From: quixotoes@aol.com (Quixotoes) Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking Subject: Pony Worth a Paddling Date: 15 May 1996 08:00:31 -0400 Message-ID: <4nch0v$fmb@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Gaetana Returns (3/5) (Pony Worth a Paddling) Dear Reader: Whenever someone says a kind word about some of my stories that evoke innocent youth and firm-but-fair paternal love, I can only silently thank the lady who was my mentor here. Her name was Gaetana, who was posting heart-warming, bottom- burning, chin-drooling stories based on her youth, growing up at at about the same time and same place as I. She brought me to a.s.s. and taught me how to post. Beyond that -- and I did not fully realize it till recently -- she taught me by example how to write a decent spanking story. She retired from a.s.s. shortly after I began participating, but we have stayed pen pals. At the request of a couple of folks, I have persuaded her to send me five of her best, which I repost now with her permission. Gaetana no longer reads a.s.s. and has a different screen name, so any commentary should be delivered to me and I will relay. -- Ted. ***A Pony Worth A Paddling - Gaetana (copyright 1995) The railroad line in this story may be familiar to a few from an earlier story, "On The Wrong Track" (q.v.) To those uncomfortable with the idea of children being spanked at all, I note that during my childhood, it was considered neither cruel OR unusual to spank misbehaving or misguided children. Caveat lector. : ) * * * * * Mary Antonelli had a pony. Not remarkable for a 10 year-old girl growing up in the rolling green hills of nearby hunt country, but Mary wasn't. It was remarkable indeed in our neighborhood of old bungalows on the suburban fringe of a small southeastern city. The small single-track freight line bisected the neighbor hood and was an attractive nuisance to neighborhood kids, a tiny wilderness of unmown grass, flowering chicory and dandelions. Lots of our play centered there, as we could easily imagine it in the Old West and create endless fantasy settings. Our wilderness was off-limits; many a game ended in the participants being hauled off home to be soundly switched or paddled, but we always went back. Mary Antonelli's pony was tethered to a post on a long lead in this narrow greenbelt, grazed on the weeds and grew fat -- and mean. A brown-and-white pinto, with a pony's canny mistrust of humans, it was an under-exercised and inappropriate backyard pet. Acquired as a non-cash payment on her grocer father's accounts receivable, the pony suffered our attentions, but not gladly. No one (least of all Mary Antonelli) really knew what to do with it. Overdosed on "Billy and Blaze," "Misty of Chincoteague," and Roy Rogers, I fantasized taming and training the cranky creature, to the applause and amazement of all. Never mind that, on numerous occasions that should have been memorable, I'd had my ass whipped for playing and short-cutting on the freight line. Never mind that Mary and I had little in common beyond sex and age, and never played in school or out. I privately thought Mary to be plain,unimaginative and dull; if memory serves (but this may be somewhat prejudiced by the outcome of this story) she was! But the opportunity was so exciting that I courted a friendship and generously offered to teach her and any interested peers to ride the pony that certainly would have been mine in a just world! Spring brought lengthening days and time to sneak away to the stretch of track where the pony grazed. Gathering clover to feed the pony as a treat, I gravely instructed friends and young- er kids in keeping the palm flat and avoiding noxious weeds like poison ivy. Some of the kids were nervous, with good reason. The tough little creature had large, flat, yellow teeth and a nasty tendency to bite the hesitant small hands that fed it. Even unshod, its sharp little hooves could strike out [unexpectedly] at kids who strayed behind its swishing tail. A quick swing of its brown-maned head to snap at a fly could knock a 10 year-old off his or her feet. But, armed with hubris and untested theory, I promised that one day soon we'd bravely ride bareback. I don't remember thinking anything could go wrong. My friends and I were just old enough to push the envelope of adult-imposed governance with regularity. It regularly pushed back - firmly. I earned, on average, about a spanking a week, usually perfunctory. Being turned around (or over!) and swatted hard 5-6 times with a bare hand on my pantied bottom, to loud protests, caused more embarrassment than pain. The worst part was "getting it" within earshot of friends, or being sent outside thereafter, red-faced and rear-tender. Severe, defiant (or outright dangerous) infractions earned what every parent called "a good licking" -- an oxymoron, if I'd but known the word! Bare bottom bouncing under blistering smacks of the dreaded hairbrush, my behavior would be instantly modified, at least until sitting down comfortably was possible again. For most of us kids, memory was dangerously short. Mary Antonelli's pony induced instant amnesia. When school was out for the summer, it was time to make good on pony promises. Lacking today's carefully structured vacation activities, we filled the long days with imaginative play and elaborate projects. I experimented daily with ways of mounting and dismounting a fat and balky animal without bridle, reins or saddle. Most attempts resulted in a fit of bucking on the pony's part that effectively removed the annoyance from its back. The most exciting approach was taking a running lead and vaulting over the pony's hindquarters onto its back. A growing audience of hopeful riders, including Mary herself, hung out by the tracks and watched wide-eyed. Finally, I was confident I could treat the neighborhood kids to pony rides. Starting with the little kids, I lifted each (with the help of friends Gene and Walter) onto the pony's back and walked them up and down alongside the track, holding the pony by the nylon halter. It barely seemed to notice the slight weight, and I rewarded it with a clover-snack after each com pleted ride. When the little kids were through, glowing with excitement, it was Mary's turn. She was my age and too big for us to pick up, so she tried the rear-vault approach. I can still see the scene in slow-motion: Mary took a long running lead, clamped her hands on the pony's rump as a fulcrum, and vaulted up on its back. She missed the target and landed too far forward, near the animal's shoulders. Lowerering its head, the pony planted its forefeet and corkscrewed through an amazing series of bucks; Mary, with an memorable expression of surprise, flew forward and landed 10 feet in front, arms and legs askew and flat on her face. There was a long moment of total silence. The pony returned to placid grazing, the irritation dealt with. Then Mary sat up and began to yowl and we all stared in horror. Besides scraped and dirty hands, knees and elbows, Mary Antonelli had a world-class nosebleed! She scrambled to her feet and ran wailing to her back door. "MA!" Mary shrieked, "Gina made me fall off the pony!! It's HER fault!" Maybe Mary wasn't as dumb as I'd thought. The little crowd of kids began scattering nervously toward home and I planned to join the exodus. At that moment, Mr. Antonelli appeared at the back door, Mary in hand, calling, "Gina, you just wait right there. I've called your father and we'll just see who's responsible for this!" I gulped. Mary was holding a makeshift ice-pack to her nose and snuffling dramatically. I suspected she wasn't much injured but she was playing it for all it was worth. "Mr. Antonelli," I started. "Just save it, young lady!" he snapped. "You should have had better sense than put kids up on that animal, and my daughter's been warned not to ride it until she's had lessons. Looks to me like you have a lesson coming yourself -- she's obviously had hers!" I knew my dad would just have gotten home from work, tired and hot from the bus ride. Hearing Mr. Antonelli's accusations would put him in a fine mood. I winced inwardly at the imagined conversation they would have: "I'll be right over, Fred. If it was Gina's idea, she's going to get put right over my knee! We'll see if a good licking teaches her to be more thoughtful!" We all stood in the long shadows of late afternoon and waited. I glared at Mary and she glared back over the ice-pack. I thought she was smirking, but it was hard to tell. My dad was there within five minutes. Usually a mellow person, he never punished me without reason, but I could tell he was embarrassed and angry. He looked at the pony, at Bloody Mary, at Mr. Antonelli, and then at me. I was the only one looking guilty. "Hello, Fred -- Mary all right?" My dad asked. "Yes, fortunately, but she could have been hurt bad -- that animal can't be ridden. I've already sold it to a farm out in Centreville." I rashly started to protest, "Oh no, Mr. Antonelli, I know how to..." My father grabbed my wrist, firmly. "That's enough out of you, Gina, " he said. "I'll deal with you when we get home...I think you know how to take your pants down and bend over, and that's all you need to know right now!" My face grew hot with shame. I knew I'd get spanked, but having it advertised for Mary and her parents was humiliating. I sniffled all the way home in silence. My dad said little, but shook his head repeatedly and asked, "How many kids did you put up on that pony?" "S-six," I guessed, "Maybe s-seven." "I guess I should be happy none of them are in the hospital! Didn't you think at ALL?" There didn't seem to be an answer for that. When we got to our house, my father unclasped the hold on my wrist and dragged me directly to the kitchen. "Doris," he called to my mother. "Bring me that hairbrush. Your daughter managed a good one this time, got the Antonelli kid hurt, and I'm going to blister her backside until she grows some sense!" By the time my mother came out to the kitchen with the big wooden hairbrush that was reserved for "good lickings," I was prone and whimpering over my father's knee. A fairly grown girl for my age, just being in this helpless position with naked buttocks and dangling panties reduced me to tears before the spanking even started. My mother handed the hairbrush to my dad and I squeezed my eyes closed. "Mom, it wasn't my fault!" I ventured, "She wasn't supposed to get hurt! She did it wrong! Please - it's gonna HURT!" My mother shook her head too, smiled just a little wearily, and folded her arms. My dad held the hairbrush back against my bare bottom, where it felt almost ludicrously pleasant and cool. I squirmed in anticipation of its next touch. "This is for disobedience!" "And for endangering your friends and yourself!!" "OHH-OWWWW- OOOOO-DA-AADDY, S-STOP, Ohhh, it stings!!!" No question about that -- the fire in my butt flamed hotter with each swat! "Daddy, it HURTS SO MUCH!!!! AHHHHH!!!" The uninterrupted volley of spanks reduced me to sobs and I remember desperately trying to scramble out from under the hot barrage. My bare thighs got spanked as the result of the change of position, and I felt myself hauled unceremoniously back over my dad's lap. Now my ass was poised higher, my hands on the floor, and my legs dangling, tangled in panties. "Ohhhh, Daddy! No MORE!!! Oh, please! I'll N-NEVER be bad anymore!" "Heard THAT before!" My dad almost chuckled and raised the hairbrush...I was stood up, legs quivering, after he was satisfied that 40-50 red-hot whacks had ignited an unforgettable sensation in my seat. At that point, I was prancing in energetic circles, gasping and sobbing, one flaming butt-cheek in each hand and, to my best recollection whimpering, "Ooooooo, Oooooo, Oooooo!!!" My dad marched me to my room, continuing the lecture and extracting earnest promises of good behavior based on an offer I couldn't refuse: "Do you think you've learned a lesson, or do you think you need another one? You just sit in there and think about it!" Planting me in my room, he closed the door. With my backside burning so intensely, sitting was not an option. I couldn't stay still, and arched my back to look morbidly in the mirror at my punished bottom. Two crimson globes, nearly as incandescent as the sun setting outside, attested to the thorughness of the hairbrush. I got kept in for a week, which was just well. Every kid in the neighborhood would hear by the grapevine how Mr. Antonelli called Gina's father, who took her home for a spanking so bad you could hear her yelling for a block! Walter would gravely inform them he could look in the window (and he would!) and yes, Gina got it with the hairbrush with her pants pulled down. I probably deserved it, but I never spoke to Mary Antonelli again -- pony or no pony! ###