Approaching my second year at university, I was really stuck as to accommodation. A planned house share had fallen through, many of the other options were too far away from the campus (I was a music student and needed to practice regularly) and there was no space left in the halls of residence.
Finally, I came across a small ad in a newsagents advertising a room. The positives: it was cheap and about two minutes walk from the rehearsal rooms. The negatives: it was in a family home, and that didn’t quite fit in with my bohemian aspirations of student independence!
I finally decided to call the number on the card anyway – as I say, things were getting desperate and I had nowhere else to go once the term ended. The woman on the other end of the line seemed as surprised to get the call as I was to make it; in retrospect, I think she’d been hoping for (and expecting) a female lodger.
Her name was Grace, a single mum of West Indian origin, and she had two young daughters; Shawna was seven and her younger sister, Candy, was five. I hadn’t expected children and my heart sank further as Grace began to recite a plethora of house rules – this was going to be like being at home again!
The room itself was fairly large, with a desk suitable for studying, but there was no en suite so I would have to use the family bathroom and toilet like everyone else. In the end, I only took it because of that nagging voice within, telling me I had no other choice.
The children were mixed race – their white father had done a runner with another woman, I gathered later, and he had no contact with his original family. Both girls were prone to giggling but were generally amiable and well-behaved. I guessed Grace kept them on a pretty tight rein.
I’d only been living there for a couple of weeks when it happened. We had just finished dinner, during which Candy had been pretty obnoxious, and as her bedtime approached, she overstepped the mark once too often.
Grace exploded and drew Candy towards her, staring her straight in the eye as she scolded. For a moment, I thought that would the end of it and the girl would be simply sent to bed. But suddenly, Grace’s hands reached adeptly under the hem of Candy’s dress – and came down again clutching her knickers. They were sky blue and I noted a very slight skid mark on the seat.
Without another word, Grace flipped her daughter across her knee and turned up her dress at the back to reveal a small but sturdy coffee-coloured bottom. As I was seated opposite, I got a grandstand view.
Grabbing Candy around the waist, Grace gave her a soundly smacked bottom. It didn’t last very long but left the coffee well roasted and by about the third smack, Candy was crying bitterly. Once the punishment was over, Grace sent both girls to get ready for bed, Shawna following in short order as she didn’t dare to disobey.
After the crying had receded upstairs, Grace came over and sat next to me – quite close – on the sofa. She apologised if she’d embarrassed me, but added that it was a sight I’d have to get used to. I was by no means averse, however, as the straining material of my trousers was reminding me.
I’m sure Grace must have noticed my reaction because she then began to ask me about my own childhood, in particular the smackings I had received from my own mother until little more than around five years ago. She asked me about my spankings in great detail and I found myself blushingly mortified and very hard at the same time. I was relieved in all senses of the word when she finally went off to give the children their bath.
Over the next two years, I saw both girls get their bottoms smacked pretty frequently. After each time, I would get the third degree from Grace, who seemed to get as much pleasure from the blushes on my upper cheeks as the ones inflicted on the lower ones of her little girls.