Hariot was dark haired and beautiful. Because of my crush on her, I was always trying to get her attention, and more than once I overstepped the mark in my bid to do so. Then Hariot would say to me: “Behave yourself, Charlotte, or I’ll take you across my knee and smack your bottom until you can’t sit down for a week.”
I found that even hearing her say these words was really exciting for me.
On one occasion, my parents had to go away and needed someone to stay with me for a week, someone who could live in. Since my grown-up brother was on night shifts, Hariot volunteered to move in for the week to look after me.
It didn’t take long for me to get into trouble. I had a curfew of 9pm, but it was such a hot summer, with long, light evenings, that on several occasions I came home far later than I was allowed.
After a couple of transgressions, Hariot took me to one side. “You know full well when you are supposed to be back home. If you are late again, there will be tears before bedtime.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “I mean that I will take you across my knee, and smack your bottom so hard you so hard you will never want to disobey me again. Now do you understand?” “Yes, Hariot,” I said, pouty but nevertheless intrigues at hearing her repeat the threat of a spanking.
When it came to my bedtime, I had a bath, and climbed into bed. I thought about what Hariot had said.
I realised I really wanted Hariot to spank me – it would be embarrassing but I didn’t think it would hurt that much.
As I imagined myself over Hariot’s knee, like a naughty toddler. I fell asleep as if in a lucid dream. determined that I would deliberately earn myself that spanking tomorrow.
The following night, I stayed out with my friends until almost 10pm. When I returned home, Hariot was watching TV in the sitting room but she turned it off as soon as I walked in the room. “You’re late, young lady.” I shrugged. “I was out with my friends, I couldn’t help it.”
“I think you could, and you were told last night what the punishment would be. You need to learn there are consequences for misbehaviour. Go and get the hairbrush from the dresser in my room.” I did as I was told.
(gap: 1s) The moment Hariot told me to fetch the hairbrush, my heart started pounding in my chest. The anticipation was electric—equal parts dread and a strange, fluttering excitement. I walked down the hallway, my bare feet silent on the old wooden floorboards, every step echoing the inevitability of what was about to happen. The air in Hariot’s room felt heavier, as if it knew what was coming. My fingers trembled as I opened the dresser drawer and found the hairbrush.
It was an old-fashioned, oval paddle brush, about ten inches long and three inches wide, crafted from solid beechwood that had darkened with age and use. The handle was thick and smooth, fitting perfectly in the palm, and the wood had a faint, honeyed sheen that caught the light. The back of the brush was broad and flat, unadorned except for a tiny, faded engraving of a floral motif near the base of the handle—a detail I’d never noticed before. The bristles on the other side were set in a black rubber cushion, soft and yielding, but it was the hard, polished wood of the back that drew my attention. It felt cool and heavy in my hand, its weight a little more than I’d imagined, promising both comfort and consequence. I turned it over, running my thumb along the edge, and realized just how solid and unyielding it was—no give at all, just a smooth, relentless surface. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and carried it back to Hariot, each step feeling slower than the last.
(short pause) Hariot sat upright on the edge of the sofa, her posture calm and resolute. She took the brush from me with a steady hand, her eyes meeting mine for a moment—firm, but not unkind. “Over my knee,” she said, her voice low and unwavering. My stomach twisted with nerves as I obeyed, draping myself across her lap. The fabric of her skirt was cool against my skin, and I could feel the strength in her arm as she placed her left hand firmly in the small of my back, pinning me in place. My heart hammered in my ears, and I could hear my own breathing—shallow, quick, almost ragged.
(pause) There was a moment of unbearable suspense. I could sense Hariot shifting slightly, adjusting her grip, the brush poised above me. The room was silent except for the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel. Then, with a sudden, sharp crack, the first stroke landed. The sound was startling—wood on flesh, a crisp, echoing smack that seemed to fill the room. The pain was immediate and shocking, a hot, stinging burn that blossomed across my skin. I gasped, unable to hold back a cry, my body tensing involuntarily.
(short pause) Hariot didn’t say a word. She lifted the brush again, and the second smack landed, just as hard, just as precise. The sting doubled, radiating outward, and I felt my eyes prick with tears. My thoughts scattered—part humiliation, part disbelief at how much it hurt, part a strange, guilty satisfaction that I was finally getting what I’d asked for. The third stroke came, and I whimpered, my hands clutching at the sofa cushion. Each smack was a jolt, a sharp reminder that this was real, that I was truly being punished.
(pause) By the fourth and fifth strokes, the pain had built into a throbbing heat, and I couldn’t hold back my sobs. The sound of the brush meeting my skin was rhythmic, relentless, each one punctuated by my own cries. Hariot’s grip on my back was unyielding, her demeanor focused and almost gentle in its firmness—she wasn’t angry, just determined to see the lesson through. I felt utterly exposed, vulnerable, and yet, in a strange way, cared for. The tears streamed down my face, hot and unchecked, as I lay limp across her lap, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion.
(short pause) Hariot let me lie there for a moment, her hand still resting on my back, the brush set aside. My breathing was ragged, my bottom burning, my mind a swirl of shame, relief, and something I couldn’t quite name. “I told you to be in by nine, didn’t I? This spanking will teach you that you need to obey me, Charlotte. Understand?” Her voice was gentle but firm, and I could only nod, sobbing out a choked, “Yes, Hariot.”
(pause) There was a pause, and I felt her gaze on me—perceptive, almost tender. “You deliberately made yourself late to get this spanking, didn’t you?” The question cut through my haze of pain and embarrassment. I hesitated, then nodded, unable to meet her eyes. “Well, that deserves five more, then.”
(short pause) Before I could protest, Hariot’s hand pressed me down again, and the brush was back. The next five smacks were even harder, each one a searing jolt that made me cry out anew. The sound was louder now, echoing off the walls, mingling with my sobs. My skin felt aflame, every nerve ending alive with sensation. I didn’t know if Hariot was trying to teach me a lesson or if she was simply fulfilling her promise, but her resolve never wavered. She was methodical, unwavering, and yet there was no malice in her actions—just a sense of duty, of care twisted with discipline.
(pause) When it was finally over, Hariot helped me up, her touch surprisingly gentle. “Now go to your room and get ready for bed.” My legs were shaky as I obeyed, the throbbing pain in my bottom a constant reminder of what had just happened. I changed into my pyjamas, the fabric brushing against my sore skin, and lay down on my stomach, still sniffling, the tears slowly subsiding. My mind replayed every moment—the anticipation, the sting, the sound of the brush, Hariot’s steady presence. I felt chastened, humbled, and strangely comforted, as if the boundaries had been set and I was safe within them.