“I’m sorry, Philip, Sylvia can’t come out today. She has been very naughty and I have sent her to her bedroom.” “Oh,” I said, disappointed. There were very few other kids around my age in scattered community, and no boys, and so although Sylvia was a rather bossy and sometimes ill-natured girl, we had become companions, if not close friends. If she was being kept in, (the British did not say “grounded” in the 1950s) I was going to be at a bit of a loose end. Sylvia’s mother took pity on me. “Come in and have a glass of orange squash and a biscuit anyway,” she said. I followed her rather reluctantly into the kitchen. I liked Mrs Hews, but I was somewhat in awe of her. She had a quirky sense of humour and a mischievous notion of fun that I sometimes found perplexing and discomforting. I felt ill at ease about being a guest in the house without the moral support of the more extrovert Sylvia. But Mrs Hews made me welcome and as I nibbled and sipped, she said with a twinkle in her eye, “Actually, Philip, you may not have had a completely wasted journey over here.” “Oh?” I said again. My shyness made me even more inarticulate than the typical 12-year-old. Mrs Hews grinned at me and without answering, went to the kitchen door and called, “Sylvia! Come downstairs—now!” I heard an upstairs door slam and then the thump of feet on the stairs. A few moments a scowling Sylvia stamped into the kitchen. She stopped short as she saw me. What’s he doing here?” she demanded suspiciously. “Philip is here at my invitation,” her mother replied calmly. “And I see your manners have not improved for your spell of quiet contemplation. Never mind, I am sure more direct action may have a better effect.” “Mummy! You can’t…” Sylvia began to protest. “Be quiet!” snapped her mother, suddenly sharp. Sylvia pouted rebelliously and glowered in my direction, but remained silent. As for me, I had not understood half of what was said, but with a rising sense of excitement I was becoming sure something dramatic was about to happen. Sylvia was a year younger than me, but slightly taller and robust. She had honey blonde hair held in untidy ponytail, blue eyes and a scattering of freckles across a straight nose. She was presently dressed in a floral print cotton dress, ankle socks and plimsolls. “Well, Philip,” mused Sylvia’s mother, “what do you think we should do with her? She is going to get a good spanking, naturally, but should she be over my lap? Or that stool? Or the table?” At that age, I had never heard of a rhetorical question, but I knew no answer was expected of me—even if I could have spoken with my heart pounding in my throat. Sylvia tried another objection. “Mummy, please, it’s not fair that Philip…” “Sylvia,” her mother interrupted in a tone of sweet reason, “you should have learnt after eleven years that neither pleas nor complaints will lessen your punishment—rather the reverse—so I suggest you stop arguing and keep quiet.” Foolishly, Sylvia only half followed that suggestion, staring at the floor and muttering mutinously. “Very well, Sylvia,” said her mother, in a business like tone, I think you can have a sound spanking across my lap.” She sat on an upright chair and patted her right thigh. “Come along, quickly now.” With another fierce look at me, Sylvia crossed to her mother’s side where she hesitated. “Tell him to go away first,” she insisted in a final attempt to preserve her dignity. “For goodness sake!” Mrs Hews said in an exasperated tone, and gripping Sylvia’s arm in her left hand and pushing sharply behind her back propelled the girl across her knees. “And Philip—smack—has a name—smack—and you—smack—should remember—smack—to—smack—use—smack—it!” I stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed as Mrs Hews’ hand spanked the stretched seat of Sylvia’s skirt. I had never seen a spanking before. My own parents were very easy-going and I was hideously good. As Sylvia’s pony-tailed head bobbed at each blow to her bottom, I decided I was definitely enjoying the experience even if she clearly was not. Mrs Hews’ spanking hand ceased its motion and rested on her daughter’s seat. It was over. Ah well, it had been good while it lasted. “Right my girl,” declared Sylvia’s mother, “now for your spanking.” Eh? I thought she’d just had that! But no, Sylvia’s mother was turning back the cotton dress to uncover pink pants stretched over a plump bottom. Mrs Hews then raised her right hand and began to deliver a series of rapid slaps to the target area while Sylvia wriggled and squirmed in obvious discomfort. For quite a few spanks Sylvia managed to maintain a commendable silence apart from some stifled grunts and hissing through her teeth, but as the spanking continued she began to yell “Ow!” and “Ouch!” each time her mother’s hand struck the seat of her knickers. This spanking went on a lot longer than the preliminary, but at last, after a surprising length of time, Mrs Hews stopped spanking her daughter and told her to get up, which she did, red-faced and rubbing her bottom. It had been a wonderful experience and I was sorry it was over. But no…! “Right, Sylvia, take that dress off!” “Mummy! No!” “Sylvia, I am becoming tired of your silly arguing and wilful disobedience. Take that dress off! Sylvia glanced balefully in my direction before giving a sort of grouchy groan and unbuttoning her dress. A few seconds later she drew it over her head and held it in front of her as she stood in her vest and knickers. “Hm,” said Sylvia’s mother judiciously. “Put your dress over there.” Making a face, Sylvia flung the dress in the direction indicated where it fell to the floor. “Pick it up and put it on that chair tidily.” Mrs Hews said surprisingly calmly. With another murderous glare at me, Sylvia crossed to where the dress was. Her pink pants were already stretched across her rather fat bottom and, when they pulled even tighter as she bent to pick it up, I could see a darker shade of pink on the skin at the edge. Sylvia perfunctorily folded her dress and tossed it onto the chair. “Now come and bend over this stool,” ordered Sylvia’s mother. The stool designated was about three feet tall, with a round seat and rungs at its four legs. Sylvia, although tall for her age, had to stand on these to position herself over the top. Her mother then pulled her further over to that her head and arms hung over one side and her legs over the other. Her bottom was balanced between. “Good,” said Sylvia’s mother, when matters were arranged to her satisfaction. I was well pleased too. I thought Sylvia’s bottom in taut pink pants stuck out at a very inviting angle. Mrs Hews obviously agreed as she went to a box of kitchen utensils and collected a wooden spoon. This was not like the small worn tool my mother used for mixing, but had a twelve-inch long handle at the end of which was a large oval bowl flattened on one side. Mrs Hews took hold of this formidable looking instrument and went round behind Sylvia’s left hip. Her intention was plain—or perhaps not. For Sylvia’s mother did not immediately begin walloping her daughter’s nervous bottom, but instead whacked the backs of her thighs: six stinging swats to each—three down and three up. This new attack seemed to disturb Sylvia considerably as she yelled at each hit and she tried ineffectively to kick her legs out of the way. Mrs Hews now paused and Sylvia and I anxiously awaited events—I afraid it was all over and she for fear that it wasn’t. It wasn’t! After what seemed an age, Mrs Hews calmly took hold of the elastic channelled waist of Sylvia’s knickers and deliberately began to peel them back over her bottom. “Nooo!” yelled Sylvia, even louder than when she was being spanked. She put her hand behind her and grabbed the receding underwear. I looked on in fascinated delight. Her bottom was already half bared. “Let go, Sylvia,” ordered her mother, “or it’ll be worse.” Sylvia ignored the instruction, but kept a firm grip on what little decency remained to her. “Please, Mummy, don’t take my knickers down, not in front of Philip, pleeease!” For answer, Mrs Hews silently let go of Sylvia’s knickers with her right hand, while keeping a tight hold of them in her left. She picked up the wooden spoon and smartly rapped Sylvia’s knuckles. “Ow! Ow!” yelped Sylvia, and let go. Her mother yanked her knickers to her knees. “Oooh!” wailed Sylvia. My eyes widened as Sylvia’s plump round bottom was abruptly exposed. Being an only child, this was the first girl’s bottom I had ever seen. This one was already a deep glowing pink from the recent spanking. I thought it looked remarkably pretty. But I did not have long to admire Sylvia’s rear before her mother was once again in action—this time wielding the wooden spoon to good effect on poor Sylvia’s exposed cheeks. Without the containment of her panties, I now saw Sylvia’s rounded flesh flatten momentarily on the spoon’s impact, only to spring resiliently back to its former curve a moment later. Each time it did so a deeper red blotch appeared on the skin. “Ow! Wow! Yeeouch! Yeaaiieeow!” came Sylvia’s increasingly enthusiastic commentary. She burst into tears. This did not deter her mother who continued walloping her, covering the whole surface of Sylvia’s bottom and the tops of both legs with brisk swats for some time yet. Finally, though, she put down the spoon and allowed her daughter to get up. “Don’t you dare touch your knickers,” she instructed as the crying girl stood. Actually, Sylvia seemed too busy gingerly rubbing her bottom to concern herself with her underwear. “Now, go and stand over there by the kitchen cabinet, facing the wall, and put your hands on your head and keep them there.” Sylvia obeyed, her customary defiance for the moment spanked out of her. The knickers around her knees impeded her progress to a rather undignified waddle as she went to her corner and stood with the inflamed bottom shamefully on show. Mrs Hews washed the wooden spoon and, using another smaller one, began to mix a cake. I sat tight. There seemed to be no call for me to leave, and I was not going to miss the fun of watching Sylvia’s bright red bottom on display if I could help it. After about twenty minutes, when Sylvia’s tears had subsided, her mother told her to pull her pants up and go to her room. But as she reached out for her dress, her mother sharply told her to leave it where it was and not to get dressed. I could hardly believe my ears! Could this mean…? Surely not! And yet… Mrs Hews chattered away to as if nothing unusual had occurred—and perhaps for her, it hadn’t—while I, still tongue-tied even beyond my normal shyness, did my best to appear at ease. But of course, my mind was in turmoil and when Mrs Hews ran the water to wash up the mixing bowl, I realised that I was desperate to pee. I ran upstairs and past Sylvia’s closed bedroom door. From inside I could hear Sylvia loudly complaining to herself about the hatefulness of life in general and her of her mother and me in particular. At the same time, she seemed to be flinging anything loose around the room. I used the lavatory and returned to the kitchen. “How was Sylvia behaving?” Mrs Hews asked conversationally. “Having a tantrum, I suppose.” “Um, I couldn’t say,” I replied, trying to appear nobly loyal while sneakily indicating that was just what she was doing. “Hm,” said Sylvia’s mother, and then rather disappointingly said, “Let’s go into the sitting room and play a game of draughts.” Normally I would have enjoyed showing my skills at a game I was usually good at, but my mind was on earlier events as I moved my men, and it all seemed a bit of an anti-climax after the excitement. So we played several games, all of which I lost, while Mrs Hews’ cake cooked and was removed from the oven to cool. As the time moved on to when I had to return home for my lunch, I resigned myself to that being the end of the day’s entertainment. “Ah well, said Sylvia’s mother after she chalked up yet another victory, “I suppose I had better have that naughty girl back downstairs.” My heart raced. But was this just Sylvia returning to normal family life—or more punishment? Whichever, she did not appear at her mother’s first summons, but stamped back downstairs at the third time of calling. Nevertheless, she had been obedient enough to stay in her vest and knickers, ankle socks and plimsolls. She stood scowling in the middle of the room while her mother lectured her on her shortcomings, including “… and you were having a temper tantrum upstairs…” “No I wasn’t!” “Yes you were because…” “…Philip told me,” was what I guiltily expected to hear and my face flushed as hot and red as Sylvia’s bottom had been. “…I heard you,” is what Sylvia’s mother actually said. Sylvia pushed out her lower lip. He mother looked annoyed. “Sylvia, take off your plimsolls and socks and put them next to my chair.” Sullenly, Sylvia did as she was told. I was curious. Why should Sylvia need to take off her footwear? “Now, Sylvia, take off your vest and pants.” “Mummy, no!” came Sylvia’s anguished answer. “Now!” “No!” “Do it Sylvia, or I shall do it for you, and you know what that will mean.” “Mummy, please tell Philip to go home first,” said Sylvia abruptly switching from open defiance to whining cajolery. “I shall not wait much longer, Sylvia.” “Please, Mummy, you can spank me twice as much, but send Philip home.” “Don’t be impertinent, Sylvia, I don’t need your permission. I shall spank you as much as I see fit.” “Pleeease,” yelled Sylvia, stamping her foot. Her mother began to make a threatening move towards her and Sylvia hurriedly hopped back. Clearly, the threat of being undressed by her mother indicated more than the words expressed. Looking daggers at me, she hastily began to pull off her underwear. “Hands on head, “ Sylvia’s mother insisted heartlessly. “Now, you naughty girl, you can face the fireplace and bend over and touch your toes. And keep those legs straight.” This time Sylvia obeyed without argument and bent herself double, sticking out her already warmed bottom. I now discovered why she had been made to take off her footwear as her mother picked up one of the discarded plimsolls and approached her. “I am going to slipper you soundly, Sylvia, and if you bend those knees or try to dodge you’ll get extra—understood?” “Yes—Ow.” “Yes what?” demanded Sylvia’s mother striking her unexpectedly on the left cheek with the slipper. “Yes, Mummy. Sorry.” “You will be.” Sylvia’s mother hefted the plimsoll in her hand. Sylvia’s bottom flinched in anticipation. Mrs Hews drew back her arm and swung the slipper swiftly through an arc that ended as the rubber sole slapped hard against the left cheek. There was a pause. The manoeuvre was repeated, this time against the right buttock. Another twenty second wait. The slipper met the centre of Sylvia’s bottom and she yelled “Ouch!” After that Sylvia yelled ever louder as the slipper repeatedly slammed against her unprotected rear. On the seventh whack, Sylvia’s knees buckled and she clapped her hands to her flaming bottom. “Oouwowaiieeu,” she wailed. “Straighten those legs! And that is one extra.” Sobbing, Sylvia returned to position and although she howled heartily, she did not bend her legs again and despite the fact that she could not help jerking her bottom before each whack, her mother chose not to count this as dodging. She got thirteen swats in all—a baker’s dozen. Sylvia was then allowed to stand and she tenderly held her reddened rear and hopped from one foot to the other bawling loudly—presumably all thoughts of my embarrassing presence gone from her head. “For goodness sake, Sylvia, get out. You are giving me a headache with all that silly noise—Wait…” she added as the crying girl fled to the door, “…take your dirty laundry with you.” And poor Sylvia had to return to pick up underwear, socks and plimsolls before finally escaping to her bedroom. Sylvia’s mother said, “Now, Philip, I expect you’d like a piece of that cake I made earlier.” So ended the momentous morning of my life.