I’m not supposed to spank her.
Her mother, my older sister, doesn’t believe in spanking. Vehemently so. Even though our mother spanked us both well into our teens. Even though, twelve years my senior, she gave me more than one spanking as I grew up. Or perhaps because.
As a guest in my sister’s house for this, my freshman year of college, I’m often tapped to watch after her daughter, my niece, the brat. And brat she is. She sneers when I tell her to do her homework. She backtalks when I tell her to clan her plate. She balks when I tell her it’s bedtime. And the third time she told me that I’m not the boss of her and to just shut up, I’d had enough.
Her mother was at work, a late meeting. I was in charge. But the brat was in full brat form.
So, I grabbed her wrist, pulled her over my knee, and smacked her backside. I didn’t bare her bratty bottom, just popped her over her skirt, five, maybe six times. And that got her attention. She didn’t cry, just looked at me in shock, her hands on her bottom.
“I’m telling mom,” she said.
“Go to bed,” I told her.
But I pulled her over my knee again, this time pulling her little skirt up, and spanked her on her pale, pink panties.
She squeaked and squealed and danced, and when I let her up, I said,
“Go to bed.”
And to bed she went.
So, I consider that a success. But it’s nearly eleven, and her mother, my big sister, should be home soon. I wonder if the brat made good on her threat to tell on me. Surely she did. And I’m beginning to wonder if my sister will rekindle her belief in spanking long enough to give me one.