(gap: 1s) The living room at my Aunt Gloria’s always felt like a world of its own—sunlight filtering through heavy curtains, the air thick with the scent of toast and old furniture, and the muffled clatter of breakfast being made in the kitchen. I was curled up on the pull-out bed, cocooned in a nest of blankets, savoring the forbidden comfort that I knew I shouldn’t have. The rules were clear: the living room was not for sleeping. Aunt Gloria had a particular horror of anyone using the pull-out sofa as a bed—she said it was unhygienic, that it brought in outside dirt and ruined the “good room.” But the bed in there was softer, and I always felt a little safer, tucked away from the world.
(short pause) My older sister, who always seemed so much more grown-up, had her own room. Next door, my cousin Linda lived with her mother. Linda was the same age as my sister, but she was nothing like her—she was bossy to the point of being unbearable, always wanting to be in charge, and, just like her mother, constantly giving advice—usually the kind nobody wanted. She wasn’t the brightest, either, and seemed to rely on her mother for everything, a real mummy’s girl. But what she lacked in smarts, she made up for in her relentless need to tell everyone else what to do. That morning, the apartment was alive with the sounds of breakfast and the distant hum of the city outside. The front door opened into the kitchen, then came the living room—my secret haven—and finally, the two bedrooms at the back.
(pause) Aunt Gloria was the undisputed queen of the council estate, strutting about her flat as if she owned not just her own four walls, but the entire block. She had ideas and opinions that soared far above her station, always talking as if she was destined for something grander than the rest of us. She ruled her home with a slipper in one hand and a sharp tongue in the other, and she seemed to have a particular disdain for the male race—men, in her eyes, were a necessary nuisance at best.
(pause) But when it came to discipline, Aunt Gloria had a very specific philosophy. She was a fierce advocate for smacking as a form of punishment, but her support for this method was strictly reserved for the boys in the family. In her mind, girls were far too delicate and naturally well-behaved to ever warrant such sanctions. The slipper, her chosen tool of discipline, was wielded only against the male members of the household. She believed that boys needed to be kept in line, while girls, in her words, “knew better” and didn’t require such measures.
(pause) Aunt Gloria was nothing if not creative in her approach to discipline. The infamous slipper was her favorite, of course—an old, worn thing with a cracked sole and faded floral print, always within arm’s reach. But she had a whole arsenal at her disposal, depending on the severity of the crime and her mood that day. Sometimes, if the slipper wasn’t handy, she’d reach for the wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer, its handle smooth from years of use, or, on rare occasions, the heavy hairbrush that sat on her dressing table. Each implement had its own reputation: the slipper for everyday infractions, the wooden spoon for more serious mischief, and the hairbrush—well, that was reserved for the gravest offenses, the kind that made her mutter under her breath as she fetched it.
(pause) She was equally particular about how the punishment was delivered. Aunt Gloria believed in doing things properly, and that meant the right position for the right tool. The slipper was usually administered with the recipient bent over her lap, the classic “over the knee” position, which she claimed was the only way to ensure the lesson really sank in. If she was in a hurry, or if the offense had happened in the kitchen, she’d have you bend over a chair, hands gripping the seat, while she delivered a few sharp smacks with the wooden spoon. The hairbrush, though, was always reserved for the privacy of the bedroom, where you’d be made to stand up straight, hands at your sides, while she delivered her verdict with a stern lecture and a few well-placed whacks. She had a whole ritual about it—straightening your clothes, making sure you were standing just so, and never letting you forget exactly why you were being punished.
(pause) So, as the boy who’d been lumbered on her for the weekend, I always felt like an unwanted guest, a burden she’d rather not have to deal with—and the only one likely to feel the sting of her slipper, or worse. She never missed a chance to remind me, in her own way, that I was not her favorite person in the house.
(pause) Aunt Gloria was bustling around, frying eggs and humming to herself, when Linda arrived, her footsteps quick and purposeful, as if she was on some important mission. Aunt Gloria, not looking up from the stove, told Linda to go wake my sister. Linda, eager to show she was in charge, nodded with a seriousness that didn’t quite match her usual cluelessness. I heard the living room door creak open and felt a chill run through me. Linda’s eyes landed on me instantly, and I could almost see her trying to figure out how to make the most of the situation. She loved moments like this—catching me red-handed, knowing she could run straight to her mum and be the hero.
(pause) Instead of waking my sister, Linda tiptoed over, yanked the sheet over my head, and then darted back out, her voice ringing out as she called for my aunt. She sounded so proud of herself, like she’d just solved some great mystery. My heart pounded in my chest. I knew what was coming, and I could already feel the sting of embarrassment burning in my cheeks. Aunt Gloria stormed in, her face set in that look that meant business, and Linda trailed behind, a smug little smile on her lips, already preparing to offer her opinion on what should happen next.
(pause) The room seemed to shrink as Aunt Gloria entered, her presence filling every corner. The sunlight, once warm and gentle, now felt harsh and unforgiving, spotlighting my guilt. She stood over me, slipper already in hand—a battered old thing with a faded floral print, the sole cracked and soft from years of use. Her eyes were steely, her lips pressed into a thin, determined line. Without a word, she sat on the edge of the sofa and, with a firm grip, pulled me across her lap. The world tilted; the carpet swam before my eyes. I could feel the rough fabric of her skirt against my cheek, the scent of her perfume—sharp and powdery—filling my nose.
(short pause) “You know the rules,” she said, her voice low and unwavering. “This is not your bedroom. This is my good room, and I will not have it ruined.” She adjusted my position, making sure I was squarely over her knees, my legs dangling helplessly. I could hear Linda’s breathless anticipation behind us, and the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen, but all my focus narrowed to the slipper in Aunt Gloria’s hand.
(pause) As Aunt Gloria raised the slipper, Linda’s eyes widened with glee. She stood just behind her mother, her arms folded tightly across her chest, a grin spreading across her face. She watched every movement with a kind of hungry fascination, her gaze darting from the slipper to my face, eager to witness every flinch and every wince. Each smack seemed to delight her more, her lips curling into a satisfied smirk as the sound echoed through the room. She didn’t even try to hide her enjoyment—her whole posture radiated triumph, as if she’d orchestrated the entire scene just for her own amusement. (short pause) But there was something else in Linda’s eyes, a glint of longing that flickered just beneath the surface. As she watched her mother’s arm rise and fall, she seemed to imagine herself in that position of authority, wielding the slipper, delivering the lesson. Deep down, Linda wished it was her hand meting out the discipline, her voice delivering the lecture, her rules being enforced. The power, the control—it was something she craved, even if she’d never admit it out loud. (pause) The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing crack, the sting immediate and electric. I gasped, my body tensing, but Aunt Gloria was relentless. The second and third smacks followed in quick succession, each one burning hotter than the last. By the fourth, my eyes were watering, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. Five, six, seven—each one delivered with the same measured force, the same unwavering rhythm. The eighth and final smack seemed to linger, the pain blooming across my skin, radiating up my spine and into my chest. And through it all, Linda’s gaze never wavered, her satisfaction growing with every strike.
(pause) “Let this be a lesson,” Aunt Gloria said, her voice cutting through the haze of pain. “You will not sleep on this sofa again. You will respect my house and my rules.” Her words were as sharp as the slipper, each one landing with its own sting. I could barely breathe, my face burning with humiliation, my body trembling from the shock and the ache. The room felt impossibly bright, every sound amplified—the ticking clock, Linda’s barely-suppressed giggle, the distant sizzle of eggs in the kitchen.
(pause) She released me at last, and I scrambled upright, blinking back tears. My backside throbbed, a deep, pulsing ache that made it hard to stand still. Aunt Gloria’s gaze was still fixed on me, stern and unyielding, as if daring me to protest. Linda, arms crossed and eyes wide, looked both triumphant and a little awed. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the floor and escape the weight of their judgment.
(pause) Aunt Gloria made me stand before her as she delivered a final lecture, her words crisp and deliberate. “You will make the bed properly, and you will not forget this. Next time, it’ll be worse.” I nodded, my voice caught in my throat, and stumbled to the pull-out, hands shaking as I straightened the sheets and folded the mattress back into the couch. Every movement sent a fresh jolt of pain through me, a reminder of the lesson I’d just learned.
(pause) The living room, once my secret sanctuary, now felt like a stage where I was forced to perform my shame. I could hear Linda’s constant, unhelpful advice, and see Aunt Gloria’s stern gaze, and I wished more than anything that I could just disappear.
