In bed that night, I moved around until I got comfortable. Jeff and I had had a short session with a short, whippy cane, which had been fun. I was paying for it now, though. I thought of Rayanne's reaction to Jeff's slipper. I wondered what had happened to mum's old size fourteen. As I drifted off to sleep, remembering those happy, carefree days, I resolved to pay mum a visit; I hadn't seen her for a while, and our relationship was at a pretty low ebb. She always seemed annoyed with something when I visited, and invariably found something to criticise. It usually ended in a stand up fight and me storming out. At the heart of it, I suspected, was the fact that at thirty-two I still wasn't married. Life, for my mother, was about duty. I wasn't doing mine.

Next day I awoke with a familiar, dull ache that followed a day with Rayanne. It was one of these lazy Sundays, when nothing much happens. I donned the lycra. 'Off to visit my mum,' I told Jeff. 'Want to come?' 

'Uh, no, no thanks. I've got the, emm, grass to cut.'

I smiled. Jeff was scared of my mum. She could be quite forceful in her opinions, and considered Jeff a bit' lightweight'. 'Make sure it's done when I get back,' I said, as I mounted my bike. 'Or there'll be trouble.' Jeff waved a languid hand, not really listening. I set off on the ten mile journey. The feeling of the hard saddle through the thin lycra made it a fun trip.

The old house I grew up in hadn't changed much. Nor had my mother. She'd been a gym teacher in a rough school (not mine, thankfully) who'd kept order with the aid of a tattered plimsoll that struck fear into the toughest members of the class, Always a strong woman, she had kept fit and active since she retired by cutting logs for the fire, running, long walks with her friends and maintaining her big garden. She was 63 but could easily pass for ten years younger. She still retained that air of authority that teachers have; I was a good four inches taller than her, but that made no difference, she was the one in charge.  

She asked the usual question, about Jeff. 'He's perfectly nice, Laura, but you need someone to stand up to you, challenge you.' Today she had a new gripe: she didn't approve of my cycling getup. No point telling her that lycra was what was worn now, it was 'unladylike' and that was the end of it. It wasn't unexpected; I knew her views and had deliberately pulled on my skimpiest cycling gear to annoy her.

She was slightly mollified by the home made cupcakes I produced from my backpack; home baking was something a woman should do, after all.

After lunch I helped wash up, and when her back was turned opened the cupboard door. The old leather slipper was there. It looked massive. The mere sight of it hanging from that same old nail gave me a funny feeling inside. I had hated, feared, then endured, and finally relished the feel of it on my teenage backside.

When I closed the door she was standing looking at me. 'Yes, it's still there. Do you remember how often I had to use it on you? You were wild when you were a teenager. In the end, I think you got used to it. Sometimes I even think you got to like it a little.'

I coloured. Took a breath. 'More than a little, mum.'

'Hmm. I suspected as much. Get it for me, would you?' Said so easily, the old order that preceded a very sore backside. I lifted it down, feeling a slight tingle as I did so, handed it to her. It felt heavy, solid. Seeing her holding it, looking at me with the faint disapproval which had become the norm over my last few visits, sent me right back to my sixteen year old self, just about to get what was coming to me. It took all of my resolve not to bend over the kitchen table there and then. 

Then her gaze softened. 'Every so often, you know, when I see it there, I wonder if I was too hard on you and your brother. It's a pretty big slipper, after all. It packs quite a sting.'

I was suddenly overcome by a feeling of such love for the woman standing in front of me. To have these doubts, after all these years. I took her in my arms.'You didn't have any choice, mum. Like you said, I was wild. You kept me on the straight and narrow. It's because of you, and that slipper, that I'm the person I am today.' In more ways than one, I thought.

My face snuggled into her shoulder, and the years fell away. I was brought back to the present by a hard whack of the slipper across my bottom. 

I stepped back and rubbed at the sting through the lycra.'What the fuck, mum?' 

She blanched, and her jaw set in that way it did when she was really annoyed. 'I was going to have a word with you about a couple of things, Laura, including how you think turning up in your underwear to see me is appropriate, but now I'm annoyed. Really annoyed. You haven't changed. You still know how to wind me up. Have you forgotten how I feel about language like that? About the swearing rule in this house?'

I had forgotten, but I remembered it then. Rigidly enforced by a sliding scale of whacks from the slipper she was now flexing in her hands. 

But she wasn't the only one who was angry. I looked her straight in the eyes. 'I'm not a teenager any more, mum. I'm over 30. I swear. I drink. I fuck,' spat out, for maximum effect, 'who I like. And I dress how I like.' Delivered with the same forthrightness and vehemence that I used when I was a teenager facing a leathering.

Her voice was low and even; controlled. Always a bad sign. 'You're still my daughter, Victoria, no matter how old you are.' Victoria was my first name, which I had hated when I was a teenager, so had decided to call myself Laura, my middle name. My mother still used it if she was angry. It had always been a sign that I was in for an extra hard punishment.

She went on. 'And you're in my house. You know my rules. And what's more, I will not tolerate being spoken to that way. I didn't when you lived here, and I don't see why I should now.' She looked me in the eye. 'Bend over the table.'

My mouth dropped open. My heart was pounding and my mind was racing. But I felt a familiar tingle of anticipation inside. 'But you can't. I'm not your little girl any more. You can't slipper me. You just can't.'

'I think you'll find that I can, my girl!' I was just about to find out how angry she was. She grabbed my shoulder, pushed me across the room to the table. An irresistible force bent me forwards, until I was face down on the old scrubbed wood. I felt her hand on the small of my back. 

'In case you've forgotten, that particular word, the F word, means six of the best.' I tried to stand. Her arm was an iron rod. 'But,' she went on, 'you repeated it, and you've used a tone to me, in my own home, that I do not appreciate. And not for the first time. So that's two sixes for the repeated F word, and two for the way you spoke to me. Fourteen in all. One for each year since I last slippered your bottom. Nice coincidence, isn't it?'

I could hardly believe my ears. But I didn't respond. I remembered how hard a slippering could be when my mother was properly angry. My insides were in turmoil and I was tingling with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

I felt the slipper rest on my backside for a moment, then lift away. With a crack!that echoed round the room the smooth leather whipped across both cheeks, followed almost immediately by a second crack! just as hard. I howled and leapt to my feet, hands clasped to my smarting backside.

'Shit! That's too hard!' 

'Tut tut, my girl. Have you forgotten all the rules? Now I have to start again. And that little outburst has earned you an extra one. Down you go.' 

In a trance, I lowered myself again. Such was the authority in her voice there was no hand on my back pressing me down this time. Instead I reverted completely, and gripped the far edge of the table. 

I heard a chuckle. 'Good girl. It all comes back, doesn't it? I think I'm going to enjoy this. Makes a change from doing the weeding.' She laid the slipper across my backside. 'Your rear end has got bigger over the last fourteen years. Makes a nice target.' 

I felt the slipper move away. My knuckles were white as they gripped the table edge. Not having to hold me down meant mum could take her old stance. And her old, full swing. My mother's preferred way of delivering a slippering had been hard, fast and very painful. 

The leather connected with a crack! twice as loud than the first two. An explosion of pain washed over me. I gritted my teeth. Crack! Crack! Crack! My backside was being flayed as the heavy, smooth leather seared a path of fire across both cheeks. I jerked and writhed. Arched my back, threw my head up. I tried not to make a sound, but after the fourth stroke blazed across my punished backside I howled like a banshee. Seven blistering strokes into the fourteen, she stopped. I lay across the table, breath coming out in shuddering bursts. 

'There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?' I felt my mother's hand soothing my burning cheeks. 'This lycra is really very thin, isn't it? But it's stopping me from seeing the results of my handiwork.'

I knew what was coming next. I felt the lycra being peeled away, exposing the thin cotton panties I wear for cycling, 'Knickers on too! You won't have felt a thing. I'll leave these on if you like? For now at least.' I nodded, not able to speak through clenched teeth. 'Very good,' she continued cheerily, 'half way there now.' 

She seemed to be enjoying herself. Bent over the table with the lycra tight across my thighs I felt utterly exposed, more than I did when on the receiving end of a spanking from Jeff or Rayanne. The first blistering Crack! told me that the lycra had been giving me some protection after all. My hips bucked against the table as I arched my back.

'Aaah! Jesus!'

'You just earned yourself another two extra, I'm afraid.' She really was having a whale of a time.

Crack! Crack! Crack! The blows fell hard and fast, the wide leather whipping across my cheeks with punishing speed. My mum had years of experience, and used a full swing to deliver a roundhouse blow. I cried out, I howled, jerking my hips hard against the table each time the slipper lashed across my backside. It was so big that every blistering blow fell full across both cheeks. After fourteen strokes she stopped.

''That's the lot, apart from the extra ones. I make it three. And I think we'll have the knickers down now.' Her tone brooked no argument, and I stood and slipped the thin cotton down over my hips, without arguing, as if I was a teenager again. 'Very good. Ready? Down you go.' I bent forward again, the skin on my backside burning. I could imagine how red it must look.

As if she was reading my mind, my mother confirmed it. 'You've gone a lovely red colour. This is just like the old days.' She sighed, and I felt her hand on my bottom. 'Quite a bit of heat, too.' I felt the leather rest against my burning cheeks 'I must warn you, Victoria, these last ones will be a bit harder. They're going to sting.'

I tensed. Harder? Could that be possible? With a sinking feeling I knew that they would be. My mother has never been guilty of empty promises. If she says they're going to be harder, you can put money on it. I could also put money on them hurting. A lot. I closed my eyes and waited. 

I heard a couple of quick steps behind me. I just had time to realise that meant a run-up when with a CRACK! the leather lashed across my behind with an impact that moved the table a good six inches. I had never experienced pain like it. I leapt to my feet, hands to blazing cheeks, tears pricking my eyes. 'Owowow! Aah! No more, mum, please. I don't think I can take it.'

'Nonsense. You're a strong lass. And it's not as if this is the first time, is it? Down you go. Only three more to go, as long as you don't get up again.'

I had no choice. I promised myself that I would stay down no matter what. 

I bent over again and gripped the table edge. As I stretched, my punished skin felt impossibly tight. The cool leather rested on my burning cheeks, lifted, and lashed across my stinging bottom with a CRACK! that must have been heard miles away. I stayed down. Another quick shuffle of feet behind me. I closed my eyes tight, jaw clenched. CRACK! The pain was indescribable. I even whimpered a little as I heard her take one, two steps. Then CRACK! The final blow of thick leather on my punished cheeks felt harder than anything I'd ever experienced. 

I stayed in my position,waiting for the storm inside me to subside, and the pain to become bearable. Slowly, my hands unclenched their grip of the table edge. On stiff arms I pushed myself upright. 

'What the.... Just what happened here just now, mum?' I braced my hips against the table, my hands massaging my burning backside. 

'I'm not quite sure, Laura. I didn't realise there was so much pent up rage inside me. Now it's out I feel much better. I feel our relationship can move on at last. How do you feel?'

It was my turn for a throaty chuckle. 'How do you think? I've just had the licking of my life. I feel sore. I'll feel sore for days.' I closed my eyes and stood up, pushing my hips forward as I tried to massage away some of the heat. 

'You will. I'm not going to apologise though. You made me angry, and you meant to. But I have to say, I found slippering your rear very therapeutic, and I think, once the pain dies down, that you will too. Perhaps we'll even do it again again some time. Now, why don't I put the kettle on while you nip to the loo and make yourself presentable.'

I shuffled out and surveyed the damage in the bathroom mirror. My whole backside was a deep, dark red. Seeing it, and feeling the burn, had the usual effect, and my hand crept between my legs.

A few minutes later, I lowered myself carefully on to the kitchen chair. No chair had ever felt as hard. A cup of tea was set out for me. The slipper lay on the centre of the table. I was surprised there wasn't smoke rising from it. I reached out my hand, touched it but didn't pick it up. My mother surveyed me calmly over the rim of her cup. 'A bit sore?'

'A bit? I've never felt anything like it.' I moved around on the hard kitchen chair, trying to find a position that gave me some relief. 'But I think you're right. About our relationship.'

'I'm so glad you see it that way too. Very mature of you.' She gave me a measured look. 'I did think you could handle it though. You've been spanked since you left here, haven't you?'

She was a wise woman, my mother. How she worked these things out I'll never know. But, squirming on that hard chair, I told her everything. Even about Rayanne. She listened, nodding.

'You know, there was something about the way you looked at that old slipper hanging there..something that made me think you hadn't just come for a chat. Let me get something.' She disappeared into the house, came back a minute later with - a second slipper.

'Two slippers?' I said. 'I never knew.'

'He had two feet, your dad. Big feet. I kept them both, and used to rotate them. I reckoned if I just used one it would wear out on your impudent rear end.' She smiled to take the sting out of the words.

'Why did I used to get it so much more than Tom? Was he just good?'

'No, you were wilful. And you knew just how to push my buttons. Just like you did today. I think that slippering's been building up for years. Maybe that's why I gave it to you so hard. You coped though, didn't you?'

I smiled. 'Just. I'm not looking forward to cycling home though.' That was a lie, I was already itching to get on the saddle. 'But I was wondering. As you have two, and never use them. Could I?...'

She pushed the slipper that had reddened my backside towards me. 'Why not?'

I turned it over in my hands. 'How old do you think it is?'

'At least thirty years. And I reckon it must have met your bottom more than 1,500 times. Think about it,' she went on. 'Two slippers, in rotation. A slippering at least once a week, between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. An average of ten strokes a session. That's over 2,500 times your derriere was warmed by me. And that's a conservative estimate. Many's the week you had a few slipperings. I remember once when you were sixteen you got it every day for two weeks.'

'I was a bad girl, wasn't I?' I smiled at the memory.

'As I said, not bad, just wilful. But now I need to clean up. Time for you to get back to Jeff. See if you can't beat some sense into him with that.' She nodded at the slipper in my hand. Was it my imagination, or did it feel warm? My backside certainly did.

At the gate, I tried not to wince as I lowered myself on to the seat. Mum came to the gate, gave me a peck on the cheek. 'You come back any time now. I enjoyed your visit.' I turned the wheel to the road, turned back to look at my mother. 'So did I.' She gave me a cheery wave with the slipper and I was away.

I had to stop half way home, and use the customer toilets at Sainsburys to - ah - relieve myself, such was the delicious torment caused by the action of my punished bottom against the saddle.

When I got home, I noticed the grass hadn't been touched. Jeff was sitting in a deckchair with a drink in his hand. I gave him my best angry glare. 'I see the grass hasn't been done.' I held up a hand to stop his protestations of innocence. 'Don't bother. I have something in this bag that will leave you in no doubt how I feel about the matter.' I took his drink from his hand, set it down on the grass, and led him by the hand into the house.