I was 13 when I got my last spanking. My 10-year-old sister and I were talking after lights out when we were supposed to be asleep. After a couple of warnings, our mother stomped up the stairs and flew into my sister’s room.
We had a door which directly connected our two rooms, so when my sister’s light snapped on, through the open door I could clearly see my mother whisk back my whimpering sister’s coverlet, sit down on her bedside and pull her face down over her lap.
In a twinkling she had tucked my sister’s nightie turned up above her waist, revealing that she had nothing on underneath. Then she proceeded to give my sister as hard a spanking as I had ever seen her give. After a couple dozen hard, fast slaps, my wailing little sister’s bare bottom was bright pink – leaving no doubt in her young mind, I am sure, that she had just been very soundly spanked indeed.
Then our mother came through the doorway into my room. At that age, I thought I was too old to spank. Wrong! She sat down on the side of my bed, ordered me to turn on my tummy, then pulled down my pyjama bottoms and spanked me.
It did sting, but not enough to make me cry. I didn’t make a sound, actually. This was the only time I ever received a formal spanking from my mother which didn’t make me cry. At the time, I imagined this was because I was such a big kid. That was probably part of it. But looking back, I suspect her palm was already so tender from the major tanning she’d just given my sister that she couldn’t make herself spank me full on.
So although we were both equally misbehaved, my sister unfairly got the worst of it. That was my last spanking, but it wasn’t my sister’s.