(gap: 2s) Whenever I visited my friend’s house as a child, I was always most impressed by his mother. She was a tall, dignified lady with a kindly smile, and she often wore smart jeans or shorts with a black leather belt, which she left unfastened. The belt seemed almost a part of her, resting loosely about her waist, the silver buckle catching the sunlight. I never quite knew if she left it undone on purpose, but it always intrigued me. Sometimes, I would imagine her removing the belt from her trousers, the leather sliding out with a soft, serious sound, especially if she was about to correct my friend or his elder sister. The anticipation made my heart beat faster—a curious mixture of wonder, nervousness, and something I could not quite understand.
(short pause) I knew that my friend spent every other week with his father, and during those times, the house seemed quieter, as if waiting for something to happen. I began to devise a plan—a way to visit when he was away, to find some reason to be there alone with his mother. I wished to confess to some small mischief, hoping she would notice and perhaps, just perhaps, correct me as she did her own children. The idea filled me with a strange, fluttering excitement, and I practised my excuses in my mind again and again.
(pause) One weekend, I finally summoned the courage. My hands trembled as I rang the bell, the sound echoing in the still hallway. My friend’s mother opened the door, her eyes bright with recognition. She greeted me with a warm smile and, as I stepped inside, gave me a gentle but firm pat on my back. The touch was light, but it sent a thrill through me, and I felt my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment and anticipation.
She looked at me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “John, you do know your friend is not at home this weekend?” she asked, her tone gentle but searching. I nodded, unable to meet her eyes. “So why have you come?” she continued. I stammered out a clumsy excuse about seeing if she needed anything from the shop, but I could feel her gaze following mine—straight to that unfastened belt. She seemed to understand more than I could say.
She led me into the sitting room, where her mother—my friend’s grandmother—sat in a high-backed chair, knitting quietly. The room was filled with the soft ticking of a clock and the faint scent of lavender. The grandmother greeted me with a kind smile, her eyes twinkling with gentle mischief. I felt a wave of shyness wash over me, but my friend’s mother took charge. She sat down on the sofa and drew me onto her lap, holding me as if I were much younger. Her arms were strong and comforting, and I felt both safe and rather exposed in her embrace. She spoke softly, encouraging me to share what was truly on my mind. The words tumbled out in a rush, and before I knew it, I was weeping, confessing that I felt I deserved to be corrected and was deeply ashamed of my feelings. Tears streamed down my face, and I buried my head in her shoulder, unable to look at either lady.
She hushed me gently, stroking my hair with a tenderness that made my heart ache. “You know, John, many grown men also wish to be corrected when they have done wrong. Did you know that?” Her voice was low and soothing, and I shook my head, surprised by her understanding. “All I ask is that you are always honest with me, do you promise?” I nodded, still sniffling. “And if you have been naughty, I want you to come and tell me all about it, and I shall see to it that you are properly disciplined. Do you understand?” Another nod. “It will be quite painful and will last a good while.” Her words were both comforting and rather daunting, and I felt a curious sense of relief, as if a heavy secret had finally been shared.
She glanced over at her mother, who watched us with a knowing, indulgent smile. “Mother, I think this naughty little boy needs some attention just now. We shall not be long.” She stood me up and took my hand, her grip firm but gentle. As she led me upstairs, I caught the grandmother’s eye. She gave me a look that was both understanding and conspiratorial, as if she had seen this all before. My face burned with embarrassment, but there was also a sense of acceptance in her gaze that made me feel less alone.
The hallway upstairs was dim and quiet, the only sound our footsteps on the old wooden floor. My friend’s mother led me into her bedroom, a cosy space filled with soft light and the faint scent of her perfume. I watched, fascinated, as she unfastened the black leather belt from around her waist. The belt was sturdy and well-worn, the leather soft from years of use. The silver buckle caught the light, gleaming with a cold, polished shine. As she slid the belt from the loops of her trousers, it made a quiet, deliberate sound—a sound that seemed to fill the room with anticipation and a little dread. She folded the belt with practised care, her movements calm and deliberate, and placed it on her lap. The air was thick with expectation, and my heart pounded in my chest. She beckoned to me, her eyes kind but serious, and I stepped forward, trembling. She guided me over her lap, her hands gentle but firm, and I felt the world narrow to the warmth of her presence and the weight of what was about to happen.
The room seemed to grow quieter still as I lay across her lap, my face pressed into the soft fabric of her skirt. I could hear her steady breathing above me, and the faint ticking of the clock downstairs. She spoke to me in a calm, measured voice, explaining that this was for my own good, and that she would not be angry with me afterwards. There was a curious mixture of dread and comfort in her words, as if she were both a stern governess and a kindly aunt. (short pause) Then, with a gentle but unyielding hand, she adjusted my position, ensuring I was properly settled. I felt the cool touch of her hand on my back, and then, quite suddenly, the first sharp sting of the belt as it landed across my trousers. It was not unbearable, but it was certainly enough to make me gasp. She continued, each stroke measured and deliberate, the leather making a crisp, swishing sound as it met its mark. I tried to be brave, but soon the tears came, hot and unbidden, and I could not help but sob quietly. Yet, through it all, she spoke to me in a low, reassuring tone, telling me that I was being very brave, and that it was quite all right to cry. The pain was real, but so too was the sense of being cared for, of being seen and understood in a way I had never experienced before. The room was filled with the mingled scents of lavender and leather, and the gentle light from the window cast soft shadows on the walls. (pause) At last, when it was over, she set the belt aside and gathered me into her arms, holding me close as I wept out the last of my shame and fear. She stroked my hair and whispered kind words, promising that I was forgiven, and that I need never be afraid to tell her the truth. Downstairs, the house was silent except for the distant ticking of the clock, and I knew the old lady understood everything, even though she never said a word. That day, I left her house changed—still embarrassed, but also lighter, as if a burden I had carried for years had finally been lifted.
