Halloween isn't really something we celebrate here. We know about it, but we don't do the whole trick or treating thing. However in the spirit of the day I thought the chap above would deputise for me just this once.
Some may remember that Kimberley issued a bit of a challenge in her October update that if anyone felt minded they could write a Halloween themed story for us and we would publish it.
Reader Phil took up the challenge and I am proud to present The Mean Old Lady to you all. Phil also saved me some work by sourcing the images himself too.
Note: if the setting and some of the names seem familiar they are. Any regulars should feel right at home with this one and see the names of a few old friends pop up.
You don't want to prank Mrs McGillicuddy.
The old lady down the street has a big hairbrush and she knows how to use it, too!
And what is a spanking without a comforting cry after?
The Mean Old Lady
A week before Halloween, young Mike Kennedy and some of his friends were keenly anticipating going Trick or Treating and scoring a huge cache of candy, as well as pulling a few “tricks”. Most of them had already made up their minds about what their costumes would be but he was less than pleased with his. He had a twin sister named Maddie and his mother was fond of dressing them in matching outfits even though they weren’t identical twins. He and his sister didn’t like it much but one didn’t say “no” to their mother easily. This year, she thought dressing them as Harry Potter and Hermione would be “adorable.” Of course, this meant they would go Trick or Treating together, which was not what they had planned, each of them having a separate circle of friends, all of the same sex. Their mother was prepared to send their father with them too. Even as they insisted they were “old enough” to go out without an adult escort and their immediate neighborhood was incredibly safe (which it was) their mother was insistent and their Dad couldn’t talk her out of it, nor could he talk her out of the costumes she had in mind. Halloween was going to suck hard this year!
Seeing as how, with his Dad following and his sister accompanying him, he was going to be denied the opportunity to participate in creating the havoc his friends had so looked forward to, they got together to plan at least some mischief before the actual day. Aside from the traditional “TP-ing” someone’s house and throwing some eggs or rotten tomatoes or perhaps soaping some windows, none of which seemed particularly original, the group of nine to eleven-year-olds were somewhat limited in their potential mischief due in part to their ages and lack of real freedom to do (and carry out) their plotting, as their parents, not being completely ignorant of boyish enthusiasm, kept a fairly close eye on them as well as their family supplies of toilet paper and raw eggs. In addition, there was a limited amount of houses they could “prank” in the neighborhood as well, since everyone pretty much knew each other. There was one house on the fringes of the ‘hood where lived a “mean old lady” who was rarely seen in public and who didn’t participate much in neighborhood activities (and who didn’t “do” Halloween, turning off her porch lights and not answering the door). Naturally, rumors circulated about her and there were stories about her being a witch. To a group of young boys, this seemed an ideal opportunity for some mischief to amuse themselves prior to the big night.
They gathered near the house a couple of times to surveil the scene to see what might be possible. They didn’t go unnoticed by others who lived nearby but they weren’t concerned with anonymity, not being terribly sophisticated, mischief-wise at that age yet. The house, while not in pristine condition, was not ramshackle or in conspicuous disrepair by any means. The old lady who lived there kept very few lights on at night and apparently turned in early. It seemed ideal for access to commit a “trick” or two and, after all, she was a mean old lady, even if none of them had ever met her, or hardly even seen her. Sometimes, one needs very little excuse to get up to mischief, especially if you’re a young boy, and bored or stirred up by something like Halloween (or peeved because you have to Trick-or-Treating with your sister while you Dad follows you around). Young boys are not known for making intelligent choices…
Deciding what kind of “trick” to pull on Mrs. McGillicuddy (that was the “mean old lady’s” name) was subject to a great deal of discussion among the boys. Mike, being one of the youngest of the group, remained silent for the most part, letting the older boys bring up the potential pranks and discuss them with varying degrees of enthusiasm and the pros and cons of being able to carry them out. It was a simple matter to get at least a dozen eggs or some toilet paper as long as they had the money, but of course, they ran into the possibility that some clerk might be a friend or acquaintance of one or more of their parents and mention it to them. They were limited to nearby stores for the most part but a couple of the older boys opined they might journey on their bicycles to greener pastures further away and I was decided to assess each of them some cash to pay for the supplies. Mike, not having any readily available cash (unless he raided his piggy bank or borrowed from his sister, who was likely to ask what he needed the money for) raised an objection. The others derided him over this and then he had a “brilliant idea” (in the words of his best friend Danny Boyle): the famous “flaming paper bag of dog poop”. He remembered it from a movie he had recently seen on TV; an old comedy rerun on a local channel. A couple of the others had seen it as well; it had slipped their minds and they complimented him on his idea. Mike, basking in the admiration of his peers, also pointed out that it would cost nothing. All they needed was a brown paper bag and some dog shit and a lighter or some matches.
The latter was the most complicated and dangerous, not because any of them would find it difficult to obtain such things but because their parents would burn their behinds if they were found in possession of matches or a lighter or involved in any way with a prank that involved anything flammable. Because it was his idea, Mike’s companions decided that he should be the one to obtain the contraband. Mike quickly demurred because the only matches available in his house were wooden kitchen matches that his Mum kept under tight security for that very reason.
They were used to light fires in the fireplace or, occasionally, the barbeque when the “igniter” didn’t spark. His father also kept a lighter for the occasional cigar he sometimes enjoyed with selected companions in his office or outside in the yard. Mrs. Kennedy despised smoking of any sort, even though her beloved father had smoked a pipe but she indulged her husband because, well, she didn’t really have any choice. In any event, Mike knew that any attempt to get hold of matches or his Dad’s lighter would have immediate and severe consequences for his little backside should he be caught.
After much back and forth, one the older boys, Jimmy McIntyre, whose mother was a smoker and had access to matches, agreed to obtain some for them on the condition that Mike, as it was his idea, would be the one to place the lighted bag on Mrs. McGillicuddy’s doorstep and ring the bell. Mike was pretty well screwed but he had to agree in order to keep his newfound respect amongst his little gang of mischief-makers.
Five days before Halloween and they ran into another problem. Normally, boys their ages weren’t allowed out much after dark unless they were specifically going somewhere their parents knew about. Fortunately, the next day was a Saturday and they were allowed out after supper to play football at a local park, which had lights on the public tennis courts and fields. They had to make sure they were seen by others before they disappeared to do their “trick” so they had to stick around for a while. Jimmy brought the matches, someone else brought some brown paper lunch bags and they were confident, given that many people walked their dogs at the park, that they could obtain the crucial third ingredient.
They had to be home before nine, even on a weekend night and they were playing football and being “seen” until after eight. They were kind of stalling, especially Mike, who was nervous anyway. Finally, they decided to get on with it and set off for Mrs. McGillicuddy’s house. A large sample of very fresh, recently digested Alpo was gingerly scooped up with one of the paper bags and the top rolled up to contain it. Mike unwillingly carried it since the duty (Ha! I said “dooty”) to place it and light it fell to him.
Arriving at their destination, they circled around a bit to observe the house and check for potential witnesses. Finding none, they all urged Mike to “get on with it” and, his throat dry with fear, he crept up to the porch as discreetly as possible, placing the bag directly on the welcome mat and lighting it on fire. Then he rang the doorbell several times in quick succession and fled, as fast as he could, back to where his companions were waiting.
He had barely gotten back and slid down next to them to watch the house when the door opened and Mrs. McGillicuddy, dressed in slippers and a long nightgown, looked out and then down when she noticed the flaming bag. Instinctively, she stomped the flames out with her slippered foot and then, slipping on the fresh dog shit in the bag, she fell backward, landing on her bottom in a most undignified manner. The boys all giggled delightedly, even Mike, until he noticed she hadn’t gotten up.
“Hey guys! She fell and hasn’t got up yet! Maybe we should check on her to see if she needs help!” he said urgently. They all looked at him in shock.
“Are you crazy, man? She’ll see us and we’ll get caught! I don’t know about you but I’m not getting my arse beat for nobody!” said the oldest boy, Francis Sullivan, fiercely. The others all nodded their assent.
They all took off running, in a panic. Mike stopped, looking back at the old lady, still sitting in her doorway, and he snuck back, thinking to help her if necessary.
To the boy’s profound relief, she struggled to her feet, cursing audibly and limping. She seemed to be OK until she noticed the shit smeared on her entryway and slipper and cursed again, vowing vengeance on whoever had done this to her.
Mike decided discretion was the better part of valor and beat feet out of there, catching up with his friends who hissed at him angrily for nearly being caught. They headed home, talking animatedly amongst themselves about what a great prank they had pulled off. Mike felt guilty and wondered what she meant about getting back at them. The others assured him it was just idle talk and not to worry about it. She was just a “mean old lady” and she hadn’t gotten a good look at them. “Yeah,” he thought to himself,” you guys were all hiding in the bushes. She didn’t get a look at you!” He fretted about it all the way home.
After all the fuss they made over him on the way home, he began to feel better. He was the current “hero” of his group of friends and that made him feel pretty good about himself. He still had a nagging concern about old Mrs. McGillicuddy but he tried to put it aside. When he got home, he told his parents what a good time he had playing ball.
They were watching a DVD movie on the TV and sharing a large bowl of popcorn with his sister, Maddie, who was between them, blissfully snuggled up to her Daddy, with the bowl in her lap. They invited him to join them, his Mum patting the couch next to her. He sat and tried to watch but he was restless, wound up from the activity of the evening. The movie ended fairly soon and, since it was nearly ten, well past his and Maddie’s bedtime normally, they were sent upstairs to bed, while his parents put on another movie, a “rom-com” this time that the children would have been uninterested in. His two older sisters were both out with their boyfriends, so his parents were alone and looking forward to relaxing without any of their brood around.
Upstairs, his sister hissed at him that she had been at the park too and hadn’t seen him for more than an hour before she left. She demanded to know where he went and he just said he was “hanging out” with his friends and it was none of her business. She frowned at him; her feelings hurt and said she hoped he wasn’t up to something that would screw up their Trick-or-Treating. He assured her everything was fine and they both went to bed.
The next morning, they all went to Mass and brunch at a favorite restaurant later, then headed home. After changing out of their “church clothes”, Mike and Maddie headed out for the afternoon after their mother warned to be home in time for dinner. Mike found his friends, still excited about their triumph the night before and very voluble about it. He cautioned them to keep it to themselves, lest they get in trouble for the prank and they reluctantly agreed. After a couple of hours, they broke up into smaller groups to do other things. Mike decided to head home and see if he could get his dad to play a little football with him before supper. He took a circuitous route back from the park that took him past Mrs. McGillicuddy’s house, unable to keep his curiosity in check. As he slowly rode his bike past the house, a man suddenly came out of the house, waving at him frantically.
“Excuse me! Excuse me, son!” said the man, running toward him. “May I speak to you?” Mike, startled, froze as the young man approached him.
“Son, may I have a word with you?” the man said, rather urgently. “Could you come in the house please, I need to talk to you about my grandmother. She needs your help!” he said conspiratorially. Mike hesitated, looking suspiciously at him and ready to flee. He let the man get too close and he grabbed him by the arm angrily, dragging him off his bike and into the house. Mike was too stunned to object or to yell or anything, but allowed himself, full of foreboding, to be dragged into the house.
“Ah, young Master Kennedy! Nice of you to come!” said a seated Mary McGillicuddy with false bonhomie. He was deposited rather roughly into a chair across from the old lady by the young man, who stood by him to prevent his escape.
“Easy, Sean,” she said to the young man, “He’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Besides, where’s he going to go? I don’t think he wants his parents to know what he’s been up to, certainly. Do you, young man?” Mike, eyes wide, shook his head hesitatingly back and forth. She turned a laptop computer towards him and he stared blankly at it.
“After I fell, I twisted my ankle and I called my grandson, Sean, here and he came and took me to the hospital to have my ankle examined. Fortunately, there was no real damage to the ankle but I landed rather hard on my behind and it has a bruise…” she said rather ominously. “I assume you and your little friends didn’t know that I have a video surveillance system that my grandsons installed for me after someone burglarized my house last year. My grandsons worry about me so, the dears,” she nodded at Sean and smiled. “Anyway, would you like to see the footage from last night?” she said.
Mike nodded reluctantly, knowing in his heart what he’d see. Mrs McGillicuddy put the video on and he watched surprisingly clear footage of himself sneaking up on the porch, lighting the bag on fire and ringing the bell and then fleeing the scene. His heart sank and he knew he was busted, wondering what was in store for him now. The camera then showed her answering and stomping on the flaming bag, then slipping and falling backwards into the door of the house, her feet sticking out as she landed flat on her bottom with a thud and an expression of surprise. He shrank in the chair fearfully and waited to hear his fate. She smiled angrily at him and he gulped.
“Now, I want to know your name, young man and I want to know it right now!” she snapped. He started to reply when Sean spoke up.
“I told you Gran, his name’s Mike Kennedy!” Mike wondered how he knew his name and Sean spoke to him.
“I met your sister, the blonde one, when she babysat for the kids a couple of houses down last year. We talked for a bit and she told me all about her family, she even showed me a picture of you and the rest of your family. Your dad is huge. You are Mike Kennedy, aren’t you?” he inquired. Mike realized he wasn’t sure, but now he had confirmed it by not denying being Mike Kennedy. He nodded again, silently. Sean looked at his grandmother triumphantly.
“Told you, Gran!” he said with a grin. Now all we need to know is who his friends are! What about it, kid?” he said harshly. Mike flinched at the tone of his voice. Mrs. McGillicuddy looked on.
“Well, young man?” she said imperiously. “Come on now, who helped you with this little stunt?” Mike hesitated, then answered slowly that he had acted on his own and no one else was to blame. She shook her head impatiently.
“Do you expect me to believe that, young man?” she said angrily. “Do you think I’m a fool? That you did this all by yourself? Why?” Mike looked ashamed but insisted he had acted alone, not wishing to get his friends in trouble and knowing he was screwed anyway. After some additional interrogation, they couldn’t get him to admit anything other than that he had done it, which he couldn’t really deny.
“Well!” she said finally. “It looks like he’s going to remain silent! I guess we’ll just have to call his parents and straighten this out!” Mike opened his eyes wide in horror and began to beg her not to call them.
“No! Please, ma’am! Please don’t call them! I’ll do anything you want but it was just me. No one was with me, I swear!” he said desperately, looking as disingenuous as he could, eyes tearing up.
“I see…,” she said quietly. ‘What did you have in mind, Michael? What do you mean by you’ll do anything I want? You certainly don’t have a lot of bargaining room. You cost me a trip to the emergency room and my favorite pair of slippers are covered in dogshit!” she said loudly, causing him to flinch. “AND, I might add, a bruised backside! What do you have to say for yourself?”
He looked down. “Um, um… I, uh, could help you around your house and yard, and, and, I’ll pay for your slippers…” he said hesitatingly, thinking desperately of what else he could offer to forestall disaster at home.
She frowned at him. “Really!” she said, voice dripping with disdain. “Sean, isn’t Mrs. Kennedy kind of famous in the neighborhood for being a “spanking Mum”? Aren’t all the children around here quite wary of her?”
“Yes, Gran,” he said smugly. “She’ll give him a right good going-over from what I’ve heard. His dad might have a go too and he’s no slouch either. I saw him once at the park. His hands are the size of dinner plates and I imagine he can use them to spank a naughty boy pretty well…”
Mike closed his eyes and shivered; Sean’s description was spot on, on both counts. He’d be lucky to be able to sit down after two or three days, at least comfortably. Both of them looked at him significantly and he wondered what they were after.
“Oh, dear!” she said, “Sean, will you get me some aspirin, dear? My bruised rear is still bothering me…” She looked at Mike again with raised eyebrows and he finally figured out what they were hinting at. It didn’t appeal much to him but it would almost undoubtedly be preferable to what his parents would do to him, especially if they found out about the matches and the mean old lady being injured.
“Um, um, m-maybe you could s-spank me?” he said hesitantly. “I’m really sorry, Mrs., Mrs.,” he stopped, forgetting her name momentarily. “McGillicuddy!” he blurted out, suddenly remembering.
“Spank you?” she said, smiling now. “Well that’s quite an offer, young man! Are you sure that’s something you want to do? I can assure you I’m not unfamiliar with spanking naughty boys. I raised two grandsons after their Mum and Dad were killed in an accident and I reddened their bottoms quite often when they were your age, and even older! Isn’t that right, Seanie?” she said with a grin at her grandson, who blushed deeply and gave her a glare. She raised her eyebrows high and glared back.
“Yeah,” Sean mumbled, shame-facedly, as he looked at Mike. “Gran walloped our butts pretty good when we were growing up. Even when we were teenagers…” he finished, looking down at his shoes.
Mike gritted his teeth and shyly assured the old woman that he was serious, offering her a chance to punish him and he was very, very sorry and would still pay for her slippers and do chores for her, but he begged her not to tell his parents. She looked at him a bit more kindly now, having gotten the arrangement she wanted. She fully intended to deliver a very sound spanking to his bare, little bottom for his “trick” but she wasn’t vindictive, she just felt entitled after what he did and she hadn’t had the pleasure of a young boy, bare-bottomed over her lap and sobbing, in almost ten years. Her palm fairly itched in anticipation.
“So then? It’s agreed?” she said bluntly, “You’ll go over my lap for a good, hard, old-fashioned spanking for what you did and we’ll keep this between ourselves?” Mike looked at her suspiciously.
“You mean, you’ll spank me but you won’t tell my Mum?” he inquired hopefully. “What about the other stuff, like doing chores and paying for your slippers?” he asked, negotiating now. “The boy has the nerves of a burglar!” she thought angrily, but she grudgingly admired him for it.
“Exactly! I’ll paddle your naughty little bottom and we’ll forget about everything else. Including telling your parents. I warn you though; I intend to spank you thoroughly! It won’t be a lark or anything like that.”
Mike thought for a moment, knowing what would happen at home if his mother found out and swallowed hard and then agreed to her terms. It seemed like a good bargain, under the circumstances.
“Very well! Sean, my boy, please fetch my hairbrush from my bureau and bring it down here for me please!” she said happily. Mike swallowed hard again. Sean disappeared upstairs for the brush. He came down soon, with a large wooden hairbrush in his hand and smugly handed it to his grandmother.
She patted the couch next to her and gestured for him to approach.
‘Let’s get this over with, then. Come on Michael, let’s get those trousers down!” she said briskly.
He complied shyly.
“Underpants too! Come now, it’s not like I’ve never seen a little boy’s business before!” she said impatiently as he slowly lowered his Y-fronts to his knees, cheeks blushing in shame as he tried to cover his penis with his T-shirt. His Mum always ignored his “little dingus” completely, no matter how visible it was and his sister Kim only smiled briefly and didn’t mention it before she took him over her lap. This was a complete stranger however, and he felt terribly embarrassed.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, my boy,” she said. “You’ll be a lot more concerned about your little bottom very soon, I can promise you!” she said heartily, taking his wrist and pulling him down over her lap. Settling him comfortably (for her) on her lap, she reached over and picked up the brush.
Admiring his bare buttocks, she patted them affectionately, as he flinched. She rubbed the flat side of the brush lightly over and around his pink, quivering cheeks as he clenched them in anticipation. She smiled delightedly at her grandson, who was watching in keen expectation, and brought down the brush hard, dead center in the middle of his bottom.
The loud SPLAT! echoed in the room, followed soon by an equally loud “OWWW!” from the traumatized boy. He began to squirm immediately in reaction to the pain. Usually by the time his Mum used the brush, he was already well spanked by her hard, maternal palm and he was sobbing helplessly in submission, mostly unresisting while she blistered him with her hairbrush.
This time however, the sudden, searing pain made him frantic to escape and Mrs. McGillicuddy, well accustomed to the antics of young boys being spanked, was ready for him. She quickly shifted him forward and pinned him over her lap with her right leg, securing him and then seizing his flailing hand in hers, twisting it behind his back. He couldn’t move at all and his bottom was elevated and in perfect position for her to wallop him as she had promised. And she did.
“Owwwww! Owwwww! OWWWW!” he yelled at the top of his lungs as she slowly and deliberately peppered his bare buns with the brush. After spreading the smacks around, she concentrated on a specific spot for a while, causing him to frantically try to escape the pain. Then she would switch to a different spot, eliciting the same response over again.
He was well secured in her grasp and couldn’t move, being limited to thrashing around as much as he could and throwing his head around while bawling like a baby. He was expecting something milder than his mother would deliver and in fact it was, at least as far as length and severity were concerned but it was hard to tell while he was getting his bottom roasted to a turn over the old lady’s lap. All he knew was that it hurt like fury.
The old woman stopped occasionally to lecture him a bit, waiting for him to stop screaming so she could talk.
“So, Michael! I guess you’re rethinking our little bargain, eh?” she said smugly. “Didn’t think I’d spank you as hard as your Mum, did you, little man? I’m just a little old lady, right? I’ll teach you!”
She resumed paddling his butt, back and forth between right and left cheeks and increasing the rapidity of the spanks. He yelled desperately, his head thrown back and eyes scrunched shut, sweat pouring from his forehead and tears and snot running down his face. His face was nearly as red as his bottom from crying and sobbing and his free hand clutched at the sofa in agony. She continued randomly battering his bottom with the brush, and then suddenly switched to his “sit spots” where the buttocks meet the tops of the thighs, causing him to nearly levitate off her lap. He howled his head off as she struggled to hold him down, particularly as she worked her way down the backs of his thighs.
Finally, she finished and let him lay limply over her lap, sobbing in utter submission, scarcely able to breathe, blubbering incoherently, not ever realizing it was over for several moments. She released his hand and rubbed his back and shoulders as he coughed and hiccupped, trying to find his voice. She gently touched his burning, red bottom, literally feeling the heat coming off of it.
“My, my,” she said with satisfaction. “I could probably light my cigarette off of your smoking little bottom, Michael! I wouldn’t need matches at all. What a soundly roasted rump you have!” she said as she gently rubbed his glowing red chubs as he still sobbed, now realizing she’d finally stopped spanking him. She let him sob and blubber until his breathing stabilized and he could at least speak, with some difficulty.
“Can you hear me, Michael?” she said gently. “Can you talk? Can you get up?” she inquired as he wallowed around on her lap, trying to get up. She had taken her leg off his so he was no longer pinned down and he suddenly slipped off her lap, landing awkwardly on the floor in front of her.
He suddenly felt the searing pain in his bottom as it made contact with the floor and immediately scrambled to his knees, his hands locked on his swollen, burning buttocks and rubbing them frantically while he raised his head and howled his discomfort to the ceiling. She let him loudly cry out his pain for a minute or so and then pulled his head forward so it was on her lap. Stroking his head gently, she let him sob out his relief and sorrow on her lap, smearing her skirt with snot, sweat and tears as he sobbed and moaned in pain.
After some time, he raised his tear-swollen eyes to look at her. She smiled back kindly and helped him to his feet. He awkwardly rose with her help, knees shaking, wiping his face with the backs of his hands.
“Oh dear! Aren’t you a mess, Michael!” she said. “Let’s see if we can’t get you cleaned up, shall we?”
She led him by the hand to the bathroom as he shuffled awkwardly, pants and underwear around his ankles. In the bathroom, she turned on the water and wiped his face with a towel while the water warmed up, then soaped up a washcloth and washed his face more thoroughly, while he stood submissively and let her scrub his face.
He rubbed his burning cheeks ineffectually while she washed. His hair was wet with sweat and she wiped it with the towel too. After she finished washing, she gave him a dry towel and he dried his face and his still teary eyes. She asked if he needed to “use the facilities” and he nodded, so she left him alone to inspect his crimson bottom.
He ran the water cold and soaked the washcloth, squeezing out the excess water and pressing the cool compress to his sizzling buttocks. It felt good but didn’t do much really. He sighed heavily as he sought relief for the pain. He saw his red, tear-swollen face in the mirror, nearly matching his red, swollen bottom though not quite. He wondered how long it would take to look normal enough to go home without his mother being any the wiser. Probably several hours. He put the cold, wet cloth in the sink and slowly, agonizingly pulled his “tighty whities” up and then his jeans over his sore, swollen bottom, finally getting them up and buttoned. He buckled his belt with difficulty and came out of the bathroom, walking stiffly and slowly, to find them waiting for him.
“Uh oh, Gran!” said Sean. “He looks like he’s been through the wringer! I’m pretty sure his Mum will notice.” he said uncertainly. She too looked worried.
“Do you think you can go home dear? Can you get in without your Mum noticing?” she said worriedly. He nodded and said it would be okay if he could just stay there for a couple of hours so his face could clear up. Sean and his grandmother looked at one another and shrugged.
“Of course you can stay for a while dear,” she said, “and we’ll get you some ice for your face. And maybe for your bottom too…” She smiled at him encouragingly. “I think I may have been a little too enthusiastic in applying my brush to your little backside, dear. I’m sorry…” Sean looked at her with surprise.
“You think?” he said drily. She glared at him in reproach and told him to fetch a plastic bag full of ice cubes, and to be quick about it. She led Mike to a small sitting room, which had a daybed in the corner and had him lay down on his stomach. Grabbing a towel from the linen closet, she came back in as Sean brought the ice. She put the towel over the pillow on the bed and told Mike to put his face on the ice bag to take away some of the redness and swelling around his eyes. He did and it felt good, even though he had to turn to one side to breathe.
“There. That should help, dear,” she said. “Try this for a while and we’ll see if your face looks better. And then we’ll get an ice bag for your poor bottom later, OK?” Mike rested his face, as much as possible, on the cool, soothing ice bag while wishing it was on the other end. It did feel good though. After twenty minutes or so, she came back in and he lifted his head off the bag, looking up at her. His face felt frozen.
“Oh, good. Your face looks a lot better, dear. It’s less red and your eyes are less puffy…’ she said, handing him a dry washcloth to dry his face. He sat up, with much grimacing and walked to the mirror on the wall to look at himself. He had to admit, he looked better than before.
“Now, let’s see what we can do about your bottom, my boy!” she said briskly. She beckoned him over to her and began to unbutton his pants. He started to back up, but she pulled him closer, frowning a bit.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you think I’ve seen everything before? Honestly!” she huffed as she tugged his pants and underpants down, revealing his limp little penis as he tried to cover up. She helped him lay face down on the bed again and put the towel and ice bag on his still steaming bottom. He sighed audibly as the cool, wet towel touched his throbbing globes and then the ice bag added its additional comfort. The pillow was still cool from the ice and he rested his face comfortably on it, relaxing as the towel and ice soothed his well-roasted backside. She patted and rubbed his back and shoulders for a bit as he relaxed and then promised to come back to check on him. He quickly fell asleep.
“Michael! Michael, dear!” she said, shaking him awake. “What time do you have to be home for dinner? I let you sleep as long as possible…” He shook the sleep from his eyes and yawned and asked what time it was. When informed it was nearly four thirty, he sat up suddenly. He was supposed to be home by five! The ice had done its job reducing the swelling and redness of his punished buttocks but he was beginning to stiffen up a bit. He also had “pillow face”, wrinkles from sleeping on his face and his hair was mussed up. His face was still a bit pink and his eyes were still puffy but it would have to suffice.
“Oh, Mrs. McGillicuddy, I’m so sore!” he whined, rising stiffly from his position on the bed and sitting on his battered bottom, grunting in pain. She helped him up and steadied him while he pulled up his pants with some difficulty. When he was done, she escorted him to the bathroom and told him to rewash his face with cold water. This woke him up and his face looked better as well. His hair was still mussed.
“Well, well, you look much better now!” she said encouragingly. “Let’s see about your hair now,” she said, rubbing his hair with a towel and then brought out a large comb and plastic hair-styling brush. “Hold still, young man, and let me comb your hair!” He suffered her attentions as he did when his Mum did it before Church and finally she was done. He looked very presentable now, maybe too much so in fact, and his face and eyes had nearly returned to normal and he felt better, at least the top half of him did. She asked him if he was hungry and he realized he was ravenous, but answered in the negative as he needed to go home before his Mum noticed he was late.
She insisted he have something to drink at least and brought him into the kitchen for a glass of milk. She made him sit down at the table to observe how he dealt with the discomfort of his paddled bottom, and he satisfied her by sitting slowly and deliberately with no overt flinching or grimacing. He drank his milk down quickly and asked permission to go. His face was almost normal now and she thought he’d be OK once he got home if he could avoid too much scrutiny from his mother. She and Sean escorted him outside to the porch where his bike stood and he apologized to her again and promised to come by and help her with things to make amends.
“That’s all right, Michael,” she said. “Everything is good now. Our deal was that I get to spank you and your “bill” will be paid in full, and I wouldn’t call your parents about your naughty behavior and that’s what will happen. Of course, if you want to visit a mean old lady some time, I might be able to find something for you to do. And I think I got you back when I had you over my knee. I hope you’ll remember that next time you think about doing such a stupid, cruel thing to someone…” she said, smiling but serious.
Mike hung his head in shame, then looked up at her and smiled back.
“I will, Mrs. McGillicuddy. I mean I won’t… uh, do anything like that again. And I’m sorry. Really sorry!” he said sincerely. She stepped forward and hugged him affectionately and Sean shook his hand
Sean held the bike for him as he mounted the seat and found it uncomfortable to sit. He tried to ride it without sitting down on the seat and succeeded in pedaling awkwardly away down her driveway, turning and waving at them as they merrily waved back. He pedaled steadily home, his journey made more difficult by not being able to sit on the seat but he made good progress. He finally came up to his house from the open field near the backs of the houses in his neighborhood, rather than from the street side.
“At last!” he thought, “I think I made it!” He went into the side door of the garage to park his bike inside and went gingerly inside into the kitchen area.
As he cleared the kitchen, not seeing his mother or any cooking going on, he wondered what was happening. As he came in to the living room, he saw a number of people waiting. All of his “gang” were there, standing nervously along the wall and their mothers were all seated in the living room sipping tea on the couches and chairs. Maddie was there, sitting next to Danny Boyle’s Mum, Siobhan, who looked anything but pleased. He realized something was very, very wrong and nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt a hand seize his shoulder and spin him around forcefully.
“BRUCE MICHAEL KENNEDY, JUNIOR! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF, YOUNG MAN?” He looked up at his furious mother, glaring at him with her icy blue eyes and gulped…