My mother conceived me just two weeks after finishing high school.
During her high school years, she had a babysitter named Myra. Myra looked after her until she was old enough to be on her own. They stayed in touch even after the babysitting ended.
When I was born, my parents got married to ensure I had a stable life. My mother always took care of me, but eventually, my father encouraged her to pursue the college education she had missed due to her pregnancy.
My father had a well-established career, being 35 and having worked at his job for 12 years. With my mother attending college in the mornings and my father working late, they hired Myra to babysit me.
Myra took care of me for a year until she had to be hospitalized due to obesity. She was about 5ft 9in and weighed around 190lb when I first met her, but her weight increased to 250lb by the time she was hospitalized.
We got a new babysitter who looked after me for about 10 months. Then my mother told me Myra would be returning as my babysitter. I was thrilled. My mother said Myra now lived just a block away and told me to get dressed because Myra would be arriving soon.
I hadn’t seen Myra in a year and had forgotten what she looked like. While I was getting dressed, I heard my mother leave and someone else enter. It was Myra. I ran downstairs in my Pyjamas to see her. When I got there, I was shocked and blurted out, “You are fat!”
Her jaw dropped, and her face turned red with a mix of surprise and anger. She grabbed my arm firmly, pulling me off the steps. She said, “I haven’t seen you in a year, and this is how you greet me? Well, I’ve changed in more ways than one.” I wondered what she meant. Then she said, “I never disciplined you before, but that’s going to change right now!” I had never been spanked and didn’t even know what it was.
Myra told me to stand in the corner. I started crying because I had never been like this in front of her. She got tired of waiting, bent me over, and spanked me over my pyjamas before putting me in the corner. I heard the door open and close but was too scared to turn around.
About five minutes later, she returned, grabbed my arm, and took me to the dining room. She pulled out a chair, sat down, and put me over her lap. In her bag, I saw a paddle, a slipper, and a hairbrush. I didn’t know what they were for, so I didn’t care. Then she started spanking me with her hand. Smack, smack, smack! Over and over on my bottom. Her hand covered my entire backside, and she spanked me about 30 times.
She stopped, told me to stop crying, and then pulled out the paddle. The paddle was wooden, with a smooth, polished surface. It was about a foot long and had a sturdy handle. Smack, smack, smack! Each stroke was deliberate and firm. The first stroke landed with a sharp crack, sending a jolt through my body. The second stroke followed quickly, the sting intensifying. By the third stroke, my bottom was burning. Each subsequent stroke seemed to echo in the room, the sound of wood meeting flesh. I counted 10 smacks, each one more painful than the last. The paddle was heavy, and each impact felt like a hammer blow, leaving a lasting impression on my skin.
She told me to stop crying again and pulled out the hairbrush. The hairbrush was wooden, with a broad, flat back. It looked heavy and solid, with a dark, polished finish. She positioned it in her hand, and I could see the determination in her eyes. The first smack landed with a resounding thud, the flat surface of the brush making full contact with my already sore bottom. The pain was immediate and intense, a sharp sting that seemed to spread across my skin. She didn’t give me time to recover before the second smack came down, just as hard and deliberate. Each stroke was methodical, the hairbrush leaving a burning sensation with every impact. By the fifth smack, I was sobbing uncontrollably, but she continued, her face set in a stern expression. The eighth smack felt like it would never end, the pain searing through me. Finally, after the tenth smack, she stopped, leaving my bottom throbbing and red.
Finally, she took up the slipper. It was a simple house slipper, but in her hands, it looked like a formidable tool of discipline. The slipper had a thick rubber sole and a soft, cushioned top. She held it up, letting me see it clearly before she began. The first smack was swift and sharp, the rubber sole making a distinct sound as it connected with my already sore bottom. The sting was immediate, a sharp, biting pain that seemed to cut through the lingering ache from the paddle and hairbrush. She didn’t pause, delivering the second smack with the same force and precision. Each subsequent hit was methodical, the slipper landing on different parts of my bottom, ensuring no area was spared. By the fifth smack, the pain was overwhelming, a mix of sharp stings and deep aches. She continued, her face stern and unyielding. The eighth smack felt like it would never end, the pain searing through me. Finally, after the twelfth smack, she stopped, leaving my bottom throbbing and red.
After that, Myra let me up and put me in the corner for another five minutes. When she took me out of the corner, I never called Myra fat or, come to that, anyone else fat ever again!
