I was raised mostly by my Aunt Rita, my mother’s older sister, after my mom remarried and had my stepsister. Aunt Rita’s house was a patchwork of memories—faded wallpaper, the scent of lavender and cigarette smoke, the constant clatter of dishes and laughter. She was the anchor in a family that often felt adrift, the one who made sure we were fed, clothed, and—when necessary—disciplined.
My aunt was a single mother to James, who was a year and a half older than me. She’d had him in her early thirties, and by the time I came to live with her, she was a seasoned parent and a no-nonsense nurse. She could be warm and funny, quick to laugh and quicker to hug, but she ruled her house with a firm hand. Spanking was her go-to discipline, even as it fell out of favor in the world beyond our front door.
My aunt, like many nurses in the mid-80s, was a smoker. She’d disappear for what felt like ages, always with the same excuse: “I need to keep the smoke off the younger ones.” The irony was never lost on me, even as a youngster—she’d puff away in the car with the windows barely cracked, the air thick with the sharp, sweet scent of menthols, but outside, she acted as if the open air was a sacred boundary. When she vanished for her cigarette breaks, the world became ours. The house would fall silent except for the distant hum of cicadas, and we’d tiptoe through the rooms, inventing games, daring each other to sneak cookies from the high cupboard, or sometimes just lying on the cool linoleum, listening for the creak of the back door that signaled her return.
My aunt watched over a rotating cast of cousins, the reliable one in a family of drifters and dreamers. Her house was always full—of noise, of chaos, of younger ones. I became an expert observer of discipline, always lurking nearby when the process was imminent, fascinated by the ritual, the drama, the way it seemed to reset the world. I’d watch the way the punished face would crumple, the way their hands would fly back instinctively, only to be caught and pinned. The anticipation, the inevitable surrender to tears—it was a cycle I came to know intimately, the air thick with tension and the sharp, metallic scent of fear.
Even before I truly understood it, I was fascinated by the idea of spanking. It was a strange, forbidden ritual that hovered at the edge of formative years, both terrifying and magnetic. My earliest memory of it was watching James, my cousin, get spanked for sneaking extra dessert. The room had gone quiet except for the sharp sound of hand meeting fabric, and I remember the way James’s face crumpled, the way my aunt’s jaw set with a kind of grim determination. I watched from behind the door, heart pounding, not knowing that my own turn would come soon enough. The echo of each smack seemed to vibrate in my bones, and the sight of James’s watery eyes and trembling lips haunted me long after.
That summer, the lake was our kingdom. Older kids had strung a rope swing from a gnarled oak, and every afternoon, their laughter would ring out as they launched themselves into the water. My aunt, with her ER nurse’s catalog of horror stories, would warn us in no uncertain terms: “If you so much as look at that swing, I’ll blister your backsides so you won’t sit for a week.” She’d regale us with tales of broken arms and concussions, her voice low and serious, but the forbidden thrill of the swing was too much to resist.
The lake called to us, its surface glittering in the afternoon sun. James and I splashed in the shallows, but our eyes kept drifting to the rope swing. My aunt was a distant figure, chatting with the snack stand lady, her back turned. When the older kids abandoned the swing to try log-rolling on a fallen tree, we saw our chance. We crept across the sand, hearts pounding, glancing over our shoulders to make sure she was still distracted. The anticipation was electric, a tingling in my limbs that made every step feel like a dare.
“We can’t let her see us!” James whispered as we crept toward the swing, his eyes wide with excitement and fear. Even now, I’m convinced my aunt had superhuman senses—she always seemed to know when we were up to something. Years later, I’d realize she probably never took her eyes off us, watching from a distance, ready to swoop in at the first sign of trouble.
We each got one glorious swing before the inevitable shriek from the shore. We scrambled for another, less graceful attempt, knowing we were doomed. My aunt’s voice carried across the water, sharp and unmistakable. She marched us back to the car, lecturing all the way about the dangers of the ER, her words tumbling out in a torrent of warnings and what-ifs. My cheeks burned with shame and dread, the weight of her disappointment settling over me like a heavy blanket.
Afterward, she dragged us both inside, her patience worn thin. “Hands on the wall!” she barked, and we obeyed, palms pressed flat against the faded wallpaper. It was a family tradition, passed down from my grandparents—a kind of time-out, but with the added humiliation of standing in plain sight, waiting for the next command. Sometimes it was just a waiting game, but more often, it was the prelude to a spanking, or the final act after one. Standing there, my backside throbbing, I could feel the heat radiating through my thin shorts, the sting lingering long after the last smack. My breathing was ragged, my face streaked with tears, and I fought the urge to rub the sore spots, knowing it would only make things worse. The silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the sound of my own sniffles and the distant ticking of the kitchen clock.
“Hands on the wall” was usually just a warning, but today it was the prelude to something bigger. James, ever the pragmatist, started pleading immediately, his voice high and desperate, his words tumbling over each other in a frantic attempt to stave off the inevitable. I, emboldened by my recent visit to my mother, stood my ground. “My mother says you shouldn’t be spanking me anymore,” I declared, my voice trembling but defiant. I’d never dared talk back before, but something in me had shifted, a tiny rebellion sparked by weeks of freedom. The words hung in the air, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of uncertainty in my aunt’s eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a steely resolve. The tension in the room was palpable, every muscle in my body coiled tight, waiting for the storm to break.
Normally, that would have been enough to keep me in line. But after weeks with my mother, doing as I pleased, I felt untouchable. My mother had confided in me—never thinking to tell her sister—that she didn’t like how much my aunt spanked me. Somehow, I twisted that into a belief that my aunt had lost her power over me. I was wrong, of course, but in that moment, I felt invincible, my heart thundering in my chest, adrenaline flooding my veins.
The day of this incident, my indignation quickly turned to horror. My aunt’s face, usually so open and kind, twisted from annoyance to a kind of volcanic rage. “Stay there!” she barked at James, her voice echoing off the kitchen tiles. She seized my upper arm in a grip that felt like iron, her fingers digging in as she marched me to the kitchen. With her free hand, she reached into the ceramic pitcher on the stove—a fixture in her kitchen, always filled with mismatched wooden spoons and spatulas—and pulled out the dreaded wooden spoon. The air seemed to thicken, the sunlight slanting through the window suddenly harsh and unforgiving. My heart hammered in my chest, a cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck. I could feel the anticipation building, a sickening dread that made my stomach twist. Every step toward the kitchen chair felt like a march toward the gallows, my legs heavy and unsteady, my mind racing with images of what was to come.
I was shaking, panic rising in my chest. “No!” I cried, grabbing the back of the kitchen chair, trying to wriggle free. I tried to explain what my mother had said, but my words tumbled out in a jumble, my voice cracking with desperation. In my struggle, I accidentally helped my aunt pull the chair out from the table, sealing my fate. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear her scolding, my mind racing with desperate plans of escape. But her hands were quick and sure, and before I knew it, I was bent over the chair, my fate sealed. The cold wood pressed against my stomach, my hands gripping the seat so tightly my knuckles turned white.
When I realized she was pulling the chair out to sit and spank me, I tried to go limp, hoping to slip from her grasp. But I was small and wiry, and she was tall and strong, her arms like steel bands. Resistance was futile, but I tried anyway, a last, desperate act of defiance. My body tensed as she lifted me, my heart pounding in my ears. The anticipation was almost worse than the spanking itself, a cold dread that settled in my stomach and made my skin crawl. My breath came in short, shallow gasps, my eyes wide with fear as I waited for the first blow.
“I’m sorry!” I wailed, my voice cracking with panic. “Oh, you will be sorry!” my aunt shot back, her words punctuated by the sharp sting of the wooden spoon. The first smack landed with a jolt that sent a shockwave through my body, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls. The pain was immediate and searing, a hot, stinging burn that seemed to radiate outward from the point of contact. I’d felt its bite before, but never for so long, never with such relentless rhythm. She pinned one of my arms behind my back, her other arm wrapped around my waist, holding me in place as I kicked and squirmed. The chair beneath me was cold and unyielding, and the kitchen seemed to shrink around us, every sound amplified—the slap of the spoon, my own sobs, the distant ticking of the clock. Each smack felt like a small explosion, the pain building with every blow, until my skin felt raw and my cries turned hoarse. My legs jerked involuntarily, toes curling, as I tried to twist away from the onslaught, but her grip was ironclad. Tears streamed down my face, hot and salty, blurring my vision as I gasped for breath between sobs. The humiliation was as sharp as the pain, my cheeks burning with shame as much as with agony. I could feel the heat blooming across my skin, each welt rising beneath the fabric of my shorts, the sensation both numbing and excruciating.
Every so often, my aunt would pause mid-spanking to lecture me about the dangers of the lake, her voice stern and unwavering. But I barely heard her—the pain was all-consuming, a fiery punishment that blotted out everything else. I screamed and begged, promising anything, but mercy was not on the menu that day. My pleas echoed off the kitchen walls, mingling with the sharp cracks of the spoon. My body trembled with each blow, my hands clutching at the chair for support. The world narrowed to the burning pain and the sound of her voice, stern and unyielding. I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead, my body shaking uncontrollably, every nerve ending alight with agony and fear.
She turned my backside a deep, angry red, saving the last dozen smacks for my thighs, where the pain would linger long after. Each blow felt like fire, and I bit my lip to keep from screaming, but the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable. The pain was relentless, a burning ache that seemed to spread and intensify with every strike. My body jerked with each smack, my muscles tensing and releasing in a futile attempt to escape. The sound of the spoon against my skin was deafening, each crack a reminder of my helplessness. When it was finally over, I was left gasping, my breath coming in ragged sobs, my body limp and exhausted. The throbbing pain radiated down my legs, and I knew I’d feel every welt for days to come. My aunt’s face was set in grim determination, her own breathing heavy, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of regret as she surveyed the aftermath.
