In retrospect, I shouldn't have cheeked my mother in front of Auntie Josie, I really shouldn't have; Mum aimed an ineffectual swipe at me and muttered something about respect for parents. I swore and slammed the door behind me, but it was Auntie Josie who called me back.

"I can't believe you've just called your mother a cow!" she chided. "If my Susan had said that to me she wouldn't be sitting down for a week!"

I could well believe it; whenever I saw cousin Susan we tended to swap family horror stories, and it was obvious that she was on a much tighter rein than I was; there again, Auntie Josie was a single parent and had to shoulder all the disciplinary issues herself. She didn't stint her duty in that respect; Susan told me that whenever she'd been caned at the Catholic school, her reddened hands were matched by an even redder bottom the moment she got home, and she seemed to get caned much more than I, or any of the other boys at my state school, did. I was fortunate in that my mother, a lapsed Catholic, had married my nominally Protestant dad so I had been spared the rigours of a Catholic schooling - but, on this inauspicious occasion, my Catholic auntie had called in for a coffee and chat and had been on hand to hear my ill-considered outburst.

"Fetch me your father's belt!" ordered Auntie Josie. "The thickest one, mind!"

"Josie!" gasped my mum.

"He won't get away with it in my hearing, Mary," said Auntie Josie, "even if you are too soft with him."

Dad had several belts hanging in his wardrobe, plus the one he was now wearing at work, but they were rarely used in anger on me. Mum had hardly ever belted me, and I could usually get round her if I overstepped the limit, but today looked like it was going to be different. I selected the thinnest one I thought I could get away with, went slowly back to the kitchen and handed it to Auntie Josie.

"Bend over that chair!" she ordered.

I bent over the kitchen chair and laid my hands on the seat; something told me that this was no time to argue any further.

Thwack! Auntie Josie had a strong arm, and I yelled. On the next whack, I began to weep - even at sixteen I would still turn on the waterworks when it suited - and on the third whack I cried piteously for my mum.

"Josie, I think he's had enough!" said Mum, who was now on the verge of tears herself; Auntie Josie handed me back the belt and told me to put it away again, her face clearly registering disgust at my histrionics. So I was sent to do my homework, if not quite scot-free, without incurring too much damage.

But something significant had clearly passed between them in the kitchen, because I found out that I had suddenly been booked to spend the following half-term week at Auntie Josie's whilst my parents took a few well-earned days' break in Scarborough; Auntie Josie lived on a fairly respectable council estate about five miles away, and had a spare room in her three-bedroomed semi. Not that I minded the prospect, for at least I would get to spend the week with my cousin Susan. She was the same age as myself, and was turning into a beautiful young woman with fine features and a tangle of long curly black hair which, to most people, wasn't helped by the way she dressed - or, to be more accurate, the way Auntie Josie dressed her; more Breakfast At Tiffany's than Carnaby Street, for Auntie Josie wouldn't allow Susan to have a part-time job and her pocket money didn't run to trendy clothes, so she had to rely on whatever outdated stuff her mum supplied. She wasn't allowed boyfriends either, so I hoped she'd be glad of my cousinly company. Auntie Josie came in her Mini to pick up my suitcase and me on the Friday after school, and Susan smiled sweetly as I squeezed myself into the back seat behind her.

But she wasn't smiling later that evening when Auntie Josie called her to task about the untidy state of her bedroom.

"Aw, Mum, it's half term - I've all week to tidy it up!" she pleaded.

"Are you arguing with me, Susan?" said Auntie Josie, and I could sense far more menace in that quiet retort than I'd ever perceived in my dad's red-faced yelling or my mum's tearful pleading.

"No, Mum," said Susan contritely.

"Good!" said Auntie Josie. "I told you about that bedroom yesterday, and you chose to disobey me. Now go upstairs and get changed - the pink pyjamas please!"

And Susan slouched out, defeated. Five minutes later she was back, wearing a pair of pyjamas with a pink paisley pattern of a kind which was now to be found on dandified young men in Chelsea. But this pair was hardly the height of fashion - they were faded, short on her wrists and ankles and very tight - which, I soon realised, was the whole point of being sent to wear them.

"Bring me the slipper, Susan!" commanded Auntie Josie.

Susan went to the shoe rack and returned with a huge man's slipper - it must have been size twelve at least. She didn't look happy.

"Eight of the best for you, young lady!" said Auntie Josie with determination.

Susan touched her toes without having to be told, and the thin, worn material clung to her shapely buttocks. Auntie Josie flexed the slipper, then hit her tremendously hard on the centre of the left cheek, but she didn't flinch or make a sound. A matching blow was given to the right cheek, then one at the top of each thigh, followed by ones nearer to the side. The seventh whack struck the same sweet spot as the first, and Susan lost self-control slightly, gasping and raising herself a few inches before resuming position for the final whack to the right. She straightened slowly and painfully, then took the slipper back to its place, and disappeared off to bed in what was obviously a well-ordered procedure, but not before flashing me a puckering "gosh-that-hurt" grimace. I was horrified; all that punishment just for a messy bedroom, what would happen to the poor girl if she did something really bad? As if reading my thoughts, Auntie Josie leaned towards me where I was still sitting, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, in the armchair.

"So now you see why you didn't fool me with that theatrical performance at your parents," she said, "and I'll be looking for a chance to make up for it, believe me!"

Susan was allowed down briefly for cocoa an hour later, before we were both bidden good night and sent to our separate bedrooms.

"Did that really hurt?" I whispered as we climbed the stairs; I thought she was not only the loveliest but also the bravest girl I'd ever met.

"You bet, and most of it was for your benefit!" she said softly. "But at least I didn't cry!"

The following day Susan and I went to town, and ambled round the record shops and coffee bars; the Kinks were at number one, and were being played everywhere. We also had a look in the windows of one or two of the new boutiques springing up in the town, featuring mini-skirted mannequins in carefree poses.

"Groovy gear!" I said

Susan pulled a face.

"Not for me," she said. "Do you know, I'm the only girl in my year who still wears stockings? Mum bought me two new suspender belts last year, and says I have to get the use out of them."

The sight of this lovely curvaceous long-haired girl in a belted, knee-length dress and stockings would be the epitome of sexiness and elegance again today, but the androgynous, leggy baby doll was the look of the moment as we spoke, and Susan was committing the unspeakable sixties crime of dressing older than her years. Later I realised that Auntie Josie, who had "fallen pregnant" with Susan after an ignorant teenage fling with a fairground worker, was trying to protect her daughter in her own way, but it seemed so contrary at the time. We caught the bus home without buying anything.

My inevitable turn for trouble came after tea that evening; Susan and I washed up, and then read as, in Auntie Josie's opinion, there was nothing worth watching on the black-and-white telly. Auntie Josie had crossed her legs to read a magazine and I realised that she too still wore stockings as the thicker stocking top and a tiny sliver of pink flesh showed on the crossed-over leg. Auntie Josie was at least ten years younger than Mum, but even Mum had switched to tights and raised her hemline a modest amount! Strange new fetishist thoughts began to stir deep within me ...

"Neil, are you looking up my skirt?" This came in a tone of incredulity, as though no normal decent young man would dream of doing such a thing.

"No, I was looking at your magazine ... to see if I could see who was top of the charts!"

It was a stupid lie, born of haste and panic, and the expression on Susan's face showed it. Auntie Josie was reading the "Catholic Herald", not a glossy pop mag.

"That's six for your blatant staring for the last five minutes, and six more for lying," said Auntie Josie. "Into your pyjamas, please, Neil, and Susan dear, would you fetch the slipper - oh, and bring the strap as well."

"But Neil's never had the strap, Mum," pleaded Susan, but trailed off as the calm, determined glance came her way.

"Do you know, Susan, you've been awfully argumentative since Neil came to stay. Any more and I might be persuaded that you've been missing the strap yourself."

"Sorry, Mum," said Susan as I in turn trudged upstairs. The strap could hardly hurt more than the slipper, I told myself - Auntie Josie had already done her worst with Dad's belt, and I'd survived. I'd packed my summer pyjamas, blue-and-white striped cotton, and I wished I'd had the foresight to at least pack my winter pair - these thin things would hardly give more protection than cousin Susan's faded pink ones.

I came down in my pyjamas to face the music - and the strap. I immediately saw that the strap was much thicker and wider than Dad's belt - Susan later told me that it was a razor strop, a thick piece of leather used for sharpening barbers' cut-throat razors, and hence becoming an obsolete item, but it evidently still saw regular use at my Auntie's.

"Seeing as Susan's reminded us all about your lack of experience of proper corporal punishment, I don't think I can trust you to touch your toes, Neil. Bend over the arm of the settee and, Susan, you hold his wrists," said Auntie Josie.

I gritted my teeth as she slippered me with ferocity - Susan had taken seven before cracking, so it was a matter of principle for me to take the allotted six without a sound.

"Courage, dear heart," she whispered as Auntie Josie put down the slipper and reached for the strap, and it was nice to feel Susan's slender hands holding me in position.

I needed all my courage, for the strap could cover both buttocks simultaneously with tremendous force, and Auntie Josie stood back and simply flayed me with it; Suffering in silence became impossible; I howled with each thudding whack, and was crying for real by the third. All for a peek at her legs - or possibly payback from the previous week?

When I hobbled up to bed I discovered that my entire buttocks and the tops of my thighs were badly bruised; I'd learnt my lesson about both modesty and honesty; so for the next three days I was exceedingly polite and most assiduous whenever I was asked to help around the house, and kept my eyes away from Auntie's legs. Susan, however, received two more hard slipperings, as Auntie Josie was on the trail of every little argument and hint of rebellion.

On Wednesday evening Auntie Josie went to her flower-arranging class - despite her status as unmarried mother and fallen woman, she was determined to atone for her past and was studying to beautify the church. It gave Susan and me a couple of hours in each other's company, and as Auntie Josie drove off we were studiously bowed over our half-term homework. But not for long; five minutes later we were on the settee watching the telly. I put my arm around Susan's neck and lightly tossed her dark curls, and she didn't resist.

"So, have you had the cane recently?" inquired Susan.

"Not really," I said - it tended to be a sanction held in reserve at our school, and fifth-formers were expected to knuckle down to GCE work and not indulge in caneworthy escapades.

"I got three on each hand last week," said Susan ruefully. "Just for laughing in assembly; it was Theresa Riley who told me this rude joke, but she got away with it."

"We only get caned on the bottom," I said. "I got three the last time for messing around with the mercury in the chemistry lab, but that was months ago. Anyway, your mum's strap hurts a lot more"

"The cane's supposed to hurt more on the hand," said Susan. "Especially when it's cold. And when you know you'll be touching your toes for the strap the moment you get home."

"Why is your mum so strict and old-fashioned? She could look really nice like you!" I asked.

Susan blushed prettily, and told me frankly that her mum had problems with her sexuality, that she was afraid of looking like a short-skirted slut and being led into sin again, and tended to be very harsh on sexual sins; my behind could certainly attest to that! And Susan crossed her legs, so that I could see her own stocking tops, and tilted her face provocatively for the kiss.

"I think those stockings make you look very sexy," I said with a sudden wisdom beyond my years. "Can I see you in your underwear?" She nodded, and shyly removed her blouse, skirt and underskirt.

Her bra and knickers were simple and full, whilst her suspender belt was made of strong, old-fashioned, white elastic, much sturdier and businesslike than those advertised today, but I thought she looked gorgeous, and my erection confirmed this. She noticed the bulge and the dampening spot in my trousers, so helped me out of them, then pulled my underpants down to examine the healing bruises.

"Let's have a look at yours as well, then," I said, and she took her knickers down too. Only slight mottling remained, the slipper was obviously the item of choice for everyday spankings.

It was time for me to show initiative; I grabbed her breasts, squeezed and put my tongue inside her mouth and she closed her eyes and responded. But when, at last, she reopened them I saw her look over her shoulder with horror; there, framed in the doorway, stood Auntie Josie - we found out that her class had been cancelled due to a heating failure. We blushed, grabbed our clothes and began to get dressed again.

"Don't bother - looks like it's pyjama time for both of you!" was all she said, and, fearfully, we went up to get changed into our pyjamas as the prelude to inevitable discipline.

When we returned Auntie Josie had taken two kitchen stools and brought them into the living room, arranging them about three feet apart. She then went upstairs, and Susan looked worried as Auntie didn't reappear for a couple of minutes.

"I bet she's looking for the cane," muttered Susan, "this is going to really hurt, my love!"

Susan was right; Auntie Josie came downstairs, having found no less than three canes, all of which looked extremely long and thick, far more so than our headmaster's, as I recollected.

"These are borstal standard, Neil, so I save them for the most severe punishments. I didn't think I'd get to use them this week, but I was wrong!"

I didn't know that Susan ever got the cane at home; even in our recent discussion, she'd never mentioned it. Auntie Josie ordered us to bend over the stools, facing one another, me in my blue-and-white stripy pyjamas and Susan in the tatty old pink ones. She told us to manoeuvre our stools closer, until our heads were bowed alongside each other and I could feel Susan's curls looping over my shoulders too. Then she instructed us to link our fingers tightly, so that neither of us could rise unless we did so simultaneously.

"Let us join our hands as one," whispered Susan as Auntie Josie stepped back to assess the situation. Then she flexed the canes in turn - we heard each whip through the air, and cringed - before selecting the one she wanted.

"Severe thrashing for your antics tonight, I think!" warned Auntie Josie, and we knew were in for the worst punishment of our young lives.

Auntie Josie suddenly became quite voluble; she talked about correcting sluttish teenage behaviour - yelp from Susan - abusing family hospitality - agonised gasp from me as the heavy cane bit a deep, long furrow - then destiny having saved us both from the imminent and mortal sin of fornication - howls of sheer agony from first Susan then, about twenty seconds later, from me. She circled the two of us in a leisurely fashion, speaking softly, almost gently, caressing and bending the cane before raising her arm high and lashing us in turn with all her strength. She gave us six of the very best apiece, interspersed with homily about nakedness, kissing with tongues and indecent arousal; my buttocks were by now a livid sheet of flaming flesh, and tears were dripping from both of us. Then she stopped to examine the cane she was using, and compared it to an alternative.

"I think, dears, that this other cane's slightly longer and more flexible than the first one, so it should hurt even more. I hope so!" It did; after a further six strokes I was conscious of nothing - not even Susan's hair or her wrists conjoined with mine - but searing, unremitting agony radiating from my ravaged behind and pulsating through my whole body, and from Susan each slashing stroke elicited an anguished cry. But then Auntie Josie put the instrument of torture down on the sideboard.

"Tea break," she said, "and time for the bruises to come out!" Then she allowed us to straighten and directed us to the settee, where we sobbed and held each other whilst she went to brew up; ten minutes later she came back to examine the results of the borstal-style caning we'd just received. Our pyjama bottoms had to be peeled away slowly to reveal the damage, but by now I was beyond humiliation.

"I don't think I can use the cane on you any more," she announced regretfully, "or you'll be bleeding on the carpet. But I haven't finished yet!"

She repositioned the stools alongside each other and we resumed our position. This time she fastened our wrists to the bottom bar of each stool with stockings from the wash basket, our buttocks stayed bared and she slippered us hard, repeatedly, across the mass of cane weals and bruises, which made us both scream like we were being murdered. With hindsight, this was more than a mere beating, it would have been considered abusive even thirty years ago, and would merit a prison sentence today. But the sound of teenagers being soundly spanked - and more - was an everyday occurrence at the time, and the neighbours no doubt shrugged and turned up the telly.

Eventually she stopped and unfastened us:

"Early cocoa time for you two," she announced, "so put the stools back in the kitchen, please." We did so, slowly and tortuously, and stood to sip our cocoa. We were then were sent to bed at nine o'clock to meditate on our transgressions and the recompense we had received. As I lay in bed with my bottom bare to the cool evening air, hoping that the pain would eventually subside to allow a measure of sleep, there came a tap at the door.

"Can I come in, please?" asked Auntie Josie quietly. I covered up my bum with the sheet, though even that hurt, and invited her in.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

"I just want you to know that, despite tonight, you have my permission to go out with Susan if you want to," she said. "You could have got up, run out of the door and gone home to your mum when I got the canes out, I couldn't have stopped you. But you stayed with my daughter and took it all; you've got more about you than I first thought!"

I didn't know what to say - the option of doing a runner had never occurred to me, for as soon as I'd arrived I'd felt like I'd been conscripted into the Foreign Legion or some similar kind of weird sadistic army and had to tough it out. But she was right; I wouldn't have left my lovely cousin alone in the lurch.

"Thank you, Auntie Josie; you had every right to thrash us," I found myself saying.

She smiled for the first time.

"I'm sure I won't have to do it again, I think you'll respect each other a bit more from now on. You see, I remember what happened to me at her age; perhaps it's made me a bit over-protective."

And she gave me a chaste goodnight kiss.

In retrospect, this was probably the nearest thing to an apology I received. Susan didn't get anything like an apology, but she was taken into town the next day and came back with three new mini-skirts and several pairs of tights. She put her suspender belts in the bin, which I thought was sad, but Susan said she felt liberated. We went out together in a cursory way for a while, kissed and petted a little, but when Susan moved up to the sixth form she studied biology and said that kissing cousins were all very well in films but she'd learnt about genetic disorders and we shouldn't marry even though we were legally allowed to. Auntie Josie, however, met and married a fifty-year old widower from church who liked her retro look and admired the no-nonsense way she'd brought up her daughter, and by all accounts - well, Susan's - they were deliriously happy, though Susan confessed that she'd happily have taken more spankings to save her from having to listen to their disgustingly wild but legitimate marital copulation (that was the word she used).

I went back home after half-term and told my mum that the next time I gave her any trouble she should borrow one of Auntie Josie's canes, but she never did, for now I was considered to be have suddenly grown up and I never got spanked again.