From: gaetana@aol.com (Gaetana) Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking Subject: The Wrong Track - Paddled and Put Out Date: 19 Aug 1994 01:16:05 -0400 Message-ID: <331f6l$nm9@search01.news.aol.com> On the Wrong Track - Paddled and Put Out (Another moment of deja vu) Setting: Same street and cheap government-issue townhouse as "Hot Summer Nights" (q.v.) Time: 9 year-old summer I was trying to be good the rest of that summer. I really was. There was plenty to do just trying to forget and live down that awful front-porch spanking. Not that I hadn't wickedly relished eavesdropping on friends' punishments. Happiness was hearing or seeing someone ELSE's bottom being blistered. I was being very, very good. So it wasn't any major peccadillo that landed me in trouble that Saturday. Most of us used the slow-freight railroad tracks to short cut to the neighborhood movie theater; it was a railroad town, with a major switching yard, and many of the kids dads were brakemen or switchmen, or worked in the tower that relayed the orders. I fell asleep every night hearing the (frequently profane to outright obscene) orders that poured out on the evening air in those pre-computerized days. And the freight line was snail-slow, even when the trains came along, perhaps twice a week. It cut a direct hypotenuse from our subdivision to the theater, cutting down time and many blocks of walking. But it was, for the best of reasons, at the top of the list for DON'T EVER's issued by every parent. We so routinely disobeyed that rule that we hardly thought about it as disobeying. That day, while Nancy, Gene and I were walking back from the Saturday afternoon double feature, a train actually approached, visible many blocks away, at a speed of perhaps 10 MPH. We saw it behind us blocks and blocks away. No sweat...we'd cut off at one of the cross streets and wait for the lumbering freight to pass. Could we make one more intersection before bailing out? Well, maybe - sure, if we ran. A little frisson of excitement and fear made me decide to try the extra stretch, and misjudged - badly. The train suddenly seemed to be approaching a little faster than I had figured and I turned back to shout to my friends to hurry up - they weren't there! Everyone but me had cut off the tracks at the last intersection and I was past the point of no return. The train was creeping along, for sure, but -- slowly -- it was still gaining on me. I had two choices: jump off the right-of-way into what was plainly huge patches of prickly weeds, poison ivy and nettle, or run like crazy to the next intersection. No way I was risking poison ivy! Death perhaps, but not an ugly itch rash! (I was just beginning to develop a notion of "glamour" hatched on those Saturday movies, and poison ivy didn't fit my image.) I made it. Out of breath (wheezing a bit with my summertime asthma), sweaty and heart racing, I easily outran the train to the next intersection. I stutter-stopped, bending over to catch my breath, with a painful stitch in my side. The engineer waved, grinning broadly and waving at me as he passed. I probably had never been in danger, but I was running for my life anyway. I could see Gene and Nancy running down the track from where they'd bailed out and I waited for them to catch up. Gene was laughing, "I don't believe you did that!" but Nancy was in tears. "You really scared me! You never should of done that!" I was still pumping adrenaline and feeling a little euphoric with relief. "Oh, I knew I could outrun that slow old train!" I bragged. "Just don't tell! You hear? OK?" We walked on home. We were late by now, but not by much and I quickly washed up, combed my hair and look unconcerned. Dad got home a little late. At the dinner table, he explained why. Walking from the bus-stop he'd passed Nancy's house, where Nancy's mother was in the yard. Nancy was in the house, but through the open windows, he'd heard her wailing loudly. Nancy's mother had seemed flushed and angry, and she waved my dad over to the fence. She'd just, she told my father, "whaled the tar" out of her daughter, who came in all upset and, on questioning and few sharp smacks with the hairbrush, admitted that she and Gene and "your daughter", as she put it, had cut home on the railroad tracks. "You might want to ask Gina about her little escapade. Nancy, trying to establish relative innocence and escape a worse spanking, had really dramatized my close encounter with the freight. And we were "best friends"! My mother looked pale. I didn't know if it was horror or anger - but it was undoubtedly equal parts! My dad shook his head. "She's your daughter. I can't seem to teach her any sense. You take care of it." He left the dining room and went out on the front porch to smoke a cigarette. My mom looked like she might cry and my stomach was turning over. But then her jaw set and she demanded, "Did you DO that? How many times have we told you...? Don't you EVER listen? What do I have to do..." But she didn't finish that sentence; she was on her feet headed for me! I remember yelling "NO! MOM!" Her arm swept back in frustrated fury and delivered a spontaneous swat on my bottom. It was hard and delivered with righteous anger, and projected me about a foot! I knew I had no defense at all but howled in protest. "MOM, no spanking! I know I wasn't... SWAT! I got another and, in spite of thrusting my hips forward to evade, another - SWAT! "Oww!! Oh, MOM!! Please!! You don't need to...OWWW!!" We were in the kitchen now, a veritable arsenal of spanking implements! Metal spatulas, wooden spoons and cooking paddles, all of which had been used on my backside at one time or another. My dad's strap was terrible indeed, but my mother spanked in anger only and tended to grab whatever was handy to drive home the point. She plopped down on a kitchen chair and jerked me unceremoniously and suddenly over her knee. I had white cotton shorts on and sandals, with the usual halter top that passed for decency on little girls. I was squirming to get up - I was WAY too big to be put over my mother's knee and was shouting my protest and indignation! But she was ignoring me and - NO! - tearing my shorts and panties down. "Mom! No - wait!! WAIT!! I didn't MEAN..." She had snatched a flat wooden spatula out of the crock on the counter. "MAAAAA!! Not with that!! MAAH-MEE, DON"T spank me with T-T-THAT!!" "Don't you EVER (SMACK!! SMACK!!)....EVER (SMACK!! SMACK!!) go NEAR that freight line...(SMACK!! SMACK!!) Do....you....hear....ME?" (SMACK!! SMACK!! SMACK-SMACK- SMACK!!) My OWW's sang out loudly with every whack on my bare butt. The flat wooden spoon blazed with stinging heat and my bottom leaped in rhythm with every smack. She was holding me too firmly to roll away from the blows and I gave my self up to helpless screaming. It just hurt too bad to take! (SMACK!! OWWWW!!) "I want to hear it....Are you EVER going near the tracks? (SMACK!! YOOWWWCHH!! Oh, please, MOM - STOP!) "ARE you? (SMACK!!) ARE you?(SMACK!!)..."Nooo...Nooo!!! WAHH!" She stopped and hauled me up on wobbly legs, knees shaking, just as suddenly as she'd started the paddling. My behind was in flames of pain! Right to the open kitchen screen door she dragged me...and opened it! "Now, Missy - you just stay out there and think about it until you think you can MIND!" I was pushed out the door, which she slammed and latched right in my face, but all I could do was prance around trying to cool my butt by holding it in both hands! "Maa...MomMY!! Let me IN! Mom, it HURTS!! I'll never do it again...Maaaaaa!" Suddenly, I realized. There I was on the back landing, a flight up from the backyards and the public alley that all the kids shared as a playground, hopping about holding my crimson, blistered behind - not a tot, but very nearly fully grown, with my panties around my feet and wailing like a paddled toddler!! Two or three of the younger kids had stopped playing in a yard two doors away and were staring in fascination. Mrs. Johnson had stopping pinning overalls on the clothesline and was nodding in what looked like stern approval. One of the older kids and his father looked up from under the hood of the old clunker they were working on, watching my St. Vitus dance with amusement. Some kid got whipped again, so what? I wanted to die with humiliation. Grabbed for my panties trying to pull them up but - oh, it was an agony, my buttocks still unbearable from the blazing paddling. I leaned up against the screen door, sobbing. "Mom, let me in...I promise...I REALLY promise...I'll never...NEVER do it again - Please MOM, oh PLEASE let me in! It was 15 minutes before I could gingerly pull up my pants. I spent all that time face pressed against the screen door, trying to disappear, rubbing my ass in both hands, crying. Word must have spread because several more of my friends were peeking down the alley, trying to stay at a tactful distance, but watching nonetheless with evil relish. When my mother let me in, she was quiet and the anger was spent. "Do you think you will remember?" She asked me quietly. My bottom still hurt terribly. It would for days. "Yes!" I hung my head. "Did you have enough...do I need to spank you some more for you to remember?" My head flew up - "NO Mom, no - NO I'll...remember. Really - I promise!" "I hope so," she shook her head and shook the wooden spatula in my direction - I flinched back, literally covering my ass. "Your dad says if it happens again, you won't be able to walk for a week...so just keep that in mind. He means it! You'll think this was a love pat on your bottom, you do it again! Now you get upstairs and take your bath!" I did, although lowering my bruised bottom into the water was an agony. I rolled on my tummy - sitting on the hard tub was out of the question with my backsides feeling like I'd sat on a hornet's nest, and soaked for a long time with my eyes closed, trying to shut out the scene of the whole neighborhood staring at me leaping panty-less on the back porch, paddled and put outside to think about my lesson. It was one I never, NEVER forgot.