I Was Spanked As A Teen

Soap For Supper!

I remember that day very well. I was thirteen and in Catholic grade school, but my two younger sisters attended public school because our Mom could not afford tuition for all three of us. We rode different buses, so Audrey and Gretchen were already home when my bus pulled up in front of our farmhouse to let me off. Although it was no longer a working farm, the house and barn remained, as did the ten acres of land that we owned.
Dressed in my uniform of white blouse, burgundy plaid jumper with pleated skirt, burgundy knee socks and a burgundy “Wyatt Earp” tie, I walked up to the front porch and saw that something was just not right. Upon closer look I realized that it was one of my favorite vinyl records, without the slipcase, lying naked on the welcome mat. It was my Beatles' "Let It Be" album.
I picked up the record carefully, unlocked the front door and charged up the stairs to our bedroom, where all three of us girls slept. I knew who was responsible for this.
“AUDREY!!” I yelled as I burst into the bedroom.
My little sister Audrey, just going on ten, looked up in surprise from where she sat on her bed.


“What the hell is my record doing on the front porch?” I hollered. My face at that moment must have been as red as my hair. Yeah, I know—redheads are supposed to be the ones with the temper.
Audrey said, “I lent it to my friend Susan. I guess she brought it back.”
Then I lost it completely and began to string together a colorful assortment of swear words, ranting for Audrey to keep her such and such hands of my such and such property, calling her a few choice names in the bargain. Then I heard a familiar—and scary—voice.
“PAMELA ANN DUMONT!!”
A very angry Mom stood in the doorway. I forgot that she would be working the night shift at the hospital and had just been trying to catch a nap in her bedroom across the hall.
“Is that the sort of language they teach you in Catholic school?” Mom snapped. Well, maybe it was—Mom should only hear the mouths on some of my female classmates! But right now I knew I was in deep trouble.
“Don't you ever use that kind of talk on your little sister, or call her such names!” Mom continued. “You march yourself right down to the bathroom!”
“Mom,” I pleaded, “Audrey took my record and loaned it out to her friends. I just want her to keep her hands off my things, that's all!”
Mom retorted, “That is NOT the way to convey that message, Pamela Ann. I would think you have the intelligence to express yourself without the salty adjectives. Now get downstairs! You know what this calls for.”
“Yeah,” I growled. “I'm gonna get my heinie tanned.”
“And what else?”
I downcast my eyes as I answered, “A big enema.”
“Yes,” said Mom, “and a little something extra. Go and unwrap a fresh bar of Ivory.”
Yuck! Not only a spanking and enema, but a wet bar of Ivory soap crammed into my mouth!
“Aw, Mom!” I whined.
“Scoot!” Mom commanded.
Before I exited the bedroom to descend the stairway I turned back to Mom again. “It's not fair!” I complained. “I don't see Audrey gettin' her heinie tanned! And she's the one who started the whole thing!”
“Keep running your mouth, Missy!” Mom warned. “You're just piling up the paddywhacks, aren't you!”




I thought maybe I had better shut up and do as Mom asked before I wouldn't be able to sit down for a week. I went downstairs to our big bathroom and took out the hairbrush and enema kit, then fetched a bar of Ivory soap from the cupboard, unwrapped it and placed it into the sink, I ran the hot water over the soap to suds it up. Then I stood with hairbrush in hand to wait for Mom to come in, followed by Audrey and Gretchen, my twelve-year-old middle sister, who were going to watch the spanking.







I could hear Mom in the kitchen, mixing the ingredients for my enema in a tall glass pitcher. Presently she came into the bathroom, carrying the pitcher filled with the milky, sudsy enema concoction of hot water, soapsuds, baking soda and salt. She carefully filled the red rubber enema bag, attached the hose and the big barium nozzle that made taking the enema more uncomfortable than by using the regular narrow tip. Then she hung the bulging enema bag from the shower curtain rod, just above where my spanking would be administered.
Mom ordered me to turn around. Then she gathered a harvest of plaid pleats and white frilly nylon as she raised my skirt and slip and pinned them securely to the back of my jumper. Then down came my white lace-edged panties to my knee socks and I stood there, bottom completely exposed for the hard wooden hairbrush.
Mom was wearing a housecoat that buttoned in front. She had not yet changed into her white nurse's uniform. She unbuttoned her housecoat, to reveal her girdle and stockings underneath, then sat on the rim of the tub.
“Cross my garters, young lady!” she ordered.
I reluctantly went over her lap, my head down and facing the tile floor.
“All right, Pamela Ann. Can you tell me why you are getting your heinie tanned?”
“Fer swearin' at Aadrey,” I grumbled in my Upstate New York accent.
“You do not use such language in this house,” Mom scolded, “especially to your sister. You are to speak like a young lady, and not like a sailor. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mom,” I sighed.
“I think you'll understand better after fifty paddywhacks,” said Mom. “Now which cheek do you want slapped first?”
“My left cheek, please.” I resigned myself to the inevitable, anticipating that awful-tasting soap at the end of the spanking and before the enema.
SLAP! went the hairbrush. “One!” I called. Oh, how it hurt!
Slap! again. “Two!” I announced in a quavering voice.
Mom spanked my left buttock five times before moving on to my right cheek and planting five stingers on that one. I counted, but soon lost composure and broke down in tears. But I was careful not to miss the count.
My hind end was blazing by the time Mom finished.
“Thank you for tanning my heinie,” I sobbed, giving the formulated reply that we all had to give after a spanking.
“Gretchen,” Mom said, “give me the soap.”
Gretchen obeyed and fished the lathery bar out of the water and handed it to Mom.
“Open up!” Mom commanded.
I opened my mouth wide, and Mom placed the wet soap between my teeth. “Close!”
I shut my lips over the bar. It was slimy and tasted just awful, slippery and strong flavored. I wanted it out!
“Mummm-mumph! Muuummmm!” I tried to tell her I had enough, but obviously I couldn't speak clearly. Then I felt Mom spreading my swollen cheeks apart with her thumb and finger. “Mooooorrrmmmmmm!” I wailed as Mom inserted the enema nozzle into my greased pooper and started the flow.
The warm enema began to cramp my tummy as I lay over Mom's garters and filled up with the solution.


“Mum-mum-MUMMMM!” I implored Mom to stop the enema and let me poo. But she intended to give me the entire two quarts and make me hold it in for five complete minutes, our usual procedure.
When the enema bag gurgled, signaling that it was empty—and I was full--Mom shut off the flow control valve. But she left the big nozzle inside me, and held it there by pressing my sore cheeks together over it. She waited the full five minutes before she released my cheeks and pulled out the nozzle with a wet kissing sound.
“Have you learned your lesson?” Mom asked, still holding me over her girdle with one hand between my shoulder blades.
“Ummm-Huummmm!”
“All right, stand up and poo!”
I clambered painfully off her garters, heinie roasting and red, skirts still tacked up in back and panties at my knee socks. I hobbled that way to the waiting toilet and planted my sore tail on the hard toilet seat, groaning as I did so with the sudsy bar of soap still crammed into my mouth.
After I had squirted out my enema and did my “paperwork,” Mom reached over and pulled the wet, slippery bar of soap out of my mouth.
“Spit and rinse,” Mom said.
I shuffled over to the sink and looked into the medicine chest mirror. I looked like a mad dog foaming at the mouth. Then I bowed my head into the sink, holding my long hair out of the way, and rinsed and spat repeatedly to get that horrible taste out.
”Audrey, come here,” said Mom.
Audrey approached in bewilderment.
“Turn around!”
When Audrey did Mom pinned up her skirt and slip, and peeled down her little pink panties.


“Are you gonna tan me?” Audrey asked with some apprehension.
“Never you mind,” said Mom. “Just put your hands on the wall.”
“But I ain't done nuthin',” the girl protested. She placed her hands against the wall and leaned forward. Suddenly Mom let go with a tremendous WHACK!! across Audrey's left cheek. I thought she would break the hairbrush!
“AAAAHHH!” Audrey shouted.
Then, WHACK!! on her right dumpling. 'AAAAH-HAAAA!!!!” she cried in anguish.
“And THAT,” said Mom to the crying girl, “is for touching your sister's things without permission! And if you do it again you'll get worse than Pamela Ann just got. Now get in the corner—both of you!”
So off we marched to the living room, where we were put into separate corners, red heinies exposed, for the next hour. Then it was up to bed for both of us.
Up in the bedroom Audrey and I apologized to each other, and all was forgiven. But at least Audrey was able to sit down! I couldn't sit or get that vile taste of soap out of my mouth for the next two days.