My sister and I were always very close. She is just two years older than me and as she was something of a tomboy, we were thick as thieves throughout our childhood – exploring together, laughing together – and getting into trouble together.
In that regard, our mum was the main disciplinarian. Although we both occasionally went over our father’s knee for a slippering, I got the feeling that it was never a job he relished and that he much preferred his wife to smack whatever bottoms were needed when called for. Again, the slipper was her favoured implement – it made a big, dramatic sound and hurt a bit, and we cried, but corporal punishment was never anything too terrible.
Celia and I would spend most of our free time playing together, either in the house or (for preference) out in the nearby woods. We rather resented anything that interrupted these playtimes – even the call of nature. As a result, it became common, when one of us needed the toilet, for the other to accompany them so we could continue discussing or plotting some sort of mischief.
I should explain that this only tended to happen when the person in question needed a ‘number two’, as of course this takes longer and was more of an inconvenient interruption.
There was never any modesty – we would just drop our trousers (my sister usually preferred jeans to dresses) and pants in front of the other, sit on the toilet and do our business. This was no big deal to either of us – we were both fairly used to seeing each other’s privates and bottoms, either at bathtime or for a spanking when Mum deemed one necessary. We even wiped our bottoms in front of the other. Of course, there was a smell, but we were two ‘horrid little children’ and we weren’t about to be put off by the pong of each other’s poo!
Adults, of course, have different ideas and mum had never been too keen on these ‘toilet conferences’. Our WC was separate from the bathroom and gave straight on to the landing, and so an open door meant that the whole of the upstairs could smell. While Mum didn’t straight out forbid us to chat in this way, it was certainly discouraged. It was put to us that it was ‘not nice’.
When Celia turned 11, mum finally put her foot down. In retrospect, I suppose it wasn’t just the smell that concerned her but the fact that her daughter was entering puberty (although her vulva was still smooth at this time, I recall), with all the privacy and modesty concerns that go with that. She also started to take us to our bedrooms to be given the slipper, even if we were both ‘getting done’.
We tried ignoring these interventions but eventually, Mum took us both aside and laid down the law. What we were doing was ‘nasty and immodest’ and if she caught us doing again, we wouldn’t sit down for a week.
We were mostly obedient children, so we did as we were told but then one afternoon, we totally forgot the edict. I was the one who needed a poo, and I was about halfway through a particularly stinky one (even Celia was holding her nose a bit) when mum unexpectedly came out of her bedroom – we had both thought she was downstairs.
She glared at Celia. “You – go to your room now! And you (she gave me the same death stare), close this door, wipe your bottom and wash your hands, then go to your room.”
Celia scampered off and I closed the door hastily. I was so scared I couldn’t continue, so I wiped carefully (I was sure we were both in for a spanking, and woe betide me if I had a dirty bottom for it), washed my hands and scurried to my room, where I sat on the bed, waiting.
For some time, all was quiet, then I heard Mum go into Celia’s room, and the sound of the door being shut behind her. There was a brief conversation between two muffled voices which I couldn’t catch – and then…
Celia screamed at the top of her voice, and underneath, I heard something solid obviously smacking my sister’s bare buttocks. We were both pretty stoic when it came to getting our bottoms smacked. It took an extended dose of the slipper before there were tears, but Celia was obviously getting the tanning of her life.
By the time it was over, it was just wailing. I heard mum raise her voice to make a final point before she left her daughter to have a good cry – but again, I couldn’t hear what was said.
Now it was my turn, and I just wanted it to be over. Mum came in and I immediately realised why Celia had screamed so much, because in Mum’s hand was a large, oval wooden hairbrush.
Mum stared me down. “Stand up!” I obeyed. “I hope you’ve wiped your bottom properly and washed your hands?” “Yes, mum.” She picked up my hands in hers and held them to her nose. Without further ado, she sat on my bed and yanked down my shorts and underpants. Having done so, she parted my buttocks to inspect my bumhole. Fortunately, I appeared to pass that test too. Not that it was going to be much help…
“I will not have my house smelling like a pigsty, you two are getting too old to be seeing each other’s private parts and when I tell you not to do something, I expect you to obey. Do you understand all that?” I nodded, mutely.
She pulled me down across her knee and set the hairbrush to work. I was astounded at how much more it hurt than the slipper. It seemed like I opened my mouth to scream and that scream didn’t stop until the hairbrush did. My backside felt like I’d sat on a coal fire. Finally, Mum left me up off her knee and left the room, ordering me to bed for the rest of the day. I threw myself on my tummy and cried my eyes out, before finally getting into my pyjamas in case mum came up to check and found me still in day clothes.
And that was the end of the ‘toilet conferences’, and indeed it was the beginning of Celia and I growing slowly but perceptibly apart a little, as was probably appropriate in retrospect. I wanted to compare smacked bottoms the next day in the woods but she declined, and she gradually grew closer to girls of her age and lost interest in her ‘little brother’.