“Why do you have to be such a BITCH?!”
The last word seems to hang in the still air for a moment, echoing in the tastefully decorated living-room. Freya puts her hand to her mouth, blushing, realising what she has just said.
“I, I’m sorry, I didn’t m-mean…,” she stutters, but there is no taking the words back. Well, the word, singular.
Her mother was already telling her off for the messy room, the overdue paper for Uni, the laundry piling up in her room. Now she looks at her daughter with a mixture of fury and hurt on her face. Freya feels a knot in her stomach.
She hadn’t really meant it, of course. She is just stressed, tired… and her mum is right. She is always right, it seems, the perfect mother, perfect housewife, perfect woman, perfect, perfect, perfect. How do you measure up to that? But as frustrating as she can be, her mother always means well.
And now… Well now what? Neither of them has said another word, and the longer it goes, the longer Freya is aware of the awkward silence, the burning fire in her cheeks, the tears already welling in her eyes.
“Mum…?,” she says, hesitantly.
Her mother raises a single digit, her index finger, as if to tell her to wait.
“Stay here, I’ll be back,” her mother finally says, and her voice cracks a little, just like Freya’s heart.
What has she done?
Her mother turns around and walks out into the corridor, her heels clacking on the hardwood floors. Freya chews her bottom lip, as she often does when she is stressed.
She sits down on the back of the white, velvet sofa, her arms crossed, her head bowed, feeling cold despite how warm the house is. Should she go after her? She doesn’t like knowing that she hurt her mum. But she was told to wait. Wait for what? They argue sometimes, but it’s never about important things, and she has never snapped like this. She doesn’t recognise herself, really. Swearing is not a habit of hers, and certainly not when she is at home. More lip chewing. Is her mum okay? Should she go and check?
She hears the click-clack of her mum’s heels coming back, and exhales the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
“Mum? I’m sorry…,” she says as her mother walks back into the room. Then she looks down. Her mum is holding what looks to be a hairbrush at first glance except, strangely, it has no bristles. Just a small, flat piece of wood on both sides, with a curvy edge. Freya looks back up at her mum.
“Mum?…,” she asks again, and her voice trembles a little.
“It took me a while to find this,” her mother says, holding the strange wooden object up.
“What is it…?” Freya asks.
“This, young lady, is a paddle,” he mum says, “Your dad got it for me years ago. I think this issue we’re having is about discipline, and that’s what paddles are for…”
Freya blushes, “Mum? What are you even saying?!”
“I’m saying that sometimes, things start to slide: standards, attitude, behaviour…” Her mother says, “and unless it is firmly addressed and corrected, it only gets worse. Believe me, I know…”
“But the… Paddle…”, Freya hesitates, “do you mean…
Her mum looks at her more sharply. “What I mean, Freya May Davies, is that you are going to get a proper spanking.”
Again, one word, a heavy silence, as if the universe is taking a breath.
“B-but…” Freya stammers, getting up from the back of the sofa and reflexively putting a hand to her backside. She has never been spanked before, and at twenty years of age, she is much too old for that anyway! And why would her dad buy a paddle in the first place?!
“But nothing, Freya,” her mother snaps, “You are behaving like a little brat, being lazy with your chores, letting your work slide, and, most of all, I will not be talked to like that, especially not under my own roof.”
“No, wait, mum! I’m sorry! You know I didn’t mean it…” Freya says, a few tears already rolling down her face, “Y-you’ve made your point…”
Her mother crosses her arms, paddle still firmly in hand.
“You are going to come over my lap,” she says, calmly, “And you are going to be spanked until I am certain that your behaviour will improve.”
Freya is frozen, speechless. She can’t even think. Surely, this is not happening. A spanking? No, not a chance.
She barely notices her mother taking her hand and leading her to the front of the sofa, where she stands, dumbstruck, as her mum sits down and flattens her tailored skirt.
The paddle now lays on the arm of the sofa, she notices absently. Her mum is talking to her. What is she saying? The rush of blood in her ears, the cacophony of thoughts and panic in her head, that’s all she hears.
“What?” she asks, softly.
Her mother sighs, “Your jeans,” she repeats, “take them down.”
“Mum, I—” she starts, but her mother raises a finger again, silencing her; then she flicks it down towards the grey pair of jeans that feel like the only armour that Freya has right now, her last line of defence.
“Down,” her mother says, and even though it is not said unkindly, there is no arguing with her tone.
And so Freya reaches for the buttons of her tight, high-waisted jeans. Reality comes crashing down. This is happening, she is going to get a spanking. A spanking! This is like that saucy novel she read once, only in that case the woman was enjoying it very much. Freya doesn’t think she is going to enjoy it at all.
Soon enough, she has placed herself over her mum’s lap, her jeans down to mid-thigh, thin, light blue underwear the only thing protecting her dignity. She is glad nobody else is in the house. Would it even make a difference? Could she feel any more humiliated? Would she—
The thought is interrupted by the bite of her mother’s hand slapping her bottom. It’s a sharp, vicious pain that jolts through her like an electric shock, and instantly more tears come streaming down her face.
She cries out, more in surprise than in pain, more out of shame than hurt. Another slap, another shock, and another, and another. The pain mounts, so does the humiliation. Her mum keeps raining palmfuls of shame over Freya bouncing bottom as the girl squirms and frets.
“I. Will. Not,” her mother says, slaps punctuating each word, “Allow. You. To. Let. Yourself. Down.” She pauses, her hand high in the air. “Understood?” she asks, and the palm falls down once more, striking Freya’s sit-spot like a fiery hammer before she can offer an answer.
“Understood!” Freya cries out, tensing, clenching, reaching out to cover her painful rear. “Mum, please!”
But her mother moves her hand away, and reaches for the paddle.
“Pleased, please, please, Mum!” Freya begs. “Please don’t do this.”
Her mother ignores her, and instead pulls her knickers down on one side, then the other in turn.
“Mum! Not on the bare! Mum!” Freya tries, kicking her legs. A swift and merciless swing of the mean little paddle puts an end to the squirming. The panties come down fully. Freya doesn’t see it, but her bottom is a bright pink already. She can certainly feel the heat radiating from it. She thinks about protesting some more, but the sting of that last slap makes her forget that idea.
“It’s important that we go through with it, darling,” her mum says in the most matter-of-fact tone. “It is the only way it will stick.” A pause, then more quietly “Believe me.”
Then Freya wonders. Was her mum not always this… Perfect? Has she been punished before? Was her behaviour corrected, as she put it? She thinks about the paddle, about her dad buying it… She shivers. She doesn’t want to know. And yet she does. Her mother? Spanked? Did she find herself over a lap, just like Freya is now? Her bottom exposed, her cheeks on fire, begging for it to stop?
The paddle dances its evil jig on her behind, and with each stroke it leaves a mark, on Freya’s sore flesh and in her very core. She has never known pain like that. She has never felt more sorry. She pleads, apologises, cries, cries, and cries. Her bottom is crimson, it is burning, it is throbbing, and the heat fills her whole.
Suddenly, she realises the smacks are not coming anymore. The silence shyly comes back to the room after the concerto of slaps, smacks and tears. Freya still sobs, but quietly now, mumbling little apologies. After a while, her mother sits her up over her lap, and Freya winces as her sore bottom presses against her mum’s legs.
She feels the warmth of arms surrounding her, and she buries her face in her mother’s embrace. She stays there a long time, her bottom still aching, but slowly going from searing pain to a more comforting warmth. She sighs, and feels her shame, stress, worries weigh less on her shoulders.
“I’m sorry, mum” she says again, and her mother keeps stroking her hair gently.
“It’s all over now, darling,” her mother whispers, “I’ll go an get some lotion, that’ll help sooth the pain.” A pause, then she adds, “Believe me.”
