From: gaetana@aol.com (Gaetana) Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking Subject: Vocabulary Lessons (m|f & ff - non-sexual, disciplinary) Date: 26 Sep 1994 15:28:05 -0400 Message-ID: <3677c5$4sg@newsbf01.news.aol.com> The following occurred in the Twilight Zone of fact/fiction, based on an actual event and lightly embellished. For those who like to exercise caution before reading, it contains graphic corporal punishment of a pre-adolescent female child and no sexual content, stated or implied, other than that supplied by the reader. Gaetana ************************************************************************** *********** The smack I'd just gotten from my Mom's palm in my aunt's kitchen was no more than a quick sting on my skirted bottom, but it followed being hauled in from an altercation with my male cousin in the backyard, over whether girls were intrinsically dumb, and it was accompanied by the time-honored and blood curdling warning: "You just wait until I get you home, young lady!" Still truculent and shocked at what looked like inevitable punishment, I protested. "Mom, he said...!" I retreated quickly from what looked like another impending swat but it wasn't delivered. Instead, my mother just stage-whispered, "You want me to take down your pants right here and borrow Aunt Ellen's hairbrush?" Rhetorical though the question was, I wasn't about to push my luck. I knew with sufficient provocation my mother would carry out her threat and the thought of being paddled for my smart- ass cousin's entertainment was unbearable. I shut up and shook my head, swallowing resentment. My mother swept back through the kitchen door to the rest of the family at the backyard cookout, leaving me to choose between skulking in the kitchen or braving their stares. I did skulk a while, the terrible inevitability of my situation sinking in, and then tried for bravado, pretending nonchalance while, for the next hour, the image of charbroiling meat made me think of the coming fate of my behind. When we finally took our leave, my parents seemed in a relaxed and jovial mood, and I began to entertain hopes that the whole incident had been forgotten. I hadn't really hit my cousin, after all, just lost my temper and dredged some epithets out of my vocabulary that obviously amazed and shocked my parents. Maybe shouted them a little louder and more clearly than the suddenly still backyard scene required. And I had been publicly scolded and jerked into the house for a serious talking to. Surely that sufficed as punishment. My mood improved as nothing was said in the car on the ride home. My Dad drove, as usual, and they talked about Uncle Phil's business decisions (always bad) and Aunt Ellen's cooking (ditto). I kept quiet, hoping to be overlooked entirely. When we got home it was nearly dark. My dad opened the door, let the cat in, and I started to slip upstairs. "Gotta finish my science paper," I offered with an attempt at cheery casualness. "Yes, you do that," My Dad said. "Your spanking can wait until you're finished. And will also be for leaving it to the last night before it's due!" My stomach felt like it fell from my throat to my knees. "Dad! I-It's, no it's really done...I just need to...Mom?!" My mother calmly turned in response. "You hear your father? You finish that paper up and wait in your room. I've never heard such language in my life and you need a good lesson. Now get!" I got. I'd lied about the paper; it was finished and in my notebook, and now I'd get it worse if I admitted the lie. I was almost to my room, dragging my feet, when my mother called after me, "When you're done, you leave that paper out on your dresser and get your pants down. Your father will be up in 15 minutes and you'd better be ready for a good licking!" I dragged upstairs, stomach gnawing with anxiety. Most of the times I was spanked, the punishment was instantaneous, one of my parents losing patience and administering a few quick but painful smacks while I was secured over a knee or even secured standing (but not still!). Being "sentenced" to a later spanking seemed unbearable and only happened when my misdeeds took place at someone else's house or while out shopping. Although they seldom failed to carry out the threatened punishment, I always fantasized that a few hours of exemplary behavior in between would intervene in its severity. I had a feeling tonight wasn't going to be one of those times. I angrily threw the completed science paper on my bed and pretended to work on it. She couldn't mean I was supposed to bare my bottom and stay in my room like that, waiting!? I just wasn't going to do that! After what seemed like hours, I heard my father's footsteps on the stairs and leaped to my feet, galvanized, facing the door. He opened and said, "Where's that paper?" Words deserted me (I was still fully dressed and regretting that further disobedience) and I pointed at the paper, now back on the dresser. He looked through it and back at me. "It looks ready to me." I nodded, swallowing hard. "But you don't look like you've done what your mother said. Why aren't you ready for your spanking? You're just going to make this take longer and hurt more, you know." "Da-addy, why do I have to get spanked...I didn't mean.." My voice rose as the reality set in, but broke off entirely as he seized my arm and, in one motion, sat down on the side of my bed and dumped me unceremoniously over his knees. "Daaaa-ddy!" I was getting my pants taken down for me, like a 4 year-old and I began to cry like one. I felt my panties dangling at my knees and my thighs and buttocks quivered involuntarily, then tightened as the air movement telegraphed the first smack, just before it landed resoundingly: "OWWWW!" "Dadd--EEOWWW!!!" It was only his hand - but "only" wasn't consoling my ass! The smacks were forceful and stinging - and repeated! "OOOO DADDY!!! OWWWWW PLEASE - DADDY!! YOWWW!!" I'd taken about 15 before my mother walked in. Tears were blinding me and I struggled vainly. My father held me easily immobile and continued the fiery spanks while my mother watched me buck and yell. My hands were flying everywhere and my legs jerking every time his hard palm connected with my cheeks! "Here, you better use this," she said calmly. "Wahhhhhhh!!! Nooo-ooo!" Twisting to see, I instantly regretted having done so. My mother was handing my father the hairbrush she always used to spank me. But oh, surely HE wouldn't spank me with it! The swats he was delivering with his hand were unbearable enough - the hairbrush would...."NOOOO, Daddy!" I howled again. He connected squarely with my bare bottom with the hard, flat wooden surface and I nearly leaped to the ceiling! "EEEEEOWW!! OWWW!!! PLEASE!!! No-no-NO!!" He stopped, letting me calm down. Just that long. Another hard THWACK fell, aimed to connect at the fleshy center of my ass. "DAAA---DDEEEE!!" I yelled, "OWWWW-HURTS---EEOWWW- HURTS!!" I was screeching every time he scored a swat, my bottom feeling like the incinerated burgers on the grill, but he only accelerated the rate of the spanking, giving me at least 10 more than I thought would kill me! The smacks stopped but the fiery pain in my rear continued as I lay pinned over my father's lap. My yells continued too, "Ooooooh-ohhhhh-owwwwww! Owww, it hurts, Daddy!" My parents consulted, evaluating my crimson backside. "You think that's enough?" my Dad asked, "Blistered her pretty good, looks like. She ought to know better by now." My Mom spoke to me. "Well, young lady? Have you learned your lesson?" I blubbered, got a terrific for not answering properly, and howled, "YESSSS!!! OWWWWW! STOP!!" "All right," said my Dad, pragmatically. "Then this is for leaving your homework to the last minute." He raised the hairbrush and I squealed continuously while he added ten more burning welts to my butt. "Don't make me do this again," he admonished me unnecessarily, pulling me to my feet where I ignomimously leapt around with a flaming cheek in each hand, "No, No, No...ohh Daddy, ohh please hurts NO..not again, pormise!! - incoherent but clearly in agreement with his sentiments. They left my room together, my mother noting, "I expect you to clean up and get downstairs in 10 minutes. You're going to spend some time sitting in the corner to think about your behavior, and then practice your piano lesson and feed the cat." They couldn't mean it! I lay sobbing on my bed for at least 5 minutes, trying to cool my bottom with my two hands. Then I limped into the hall bathroom, whimpering with immense self- pity. Usually, there'd be some rapprochment after a really bad spanking had been earned and delivered. Instead of a hug and forgiveness, I was going to expected to come down and do chores? I washed my face and struggled up to stand on the edge of the bathtub, craning to see if my backside looked as bad as it felt. It did - flaming red from the hand-spanking and overlaid with purpling bruises and welts from the horrid hairbrush paddling. I couldn't remember a worse spanking, but it felt that way every time. I drew my panties up, but the pain they induced just brushing my punished cheeks was intolerable and I pulled them down again and off. I washed my face and crept down the stairs. I stopped halfway down, hearing voices besides my parents. Neighbors were in the living room watching TV with my parents. I started to pivot and go back upstairs, but my mother had seen me. "Gina," she called, "It's getting late and you'd better get down here and get your chores done. I'll let you skip sitting in the corner for now, but you'll have to do it after school tomorrow." As I slunk into the dining room, she added to our neighbor's wife, "Excuse us, but she was just so out of line at my sister-in-law's, we had to really spank the daylights out of her when we got home. It just seems to be the only way she learns!" The neighbor nodded in agreement. "I hate to do it," said my Mom, "But I don't think I'll hear THAT kind of language out of my daughter as long as she remembers that hairbrush on her bare bottom," And to me, as if nothing else had been said, "Gina, did you hear me?" My face turning even redder than my paddled rear, I walked - a little stiffly - to the kitchen and slammed the cat food around. The cat made figure-8's around my ankles, feigning sympathy. My parents and the neighbors continued watching the sit-com, laughing heartily at the smart-alec remarks from the brats on the show. My father, noting three pitifully exaggerated attempts to sit down on the piano bench, reprieved me from a fourth effort since it didn't seem to endanger a concert career. He walked me up to my room and, with a final admonition about behavior modification, sent me off to bed with what was no doubt meant to be a gentle pad on my well-warmed backside. The next day after school, I spent an hour sitting on the kitchen stool in the corner, ostensibly mulling over proper language and ladylike behavior. My still-tender butt provided ample food for thought. In fact, my vocabulary has certainly improved from that time on!