I could see a few faint scratches on the back from years of use.
My heart started pounding in my chest, and a cold wave of dread washed over me. My mouth went dry, and my hands began to tremble as I stared at that hairbrush, realizing what was about to happen. The fear and anxiety built up inside me, making my stomach twist into knots. I wanted to run, to hide, but I was frozen in place, unable to look away from that terrifying object in Grandma’s hand. Every second seemed to stretch out, the silence in the room thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of my own shallow breathing. I could feel my cheeks burning with shame and anticipation, and my legs felt weak, as if they might give out beneath me at any moment. Grandma’s eyes were stern, but there was a glimmer of sadness in them, as if she hated what she was about to do, but felt it was necessary. She must have seen the shock register on my face, because she said: “Yes, you are going to be spanked. And spanked well. You could have been seriously hurt out there, and you need to learn to obey Grandpa and me. Stand up, young man!”
I did as I was told, as if this was a bad dream. I was actually very rarely spanked, and then only really got my clothed butt dusted a bit with father’s hand. It hurt a bit, but was more humiliating than painful. I had a feeling this was going to be much worse – and I was right, as it turned out.
Grandma didn’t waste any more words. She knew that I knew I had done wrong. She took my place on the bed and turned me to face her. “Please, Grandma…” I began desperately. “You just be quiet while you can be,” she said ominously.
My heart hammered in my chest as she guided me over her lap. The bedspread’s fabric was rough against my hands as I braced myself, my face burning with embarrassment. I could feel the cool air on my skin as she adjusted my position, making sure I was exactly where she wanted me. The anticipation was almost unbearable—every second felt like an eternity as I waited for the first blow. I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath coming in short, shaky bursts. Then, suddenly, the hairbrush landed with a sharp, echoing smack. The pain was immediate and shocking, a hot sting that seemed to explode across my skin. I gasped, the sound escaping me before I could stop it. The next spank came just as hard, and then another, and another, each one building on the last until my bottom and the backs of my thighs were ablaze with pain. The hairbrush was relentless, its hard, polished surface delivering a deep, throbbing ache that went far beyond anything I’d ever felt before. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I couldn’t hold back the sobs that wracked my body. I cried out, pleading for her to stop, but Grandma was determined. She covered every inch of my behind, her rhythm steady and unyielding, making sure the lesson would not be forgotten. The pain was overwhelming, but so was the humiliation—being so exposed, so helpless, and knowing that I had brought this on myself. My legs kicked involuntarily, and I clutched at the bedspread, desperate for it to be over. The room seemed to close in around me, the only sounds my own crying and the relentless smack of the hairbrush. I lost all sense of time, the punishment stretching on and on, until finally, mercifully, it stopped.
I was finally allowed off, and I stumbled to my feet, wailing, my hands instinctively flying to my burning, throbbing cheeks. The pain was so intense it felt like my skin was on fire, and I could barely stand still. My face was streaked with tears, my nose running, and I was gulping for air between sobs. I no longer cared about my dignity or the fact that Grandma had seen me so vulnerable—I was consumed by the raw, stinging ache that radiated from my backside. I could feel the heat pulsing with every heartbeat, and even the lightest touch sent fresh waves of pain shooting through me. I stood there, trembling, my whole body shaking from the ordeal. The shame and regret were almost as powerful as the physical pain, and I wished more than anything that I could take back what I had done.
Grandma eventually hugged me, her arms gentle and comforting despite what had just happened. “You sit here for a few minutes and think about what you did, then you can come down for some supper,” she said softly. I collapsed onto the bed, but sitting was agony—every movement sent a fresh jolt of pain through my tender skin. I lay on my stomach, sniffling, trying to process everything that had just happened. The spanking had left a deep, lasting impression—not just on my body, but on my mind. I knew I would never forget the fear, the anticipation, the pain, and the lesson that came with it. When I finally went to bed that night, I couldn’t resist sneaking a look at my behind in the dressing room mirror. It was still bright crimson, the marks of the hairbrush clear and vivid, a reminder of the consequences of my actions.
What was even worse was that when my parents came to collect me, Grandma described my paddling in great detail and gave them the hairbrush she had used, with instructions to use it on my bottom from then onwards. And that’s exactly what mother and father did. The memory of that first hairbrush spanking stayed with me for years—every time I saw that ebony brush, I felt a shiver of fear and a pang of regret, a lasting reminder of the day I learned that some lessons are burned in, both body and soul.
