From: gaetana@aol.com (Gaetana)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking
Subject: Drawn Into Trouble - A Brief Recollection
Date: 31 Aug 1994 11:45:03 -0400
Message-ID: <3428hv$5m3@search01.news.aol.com>

Drawn into Trouble - A Brief Recollection

I am 11 and I am lying across my bed sobbing, my sundress
pulled up so I can hold my sore red bottom in both hands and
can kick my feet in fury as much as distress.  I have just been
spanked for something I didn't do and I am just about to do
something to earn it.  l'm nearly grown (figure fast developing to
womanhood and my mother has just pulled me off the front
porch where I was playing some make-believe adventure game
with girl-friends, dragged me into the living room - barely out of
sight, let alone hearing - and commenced paddling me
blazingly with the wooden hairbrush, bottom cocked up over
the arm of my father's favorite overstuffed "easy" chair.  I have
no idea what she's yelling at me about - something to do with
filthy pictures!  "Owww!! MOM!!  Stop!!" gets me no where.  I
am held down while my bottom and thighs are paddled scarlet
and my friends shamelessly eavesdrop and creep away
giggling.  And I haven't done anything - at least this time.  At
least nothing I know about...

                                      ***********************

I was born knowing how to draw; it just took a couple of years
to get the thumb-finger coordination to hold a pencil or crayon. 
From then on the world was in a constant state of being
transferred from my mind's eye to any surface handy (including
apartment walls reachable from my crib, I'm told).  People were
my forte - while other little girls depicted tidy houses, with blue
skies, flowers and a sparkling circular sun, I was drawing
people:  dancers, skiers, runners, faces, bodies.  I always
thought everyone could do this if they wanted, but that year I
learned that my girl-friends considered this a valued skill.  They
were thrilled with the custom-drawn paper-dolls I drew for them,
eventually designing entire wardrobes of clothes, with
accessories, pets and boy-friends (and this was pre-Barbie!).  I
never played with them myself - paperdolls were boring
compared to playing Tarzan, Lost in Africa, Mad Scientist and
other re-run Saturday serials; but drawing them took skill and
creativity.  It was fun and I loved winning the admiration of
peers, who colored, cut out and carefully stored their
"originals".  

That year, the boys discovered I could draw, about the same
time they discovered what they liked looking at.  When a few
7th grade boys asked me for paperdolls like the ones I made
for girl-friends, I thought it was odd but had no idea what
modifications they had in mind.  Quite a few lovingly drawn
female figurines were floating about by mid-summer vacation,
many in the hands of randy young males.  Probably they'd be
collectors' items by now, stored away in the attic collection of a
bunch of 40ish fathers and husbands, except for a quirk of fate
that dropped one or two on the boys' room floor at school. 
From whence they were transported to the principal, who
recognized Gina's fine figure-rendering, enhanced (so to
speak) with the crudest and most graphic pornographic details
that a 12 year-old boy can conceive.  In color.  A quick and no
doubt acutely embarrassing phone call to my mother brings us
back to the present.

                                  **************************

After wearing out her arm and my butt, my mother stops to
catch her breath, red-faced and grim.  "You KNOW what that
was for, Miss!"  I'm yanked to my feet and swatted to my room -
humiliatingly, I'm scooting away from the smacks, half-turning
to protest, "Ma!! STOP - What'd I DO?  Mom, NO - OWW!!" 
She stabs a finger toward my room.  "You can just stay in there
until your memory improves!  Maybe by dinnertime you'll
remember some pictures?  I can't believe..."  She slams the
door and I hear her heels on the hall floorboards.  I wail and
sob (no sympathy, no returning footsteps).  My bottom's really
sore but my pride is in much worse shape.  I really have no
idea why I was just paddled.  And now righteous indignation
overtakes caution.  I'm off the bed and flying out to the
backyard to confront my mom.  

"Mom, that wasn't fair!!  I didn't DO anything!  I don't know what
damn pictures you're talking about!  Dammit, why'd _I_ get
spanked!!"  My mom is hanging clothes on the line and turns
around in surprise and fury.  I get my face smacked - hard. 
Shouldn't have cussed.  Another mistake.  "Owww - Ma!! 
Why'd you spank me?! TELL ME!"  My arm is grasped and I'm
spun around.  I have a terrible feeling I'm going to find out...and
try to back off now, but it's too late.  She has a vise-grip on my
arm and is yanking my panties down.  She has nothing close at
hand except an extra length of clothesline and I yell as she
picks it up, doubles it in her hand.  "Nooo, MA!!"  Right there in
the backyard, held at arm's length, she whales my bare bottom
with the nylon clothesline, making me scream with every whack
- it feels like bees stinging my naked cheeks!  It's intolerable,
seems to last forever, is probably only 10-12 swats but I'm
wailing uncontrollably.  My mom isn't doing too well either. 
She's shaking when she lets go of me, watches me dancing
around trying to rub away the fire.  I'm finally going to hear
about it, every detail of the principal's call, every vivid detail of
my defaced "art", and no "But Mom...I didn't" or "Ma! I didn't do
it...I didn't KNOW" was going to be heard.  

Finally, she orders me back in the house, to wait in my room for
my father to come home.  I can feel my eyes widen.  Before I
can speak again, she points to the kitchen door and I move,
fast.  I deeply, sincerely, don't want to be spanked again.  And
I've made matters worse.  Just or unjust, I'm now in desperate
fear of a blistering from my dad.  

                     ***************************


I was spared that, at least.  My mother spoke to the principal and
collected the pictures.  It was obvious that they'd been altered
and, although my mother certain wasn't apologetic about my
punishment -- from her standpoint I deserved it for "being fresh
and cussing" if nothing else -- it was tacitly that I'd been whipped 
well enough to learn a lesson.  Whether I had is moot.  

Within a year my own sexuality and wilder nature had prompted much more
sophisticated and well-drawn works of erotic art on my own. 
And those were eventually discovered as well...but that's
another story.

Gaetana


Drawn Into Trouble II

(Author's Note:  The ''prequel" to this little confessional is still on
the board
somewhere)

A year later, I'm 12, nearly 13.  I feel very mature and sophisticated
about boys and can flirt.  I've had art lessons, of a sort, and have
outgrown making silly paperdolls for friends.  My drawing skills
have matured and sometimes my awakening hormones take the
form of lovingly-rendered fantasy pictures, carefully made and 
often carefully destroyed.  I've learned to guard my ass in every
sense of the word this year and have managed to avoid earning many
spankings - an acutely embarrassing event at my advanced age! 
Oh, I've garnered an occasional exasperated swat on the seat of
my jeans, and a large number of warnings of severe paddlings, but
have mostly dodged the awful actuality.

But, lying in my bed alone, my not-so-childish imaginings
somehow create dark images of being controlled by someone
harsh yet tender, whose hands are strong and restraining,
punishing me and seducing me, administering painful discipline to
a place so near the erotic center of me that each spank ignites
feelings very new and hotly irresistible. I must draw them
because they demand to be released - and because I can.
The drawings are rendered in exquisite detail.  I've learned
anatomy and shading, and perspective and facial expression.  But
they are not  "pretty" - they are graphic and sexual.  The word 
"pornographic" is not even in my vocabulary, nor is "bondage" -
although I am certainly familiar with "discipline".  I keep them in a
dresser drawer, folded in my diary, and take them out alone and
create stories in my head to go with them.  I am afraid to write the
stories because I am ashamed of my feelings, but cannot bring
myself to destroy the pictures.  They're probably my best work to
date and I can share them with no-one, not even my best girl-
friend.  She is sweet and romantic-minded, and I know instinctively 
she will not understand these obsessions.  It will be years before 
I find, to my amazement, that there are others whose coding is like mine.

It can only be a matter of time before this is discovered.  I'm an
only child living in a small house - my life is spent in a fishbowl. 
Besides my parents, aunts, uncles and cousins are always coming
and going.  Sometimes they visit from out of town and occasionally
an out-of-work relative with spend months.  My younger cousin, who
idolizes me because I tolerate her, teaching her to draw a bit
and to play the piano, rewards me by dogging my footsteps all
summer vacation long.  It's hard to find the time and solitude to
indulge my imagination and fantasies, so I risk a bit more when
finally seizing a moment now and then.  And finally I push the
envelope of safety a bit too far.

I'm reworking a detailed but shockingly graphic scene of sheer
violent pornography.  In the picture a woman, all her clothing in a
swirl of tangled shreds around her legs and ankles, is held fast by
a man standing behind her, his right arm and hand encircling her
chest, pinioning her arm, entrapping her bare left breast.
Her free hand is vainly attempted to extricate his left hand from
between her widely spread legs where he has rendered her helpless.
What can be seen of her bare buttocks reveals the marks of a 
heated paddling...blisters and excoriations are rendered with clarity.  
The woman's hair is tangled and her head thrown back in pain or 
ecstasy - or both.  The man's face is not visible; his head is lowered, 
his lips presumably grazing her neck while his hands control her body.  
Their bodies both glisten with sweat.  She is perched on tip-toes as 
he imprisons her against his body.  Her lips are parted, his body is hard 
and muscular, bare to the waist.  

I am concentrating, the details I am adding raising my own level of
arousal.  Soon I would be succumbing to my own erotic imagery
and finding myself enact, as well as possible in solitude, the scene
in my head.  But not this time.  This time while I'm lost in
adolescent sexual reverie, the door suddenly opens and my
mother walks into my room!  She's been calling me to do the
supper dishes and I've been...in another place entirely.  At first,
she just starts to lecture me...it's not the first time I've "tuned out"
while drawing pictures.  But I'm flushed, look incredibly guilty and
am scrambling to stuff the pictures I'm working on back into my
diary.  Mistake.  My mother says, "What are you doing?  What is
that you're drawing?  Let me see that, young lady!"  I feel
something like my heart dropping into my stomach.  Not these
pictures.  She can't - CAN'T see this.  "Nothing, Mom - just,
nothing.  S-something, just..."  I trail off because her eyes are
already on the terrible, damning images.  I feel my cheeks burning
and I'm trying to blink back tears.  I risk a look.."Mom.."  Her face is
my future.  She's now staring at the inside of her 12-year old
daughter's darkest fantasies and wondering how to exorcise the
wickedness she sees there.  "You get over that bed and get your
pants down!"  She's decided how.  "You just wait right there. 
When I get through with you, you won't EVER make a picture like
THAT again!"

Unbearable.  I'm lying over the foot of my bed, embarrassed and
scared beyond words, but not tears.  I'm crying hard even before
my mother comes back with the hairbrush.  Then I burst into
anguished sobs, "Mom - please - Mom - don't!"  She doesn't even
answer me.  I cover my bare behind, frantic, begging.  "Mom, listen
to me, MOM!"  "Move those hands!"  She orders.  "Move them! 
NOW! FILTHY pictures...You are NEVER, EVER going to do
something like that - now move your HANDS!"  I get smacked on
my exposed palms three times before I manage to snatch them
away, howling!  Then the stinging hairbrush finds its intended
target and my bottom leaps as if ignited.  "Mom! OWW!! Maa -
YOWW!!! Mom-MEEEEE!!"  I actually had forgotten how much the
hairbrush hurt on my bare ass but remember now!  So stupid!  So
careless!  Ohh, nothing has ever hurt like this!  Now the flaming
smacks slow down, but are harder!  Anger has cooled and she is
going for the Lesson of a Lifetime:  SMACK!!  (pause)  SMACK!!
(pause)  SMACK!!  I can't believe the keening wail I hear is coming
from me, but my bottom is in flames and she keeps smacking it in
the same spot, hard and repeated swats with the back of the
wooden brush.  Finally, I'm jerked to my feet, facing half to the
side.  "What do you have to say <SMACK!! SMACK!!> for
yourself?!"  "OWWWW!!! Ma - sorry!!  SORRY!! S-shouldn't
have...!"  "HOW could you draw something like that?  HOW!?"
<SMACK!! SMACK!! SMACK!!> " YOWW-OOWWCH!!"  I can't
manage speech and anyway couldn't say "It wasn't easy - it took
talent and a lot of time!"  I'm almost as tall as my mother, but
helplessly hopping from one foot to another while she administers
another onslaught of whacks to my crimson behind "for good
measure!"  

When she stops and lets go of me, I fling myself on my bed,
sprawled and bawling, rolling from side to side and gripping my
butt, feeling decidedly unsophisticated and glamorous.  My
exquisitely drawn porn is crumpled in my mother's hand, but she
will flatten it out later and show it to my father, insisting that he
"talk
to me".  I know this because he finds me in my room, much later
when it is nearly dark.  I have awakened after sobbing myself to
sleep and he must have some pity for me, because the lecture I
get is given sternly but without my mother's fury, and the additional
"reinforcement" she's demanded he give my punishment is a few 
perfunctory over-the-knee smacks, one delivered with each point
he makes on the morality and purity I am to adhere to forevermore. 
At that moment my tender bottom makes me truly penitent and I
weep, swearing eternally perfect behavior.

I wish I could say I'd kept all those promises.  But then, you
wouldn't be reading this if I had...would you?  : )

Gaetana