A game between siblings ends unexpectedly.

“Truth or dare?”

My brother and I were sitting on his bedroom floor. It was the first night of the school holidays, and we were leaving for a family vacation to France the next day. Our parents were not yet home from work.

“Truth,” I said.

“What was the most embarrassing thing that happened at school this year?”

I thought about it, then said, “Being slippered for a minor infraction.”

He looked at me quizzically. “Doesn’t sound so bad?”

In my mind’s eye, the memory played out in full.

“Minor infraction. Bella Wang to the stage, please. Bella Wang.”

The whole school turned to look at me as I stood. Awkwardly, I pushed past the three kids to my right, and then I was in the central aisle leading to the stage. Two hundred pairs of eyes watched me walk down that aisle, like a ghastly pre-figurement of my future wedding.

The younger ones seated on the floor at the front stared wide-eyed as I passed them and ascended the steps to the raised stage. The teacher who carried out the punishments was there, a thick, heavy plimsoll in his hand. I faced him, but I made the mistake of turning my head to look at the sea of faces watching us.

“Turn around and grasp your ankles, please.”

I turned and bent over, my cheeks flushing furiously, my hair falling around my face. Everyone, my friends, my enemies, my crush, boys who fancied me but I didn’t even know it, my teachers, kids who barely knew who I was. Everyone was staring at my upturned bottom.

There was a step to the side, and then the first stroke came. He really laid it on, and I was almost thrown forward. There were some titters from the younger kids. Some shushing from the teachers. Then, the second stroke came, right on the same spot. The sound of the slipper resounded across the school hall. My bottom was tingling now, but it wasn’t the pain I cared about. That was negligible. It was the humiliation of my peers witnessing me being spanked. Stroke three felt like the hardest one yet, but I bit my lip, determined to remain silent, willing myself not to cry. I braced myself for the fourth stroke, which walloped my trembling backside right on the soft spot. I gasped.

“Stand,” said the teacher. I did so, then I thanked him, as was the custom, and walked down the steps with as much dignity as I could muster. To my immense relief, a boy was then called up for the same fate, so it was only my classmates who made a fuss of me.

“Wow, that’s pretty bad! Hey, was it worse than when they spanked us together?”

I considered this. That was a few years ago now. Felipe and I had been caught sneaking into an arcade and trying to bust some money out of one of the machines. Rather than lie across their laps one by one, Felipe and I had been made to stand side by side at the kitchen table and bend over it, then lower our pyjamas to around our knees. When we were both in position, it began. Mum had laid into me with one plimsoll, while dad had commenced spanking my brother. The strokes I was given were hard and fast, and they rained down on my quivering bottom. The sting grew. I had to shift my weight from side to side as it went on, fighting the urge to stand and resist. The air rang with a cacophony of smacks as the two slippers struck flesh, like some grim, out-of-tune percussion orchestra.

A foot to my left, dad applied more considered, aimed strokes at greater intervals to my brother’s posterior. Strokes were not counted. We were both spanked until our bottoms were bright red. I know this because I had first caught a glimpse of Felipe’s, then inspected my own in the mirror.

“The one at school was much quicker, but it was in front of my friends, so the humiliation was worse,” I said, finally. “I’m not sure, though. The home one definitely hurt more. More strokes.”

“And no padding.”

“Indeed. So, your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Felipe said.

“Let’s stick with the punishment theme. Ten strokes with the paddle, wearing jeans. Or five strokes of the cane, bare?”

“Oh, God, that’s easy. The cane, every time. Have you ever been paddled?”

“No.”

“It really hurts. I had six and my school trousers didn’t do anything. The paddle bruises you. I couldn’t sit down for days. The cane is much lighter.”

I digested this information, never having experienced either. My brother spoke, “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” I don’t know why I said it.

“Ok, let’s stick with the theme of the night. I dare you to take six strokes from an implement of my choice. Delivered by me, on your bottom. Pyjamas on.”

He had me cornered! I could chicken out, but I’d lose a lot of respect, including self-respect. Trying to appear more nonchalant than I felt, I shrugged and said, “Ok.”

“Right! Stay here.”

Felipe disappeared from the room. I sat alone on the floor, wondering what he’d come back with. Was there anything that could pass for a paddle in the house? Surely he’d dig out something more impactful than a slipper? I was most afraid of a belt. But, I admit, a part of me was excited and curious too.

He soon returned with a long, bamboo gardening pole that our parents used to grow runner beans. It was three feet long and half an inch thick.

“Here?”

“Here. Stand up, sis.”

I did.

“Bend over.”

I touched my toes, oddly less embarrassed than I had been with my parents, and much less the whole school. I guess I just knew him too well.

“Twenty euros if you’ll take it bare,” he offered.

“Seriously, dude?”

“Sure. You don’t have to.”

I hesitated. Twenty euros was a lot of money to me. Oh, who cared? He’d seen it before. Everyone’s got one. I pulled my pyjamas down before bending over again, placing my rear end at my brother’s mercy.

Felipe swung the cane with all his might and there was a crack as it hit my bottom. A fraction of a second later, a burning sting tingled across where the cane had struck. The second stroke followed swiftly on the first, cutting diagonally across my cheeks. It felt, that time, as if the stick basically bounced off me.

Swish! I paid attention to the sound the cane made this time, and the crack as it struck my flesh.

It was clear he was not an expert caner, for the strokes landed far apart. But he was strong, though, and the stick was being wielded with considerable force.

Swish! This time, another diagonal stroke caught the remnants of the first three and I gasped in pain. I heard Felipe chuckle.

‘Oh, I would have to think of a legendary dare to pay him back for this,’ I thought as I steadied myself for stroke five, which duly smashed into the centre of my rear end, rocking me on my toes and alighting the bruised flesh with a fresh flash of pain. But I realised one thing, as I steadied myself for the last time: If you are going to be caned, better it be by your inexperienced brother with a garden pole and not a gruff old master with decades of experience, a splendid aim and a purpose-built rattan cane.

“Yowch,” I yelped as the last stroke of my dare cut into my bare ass. It hurt. It wasn’t agonisingly painful, but it was worse than a slight sting now.

At least, I reasoned, if I’m never caned at school, I will have had the experience. It was one off the bucket list.

“Well done, Bella. I’m impressed you went through with that,” Felipe said quietly as I covered myself again, rubbing my sore bottom. Then he fished into his pocket and pulled out a twenty euro note, then handed it to me.

“Worth a sore bum?” he asked.

“Yes.”

And it was. With twenty bucks, I could treat friends to the cinema, replenish my secret sweet stash, get Christmas books for both parents. Anything!

“Well, that’s probably a good note to end on. Time to hit the hay, and all that.” I was outraged!

“So, you’re not going to give me the chance to get even?”

I saw his face fall a little. His eyes met mine, then went to the cane, which was now propped up against the wardrobe. With a deep sigh, Felipe said, “Dare.”

The End

© Marcella Cabana 2025