Something spotted while walking in the woods

By Jill Waterhouse

I was walking my dog in the woods a few weeks ago using a route we seldom use. Instead of keeping to the main paths, we went off-piste and went through the less used sections of the thickets. There are only so many times you can say ‘hello’ to the same people as they perform their daily routine.

I let Polly off the lead and she shot off into the undergrowth, as she always did. I carry a high-pitched dog whistle which I fine so much better than constantly shouting the dog’s name, as many annoying owners do. She came bounding back with a large stick for me to throw. Much to her disgust, I snapped it in half and threw the thicker end for her to chase. We wandered deeper and deeper into the woods. The light levels dropped and, aside from the charming sound of the birds, all outside noise was for a brief moment lost. We continued, and Polly was starting to get tired and taking longer and longer to retrieve the stick. As I was familiar with this section of the woods and the small path we were on, I knew it would bring us back to the main path and almost home within the next 15 minutes, as we were walking in roughly a circle.

A couple of minutes later, I could hear what sounded like distant voices. We must have been closer to the main path than I thought. As we made progress through an especially thick section of the woods, the voices suddenly became much louder. Either they were coming in our direction or they were now shouting, it was difficult to tell. Soon, I could start to make out some of what was going on.

“What do … doing? Have you … stuff will … you!” shouted a woman’s voice.

“Shut up and … alone. I’m 18 and old enough to …,” came a higher pitched, younger female voice.

It sounded like an argument between mother and daughter and, ignoring it, Polly and I continued forward towards home and a well-earned cup of tea. Soon, the thicket started to thin and light flooded in. Ahead of us in the distance, maybe 150 yards, we could just make out the main path we were heading for. I stopped suddenly and Polly bumped into the back of my legs. Before us was a clearing around 30 yards by 40 yards with a couple of fallen trees and the mother and daughter standing a yard or two apart still arguing.

I froze and crouched down behind a fallen tree, worried if we moved we would be spotted. The argument continued, clearly audible now we were out of the woods.

“How long have you been smoking these filthy things?” screeched the mother. “I could smell them on you yesterday, which is why I have followed you here. Is this your filthy smoking den? Goodness knows what else you get up to in here!”

“How dare you follow me. It’s not illegal and no, I don’t get up to anything else here. We just hang out and talk and listen to music,” she replied.

“How long until one thing leads to another? Has anyone brought weed or booze?” the mother continued.

“Again, I’m eighteen, mum. I am old enough to drink. And yes, sometimes weed gets brought down, but I have only tried it once. It’s vile stuff,” the daughter defended herself.

“Right, that’s it! I have had enough of this. You know my rules; no smoking and absolutely no drugs, even once. While ever you live under my roof, you follow my rules, girl,” the mother scolded.

Polly was getting fidgety but I managed to settle her, fearful of being exposed. The mother walked bristly to a low-hanging hazel tree and snapped off a branch about four feet long and an inch thick, which she broke the thinnest eighteen inches or so off.

“It is a long time since I have had to do this, love, but I think you are well overdue for a spanking.”

With that, the mother took a firm hold of the girl’s wrist and pulled her without much sign of resistance over to the fallen tree some 20 yards from where Polly and I were crouched motionless. The girl clearly thought resistance was futile and would only make what was to come worse for her.

“Get yourself over that tree,” the mother instructed and, without a sound, the daughter unfastened her jeans and peeled them down to her knees, pulling her yellow panties across her bottom in a valiant attempt to cover her backside as best she could before slowly leaning forward and bending over the old fallen tree. Her hands were on the ground in front of her, providing stability.

Her mother wasted no time in smacking the perfectly presented bottom in front of her 5 or 6 times, quite soundly, with the palm of her right hand.

“I am sorry it has come to this, but you have got to learn to follow the rules. Stay still. I am going to give you 10 whacks with this switch and I hope that will be the end to this behaviour. Smoking was bad enough, but alcohol and friends using illegal drugs can only end in trouble either with the law, or in the family way.”

I couldn’t help at this stage but think; was this the voice of experience speaking?

The mother didn’t look much older than her mid-30s, and with a daughter at 18, well, the maths are not that difficult.

Swish, smack.

“Ouch! Oww! Oww!”

Swish, swish, swish.


The switch hit home and the girl bucked and squirmed. Red welts were visible beyond the yellow panty-line of the girl’s bottom.

The switch was doing its job. The girl was in floods of tears and with presumably only one or two more strokes to go, the mother seemed to have a change of mind. Stepping forward, she tenderly rubbed the girl’s bottom and then pulled her upright.

“I can see you have had enough and look like you have learned your lesson. Any repeat, though, and you will get the rest plus any other punishment I see fit. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mum. I am really sorry. Honestly, I won’t do it again.”

The two hugged for what seemed ages. I was getting cramp at this time and would have to move soon. Luckily, they parted their embrace and the daughter pulled her jeans carefully back up over her thickly striped bottom covered by the yellow panties that would have offered no protection other than to her modesty. They started to slowly walk away back to the path, the mother with her arm around the daughter’s shoulder. As they receded into the distance, I could make out a little of the conversation.

“You are 18, just starting out in the world. It’s a dangerous place and accidents happen, especially in the woods. I have no objection to you drinking in a bar or a pub, but out here so much can, and does, go wrong,” was about the last word I could hear.

I think my earlier thoughts may have been spot on.

Once they were back on the path, I stood up, knees creaking like a rusty gate. Walking slowly back to the house, what we had seen in the woods brought back memories of when I was around that age and had been soundly spanked over my mum’s knee on my bare bottom the first time I had come home smelling of cigarettes and alcohol. At the time, I had been angry for days afterwards but realised over time a parent sometimes has few options when trying to keep a headstrong know-it-all teenager on the right path. My mother probably only put me across her knee four or five times after I turned 17, but because of that they had a profoundly positive effect on what could have quickly become a pattern of bad behaviour.

The End

© Jill Waterhouse 2021