Peter's Mother

by polaspank

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

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Part 1

“I’m sorry, Susan, Peter can’t come out today. He has been very naughty and I have sent him to his bedroom.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. There were very few other kids around my age in scattered community, and no other girls, and so although Peter was a rather bossy and sometimes ill-natured boy, we had become companions, if not close friends. If he 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.

Peter’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 Peter. But Mrs Hews made me welcome and as I nibbled and sipped, she said with a twinkle in her eye, “Actually, Susan, 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 young teenager.

Mrs Hews grinned at me and without answering, went to the kitchen door and called, “Peter! Come downstairs-now!”

I heard an upstairs door slam and then the thump of feet on the stairs. A few moments a scowling Peter stamped into the kitchen. He stopped short as he saw me. What’s she doing here?” he demanded suspiciously.

“Susan is here at my invitation,” his 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…” Peter began to protest.

“Be quiet!” snapped his mother, suddenly sharp.

Peter 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.

Peter was a year younger than me, but slightly taller and robust. He had honey blonde hair, blue eyes and a scattering of freckles across a straight nose. He was presently dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, ankle socks and plimsolls.

“Well, Susan,” mused Peter’s mother, “what do you think we should do with him? He is going to get a good spanking, naturally, but should he 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.

Peter tried another objection. “Mummy, please, it’s not fair that Susan…”

“Peter,” his mother interrupted in a tone of sweet reason, “you should have learnt after so many years that neither pleas nor complaints will lessen your punishment, rather the reverse, so I suggest you stop arguing and keep quiet.”

Foolishly, Peter only half followed that suggestion, staring at the floor and muttering mutinously.

“Very well, Peter,” said his 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, Peter crossed to his mother’s side where he hesitated. “Tell her to go away first,” he insisted in a final attempt to preserve his dignity.

“For goodness sake!” Mrs Hews said in an exasperated tone, and gripping Peter’s arm in her left hand and pushing sharply behind his back propelled the boy across her knees. “And Susan - 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 Peter’s shorts. I had never seen a spanking before. My own parents were very easy-going and I was hideously good. As Peter’s head bobbed at each blow to his bottom, I decided I was definitely enjoying the experience even if he clearly was not. Mrs Hews’ spanking hand ceased its motion and rested on her son’s seat. It was over. Ah well, it had been good while it lasted.

“Right my boy,” declared Peter’s mother, “now for your spanking.”

Eh? I thought he’d just had that! But no, Peter’s mother was pulling down his shorts to uncover white 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 Peter wriggled and squirmed in obvious discomfort. For quite a few spanks Peter managed to maintain a commendable silence apart from some stifled grunts and hissing through his teeth, but as the spanking continued he began to yell “Ow!” and “Ouch!” each time his mother’s hand struck the seat of his pants. This spanking went on a lot longer than the preliminary, but at last, after a surprising length of time, Mrs Hews stopped spanking her son and told him to get up, which he did, red-faced and rubbing his bottom.

It had been a wonderful experience and I was sorry it was over. But no…!

“Right, Peter, take your shorts and shirt off!”

“Mummy! No!”

“Peter, I am becoming tired of your silly arguing and wilful disobedience. Take them off!"

Peter glanced balefully in my direction before giving a sort of grouchy groan and took off his shorts. A few seconds later he drew his shirt over his head and held it in front of him as he stood only in his vest and pants.

“Hm,” said Peter’s mother judiciously. “Put your clothes over there.”

Making a face, Peter flung the clothes in the direction indicated where they fell to the floor.

“Pick them up and put them on that chair tidily.” Mrs Hews said surprisingly calmly.

With another murderous glare at me, Peter crossed to where the clothes were. His white pants were already stretched across his rather chubby bottom and, when they pulled even tighter as he bent to pick his clothes up, I could see a darker shade of pink on the skin at the edge. Peter perfunctorily folded his clothes and tossed them onto the chair.

“Now come and bend over this stool,” ordered Peter’s mother.

The stool designated was about three feet tall, with a round seat and rungs at its four legs. Peter, although tall for his age, had to stand on these to position himself over the top. his mother then pulled him further over so that his head and arms hung over one side and his legs over the other. his bottom was balanced between.

“Good,” said Peter’s mother, when matters were arranged to her satisfaction.

I was well pleased too. I thought Peter’s bottom in taut white pants stuck out at a very inviting angle. Mrs Hews obviously agreed as she went to fetch a large wooden backed clothes brush that hang on the wall beside the kitchen door, probably to be used to brushing your dirty clothes before entering. This was not like the small type of brush my mother used , but had a six-inch long handle at the end of which was a large six-inch oval backside. Mrs Hews took hold of this formidable looking instrument and went round behind Peter’s left hip. Her intention was plain, or perhaps not. For Peter’s mother did not immediately begin walloping her son’s nervous bottom, but instead whacked the backs of his thighs: six stinging swats to each, three down and three up. This new attack seemed to disturb Peter considerably as he yelled at each hit and he tried ineffectively to kick his legs out of the way.

Mrs Hews now paused and Peter and I anxiously awaited events, I afraid it was all over, and he 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 Peter’s pants and deliberately began to peel them back over his bottom.

“Nooo!” yelled Peter, even louder than when he was being spanked. He put his hand behind him and grabbed the receding underwear. I looked on in fascinated delight, his bottom was already half bared.

“Let go, Peter,” ordered his mother, “or it’ll be worse.”

Peter ignored the instruction, but kept a firm grip on what little decency remained to him. “Please, Mummy, don’t take my pants down, not in front of Susan, pleeease!”

For answer, Mrs Hews silently let go of Peter’s pants with her right hand, while keeping a tight hold of them in her left. She picked up the wooden brush and smartly rapped Peter’s knuckles.

“Ow! Ow!” yelped Peter, and let go. His mother yanked his pants to his knees. “Oooh!” wailed Peter.

My eyes widened as Peter’s plump round bottom was abruptly exposed. Being an only child, this was the first bare boy’s bottom I had ever seen. This one was already a deep glowing pink from the recent spanking. I thought it looked remarkably nice. But I did not have long to admire Peter’s rear before his mother was once again in action-this time wielding the wooden brush to good effect on poor Peter’s exposed cheeks. Without the containment of his pants, I now saw Peter’s rounded flesh flatten momentarily on the brush’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 Peter’s increasingly enthusiastic commentary. He burst into tears. This did not deter his mother who continued walloping him, covering the whole surface of Peter’s bottom and the tops of both legs with brisk swats for some time yet. Finally, though, she put down the brush and allowed her son to get up.

“Don’t you dare touch your pants,” she instructed as the crying boy stood. Actually, Peter seemed too busy gingerly rubbing his bottom to concern himself with his 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.” Peter obeyed, his customary defiance for the moment spanked out of him. The pants around his knees impeded his progress to a rather undignified waddle as he went to his corner and stood with the inflamed bottom shamefully on show. Mrs Hews hang back the wooden brush and, 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 Peter’s bright red bottom on display if I could help it. After about twenty minutes, when Peter’s tears had subsided, his mother told him to pull his pants up and go to his room. But as he reached out for his shorts, his mother sharply told him to leave them where they were and not to get dressed. I could hardly believe my ears! Could this mean…? Surely not! And yet…

Mrs Hews chattered away 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 Peter’s closed bedroom door. From inside I could hear Peter loudly complaining to himself about the hatefulness of life in general and of his mother and me in particular. At the same time, he seemed to be flinging anything loose around the room. I used the lavatory and returned to the kitchen.

“How was Peter 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 he was doing.

“Hm,” said Peter’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 Peter’s mother after she chalked up yet another victory, “I suppose I had better have that naughty boy back downstairs.”

My heart raced. But was this just Peter returning to normal family life-or more punishment? Whichever, he did not appear at his mother’s first summons, but stamped back downstairs at the third time of calling. Nevertheless, he had been obedient enough to stay in his vest and pants, ankle socks and plimsolls. He stood scowling in the middle of the room while his mother lectured him on his shortcomings, including “… and you were having a temper tantrum upstairs…”

“No I wasn’t!”

“Yes you were because…”

“…Susan told me,” was what I guiltily expected to hear and my face flushed as hot and red as Peter’s bottom had been.

“…I heard you,” is what Peter’s mother actually said.

Peter pushed out his lower lip. His mother looked annoyed.

“Peter, take off your plimsolls and socks and put them next to my chair.”

Sullenly, Peter did as he was told. I was curious. Why should Peter need to take off his footwear?

“Now, Peter, take off your vest and pants.”

“Mummy, no!” came Peter’s anguished answer.

“Now!”

“No!”

“Do it Peter, or I shall do it for you, and you know what that will mean.”

“Mummy, please tell Susan to go home first,” said Peter abruptly switching from open defiance to whining cajolery.

“I shall not wait much longer, Peter.”

“Please, Mummy, you can spank me twice as much, but send Susan home.”

“Don’t be impertinent, Peter, I don’t need your permission. I shall spank you as much as I see fit.”

“Pleeease,” yelled Peter, stamping his foot.

His mother began to make a threatening move towards him and Peter hurriedly hopped back. Clearly, the threat of being undressed by his mother indicated more than the words expressed. Looking daggers at me, he hastily began to pull off his underwear.

“Hands on head,” Peter’s mother insisted heartlessly. “Now, you naughty boy, you can face the fireplace and bend over and touch your toes. And keep those legs straight.”

This time Peter obeyed without argument and bent himself double, sticking out his already warmed bottom. I now discovered why he had been made to take off his footwear as his mother picked up one of the discarded plimsolls and approached him.

“I am going to slipper you soundly, Peter, and if you bend those knees or try to dodge you’ll get extra, understood?”

“Yes-Ow.”

“Yes what?” demanded Peter’s mother striking his unexpectedly on the left cheek with the slipper.

“Yes, Mummy. Sorry.”

“You will be.”

Peter’s mother hefted the plimsoll in her hand. Peter’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 Peter’s bottom and he yelled “Ouch!” After that Peter yelled ever louder as the slipper repeatedly slammed against his unprotected rear. On the seventh whack, Peter’s knees buckled and he clapped his hands to his flaming bottom.

“Oouwowaiieeu,” he wailed.

“Straighten those legs! And that is one extra.”

Sobbing, Peter returned to position and although he howled heartily, he did not bend his legs again and despite the fact that he could not help jerking his bottom before each whack, his mother chose not to count this as dodging. He got thirteen swats in all a baker’s dozen. Peter was then allowed to stand and he tenderly held his reddened rear and hopped from one foot to the other bawling loudly-presumably all thoughts of my embarrassing presence gone from his head.

“For goodness sake, Peter, get out. You are giving me a headache with all that silly noise-Wait…” she added as the crying boy fled to the door, “…take your dirty laundry with you.” And poor Peter had to return to pick up underwear, socks and plimsolls before finally escaping to his bedroom.

Peter’s mother said, “Now, Susan, I expect you’d like a piece of that cake I made earlier.”

So ended the momentous morning of my life.

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Part 2

I did not like to call round for Peter after what had happened. I felt guilty and embarrassed, though with typical self-centeredness, on my behalf, not his. But some days after the incident it was Peter who arrived at our back door. I suppose being bored with his own company, he had decided to put his punishment appropriately behind him and sought out my company. He did not mention his spanking and as I maintained a polite silence, a veil was drawn over the embarrassing incident and we resumed our old companiable relationship as if nothing had occurred. In fact, so resilient was Peter’s personality that he soon recovered all his old brash bossiness as though I had never seen him having his bare bottom spanked. However, whenever he became too overbearing, I could picture him tearfully sticking out his red bottom for further spanking.

Unfortunately, although I returned to visiting the Hews house quite often, I disappointingly neither saw signs nor heard talk of spanking, although I was always wondering what went on behind the closed doors of the Hews house.

A few weeks later, it was the end of term, which for me was a day earlier than Peter as I went to the Girls’ High School in a neighbouring town, while he attended private boys school that occupied a large country house in a nearby village. It so happened that on this particular day, both my parents were going to be out, and rather than leave me to my own devices they arranged for me to spend the day with Mrs Hews. I still found this lady very daunting despite, or perhaps, because of the incident with Peter. She had certainly continued to be pleasant to me since then. I should explain here that Mr Hews was an engineer and spent a lot of time abroad.

So I spent a happy day with Mrs Hews who was very kind and attentive, making sure I was well fed and happily occupied. Sometime after four o’clock, Peter returned from school. He bounced in, threw down his satchel and began to run upstairs to change out of his school clothes.

“Wait!” commanded Peter’s mother. “Report!”

Rather reluctantly, I thought, Peter returned and handed over a long brown envelope.

“Wait while I read it,” instructed his mother..

Peter shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as his mother fetched a knife and slit open the envelope. Peter was dressed in his school uniform of green blazer with yellow badge, grey shorts, grey knee-high socks and brown buckled sandals.

Mr Hews’ mouth set in a firm line of annoyance as she read. I felt the flutter of excitement in my stomach. Peter’s fingers twitched the sides of his shorts.

“Mathematics-‘Careless and untidy’;

English-‘Offers only the minimum of effort’;

History-‘Must try harder’;

Geography-‘Could do better’;

Art-‘Disruptive influence’,

Scripture… But I need hardly go on. This is a disgraceful report.”

“It’s not my fault,” Peter said petulantly. “The teachers have all got it in for me.”

“Are you suggesting your teachers are lying about you?” demanded his mother.

Peter hesitated. He was caught on the horns of a dilemma. Whichever way he answered was likely to land him in more trouble. “Sort of,” he temporised sullenly.

“Well perhaps I should phone Miss Bradshaw and check on her Headmistress’s report-‘Peter’s lack of progress this term is due not to his lack of ability, but to his lack of effort in class and his lack of respect for the rules of this school.’ Do you think Miss Bradshaw’s comment is inaccurate?”

Once again, poor Peter was in a bind and he actually wriggled as he again tried to get off the hook.

“Well, she doesn’t like me.”

“I am not surprised. I am amazed she is willing to keep you in her school.”

“I don’t care if she throws me out,” Peter said defiantly.

“You insolent, little brat!” snapped Mrs Hews and grabbed her son’s arm. Peter resisted but was caught off balance and with the ease of thirteen years of practice, Peter’s mother ended up sitting on a kitchen chair with her son sprawled face down across her lap. I knew from my previous experience what to expect next and I was not disappointed. Peter’s mother pulled down the grey school shorts to reveal the white pants Peter wore beneath. He was not wearing them for long, at least, not in their proper place, as his mother yanked them down his legs and administered a furious spanking to her child’s bare bottom.

Peter kicked and struggled and yelled, “Stop it! Ouch! Don’t! Ouch! It’s not fair! Ouch!!” Peter’s mother took no notice of any of this, but kept a tight grip with one hand and hit hard with the other. Peter’s bottom turned from white to pink to red. But after a disappointingly short-for me-time Mrs Hews said, “Get up,” and with one last resounding slap released her hold.

Peter quickly stood and rubbed his bottom before bending to pull up his pants. Sadly, his mother allowed this and merely told him to go and hang up his blazer and to bring back his satchel. “Take out your books, put them on the table and sit down,” ordered Mrs Hews. Peter sat sulkily and presumably uncomfortably, his exercise books piled in front of him, representing his term’s work. his mother sat at the left adjacent side of the table and invited me to sit on the other side. Mrs Hews picked up one of the books, which was labelled ‘English’, and opened it at random. Half a sheet of scribble further blemished with blots and liberally underlined in red ink from the teacher’s pen marked Peter’s literary effort at English. ‘Very poor work 2/10’ was written in red at the end.

“So was Miss Opie overstating your failures at English?” enquired Peter’s mother.

Peter shrugged.

“Stand up and bend over the table.”

Peter pulled down his mouth and stuck out his lower lip and hesitated long enough for me to wonder whether he was going to defy his mother. Then he flounced to his feet, shoved back his chair and leant forward so that his body rested on the table and his bottom was bent over the edge. his mother also stood, pulled down Peter’s shorts and his pants. “It’s not fair,” griped Peter, indignantly, “you’ve already spanked me for my report.”

“Oh no I haven’t,” stated Peter’s mother. “That’ll come later. You were the one who said your teachers were being unjust. This is an investigation. I shall spank you for each subject where the teacher’s comments were justified.”

“Oooh,” groaned Peter, “that’s not fair.”

“It’s your own fault, Peter, so stop moaning.”

Peter’s mother spanked him hard eight times. I could see Peter’s knuckles turn white as he gripped the far edge of the table. He kept his face between his arms and I heard muffled squeals as his mother slapped his bare buttocks.

“Right, sit down again,” directed Peter’s mother after a time. He rubbed himself warily and went to pull up his pants. “You may as well leave those there, Peter,” his mother said, “we have a number of your exercise books to look at and I am quite sure your pants will be coming down again.”

“Oh, Mummy…” began Peter and then thought better of it and sat gently down.

The next book was labelled ‘Mathematics’. Peter’s work on this subject was represented by a messy page of sums against most of which were red Xs. At the bottom, the mark of 1/10 was recorded.

“It’s not my fault. I don’t understand decimals,” Peter said resentfully

“Stand up and bend over.”

Peter stood and bent. His mother then spanked his bare bottom. This time she gave Peter nine hard smacks. Peter’s bottom turned an even deeper red and jumped and twitched with every one. Peter yelled more unrestrainedly and when he stood, he sniffed and wiped a tear from his eye. He returned to his seat very gently. I saw the white pants now hung around his ancles.

So it went on. I noticed Peter seemed to get as many spanks as he was the difference between the mark awarded and ten. So for history he got 4/10 on the exercise selected at random by his mother and was given six spanks, whereas he received ten slaps for a 0/10 for Scripture. Where the mark was over 5, he received no spanks at all, but he managed this only once. By the time Mrs Hews had gone through the pile of exercise books, Peter’s bottom was very red and undoubtedly very, very sore. He had been crying loudly for some time.

“Right,” said Peter’s mother, taking her weeping son by the ear, “You can have half-an-hour in the corner before I deal with you properly for your school report.”

This brought a redoubled outburst of tears from Peter. He was led by the ear to his corner of the kitchen where he faced the wall, so that his bright red bottom was constantly on display. Meanwhile, Mrs Hews and I drank tea and ate cake. As we did so, Peter’s crying gradually diminished to sobs, sniffles and silence. After half-an-hour-closely clock - watched by me - Peter’s mother said:

Very well, Peter, your time is up. Go upstairs and take off your shorts and pants and bring down the hairbrush.”

“Oh no, Mummy! Not the hairbrush, please. I’m already awfully sore.”

“And you’ll be an awful lot sorer if you don’t hurry. At the moment you are going to get ten swats, but I’m quite willing to make it twelve-or even fifteen…”

“Oooh!” wailed Peter and dashed from the room, the muscles of his plump bottom bouncing and rippling as he ran. I noted that this time Peter was more concerned with his punishment than his imposed indecency. A minute or so later, Peter came downstairs and back into the kitchen. He was now wearing only his white vest, socks and sandals, and was carrying a hairbrush, which he strategically held over his groin.

“Go into the sitting room,” instructed Peter’s mother, “ and put the hairbrush on the coffee table, then bend over the arm of the settee and wait until I’m ready.”

Peter quickly turned and left. Once again, I noticed the rippling motion of the well-developed muscles of his bottom as he moved. Peter’s mother seemed to be in no hurry to deal with her son as she continued to finish doing a few jobs around the kitchen. After about fifteen minutes she said, I suppose it is about time to see to Peter,” and walked towards the door.

I was in a tricky fix. As you will have realised by now, I was not the most confident of girls. Despite all that had gone before, I did not think I could take it for granted that I could walk through to the sitting room to view Peter being spanked. Always before I had already been present before the spanking started. Mrs Hews might consider it presumptuous for me to put myself forward without permission. So, I hesitated in an agony of indecision and frustration. I just didn’t have the pluck to follow her without some encouraging sign.

“Well, Susan, don’t stand there like a ninny,” Mrs Hews said at the door, “come through and see the fun.”

I needed no further encouragement and without even pretending indifference, I leapt after her.

The first thing I saw when we entered the sitting room was Peter’s bare bottom bent over the padded arm of the settee. I glanced towards the coffee table alongside. On it was a wooden hairbrush with a smooth oval back. I edged past this and took up an advantageous seat in the armchair to the right side and slightly behind Peter’s settee. From here, I could see not only his all-important bottom, but also his face should he turn towards me. He did turn, but not to look at me but at the coffee table where his mother would reach for the hairbrush. But for the moment, Mrs Hews left that implement where it was and instead looked disapprovingly at her son’s bottom.

“You should have put a cushion on the arm first, Peter. I want your bottom sticking right up. Do it now.”

“Oh Mummy!” griped Peter, but he stood and picked up a cushion, which he placed on the arm of the settee before leaning back over it.

“Hm,” Peter’s mother said, clearly still critical of his child’s position. “You need another one yet. Here, “ she said, throwing one over, “put this under your tummy as well.”

Peter groaned, but put the cushion on top of the other and balanced himself over them. This time his upper body weight tipped him forward and, although he was tall for his age, his feet left the floor.”

“That’s better,” commended Peter’s mother.

I had been concentrating on Peter’s bottom during these manoeuvres and I now suddenly realised that Peter was glaring angrily at me. I flushed guiltily and turned away, and then decided that was pretty stupid in view of our relative positions, so I made myself look back into his eyes and then deliberately at his bottom. Mrs Hews picked up the hairbrush.

“Right, Peter, twelve I said, didn’t I?”

“No, Mummy,” came Peter’s outraged voice, “you said ten.”

“Hm, I’ve a good mind to give you the extra for all that messing about with the cushions, but I’ll let you off with ten really hard ones.”

Mrs Hews moved round alongside her child’s bottom and raised the hairbrush high above it. I risked a quick glance back at Peter’s face, but he had turned the other way. I looked back just in time to see the back of the brush sweep down and land with a resounding CRACK on Peter’s left cheek. As with the slipper, Peter’s mother left an interval of around half-a-minute between swats so the ten must have taken about five minutes. It seemed a lot longer for me and must have felt interminable to Peter as his upturned bottom was ruthlessly whacked: left, right and centre; up and down, until it was an intermingled, overlaying mass of crimson oval blotches and Peter was howling without restraint.

After the ten spanks, Peter’s mother told him he could go upstairs and spend the next hour in his bedroom and the crying boy ran gratefully fled from the room. Mrs Hews tidied away the cushions and about half-an hour later, my parents collected me with grateful thanks to Peter’s mother.

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Part 3

Once again, I felt inhibited from visiting Peter’s house after seeing him punished, but this time the days passed without Peter appearing at my door. I began to have a horrible suspicion that now our friendship-if so it could be called-was really over. My mother, tired of me hanging around the house, urged me to go over to see Peter, supposing that we had had some childish quarrel. At last, after a week of the holidays had gone by, I decided to brave the lion in his den.

“I’m sorry, Susan,” Peter’s mother said when I knocked at his door, “Peter is out with his cousin. Did you not know Michael was coming to stay for a while?”

“Er, no,” I said, my usual hesitant self.

“Oh well, do come around any time: I’m sure the boys would be happy to see you.”

I doubted it. The old adage about two’s company and three’s a crowd is especially true with children, and I guessed I was not Peter’s preferred companion. So once again, I mooched about by myself.

“Susan,” said my mother a few days later, “Dad’s firm is having an event this weekend and I am going with him. As it is in London, we shall have to stay overnight so I’ve phoned Mrs Hews and asked her to have you for the night.”

“But Mum …” I protested, but it was the only sensible solution and so on the Saturday I found myself at the Hews’ house with my pyjamas, toothbrush etc packed in a bag. The boys had clearly been told to stay at the house to entertain me, which they did as ungraciously as they could get away with.

Peter’s cousin, Michael, was about his age and nearly as tall, but otherwise they were not much alike. Michael had black wavy hair and a pale olive skin. his face was small and, I realise now, almost heart shaped. He had large very dark eyes, a button nose and a small mouth. his chin was rather pointed and he had deep dimples in his cheeks when he giggled, which he did almost incessantly. If he sounds very handsome, you’ve got the right idea. Michael was not at all like his sturdy cousin in build. He was very slender and although tall, a high proportion of his height was in his very long legs.

At the time, I was not much concerned with the boys’ looks, but more with their characters. I’d have been the odd one out in any case, but understandably Peter wanted to get back at me for witnessing his recent punishments and so the more uncomfortable he could make me feel the better. As I was a rather sensitive soul, this was not hard. But of course, there was a limit on how far Peter could go and I took comfort from the fact that he would not risk another spanking. Nevertheless, when we played ‘Monopoly’ he and Michael openly combined against me and cheated underhand by filching money for each other from the bank. The fact that I knew they were doing it only made it worse for me, but even I had an inhibition about openly sneaking.

I was glad when bedtime came and I could escape on my own to the spare room, Peter and Michael sharing. I read for a while and then turned off my light and soon went into a deep sleep. Suddenly, there was an earthquake and I was hurled from my bed. For several moments I was utterly confused, not knowing where I was or what had happened. Then through my daze and the enveloping bedclothes I heard the high boyish giggles and the patter of bare feet, and I knew that the boys had tipped me out of bed.

Children never realise how loud noises sound through ceilings. After the earthquake came the tornado as Peter’s mother dashed upstairs to see what was going on. The boys leapt for their beds as she appeared on the scene, but too late. Their part in my ‘falling’ out of bed was clear. For the time being Mrs Hews ignored them and tended to me, but apart from being startled and shaken there was nothing wrong with me. Nevertheless, Peter’s mother decided this was a very serious matter and said, “Right, Susan, lets go and see to those naughty boys.”

I needed no second invitation and followed her into Peter’s bedroom where the two boys anxiously awaited us, each well under the covers of his bed. Peter’s mother scolded them heartily. “Don’t you stupid boys realise Susan could have been seriously injured… earlier disgracefully inhospitable behaviour…silly giggling…rude beyond belief… disobedient… out of bed… utterly stupid… deserve to be punished. Get out of bed.”

The two boys reluctantly left the security of their bedclothes and each stood alongside his bed, Michael in pyjamas and Peter in knee length nightshirt. Michael’s lovely lower lip quivered and his big eyes brimmed with tears. “Please don’t punish me, Aunt Elizabeth, “it wasn’t my fault, Peter told me to do it. It was all Peter’s idea.”

“I’m sure it was, Michael,” agreed Mrs Hews and I saw Michael lower his eyes and smirk to himself. What a little actor, I thought. But Mrs Hews was still speaking. “And because of that Peter will be spanked both longer and harder, but don’t think you are getting off Michael because you’re not.”

“But Aunt Elizabeth!” Michael protested vehemently, all pretence of the sorrowful little boy disappearing as he changed tack in his defence, “Mummy never spanks me!”

“Don’t tell fibs, Michael, I know you’ve been spanked ever since you could walk, and your mummy has spanked Peter when he has been staying at your house. Don’t forget, your father and I are sister and brother so don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes.”

“Please, Auntie,” begged, Michael changing his tactics to a beguiling and penitent expression, “ I promise I’ll be good.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, child,” snapped Mrs Hews in an exasperated tone and quickly stepped forward, grabbed Michael by the arm and swung him around.

“Nooo!” yelled Michael, arching his back to keep his bottom clear of the expected smack. But Mrs Hews did not attempt to slap Michael; instead, she tripped the child’s feet from beneath him while seating herself on Michael’s bed. The result was that Michael neatly fell across Mrs Hews’ lap with an ‘Ooph’ of expelled breath.

“No! No! No!” yelled Michael as soon as he’d gasped more air. He was certainly a lot noisier than his cousin. I thought it was just as well the Hews’ detached house was surrounded by open country or the neighbours would have been thinking murder was being done. Michael also kicked and struggled wildly as he desperately tried to avoid the now certain spanking. Mrs Hews was well used to controlling her own sturdier son and had little trouble prevailing over the willowy Michael. She captured the child’s slim wrists in her left hand and pressed into the middle of his back, pinning him down, and then moved her right hand beneath the boy’s tummy to untie the cord on his pyjama trousers.

“Oh don’t take my jimjams down, Aunt Elizabeth! Not on the bare, pleeease!”

But Mrs Hews’ heartless hand had undone the knot and was now grasping the back of Michael’s trousers.

“Nooo! Tell that girl to go away!” Michael screamed, his voice rising even higher in pitch and yet louder in volume. He was ignored. His aunt pulled his pyjamas down over his long legs until they hung around his ankles.

Michael’s small round bottom looked a lot different from Peter’ more oval, ample buttocks. But Mrs Hews showed no second thoughts about spanking his slender nephew’s insubstantial cheeks. She raised her hand and landed a mighty slap right in the middle of Michael’s bottom. The consequent red handprint covered both cheeks.

“Yeeow!” yelled Michael, and straight away, there was a flood of tears.

“You really are a little cry baby, Michael,” chided Mrs Hews, “but your tears won’t wash with me. I am going to give you a long, hard spanking and you can cry as loudly as you like. It will not make the slightest difference to me. I know you’ve had plenty of spankings at home.”

Mrs Hews remained quite pitiless in her resolve as her hand beat a rapid tattoo on Michael’s small bottom. And Michael did cry just as loud as he could, yelling and screaming and kicking and struggling with wild abandon. His pyjama trousers were soon thrown across the room by the violence of his threshing legs. As his violent flailing continued, his aunt moved her right leg over and behind Michael’s knees so that his thighs were gripped tight between his aunt’s legs. Now the unfortunate child could only squirm ineffectually as Mrs Hews got to work systematically spanking his little bottom. Nothing, though, could curb the power of Michael’s lungs and he continued to screech at the top of his shrill voice as his lean cheeks were ruthlessly tanned a fiery red.

At last, Mrs Hews unhooked Michael’s legs and released him. Michael rolled off his aunt’s lap and onto the floor where he knelt, head down and red bottom up, his hands clutching the injured part and still howling ear-splittingly.

“For goodness sake, Michael, stop that infernal racket or I shall spank you some more. And get up and go and stand over there by the window with your hands on your head-quickly now!”

Surprisingly promptly, Michael’s penetrating wails subsided to a more acceptable level and he stood and moved to the spot indicated. As he did so, Peter’s mother advanced across the room towards her own child.

It may be that Peter was inspired by Michael’s show of resistance to dare to dig his heels in. For instead of submitting to a spanking, the boy put up his arms to fend of his mother shouting, “Leave me alone, you beast!”

“Why you insolent brat,” retorted his mother and made as if to slap him. Reflexively, Peter stepped back to avoid the blow, forgetting that he stood next to his bed. As the backs of his knees caught the edge, he lost his footing and tumbled onto the bed. In an instant, Peter’s mother had grabbed her son’s ankles and tilted them right up over his shoulders As Peter was wearing only a short nigh shirt he was left in a very exposed and undignified attitude. Worse, his mother proceeded to spank him in this, what I believe our American cousins call, ‘the diaper position’ (although I have never heard it called ‘the nappy position’ in the UK). At the time, I neither knew nor cared what Peter’s improper pose might be called, I only knew that it was a very rude one. But not even an expert like Mrs Hews could hope to maintain a sturdy boy in that attitude and spank him at the same time for very long, and after a short while, Peter’s mother tipped her son sideways and spanked him like that. Peter wriggled like a snake to avoid the slaps so his mother sat on the bed and pulled the boy into a new position. Peter’s legs were manoeuvred between his mother’s own, with Peter’s bottom positioned over his mother’s left thigh and hip. The top half of Peter’s body rested on the bed, beneath his mother’s left arm. Having wrestled Peter into a satisfactory posture, Mrs Hews now hooked her legs behind her son’s calves so that Peter was held in as helpless, though different, position as Michael had been in. Mrs Hews now had access to the whole of Peter’s bottom and his upper legs, and she proceeded to make good use of her advantage, spanking her son very hard. Soon, Peter was yelling, though nowhere near as loudly as Michael had.

After a time, Mrs Hews paused and blew on his hand. “Warm work this, “ he said, “my hand is becoming quite sore.” I thought that if her hand was sore, what must Peter’s bottom feel like, but kept quiet. Mrs Hews turned to Michael, whose tears had dried up quickly once his cousin had begun to be spanked, and who had been watching with eager interest. “Michael, go downstairs and fetch me the big wooden spatula hanging on a hook in the kitchen. ”

“Yes, Auntie, straight away, Auntie,” Michael answered with repellent obsequiousness and scampered off without delay. I watched his little red bottom disappear through the doorway.

“Oh please, Mummy,” cried a tearful Peter, don’t use the spatula on me. I’ve had enough.”

“No, you have not,” rejoined his mother, and landed a heavy handed slap on his bottom for emphasis.

Michael soon returned with the spatula, which he handed over to his aunt with a gleeful smirk at his cousin’s vulnerable red bottom. This must have annoyed Peter’s mother as she said, “I think I’ll give you a taste of this too, Michael, once I’ve finished with Peter.”

“Nooo,” wailed Michael, a fresh deluge of tears washing down his cheeks. “My bottom’s so sore.”

“Stop being such a feeble little coward, Michael. You’ve been happy enough to watch Peter being spanked. Put your hands back on your head and go and stand back where you were, but this time facing the wall.” As Michael turned to obey, Mrs Hews cracked the spatula across his bottom, which brought a fresh wail from the unfortunate child. “And keep your nose pressed right up against the wall paper. I don’t want to see your face, you unpleasant child.”

Having sent Michael on his way, Mrs Hews turned her attention back to her own child. The spatula was clearly a very handy implement. It was quite light with a short handle and a blade about the size of Mrs Hews own palm, over which it had several advantages. First, to judge from Peter’s reaction to its use, it delivered a much more penetrating sting. Second, I soon saw that with its extra length Peter’s mother could reach further down her son’s legs. And third, its use did not hurt Mrs Hews’ own hand.

Despite his aunt’s warning, Michael could not resist peeking over his left shoulder to see the spatula in action on his cousin’s defenceless bottom. But Peter’s mother was vigilant and yelled, “Face the wall!” which nearly made Michael jump out of his skin. And when Mrs Hews had finally finished with Peter and left him lying on the bed crying loudly, she advanced on Michael saying, “Right, little man, now for you.”

“Oh please, Aunt Elizabeth, “ begged the child, “I didn’t mean to look, honest.”

Mrs Hews actually laughed. “Oh, Michael, that is the feeblest excuse I have ever heard, even from you!”

Peter’s mother grabbed Michael and hauled him over towards his bed with Michael pulling away and imploring his aunt not to spank him. As usual, Mrs Hews remained unmoved by all entreaties and determinedly forced Michael into a similar position into which she had recently constrained Peter, except she did not bother to lock Michael’s legs. By now Michael was yowling loudly, but not half as noisily as he did once Mrs hews started plying the spatula. She worked over Michael’s small cheeks and then down and up his long legs. Peter managed to disregard his own troubles long enough to enjoy Michael’s. This spanking didn’t last such a long time, but by the time it was over, Michael’s bottom and thighs were well reddened.

“Right you two naughty boys,” Mrs Hews said to the crying children, go to bed and stay there.” This they did, as did I, and I, at least, slept sweetly till the morning.

I awoke to the sudden realisation that for once I should have to confront Peter and Michael straight after a punishment. I wondered how he they would react. I wasn’t much looking forward to it. I got up, washed, dressed and went downstairs.

Mrs Hews was alone. She welcomed me cheerfully and began preparing some breakfast. She asked me how I had slept, and then said, “I guess the boys would have been sleeping on their tummies.” she laughed and then added, “Speaking of those brats, it is about time they were up.” she went to the bottom of the stairs and called, “Wakey, wakey, lazybones! You have five minutes to get yourselves decent and downstairs.”

I wondered rather hopefully what might happen if they overstayed their time, but five minutes proved just long enough for the boys to wash and dress (no showers then). As I heard them hurry downstairs, I felt an acute and most unreasonable embarrassment. After all, they were the ones who had suffered the pain and mortification. I avoided their eyes as they came into the kitchen, though from a sideways glance saw both were wearing shorts.

“Good morning, boys,” Mrs Hews greeted them cheerfully. They mumbled a reply. I risked a quick look at their faces. Neither seemed the worse for their experience as far as I could see. “How are your bottoms?” Mrs Hews asked with a smile. The boys glanced at each other and muttered some answer. “Perhaps we should have a look?” Mrs Hews suggested brightly. Both boys looked horrified.

“Oh no, please, Aunt Elizabeth,” pleaded Michael, his eyes brimming with tears.

Peter’s mother laughed. “Only joking,” she said.

When my parents picked me up later in the day, my mother asked anxiously. “You did enjoy yourself Susan, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I enjoyed myself all right.”

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Part 4

The next day, Peter and Michael called round for me. They could hardly have been nicer and more attentive. Clearly, Peter’s mother had sent them out with instructions, for I was under no illusions about what their real feelings towards me might be. But we stayed together and played together without problems. Of course, this state of affairs could hardly last, and before long, all the old tensions in any triangular relationship reoccurred. Although the boys squabbled quite a lot, for there was no real friendship between them, I was generally the odd one out.

A few days after the bedroom spanking, we were again playing ‘Monopoly’ at the dining room table while Peter’s mother worked in the garden. The boys were back to their old habits of blatant cheating. Every time they passed ‘Go’ Michael, who was banker, would hand out about £500 instead of the authorised £200. And any ‘Chance’ cards they drew were always declared to be to their benefit. I was getting heartily sick of both the game and their incessant giggling and I was about to stomp off when I noticed that Peter’s mother was working by the French window which I was facing, but to which the boys had their backs.

“You’re both cheating,” I declared as loudly and as clearly as I dared without making it obvious I was speaking to anyone outside the room. To my chagrin, there was no reaction from Peter’s mother until Michael burst into his usual loud, high-pitched giggles when he looked up briefly.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire!” retorted Peter and stuck his tongue out defiantly.

I had rather hoped it was going to be Peter’s pants and bottom, that were going to be burning, but it seemed my ruse had failed. I carried on playing and they carried on cheating.

Suddenly, the French window opened and Peter’s mother stepped through. Before the boys had a chance to turn around, she had each of them by an ear. “Ow! Wow!” they yelled as she hoisted them out of their seats by that handy appendage until they were forced to stand on tiptoe.

“You two naughty boys have been cheating again,” she accused

“No! No!” they asserted

“Yes you have, I’ve been watching you through the window.”

Had she? Or had my loud accusation made her act?

“It wasn’t me, it was Peter,” Michael said, falling back on his usual excuse.

“He was the banker,” countered Peter, stung by the betrayal.

“It was Peter’s idea, Aunt Elizabeth. He made me do it.”

“Liar!”

“Liar yourself!”

“Be quiet! You are both equally to blame and you will both be equally punished.” Mrs Hews said.

“Oh please, Aunt Elizabeth, it really wasn’t me, ask Susan,” Michael said turning the full power of his large appealing eyes on me.

“Susan has no more say in this than you do, Michael. Now, you can both take off your shorts and then move your chairs to the alcoves either side of the fireplace with the seats facing the wall.”

The boys, sniping and snarling at each other, began to remove their shorts while Mrs Hews went back into the garden. I soon saw that Peter was wearing white pants and that Michael’s pants were plain pale blue. Still bickering, each boy moved his chair to the arched recess either side of the fireplace. These were empty as the chairs were usually placed there when not in use, though normally with the back towards the wall, whereas now the backs of each chair back stuck out a little way into the room. I wondered what was going on. Would they have to sit there facing the wall?

Mrs Hews returned carrying several switches. Clearly, she had earlier been trimming the hedge, which was unlucky on the boys. When Peter saw the swishy sticks he gulped, but remained silent. Michael’s large eyes opened even wider and he said in a trembling treble, “Oh Aunt Elizabeth, you’re not going to use those on us, are you? Mummy and Daddy would never hit me with a stick.”

“Don’t lie to me, Michael. I happen to know that your father keeps a cane that he has used more than once on both your brothers and you. And if you whine and tell tales at home the way you do here, I’m surprised he hasn’t used it more often. In fact, I may suggest to him that he does! ”

“Oh no, Aunt Elizabeth! Please don’t do that.”

“I’ll think about it. For now you two boys can take your pants down and bend over the backs of those chairs with your hands on the seats.”

“Oh don’t make me take my pants down!” bleated Michael

“I don’t see why we have to be punished in front of her,” Peter argued, scowling at me.

“Susan has a name, Peter, as I have had to tell you before. And I advise you both to stop making silly objections before I become really cross!”

Under this implicit threat, the two boys turned away from me and reluctantly began to pull down their pants.

“Right down to your knees!” Mrs Hews insisted, as the boys tried to get away with uncovering as little as possible. “And roll up your shirts out of the way.”

With understandable unwillingness, the pair complied with the degree of exposure demanded by Mrs Hews and when she was satisfied, they moved forward to take up their positions behind and over each chair. Although tall for their ages, both had to stand on tiptoe to put himself right over the chair back. So there they were, Michael’s small round bottom over the chair on the right and Peter’s meatier cheeks over the one on the left. Between them, in front to the fireplace, stood Peter’s mother, holding one of the switches. She cut the air with the stick and it made an awful whooshing whistling sound. Both boys jumped involuntarily and their bottoms twitched in a reflex response to the sound. Mrs Hews moved to Michael’s side and tapped his shrinking cheeks with the switch.

“Please, Aunt Elizabeth, I prom… Ow!”

Hardly raising her arm, but with plenty of wrist action, Mrs Hews flicked the switch across Michael’s lean cheeks. It clearly stung considerably and a red mark was left across both cheeks. Mrs Hews flicked her wrist again. “Youch!” yelled Michael and a second horizontal line lay alongside the first. A third stroke immediately followed. Michael cried “Yeeow!” and burst into tears, but Michael always cried easily.

“Stay there, I’ve nowhere near finished with you yet,” Mrs Hews said ominously and crossed to her own son. She tapped Peter’s solid rear and then swished the stick quickly down. Peter gasped as the red streak was imprinted on his bottom. A second weal was soon laid alongside. On the third stroke, the stick broke. “Hm, I shall have to take that one again,” commented Peter’s mother and she picked up a fresh switch. After cutting the air, she cracked it swiftly down across Peter’s bottom. Peter yelped, but remained dry-eyed. Mrs Hews crossed back to her blubbering nephew.

“Please, Aunt Elizabeth, no more, please,” grizzled Michael.

“Don’t be silly, child, I know the cane hurts a lot more than this.” And having dismissed Michael’s plea for mercy, Mrs Hews laid three measured strokes across Michael’s slim buttocks while he shrieked wholeheartedly. “Stay there,” Mrs Hews repeated, and crossed back to Peter. Three sizzling strokes of the switch cracked across his plump cheeks. He cried out at each one, but certainly made a lot less noise than his cousin. Mrs Hews returned to the howling Michael, but at the first rap, the rod snapped. “You’ll have to have that one again,” Mrs Hews said.

“Whaaah! No! It’s not fair. I hate you!” bawled Michael.

“Your opinion of me is of no concern, Michael,” his aunt said calmly, as she picked up a replacement stick, “but I am telling you to keep a civil tongue in your head if you don’t want extras.” And with that, she swiftly swished Michael three times. On the third stroke, Michael straightened and clasped his hands to his striped rear.

“Right, Michael, turn around.”

“Naahh! Nooh! No!”

“Do it, Michael, or you’ll be getting a really sound thrashing.”

Reluctantly, Michael turned round.

“Hold out your hand.”

“No, Aunt Eliz…”

“Now!”

Michael held out a shaking right hand and before he could blink the switch had smacked across his open palm.

“Aeiouch!”

“Now the other one.” his aunt said relentlessly.

“Oooh,” moaned Michael, but he obediently, though reluctantly, opened his left. Once more the stick flicked across his fingers.

“Now, bend back over the chair and next time don’t you dare move until I tell you.”

Peter’s mother now returned to her son. Of course, neither boy could see the other as the main body of the chair and therefore their heads were hidden in the alcove, but Peter would have heard all and guessed what was going on. I doubted whether he would get up without permission. And in any case, he was rather tougher than his cousin. Nevertheless, the three sharp strokes he now received must have stung like blazes. Or rather, two and a half, because the stick broke again on the third whack. As before, Mrs Hews selected a new switch, but this broke on the very first time of using! Again Mrs Hews chose a stick, and at last the third-or fourth-or fifth-depending on your method of counting-stroke was delivered.

By now, both boys’ bottoms were covered with thin red weals. The first strokes had been laid on so that the lines ran in parallel horizontal lines, but the later ones, either by chance or design, had been at a slight angle so that they criss-crossed the boys’ bottoms.

Mrs Hews went back to Michael. Keep a firm grip on the seat of the chair, Michael,” she advised firmly, but not altogether unkindly, “and you won’t be tempted to get up before I’ve finished. These will be the final three unless you misbehave.” After the warning was delivered the whipping as the switch whizzed through the air three times leaving three more red marks across Michael’s slim bottom cheeks. “Stay there until I tell you to get up,” cautioned Mrs Hews, before moving back to Peter and letting him have the last of his punishment.

“Right, you two,” Mrs Hews said to the two tearful boys as she stood back to survey the results of her work.“ You can both straighten up and rub your bottoms, but then get up on your chair and stay there, hands on heads, facing the wall, until I tell you to get down.”

Boohooing, the miserable pair did just that, much to my amusement, and there they stayed for the nest half-an-hour while Peter’s mother brought us in tea and cake, which we ate at the table while playing cards. After this, Mrs Hews sent the two boys up to their bedroom for another hour.

When the boys had gone, I screwed up my courage-never very great-to bring up a point that was puzzling me. “Mrs Hews, may I ask you something?”

“Well, you can certainly ask, Susan, but I may not answer,” he laughed. “What is it?”

“When you were - er - punishing the boys you told Michael that you knew the cane hurt more than that switch and I was - er - wondering - er…” I tailed off, not knowing how to complete my question.

“How I knew?” Mrs Hews suggested helpfully.

“Er - yes.”

“Well, you’re a bright girl, Susan, you work it out.”

I flushed at being put on the spot, but she was right: I was a bright girl. I thought a few moments.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, you said Michael’s dad had a cane, and if he has a cane, his father probably had one, and so he was probably caned when he was young, and you said you are his brother, so …” The logical consequence overwhelmed me.

“So I was probably caned as well,” Mrs Hews completed helpfully. “Well, you are right-quite the little Sherlock Holmes,” she said ruffling my hair. “But Richard was caned far more often than I. In our house, Dad dealt with Richard and my mother spanked me, but occasionally the cane was used when I had done something especially bad.

“You mean …” and again I hesitated.

“I mean I know what a sore bottom feels like just as well as those two upstairs. And I know something else about how they are feeling, because although I was often spanked in front of Richard, and he in front of me, it had been going on since our infancy and that part of it didn’t bother us very much. But one time when I was about Peter’s age, Richard had a friend of his round. I suppose I must have been showing off, because my mother got madder and madder, and then all of a sudden she put me across her knee, pulled my pants down and gave me the most awful spanking. I had never felt so utterly ashamed in my life before. I absolutely hated my mother, I can tell you.”

“But you…”

“Yes, I know I do. You see what my mother knew and I now realise, is that my pride would be hurt far more than my bottom. I was a stuck up little brat, enormously full of myself. She knew that would bring me down a peg or two, and so it did, for a time anyway! But after that, she rarely missed an opportunity of spanking me in front of someone or another, which I hated, of course.”

I had a job taking this in. Peter’s mother was a sophisticated adult with a forceful personality. I found it difficult to imagine her as a little girl having her bare bottom smacked. Consequently, I let the matter drop, having nothing more I could easily say. Soon after that, and before Peter and Michael returned downstairs, I left. As I had to visit the dentist the next day and after that Michael returned to his family with Peter, who was to pay a reciprocal visit, this was the last I saw of Peter for some weeks, and of Michael for even longer.

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Part 5

When next I saw Peter, he had enjoyed a long foreign holiday to see his father, whereas I had endured a wet week at an English seaside resort. In consequence, Peter returned with a golden tan, his hair bleached a shade lighter by the sun and full of boastful tales of exotic faraway places. I must confess to having been rather jealous. Peter also had a new, if temporary, friend. This was Tom, a boy of about our age who was staying with his grandmother about a mile away. Actually, I liked Tom, he being in character nothing like Peter or the awful Michael. Tom was friendly and good-humoured.

Tom was shorter than Peter, but well made without being fat. Rather, he was quite athletic. The most notable thing about his build, for me, was his very prominent and muscular bottom, which tightly stretched the seat of his shorts. Apart from that, he had very thick, straight, tawny hair, which he wore cropped short around his head so that he looked like Hollywood’s idea of a medieval pageboy. his face was round with fair skin, a multitude of freckles and pale blue eyes. He was thoughtful, in both senses, and his expression was often almost blank, but then he would spontaneously break out into an open broad grin.

One day my mother had a serious migraine. “Go and ask Peter’s mother if you can spend the day there, Susan. I’m sure she’ll give you your lunch and I can spend the day in bed to get rid of this dreadful headache.” Mrs Hews was perfectly willing for me to stay, but told me that Peter and Tom were off somewhere unknown. But I was quite happy with sitting at the kitchen table doing a crossword puzzle while Mrs Hews bustled about at his work throwing out occasional guesses to answer the clues. After about a couple of hours, there was a telephone call. I heard only one side of the conversation.

“Hello Mrs Anderson … Yes, I knew they were together … Where? … What! … Yes, I agree … Yes, I do, quite often in fact … Oh, I’m sorry to hear that … Yes, it must be painful … Well, yes, I suppose I could… Yes, but I think you should check with his parents… Oh, did you? Well I suppose he would agree then, but I still think it would be better if you phoned his … Yes. By the way, I must tell you that I have young Susan Jones here as her mother has a migraine, poor thing … No, she’s been here before with Peter …OK, then, I’ll leave it with you … Yes, keep Peter there until you’ve spoken with Tom’s mother … Yes, thank you. Goodbye, Mrs Anderson.”

“Peter and Tom have been caught scrumping apples,” Mrs Hews said grimly, and though the rest of the conversation remained unexplained, my curiosity was definitely caught. About ten minutes later, the telephone rang again.

“Hello, Mrs Anderson. How did the conversation with your son go? … Oh, he did … Yes, well obviously, so long as he is quite willing … Yes I do, always … No, I don’t keep anything in particular, whatever comes to hand really … Well yes, if you want to send it along I don’t mind using it … You explained about Susan? … Good, so that’s all right then …Yes, OK, send them along … Yes, and tell them not to dawdle or it’ll be all the worse! … Thank you, Mrs Anderson. Goodbye.”

This time all my attention was given to the conversation. Filling in the gaps, I thought it likely that the boys were going to get a spanking from Peter’s mother and that it was probable that my presence was not objected to, or so I fervently hoped.

A little over ten minutes later, the two boys arrived puffing and panting at the kitchen door. As soon as they were inside, Mrs Hews began to deliver a furious scolding. “Scrumping may be just a game to you, but it is stealing just the same.”

“We only took two each,” Peter disputed sullenly.

“Two or two hundred, it makes no difference to the crime. Miss Milton is very proud of those trees. She spends all her time pruning and spraying them, and she says you have damaged them.”

“We only climbed up and took two…”

“Will you stop interrupting me, Peter! Whose idea was it anyway?”

“Mine, Mrs Hews,” admitted Tom.

“Hm, well at least you have the honour to admit it. But you are both equally to blame and will be punished together accordingly, because you know your grandmother has asked me to deal with you, Tom, as she has bad arthritis in her hands?”

“Yes Mrs Hews.”

“And your mother agrees. However, I don’t know you or your family well, so if you feel at any point that you are being punished worse than you would have been at home, tell me and I shall stop, understood?”

“Yes, Mrs Hews.”

“Of course, your mother would then have the opportunity to finish punishing you when you go home. And I have also explained about Susan being here, but apparently your mother spanks you in front of your sisters and also your cousins when they are round.”

“Yes, Mrs Hews.”

“And you have something for me, do you not?”

“Yes, Mrs Hews.” Tom handed over a package.

“Very well, you two can take off your shorts and stand facing the wall either side of the dresser until I’m ready to deal with you.”

Peter gave me his usual baleful glare, but Tom’s eyes only flickered in my direction before both began to undo their shorts. Soon it was revealed that Peter was wearing white pants and Tom, to my delight, white Aertex. This was branded cellular cotton that, when stretched tight, as these pants over Tom’s jutting rear certainly were, was semi transparent. The two boys took up their positions either side of the dresser, which made two corners. Peter crossed his hands behind his back-or rather, over his bottom. his mother was having none of that and brusquely pulled them away and slapped first his bottom, and then his legs, several times. “And that’s just a taste of what you’ve got coming,” she said. Tom wisely kept his hands by his sides.

Whether Peter’s mother really was too occupied to punish the boys straight away, or whether, as now seems much more likely, this was just a ruse to keep the boys waiting and thus add a painful period of anticipation to the punishment, I cannot say for sure. Certainly, she busied herself around the kitchen, pausing every so often to add another smack to Peter’s tempting rear.

“It’s not fair, objected Peter, “you haven’t smacked Tom once yet.”

So much for friendship! But Peter’s mother must have felt the complaint to be justified because, few minutes later, as she passed Tom she delivered two sharp slaps to his thighs, and several times after that, others to his bulging bottom. Eventually though, the time came for more serious chastisement.

“Peter! Tom! Come over here.”

The two boys left their corners and moved to stand facing Peter’s mother. She proceeded to give them another long lecture on theft and vandalism. Tom’s face was impassive; bur Peter was his usual moody self, staring at the floor with a down turned mouth, which probably did little to mollify his mother. In the end, Mrs Hews told Peter to get across her lap, which, with a scornful shrug of his shoulders he did. “You really are a little brat, Peter,” his mother said crossly as she took down his pants.

I had seen Peter spanked several times by now, but I was in no way becoming bored with the experience. The sight of Peter’s cheeks changing colour from white, through pink, to red remained as agreeable to me as it ever was. I glanced at Tom to see how he was reacting to his friend’s spanking, but he seemed neither perturbed nor pleased at the predicament of his companion in crime. The spanking went on for a long time and, as usual, Peter’s show of disdain broke down long before it was over, and by the end he was kicking and crying true to form.

When Peter’s mother had decided that Peter had been spanked enough for the time being, she told her son to get up and stand where Tom had been and for Tom to take Peter’s place. Peter hopped from foot to foot rubbing his red bottom while Tom arranged himself across Mrs Hews’ lap. I was looking forward to seeing Tom’s pants come down and was not kept waiting long as Peter’s mother firmly tugged them over Tom’s protuberant bottom and along his legs. Tom did not resist or complain, but lay compliantly across Mrs Hews thighs. This docility seemed somewhat uncharacteristic to me, as Tom was a tough little boy and looked unlikely to be easily overawed by authority. Mrs Hews spanked away at the child’s cheeks without appearing to make much impression on that bulbous bottom apart from reddening it effectively. By the time she’d finished, Tom was giving out half-stifled yelps and beginning to wriggle, but that was all. When he was released, he could not help rubbing his hot seat, but otherwise stayed still. He seemed undisturbed by my own presence, even managing to give me a quirkily rueful grin.

“OK boys, go back and stand in your corners while I have a look at what Tom’s grandma has sent me.”

The boys shuffled across the kitchen, impeded by their pants around their legs. Mrs Hews opened the package and took out a coiled leather strap. She unwound it. It was about fifteen inches long, three inches wide and about ¼ inch thick. Its length was divided into three roughly equal parts. The first being narrowed and shaped to make a handle, the second section was a broad, straightforward strap and the third was split lengthways into three one inch strips. I would not then have recognised the word ‘tawse’, but this was a type of that Scottish instrument of classroom correction. But whereas Scottish schoolchildren were strapped on their hands; but I am getting ahead of my story.

“I understand this dates from your mother’s childhood, Tom.”

“Yes, Mrs Hews,” Tom replied from his corner.

“And it has been used on you more than once before now.”

“Yes, Mrs Hews.”

“I would guess it hurts a good deal more than the hand,” Peter’s mother said, testing the strap by slapping it lightly against his own palm.

“Yes, Mrs Hews.” Tom was a boy of few words.

Mrs Hews suddenly slammed the strap down on the table. Both the boys, and I nearly jumped out of our skins.

“Hm, most effective, I’d say.” Mrs Hews said calmly. Personally, I was still trembling from the shock. I could hardly imagine how the poor boys must have been feeling, standing bare bottomed and knowing they were to have first hand experience of the awful instrument. But Mrs Hews let them stew for a good while longer before she told them to come and stand in front of the table again.

“Now, as this is quite a harsh implement, I intend giving you only six whacks each across your bottoms.” (I doubted whether this was exactly a relief to the boys) “But first I am going to give both of you three good belts across each hand to remind you not to take things that do not belong to you.” Peter grimaced at this, but Tom remained pokerfaced as usual. Perhaps for this reason, Mrs Hews said, “You can go first this time, Tom. Stand over here and put your hand out.”

Still with his pants hanging round his knees, Tom moved and held out his right palm, but cupped it in his left, so that his hands were crossed. This, I found out later, was how he had been taught to receive the tawse on his hands by his grandmother, who had been born and brought up in Scotland. (I have since discovered that this method used to be common practice among Scottish schoolchildren as it makes it more difficult to dodge and avoid the full force of the blow, as well as adding to the effect as the leather hits part of the supporting hand.) Mrs Hews cracked the strap three times across Tom’s hands. Even he could not help screwing his mouth up and blinking. He shook his hands and rubbed them soothingly and then held out his palms again, with the left this time on top. Three more, solid whacks were given

“Now you, Peter,” ordered his mother.

Peter did not seem at all keen to take Tom’s place. He hopefully held out just his right hand.

“Do it the way Tom did,” his mother instructed.

Peter pulled a face but knew better than to disobey. I guess he was cheesed off with Tom for giving his mum this idea that she probably would not have thought of. He crossed his hands. The strap thwacked down. “Ow!” yelled Peter and dropped his hands.

“Don’t be stupid, Peter. If you do that again you’ll get extra.” Under this threat, Peter kept his hands in place for the next two and then again for the following three, although his hands shook in apprehension before each and he yelled loudly after every slap of the strap.

“I think you can both spend another five minutes in the corner while Peter composes himself before I strap your bottoms,” Peter’s mother said, as her son sobbed and rubbed his hands. The two boys returned to their positions either side of the dresser and I watched the minute hand of the kitchen clock creep round until the time elapsed. Mrs Hews told Peter to remain facing the while she instructed Tom to bend across the table. When the boy was in position, Mrs Hews swung the strap down so that it cracked loudly against the child’s bare cheeks.

“Ow!” yelped Tom. Clearly, the strap hurt a good deal if it made that hardy child shout. A broad crimson band was printed on Tom’s red bottom. Five more overlapping bands were added with Tom yelling louder with each one, and by the end, even that resolute boy was crying. Peter jumped involuntarily every time he heard the strap smack down. It cannot have been encouraging for Peter to listen to this without being able to see what was going on and when he was allowed to turn around to see tears running down brave Tom’s freckled cheeks. But Peter had to take up his position bending across the table for his own six stinging swats with the tawse. He howled loudly long before the end and, with tears streaming down his face, jigged up and down clutching his bottom when he was allowed to stand. After that, the boys were returned to their corners for a further humiliating spell with their red bottoms on display before they were allowed to make themselves decent and Peter was sent to his bedroom. Tom was packed off back to his grandmother.

The next day Tom told us that when he arrived his grandma made him take down his jeans and pants so that she could see the marks of Mrs Hews’ punishment. Mrs Anderson pronounced herself well satisfied with the result, but nevertheless sent Tom off to his room with some more smacks to his sore bottom, despite the elderly lady’s arthritic hand.

There was a postscript to this story that Peter’s mother told us about a couple of weeks later. She had been speaking to Mrs Anderson who told her that when Tom’s parents had come to collect their son the weekend after the apple incident, they had taken Tom and the tawse round to Miss Milton’s house. There they pulled Tom’s pants down and soundly strapped him all over again on his bare bottom in front of that aggrieved lady, though quite what the prissy spinster thought of this public retribution I cannot guess. Luckily for Peter, his mother did not follow that example.

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Part 6

The holidays ended and Peter and I went back to school. Each weekday I caught the bus to the nearest town of Wenford where I went to the girl’s grammar school, and Peter cycled the three miles to his boys’ private school at Farleigh Manor, which was in the opposite direction. We saw less of each other and, as far as I was concerned, there was never any sign of spanking. The events in the holidays with Peter and Michael, and then Tom, began to seem very distant. As September rolled on, I began to believe that my voyeuristic adventures were over.

One day towards the end of the month when I came home from school, my mother said, “Mrs Hews phoned to ask if you would go over and giver her a hand. She’s cleaning out a cupboard and is a bit scared there may be spiders. Do you mind going over to help? You don’t have to, you know. I told her you’re not too keen on creepy-crawlies yourself.”

“That’s OK,” I said with false courage, because it was true that I disliked bugs, “I’m sure I’ll cope.”

“Well don’t be too long. Remember what time we have tea.”

I changed quickly and hurried over to the Hews house. Peter’s mother probably did only want me to crawl in a dark, cobwebby cupboard, I shuddered, but I had this feeling that there might be more to her call than that. At first I was disappointed and Mrs Hews directed me to a gloomy closet, but no terrors lurked within and I was soon back in warm light.

“Where’s Peter?” I asked as casually as I could. “Is he not home from school yet?”

“No, his headmistress, Miss Bradshaw, phoned earlier. She told me Peter was to be given a detention tonight. It seems he and another boy have been bullying a third.”

“Oh,” I said. But my heart was racing. Surely, when Peter got home…

“He should be home soon,” Mrs Hews said grimly, echoing my thoughts, “and he’ll find a warm welcome awaiting him, I can tell you.”

This was better and better-except, there was the time factor. We ate early, as soon as my father returned from work, which meant… I began doing some calculations. How long was a detention? Peter would be unlikely to hurry home. What…?

“He’d better not be late,” Peter’s mother said, her words again coinciding with my own deliberations. He added, “It seems they pushed this boy’s head down the toilet. Would you believe that?”

Well yes, I would, knowing the sorts of things that went on in my own school, but I kept quiet.

“I told Miss Bradshaw she ought to cane the pair of them, but she told me the school does not believe in corporal punishment. I ask you!”

No need to ask me. I was a firm believer in corporal punishment, so long as I wasn’t the one getting it!

“But I gave her a pretty good idea of what Peter could expect and she promised to send him off sharp at the end of the forty-five minutes.”

My brain whirred: four o’clock finish school plus forty-five minutes detention plus collect coat, satchel, have a pee plus three miles cycle ride home, Peter should be here any moment! And right on cue, I heard him wheel his bike round to the shed.

Peter came apprehensively through the back door. He was wearing a green, belted gabardine raincoat, and green beret. His eyes focused on me.

“What’s she doing here?” he demanded, switching swiftly from apprehension to belligerence.

Peter’s mother ignored the question. “Take your mackintosh off.”

“But Mum…”

“Now!”

Pouting sulkily, Peter began to unbuckle the belt.

“And you can take that sullen look off your face or I’ll wipe it off for you.”

Peter managed to look marginally less surly as he unbuttoned his coat and took it off. Under it, he wore his winter uniform of green blazer, grey shirt, green and yellow striped tie, grey shorts, grey socks and black shoes. “I’ll go and hang my coat up in the hall,” he volunteered, beginning to move in that direction.

“No. Leave it on that chair. And take off your shirt and blazer .”

“But Mum…”

“Do it!”

“Send Susan home, please” wheedled Peter, adopting more conciliatory tactics. “She doesn’t have to be here.” Peter’s mollifying manner did him no good either as his mother simply ignored it. Peter put his blazer and shirt with his raincoat.

“Now your shorts,” Mrs Hews said implacably.

“No Mummy!” shouted Peter and he actually stamped his foot. “Tell that horrible girl to go home!”

Peter’s mother stayed surprisingly calm. “There is only one horrible child in this house, Peter, and that is the one who puts smaller boys’ heads down toilets.”

“It was just a joke. Anyway, he’s a horrible little sneak.”

“Shorts off, Peter.”

“Ooh!” moaned Peter, but he unbuttoned his shorts, stepped out of them and put them with his raincoat and blazer on the chair. He was now dressed in shoes, socks, his white school pants, vest and, rather incongruously, his green beret.

“And you had better take those shoes off as well; I don’t want you kicking me like you did last week.”

Last week! For the first time there was confirmation of the spankings that I felt sure went on when I was not around.

“It’s not fair,” muttered Peter, bending to untie his laces. The white pants stretched tightly across his plump buttocks. I enjoyed the sight while I could, confident that it would not be long before those pants were dangling down his legs. Peter took off his shoes and put them under the chair with his other clothes.

Mrs Hews sighed. “Do take off that beret, Peter. You shouldn’t be wearing it inside and in your present state of undress it makes you look very silly.”

“Oooh!” whined Peter, and snatched the hat from his head and put it with the rest.

“Good,” said Peter’s mother, calmly. Now I am going to give you a very sound spanking.”

“Oh please, Mummy! I won’t bully anyone ever again. We didn’t really hurt him and it was all Neil’s idea anyway.”

“Now who’s the sneak, Peter? Not that Neil’s part in this affair is no significance to me. I am sure his mother will deal with him appropriately.”

“No she won’t,” Peter said excitedly. “His mum’s expecting a baby really, really soon, it’ll be born any minute, Neil says, and so his mum can’t spank him properly because of the bump and stuff. And his Dad’s at sea ’cause he’s in the Navy. So it’s not fair for me to be spanked, is it? Not if Neil is going to get off with it.”

“Do stop twittering on, child,” Peter’s mother said wearily. “I’ve already told you that Neil is not any concern of mine, although I’d be happy to lend his mother a hand if she asks me! However, you are my responsibility and I am not going to let bullying go unpunished. Come over here and get across my lap.”

“Oooh, Nooo!” wailed Peter, and burst into tears.

This surprised me because Peter was generally rather brave, but I think that he had begun to hope for a last minute reprieve and when his hopes were dashed, the thought of what was bound to be a severe spanking overwhelmed him. Whatever the reason for the child’s distress, his mother was not impressed.

“Well I suppose that just goes to prove the old adage that bullies are always cowards,” she said bleakly. “You are worse than Michael.”

“No, I’m not!” Peter blazed back through his tears, stung by this insult to recover some of his usual aggression.

“We’ll see. Over my lap.”

With a final, for the moment, glare at me, Peter moved across the kitchen and bent over his mother’s lap. “And be a bit quicker next time,” snapped Peter’s mother, giving his left thigh a sharp slap. Then moved and pushed so that Peter’s position was so adjusted that his head slipped more towards the floor at one end and his feet left the lino at the other. “Good,” commented Peter’s mother in satisfaction, and she gripped the elastic waistband.

“Oh, do you have to take my pants down?” whinged Peter.

Silly question, as they were already halfway down his legs. Peter’s mother wasted no more time in getting down to giving her son’s bare bottom a sound spanking. her hand quickly connected with Peter’s unprotected skin leaving a pink print. The rosy spot spread across his cheeks deepening all the while. Peter’s grey-socked legs kicked the empty air as best they could, impeded as they were by the white pants around his knees. “Ow! Wow! Ouch!” squealed Peter and his head shook this way and that. “Mummy…Ouch… please… Ow… stop it… Youch … no more… Aieow… PLEASE!”

As usual, Peter’s pleading did him no good at all. His mother just kept on spanking very briskly, reddening her naughty son’s bottom with every hearty smack. Peter’s legs kicked more wildly and the vigour of his actions dislodged his pants from around his knees. They gradually made their way down his calves carrying with them one grey sock so that after a few minutes heavy-handed spanking they hung from one grey-socked ankle while the other leg was utterly uncovered, that sock having flown from Peter’s foot. Half a minute later, after a particularly energetic kick caused by a dazzlingly delivered slap, Peter propelled his school pants clear across the kitchen.

The spanking went on a long while after that with Peter kicking and crying strenuously. His mother remaining adamant in her determination to give her child a comprehensive tanning, which task she seemed to me to complete several times over, and presumably even more so for Peter whose bottom was on the receiving end of all that attention. At last, though Mrs Hews appeared to consider the task done to her satisfaction and released poor Peter who rolled off his mother’s lap and gently rubbed his bottom, jigging and boohooing with feeling.

“Right, straight up to your room, boy, and stay there. I’ll bring up your homework and something to eat later.”

Still crying loudly, Peter ran from the room, probably glad to be away from my prying eyes and his mother’s punishing hand. As for me, I saw that I should have been home for my own tea five minutes or earlier. I quickly explained to Mrs Hews who said,” “Yes, you be off now, Susan, but see if you can come back after you’ve done your homework. I may have some more bug dusting to do!” And she gave me a broad wink.

I hurried home. I was late for my tea, but in my house this was passed over with a mild admonition..

“Er, Mrs Hews asked me to go back and help her some more after I’ve done my homework,” I said.

“Oh really, Susan, I don’t think you can go back there again tonight,” my mother said, rather crossly for her, “You’ve already been late for your meal through dashing over there the minute you came home. You’ll have to stay in tonight.”

“But Mum…” I whinged. It was rare for me to be refused anything and I particularly wanted to go, as you may imagine.

Luckily Dad intervened. “I think you are being a bit unreasonable, Mary. Susan is getting to be a big girl and it is not far to the Hews’ house. Mrs Hews has always been very friendly to Susan and helps us out whenever we want Susan to stay there. I think it’s good she wants to do something in return.”

This made me quite the little hero, but, of course, my parents knew nothing of Peter’s spankings.

“All right, “ my mother relented reluctantly under the reasonableness of these arguments, “but don’t be too late home. It’s a school day tomorrow, remember.”

Normally I was diligent in my studies, but that evening I raced through my homework, making many careless errors on the way, which earned me a nagging from my Maths master and an unusually low mark in a History test, but nothing worse. As soon as I could I announced I was off to the Hews’ house.

“Hello, Susan, you’ve soon finished your homework,” Mrs Hews said when I arrived.

“Er, yes, it was only a few sums and some revision.” I glanced around. No sign of Peter.

“Peter is doing his homework up in his room,” Mrs Hews said, once again following my thoughts. “I’ll give him another ten or fifteen minutes before I call him down.”

How slowly time dragged for me, but I guess it must have been even worse for Peter waiting upstairs for the summons. Ten, twelve, thirteen minutes and seventeen seconds went by before Peter’s mother stood up and called, “Peter, come downstairs.”

Peter came. He glanced at me but said nothing. I think he must have known I’d been invited back and had decided to acquiesce in my presence, rather than risk further maternal anger by complaining. He was wearing striped cotton pyjamas and a woolly dressing gown, possibly thinking that these bedtime garments offered most protection-although he must have known from the start that any idea of defence was doomed.

Peter’s mother gave him another long lecture on the evils of bullying and then said, “Right Peter, go and fetch the clothes brush from the coat closet in the hall.”

“The clothes brush! Oh no!”

“Oh yes!”

When Peter returned with the clothes brush I saw it was definitely one up on the hair brush I had seen used once before. It was much longer, being almost rectangular in shape apart being rounded at the end opposite the handle. It was made of dark brown wood, highly polished with a patina of great age. It was, I later discovered, something of an heirloom, having belonged originally to Mr Hews great-grandfather, so Peter represented the fourth generation of bottoms to have been whacked by the instrument. He had clearly been punished with it before to judge from the respect with which he handled it.

“Please don’t use that on me, Mummy. I promise I’ll never ever bully anyone again.”

“Probably not, Peter, but I think that will be even more likely after you’ve had a dose of this. Now, take off your dressing gown.”

“Oooh ,” moaned Peter but obeyed without further argument.

“Now your pyjama trousers-right off!”

Peter sniffed unhappily, but again did not protest as his fingers twitched at the cord. He pulled at the bow and as it loosened the trousers fell to floor around his feet. He stepped clear of them and awaited further instructions from his implacable parent.

“We’ll go through to the dining room,” Peter’s mother announced.

We went: Mrs Hews first, Peter second and me bringing up the rear-or rather watching Peter’s rear! But what next? Peter and Michael had been memorably switched in this room, but why were we here? Was Peter to be bent over the polished round table? No.

“Fetch those two dining chairs, Peter,” Mrs Hews directed, “and put them so their backs are together. You know how; you‘ve done it before.”

Sniffing more loudly, Peter arranged the chairs as ordered so that there was a clear space around them.

“You know what to do next, Peter.”

Peter knelt on the seat of one chair, leant over so that his tummy rested on the two adjoining backs, and put his hands on the other seat.

“Further over than that, Peter. Grip the edge of the other seat. Don’t try and tuck your bottom out of the way.”

Peter obeyed, adjusting his position so that his bottom now stuck out further. his mother took up a stance by his left hip. “I am only going to give you six with this, Peter, “ he announced, “as I spanked you quite soundly earlier.” To judge from Peter’s expression, he did not think this sentence especially lenient.

Mrs Hews drew back the brush and then swept it swiftly down so that it smartly smacked against Peter’s stuck out bottom.

“Yeeouch!” screeched Peter.

An oblong band of hot red ran across Peter’s bottom cheeks. After a tense interval it was soon joined and partly overlaid by a second pattern that brought another shrill cry from its receiver. Another strained wait-and the flat back of the brush printed its shape in crimson. Peter’s hips twisted left and right and hot tears dripped from his face to the floor. A longer interlude, and wooden block beat against the schoolboy’s tender skin. This time it took even longer for Peter’s wriggling cheeks to be comparatively still, but then Mrs Hews swung the implement in a sharp arc and cracked it again across the defenceless rear of his son. By now Peter was wailing and writhing wildly . His mother waited a long time for him to settle down a little, and then whacked his really red bottom a sixth and final time.

Peter’s mother allowed him to escape to his bedroom without any corner time and the boy rushed off howling loudly and clutching a very, very sore bottom indeed.

About six or seven years later, when I was studying philosophy at university, I brought up the, ostensibly theoretical, question of whether a parent would be justified in beating her child for bullying a smaller child, since both instances depend on physical, rather than moral, superiority. To my surprise, two thirds of the other students took Mrs Hews point of view in the argument.

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Part 7

A couple of days later it was Friday. As there was no urgency to complete homework on this day, during the evening I often used to go along to Peter’s house, or he to mine. On this particular Friday, I went to his and when I arrived I found that he was already playing cards with another boy of his age.

“This is Susan,” Peter said ungraciously to the unknown boy, “She lives around here.”

The boy looked at me without interest. He had short blonde wiry wavy hair and pale blue eyes. He was shorter than Peter, but quite stocky. I wondered who he was.

Just then Mrs Hews came into the room. “Hello, Susan,” he said, “I thought I heard you come in. Peter’s introduced you to Neil, I hope.”

“Er, yes.” Neil? The name seemed familiar. Who was Neil? Of course! Peter’s pal from school-the fellow bully. But what was he doing here?

“Neil’s mum has gone into hospital to have her baby,” Peter’s mother said. “Neil’s grandma was going to look after him and his little brothers, but unfortunately your gran has had an accident, hasn’t she Neil, and so the boys are going to their friends’ houses and Neil is staying here for a few days.”

It was a comprehensive explanation. I remembered that the advanced pregnancy of Neil’s mum had supposedly saved him from a spanking for the bullying incident.

“Well, let Susan into your game, boys.”

“We’ve already started,” Peter said with continuing loss of enthusiasm.

“Well you can just already finish,” his mother said sharply, “or else!”

Peter decided not to press the point and picked up the cards and reshuffled. Actually, I was rather ill at ease and would gladly have left, but could hardly retreat with dignity now. And there was that interesting implied threat of “or else”.

The boys ignored me as much as they could so I felt pretty cold-shouldered. I supposed Neil might have been quite nice had he smiled once in a while, but he had a peevish down-drooping mouth and looked like a spoiled brat. On the other hand, the implication of what Peter had said about his escaping a spanking implied that he did receive them. I remembered some mention of a father in the Navy. Perhaps he was the spanking parent. Anyway, after a few desultory games of ‘beggar you neighbour’ I left as soon as I decently could. At least they didn’t cheat!

I was in a quandary for the weekend. Part of me wanted to stay clear and so avoid the humiliation of rejection, but experience had told me that two boys tended to end up in trouble. On the other hand (if you can have three hands) I recognised that Peter’s mother could not spank another mother’s kid just because the boy happened to be staying in her house. So I was both attracted and deterred at the same time. No wonder I was such a confused girl! In the end I steered clear of the Hews’ house on Saturday, but on Sunday morning I succumbed to temptation and walked over.

Mrs Hews was alone, reading the paper, when I arrived. “Hello, Susan,” she greeted me with all her usual warmth. “Good gracious, is it ten o’clock already! And those lazy boys are still in bed. I’ll give them a call.” she went to the bottom of the stairs and I heard her shout, “Neil! Peter! Time your bottoms were out of those beds unless you want me to come up and get them out myself-and you know what that would mean!”

What did “know what that would mean” indicate? Had the boys really been spanked already? It didn’t seem likely; Neil was a guest after all. And yet the implication was there. No, it was a joke, Peter’s mother had an odd sense of humour, as I’ve mentioned. But still… I resigned myself to never knowing.

The boys came downstairs, both wearing just pyjamas. Although it was now autumn, the house was warm and I thought they’d probably decided to come as quickly as possible. Mrs Hews didn’t seem to mind. The boys scowled a bit when they saw me, but said nothing. Mrs Hews put out bowls, milk and packets of cereal. The boys sat and moodily began breakfast.

“Cheer up, kids,” Mrs Hews said with a smile as he put the kettle on. “Pay no attention to them, Susan,” she said to me with undiminished good spirits, “they’re feeling sorry for themselves because I gave them both a good spanking last night.”

What!

“Running round upstairs at midnight! I’d already given them three warnings earlier, which was two more than I should, but then it was off with the pyjamas for a red bottom, wasn’t it Neil?”

Neil’s face blushed as bright red as his bottom must have done and silently glowered at his cornflakes. I glanced at Peter. He was looking sullen too, but it can’t have been as bad for him.

“Anyway,” chuckled Peter’s mother, “back to breakfast. You can have boiled eggs, Neil. Would you like one or two?”

“Two.”

“Two please’ in this house, young man! You’ll be getting a lesson in manners if you’re not careful. Remember, your mum said I was to treat you exactly the same as Peter while you’re here, and Peter’s has had several good spankings in front of Susan, haven’t you, Peter?”

“Yes. Erm-yes, Mummy.”

“Good. And how many eggs for you?”

“Two please, Mummy.”

“You see, Neil, even Peter has learned the basic rules of polite behaviour. Now, do you like your eggs hard or runny, Neil?”

“Runny,” Neil muttered, and then thinking better of defiance added a mumbled, “please.”

“Hm, you are living dangerously, Neil, but I’ll let you off this time as you are a guest of sorts.” Then he turned to me again. I think she’d decided to punish Neil by embarrassment rather than spanking. “Yes, Susan, there they were, these two naughty boys, running around stealing biscuits when they thought I was asleep, as if anyone could sleep with all the noise they were making! They soon found out how wrong they were when they came back upstairs giggling like a couple of idiots and found me waiting for them on the landing. That soon stopped them in their tracks-, ot so much giggling then, was there boys?”

The boys stayed silent and showed a concentrated interest in their bowls of cereal. But clearly Mrs Hews was not expecting a response from them because he answered his own question himself.

“No, there wasn’t. I sent them back into their bedroom with a smack each and then confiscated the biscuits, no cake or biscuits for either of you two for the rest of the weekend, by the way. Peter knew what to expect so I decided to deal with him first so that Neil here would know what was soon coming his way.

“Shut up telling her!” Neil suddenly muttered.

Peter gasped.

“Right, that’s it,” Mrs Hews said, taking the pan of boiling water off the stove and putting it safely away. “I will not be spoken to that way, Neil. Stand up and come over here.”

“No!” Neil said defiantly. “You can’t make me!”

“I’d have thought you’d have learnt better than that yesterday, Neil. I took your pyjama trousers down last night and I shall take them down again this morning.”

This was more like it! But what was with this brat? Surely he must know he couldn’t win against Peter’s mother. But he was keeping his bottom firmly planted on the seat of his chair and tightly gripping the underside of it. Peter was looking on with eager interest-for once he was in the clear. I wondered how Mrs Hews was going to resolve this stand off.

“I think you have been taking advantage of your mother’s pregnancy, Neil, and have been getting away with things too much, especially with your father being away. Peter’s daddy is abroad a lot too, but that doesn’t stop me from disciplining him when he needs it.”

All the while she was speaking, Mrs Hews walked around the kitchen table, sometimes in front of Neil and sometimes behind. Neil was looking increasingly nervous. I guessed that he had got himself into this position and now didn’t know how to get himself out of it and the stress was beginning to tell.

“But I understand that your father is more strict with you than your mummy, so no doubt there’ll be some catching up to do when he gets home. I believe the Navy is arranging a seat on a plane so he’ll be able to see your new brother or sister.”

Neil was becoming quite mesmerised by this little speech and the thought of a vengeful father arriving home. I could see that his hands did not grip so tightly as he tried to follow the pacing woman with his eyes.

“Of course, I don’t want to have to add to his troubles-”

Was Peter’s mother threatening merely to tell Neil’s father rather than dealing with him herself? I had expected better from her.

“-but …”

Her circuit had taken her behind Neil so that as she said this she was reappearing to the boy’s right eye. Neil had gripped the chair more firmly when Mrs Hews was out of sight, but as she came back into view the child relaxed slightly. Seizing her chance, Peter’s mother darted quickly close and pulled his hands from the seat. Having released the boy’s grip, she hauled him upright. After that it was the work only of moments to divest the boy of his pyjama trousers. Next, Mrs Hews sat her own large bottom where Neil’s small cheeks had been and the yelling Neil was stretched out on his tummy over Mrs Hews’ lap, his chubby cheeked bottom perfectly positioned for a sound spanking.

And a sound spanking is just what Neil got. When you consider that Neil’s bottom must still have been tender from his midnight spanking, Mrs Hews really slapped down hard. Experience was making me into something of a connoisseur of chastisement. I noticed that this time Mrs Hews adopted a policy of spanking repeatedly on the same portion of his target so that a hand sized part of Neil’s bottom rapidly turned a burning fiery red. This obviously hurt a good deal and he began yelling straight away , but Neil’s noisy dissent did nothing to persuade Peter’s mother to stay her hand. If anything, it had the opposite effect as Mrs Hews angrily ordered Neil to stop making such a noise and emphasized the instruction with even harder smacks to Neil’s bottom cheeks. Naturally, this only made him bawl even louder.

Neil struggled desperately under the onslaught of Mrs Hews’ hand. He tried the trick of putting his own small right hand over his bottom in an attempt to protect it. This was quite futile as Mrs Hews simply gripped his wrist in her own left hand and removed it leaving the target clear again.

Mrs Hews paused and called to Peter. I must admit I had been so taken up with the sight of Neil getting his bare bottom spanked that I had quite overlooked the fact that there was another witness. For the first time that I had been a spectator Peter himself was not in the line of fire! I noticed that far from being sympathetic to his friend or resentful on his behalf, his face showed only eager glee at his pal’s predicament-much as did my own, I suppose, when he himself was in a similarly perilous situation.

“Peter!” Mrs Hews said sharply, “go and fetch me the spatula.”

Peter promptly left his seat and went over to a pot in which there was a range of kitchen utensils.

“The big one or the small one?” he asked helpfully. Clearly there was no fellow feeling there enough to persuade him to try to protect his chum.

Peter’s mother considered while poor sobbing Neil remained poised across her lap awaiting his fate. “The small one, I think,” came the reply, “unless this insolent boy annoys me any more with his silly screeching, in which case I shall give him something that will really make him wail!”

So Peter brought back the small spatula with a look of plain disappointment. All the same, from Neil’s reaction when Mrs Hews applied it to his bottom and thighs, it was no mean instrument of punishment as Neil was soon kicking and crying convincingly. This time Mrs Hews made no complaint at Neil’s noisy reaction to his punishment, but simply continued with it regardless. After some time of spanking, Mrs Hews let Neil go. The boy danced about the kitchen clutching his bare bottom and howling with genuine feeling. After this, Neil was made to stand in the corner, still without his pyjama trousers for ten minutes, after which he was allowed to replace them and he and Peter ate their boiled eggs.

Later on in the day, long after the boys had dressed and Neil had recovered from his spanking enough for even the redness on the backs of his bare thighs visible under the hem of his skirt to have faded, a phone cal came from the hospital to say that Neil’s mother had given birth to a baby boy-as it happened, at just about the time Neil was receiving his spanking.

About a week later there was another post script when Peter told me that Neil’s father had indeed been given leave to return to this country to see his new son. Unluckily for the son he already knew so well, Neil, he heard about his bullying exploits at school and decided to take punitive action.

“He was furious!” Peter said, “He told Neil there is nothing lower or more loathsome than a bully. Then he made him take off his shorts and pants and bend over the arm of the settee. After that he really whacked his bottom with a brush. Neil said it was a lot, lot worse than when mum spanked him over here. And I saw the marks quite a long time after he’d done it and they were still very red. Neil said his bum was sore for ages after and he couldn’t sit down comfortably.”