Mrs. Pegram, my friend’s mother, reached out to the campsite’s female manager, known to everyone as ‘Aunt Pamela,’ to ask for a paediatrician, fearing I might have appendicitis.
Mrs. Pegram was a gentle and caring woman in her late 30s, always attentive to the needs of her children and their friends. She had a warm smile and a nurturing demeanor that made everyone feel at ease.
Aunt Pamela, a retired district nurse in her 60s, was robust, with a commanding presence and a straightforward manner. Despite her intimidating appearance, she had a kind heart.
Aunt Pamela quickly identified my symptoms as constipation. She took Mrs. Pegram and me to her private bathroom and instructed Mrs. Pegram to get me ready.
The bathroom was immaculately clean, with white tiles and a large clawfoot tub. The walls were adorned with floral wallpaper, and a shelf held neatly arranged towels and toiletries. A faint scent of lavender filled the air, adding to the room’s calming atmosphere.
I was mortified at the thought of being naked in front of two strangers and tried to resist, claiming I felt better. Mrs. Pegram seemed puzzled, but Aunt Pamela took charge. She gave me two firm slaps on my bottom, warning that more would follow if I didn’t cooperate.
The smacks stung sharply, leaving a burning sensation that made me wince. Aunt Pamela then threatened to use her slipper if I continued to resist.
Within minutes, I was in tears. Aunt Pamela handed me a towel to cover myself. While she gathered some items, Mrs. Pegram hugged me, trying to offer comfort.
Once Aunt Pamela had everything she needed, she placed a chair in the center of the room and sat down.
“Alright, young man,” she said, “it’s time to get serious – I need the towel now…” Before I knew it, with Mrs. Pegram’s help, Aunt Pamela had taken the towel from me and placed it on her lap.
Mrs. Pegram guided me over to Aunt Pamela, who positioned me over her lap, announcing that she needed to ‘clean my stomach from the inside.’
Terrified, I tried to escape, but Aunt Pamela held me firmly. After four more sharp smacks on my bottom, I understood who was in control. I received the enema while crying and sobbing.
Being over Aunt Pamela’s knee was a mix of humiliation and helplessness. The cold, hard surface of her lap contrasted with the warmth of her firm grip, making me feel small and powerless.
To soothe and distract me during the procedure, the women sang familiar nursery rhymes like ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ and ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’ Aunt Pamela occasionally added light, rhythmic smacks on my bottom, saying: “If you act like a little child, you get treated like one.”
After the enema, Mrs. Pegram praised me for being brave. Aunt Pamela handed me a jar of preserved plums, with a knowing wink to Mrs. Pegram, saying: “We know what these are good for!”
Although the incident wasn’t a typical spanking, I still recall it with a smile. I’m not sure which was more embarrassing – the enema, the nursery songs, or Aunt Pamela’s smacks!
