Having firmly locked the door, mother would turn and sternly stare at me, looking for even a trace of resistance, then brush by and bend heavily at the waist, legs straight, open up the cupboard below the sink.
I was faced by her bottom, the material of her skirt pulled tight across it. “What would it be like to smack that?”, I wondered. I never tried, of course.
As well as the bottom facing me, I noted mother’s skirt had ridden up, and I had a good view of the tops of her nylons, the straining elastic garters, the frilly hem of her corset, and the expanse of white thigh ‘tween stocking top and corset.
I wondered if my brother’s had experienced such a view, and what they thought of it?
She rose heavily, her face florid from the exertion of bending, as she turned to face me, slapping the hairbrush (large oval canadian maple wood) on her left palm! My heart sunk even further!
She laid the brush on the side of the bath, then took the bath mat and laid it down in the middle of the floor, pushing me roughly aside!
Then one leg at a time, she knelt down on the bath mat, sat back on her heels facing me, and with her hand guided me in front!