by Mark Hall
Paola carefully closed her bedsit door behind her. The main house was big, elegant, early Edwardian; it was warm, dark, cosy and full of nooks and crannies. She'd been so nervous of it when she first moved in. It had been Magda's idea, Magda from church, half-Polish, another outsider. Magda knew that Paola, fresh from Italy, a language student, was desperate for a reliable place to stay, and she'd suggested Aunt Sarah.
Aunt Sarah wasn't a real aunt of course, but she felt like one, and Paola was used to having aunts. And yes, this was a good, stable place to live. Her parents would definitely approve. Perhaps Magda had been unaware of the full details? If not, those innocent blue eyes hid a mean streak. Or perhaps Magda believed Aunt Sarah's approach was what she needed? A firm hand, when she was far from home, on her own for the first time.
Paola closed the door, felt the warmth of the house, and its silence, apart from the long-case clock in the hall, and the click of ancient radiators warming up as the boiler came on, somewhere in the depths. She padded her way up the stairs. She could feel the thick red carpet, soft under her bare feet. She was only wearing her nightie. She was a comfortably-rounded girl, and it was a small nightie, reaching only to her mid thighs. But she wouldn't be needing more, where she was going.
Yes, this was fair. She'd invited Chiara round, the other Italian girl from the language school. Aunt Sarah had been out, and they were going to have a nice Italian evening, enjoy Italian food, make pasta - proper pasta, not stupid hoops in tins. They'd make a good salad to eat first, and talk about home. Chiara had brought her boyfriend, and that was the problem. Aunt Sarah was kind, caring, loving, motherly, and absolutely forbade any men in the house without her prior permission. Since Aunt Sarah was out, and Chiara was her best friend, Paola hadn't been brave enough to say anything. She'd hoped they'd get away with it. But she'd heard Aunt Sarah come back, and heard her landlady in the kitchen. And if she could hear Aunt Sarah, Aunt Sarah could definitely hear Emilio, who's voice was deep and quite loud. He was a gentleman, but that wouldn't improve the situation. Paola had spent the rest of the evening acting as though nothing were wrong, but knowing, with growing certainty, that Aunt Sarah would be giving her a good scolding for her misbehaviour, and that the good scolding would be followed by an unpleasant interaction of her bottom and Aunt Sarah's slipper. Oh this was horrible! And the worst of it was, Paola's mother, her grandmother, and any of her aunts would approve completely of what was about to happen. Paola should really have asked.
Paola paced up the stairs, reluctantly, slowly, hanging back, and yet knowing she had to keep going forwards. Woe betide her, were she late. Aunt Sarah dealt with such matters in her workroom at the very top of the house. It offered some privacy from the other guests and tenants. Paola thought about what Aunt Sarah had said that morning. She hadn't scolded at length; she'd merely reminded Paola of the rule. Paola had been here long enough to know that breaking such rules was unacceptable. The matter would be dealt with at nine that evening. And Aunt Sarah had left Paola to think about how it would be 'dealt with', all day. Her work had been decidedly erratic as a result, and she would be glad to get this behind her. Behind in every sense! Paola clutched her behind, and was grateful it was well-padded. She'd survive, she always had.
Paola climbed the first flight, and holding the dark, polished ball on the newel-post of the stairs, pivoted herself round for the next flight. She would survive. Except she remembered thinking this same thought the last time she'd made the trip up these stairs. And she remembered thinking, a little later, as she lay face down over her landlady's lap, that it was the most awful thing that had ever happened, and she'd never, ever misbehave again if the treatment didn't kill her. But it wouldn't take long, would it? It was just a few minutes. It would soon be over...
Two landings further up, Paola slipped through the door, up the final flight, along the dark corridor, and knocked on the end door. Then she stood obediently, just to the right of the door, her nose to the wall, her hands on her head, waiting. She hated waiting. She never had any idea how long Aunt Sarah would keep her waiting. And all the time, her legs felt bare, her bottom felt vulnerable, with only her thin nightie, and she thought about what would happen. The slipper. It would already be in the room, sitting on Aunt Sarah's mantelpiece, while Aunt Sarah worked on her accounts. The spare chair would be waiting in the corner, or perhaps brought out ready, to the middle of the room.
Paola heard the chair scrape. No, the chair hadn't been waiting, but it was now. The door opened.
"Paola, good girl, come in. I'm ready for our little discussion." Aunt Sarah always sounded kindly. She was kindly. It was just kindness with teeth. She knew girls need discipline.
Paola knew it too, but it didn't make it any better. "I'm sorry..." she began.
"I know dear," replied Aunt Sarah. "But I have to make sure you're really, properly sorry. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes Aunt Sarah," Paola replied, head down.
"Sorry enough that it won't happen again."
"It won't, Aunt Sarah, I promise..." But it was too late for promises.
The scolding was quickly over. Aunt Sarah was taller than Paola, even taking into account her sensible brogues versus Paola's bare feet. Paola could see her landlady's firm legs below her dress. Aunt Sarah dressed nicely, wearing business-like skirts and blouses, and for her age she was trim and fit. She played tennis in the Town League for Mature Ladies, and had ridden horses a lot in her youth. She retained effortless fitness, coupled with matronly hips. It was, Paola thought, a scarily-efficient combination. Her old school-friend would say with wide eyes that it was deadly combination. Paola nearly giggled at the thought, but stifled her emotions as the scolding was now coming to an end, and she was in quite enough trouble already.
Aunt Sarah went to the mantelpiece, and picked up her slipper. It was a ladies' sandal really, with a firm leather sole, rounded at the edges, and quite hard. It was not particularly light. It was formidable, and Paola's eyes followed it anxiously, as Aunt Sarah crossed the room, holding it by the heel, in her right hand, and patting the sole of the toe end against her left palm. She sat, and raising her arms out of the way, said to the girl, "Paola, you know what to do."
And Paola did. She moved obediently to Aunt Sarah's right side, hitched up her nightie, and carefully let herself down over Aunt Sarah's strong legs, which were positioned perfectly to meet her. What happened next would be out of her hands. Just a few minutes to get through, she thought.
Aunt Sarah carefully lowered her arm onto the girl's back, grasped her hip, and raised the sandal. And then she began to spank. Aunt Sarah was not a cruel woman. She didn't spank as hard as she could. But she made each smack tell. The idea was to make the girl realise how inappropriate her behaviour had been. To give her time, and incentive, to think it over; to make sure she understood the message and would not forget. And, of course, to give her a chance to get rid of her guilt, because Paola was a good girl, Sarah knew that much. And good girls feel guilty. She had no doubt Paola would have been feeling guilty all day, and would feel guilty for all eternity if no one held her accountable for her actions. And there was nothing like tears for washing away guilt, thought Sarah, as she spanked, firmly. The idea was to make this sting, and sting enough that Paola very much regretted her behaviour. Not such agony that she couldn't think, but a pain unbearable enough that she very much wouldn't want it to happen again. And then the point would come where Paola could not bear another smack, and was desperate. And that is when Aunt Sarah knew she would grip her naughty tenant all the more tightly, and carry on for another half a minute, despite the inevitable kicking, squealing, struggling, and promises. And the tears. Half a minute is all it would take, but Paola certainly wouldn't forget that half-minute. Time is relative, and to Paola, it would feel like an hour... but it would do her good.
To Paola, over Aunt Sarah's knee, her landlady's undoubted expertise was no comfort. She knew Aunt Sarah's approach. She had known she was in the hands of an expert the first time that Aunt Sarah had spanked her. The first spanks would be slow, hard, one on each side of her bottom, and would sting desperately. The sting would remind her how real a spanking is, that it hurts far more than you remember, that it is unbearable. Paola would know, after the first two smacks, that she couldn't bear it were there to be another smack. But of course that was just the beginning. Then Aunt Sarah would start in earnest, and all of Paola's ideas of taking it like a big girl, keeping quiet and dignified through her punishment, would be out the window. Instead she would yelp at each smack, and kick her legs, and she would find herself promising, promising to be a good girl for ever, and begging Aunt Sarah to stop.
And after a minute or so it would stop, and Paola would lay, gulping back sobs over her landlady's lap, while Aunt Sarah lectured her on how bad she had been. And she had been bad! She deserved the spanking, she knew. So she would lay there, waiting for it to begin again, wishing it were over, but knowing it couldn't be, until she'd cried out her guilt. And it wasn't so bad, laying over Aunt Sarah's lap, when she wasn't actually being spanked. She felt cared-for, in secure hands. She felt safe. But then the next bit of the spanking would start, and she'd be desperate, oh so desperate for it to stop, as the evil sandal lit flames in her bottom, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She would start to cry in earnest at that stage.
And then, when it was over, Aunt Sarah would hold her, and talk to her, calmly, stroking her bottom and telling her that she was a good girl really (which was true, Paola thought). And then after a brief business-like hug, it would all be over.
Sometimes, then, they'd go and make tea, and chat over the day. That was the good thing about spankings, Paola thought. They cleared the air, put all the bad stuff behind you, stopped you from feeling guilty, and above all, they stopped you from doing silly things twice!
But now, laying over Aunt Sarah's lap, Paola knew that nice cups of tea were in the future. For now, she could feel cool air on her bare bottom, and she felt, briefly, the hard leather of the sandal resting, cold, on her bottom. Then Aunt Sarah raised her arm...
Sitting, on her plump, hot bottom in the kitchen, fifteen minutes later, Paola watched her landlady put the kettle on.
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