Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking From: an191970@anon.penet.fi (alias HAL) Date: Sat, 6 May 1995 20:55:18 UTC Subject: Brian's Turn - A Sequel - F/f,F/m,F/m Brian's Turn - A Sequel It was in the early fall, after the July 4th party which I have earlier described, that Cindy and I finally had the great pleasure of seeing Brian get what was coming to him. As a matter of fact, he got what wasn't coming to him at all, but we set it up so he got a spanking at least as embarrassing as what we had endured that summer when he had gloated over the multiple spankings which we had received. Our mother had planned a shopping trip downtown, and since Brian was in need of some new school clothes, as was I, mother had offered to take her sister's son along and help get him supplied. These were the days, remember, before malls or shopping centers. A trip shopping meant dressing up, going "downtown" and visiting two or three of the huge, three or four story department stores which had been built in the 1920's and now (the late 1940's) had the established aura of banks and old hotels. For children, such a trip was a mixed experience. I remember the excitement of anticipating being able to ride escalators, a new addition to Zimmerman's, and the fun of watching the front doors at Wheary's open magically as one crossed the path of an electric eye. Each store had a large toy department where we could usually persuade mother to spend at least some time. And there were lesser pleasures, such as visiting the great marble men's rooms which had wonderful and strange types of urinals, all quite different than anything one found at home or at school. Discoveries here were quite special; I remember my surprise on one such trip at discovering, for the frst time, that adults farted. On the other hand, there were also hours of trying on clothes, and waiting while my sister tried on clothes, and waiting while my mother chatted with sales ladies, and the embarrassment of standing in my underwear, usually with my mother, in those little changing rooms. My mother seemed to know every person behind every sales counter, and her conversations with them, while I stared at the floor, or at the mirrored cabinets filled with cosmetics and soaps, or lingerie displays, or at the fuzzy coats of women wandering the aisles, were hours which eventually became endless. Bringing Brian along was not likely to make the shopping expedition one we could enjoy. Brian was always a pest, and a tattler, as well as a most unpleasant kid. He would sneakily sit between us in the car as we drove downtown, pick his nose, and wipe the contents on my sleeve. Or he would surreptitiously give Cindy's ankles small kicks. He would whine that we were crowding him, or that Cindy was teasing him, or that I said a bad word. He knew my mother would always chose to blame us rather than him, and he also knew that mother would, if she felt any justification, spank any child who strayed out of line. Brian had more than once seen Cindy or me, or both of us, dragged off to our rooms to have our bottoms bared for spanking; he had certainly heard our howls, and seen our tear-stained faces afterwards, and he always seemed to take great pleasure in our humiliation as well as our simple physical discomfort. Brian's mother believed in "reasoning with the child." She would reason with Brian whenever he did one of his obnoxious little deeds, carefully explaining to him why he shouldn't do it, and he would agree, humbly, seriously, fawningly, and wait for his next opportunity to do whatever he wanted. There had even been one occasion, about a year before, when all three of us had been playing together and Brian decided that we all needed haircuts. It seemed a great idea at the time; none of us liked trips to the barber, and, after all, we were saving our parents money. The unique results of our artistic work upon each others' heads with whatever scissors we could find resulted in Brian receiving from his mother a long and stern lecture about the difference between what adults could do and what children could do, and how such decisions were made by adults, and how one should use good judgment and ask for permission before trying to do something like cut another child's hair. We heard the lecture because Brian's mother came home first. When our mother walked in and saw us, she simply grabbed Cindy and me, marched us up the stairs, ordered Cindy to get over her lap and, while I waited, pulled down Cindy's panties and blistered her bottom with a ruler from her desk; then, while Cindy stood bawling with her face in the corner, hands rubbing her bottom frantically, I had my pants and underpants yanked down and felt the sting of the ruler applied to my bottom until I was dancing across my mother's lap with vigor. There was no lecture, and no need for one. We knew what we had done. The only approximation of a lecture we received was this: "You two children better not ever do anything like that again or I'll spank both your bottoms every day for a week!" She meant it, too. Thus a trip with Brian, anywhere, was fraught with danger for us, but not for him. He could get away with almost anything, and even if he were caught in some obvious malfeasance he would simply have to hear another boring lecture which he could, and did, forget instantly. Cindy and I, if we were caught misbehaving, would not forget the consequences until the resulting fires in our bottoms began to subside. On this particular day, Brian was particularly awful. Our first stop was at Brady's, the huge stone pile which occupied half a city block and was known for having "reasonable prices." It was here that mother purchased socks, underwear, handkerchiefs, and such, as well as bars of soap, kitchen utensils, clothespins, thread, and seemingly hundreds of other little items any well-run household demanded. Brady's had no toy department, and wandering the endless aisles with mother as she examined all the boring dry goods for sale was tiring and dull in the extreme. We three children tried to play hide and seek in the women's underwear department, but that game was quickly ended by a searing look from mother when Brian was discovered examining some panties with unusual interest. A short while later we found that a particular marble-floored aisle could be used for sliding, after a short run, but Brian eventually fell, and claimed that I had tripped him, for which I received a sharp swat to my behind. Well, I had tripped him, but he tripped me first. "You children stop fooling around like that," mother said. Cindy was the next to get in trouble, but it was her fault, sort of. Mother always told us to be sure we made bathroom visits before leaving home, and we always said we had done so whether or not that was the case. That morning Cindy had simply forgotten, and after an hour at Brady's she had to go, and suddenly she had to go right then! Mother was occupied with a very interesting conversation with a saleswoman about anew kind of skillet when Cindy tugged at her sleeve and said, "Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom!" "You told me you took care of that before we left home!" "Yes, well, maybe I forgot. I really have to go, mommy, REALLY!" Cindy, at twelve, was certainly old enough to find and use the ladies room by herself, which was all she was asking to do, but mother's irritation at Cindy not having taken care of this necessity earlier, and lying about it, was just enough to trigger her building anger. "Very well," she said, taking Cindy by the hand like a little child. "You boys wait right here. Cindy, come with me!" Cindy told me later what happened. Mother marched her sternly to the ladies room, waited impatiently while Cindy used one of the stalls, and then grabbed her as she exited, sat down on one of the benches provided in the oversized restroom, pulled her across her lap, slipped down her panties, and gave her a brief but intense spanking, hard enough to bring tears to Cindy's eyes, which might have warned me when she and mother had returned, if Brian and I had been there, where she told us to be, which, of course, we were not. Actually, Brian was where he was supposed to be, the little rat. We had wandered around the cookware section of the store and found a nest of pots and pans with which we were constructing a very unusual and creative tower. But Brian's keen eye saw my mother when she reappeared far down the aisle, so he gave the tower a gentle shove and slipped back to where she had left us. Thus I was confronted, as I sat there on the floor with pots and pans strewn around me, by my mother, newly angered, holding my tearful sister by the hand, a smirking Brian standing behind her. She had heard the crash, and assumed I had to be the cause, and even though there were other people around, my punishment was not going to be delayed. Remember, this was the1940's, and no one would think a public spanking for a boy naughty enough to throw pots and pans around in a store would be out of place. So a public spanking was what I got, there and then. I was dragged across the aisle to the furniture department, where mother found an armless chair to sit on while she yanked down my trousers and underpants to the ankles, dumped me over her knee, and proceeded to redden my behind while all who were in the vicinity watched. I don't think many grown-ups, or even any, actually did watch my humiliation, but I felt as if the whole world was standing there, seeing mother's hand deliver a stinging message to my bared seat while I bravely, but ultimately unsuccessfully tried to keep from crying out. My mother, to be sure my" lesson" was well-learned, continued until my howls convinced her that I was, indeed, well-enough spanked to consider changing my ways. Brian, of course, watched the spanking with glee and interest. It was a special and rare treat for him to actually witness my little bare bottom turning to fire. I knew he would have a lot to say about it, as he did, but first my mother had something to say: "I don't know what's gotten into you children today," she said, setting me on my feet and watching me scramble to pull my pants up and cover my shame. "You two must have gotten out on the wrong side of the bed today. Well, we have a long, long day of shopping ahead of us, and I am not going to put up with any more nonsense from any of you. If you need a spanking, you'll get a spanking, and I don't care when and I don't care where. In fact," she reflected, "if I have to spank either of you again, you will really regret it. And I am going to make sure of that!" She herded us down two aisles, turned to the left, and we found ourselves in the bed and bathroom department. Mother seemed especially animated, but we did not know why until we heard her address the sales girl with the question, "Hairbrushes?" "Right over there, ma'am," the girl responded brightly. She clearly did not know what mother had in mind, but Cindy and I knew, and our hearts sank. We were marched over to another counter, all too aware of mother's purpose. Brady's remember, was not a fancy store, so that although there was an array of mother-of-pearl handled brushes, and some enameled ones, most were plain wood. Black, brown, oval, rectangular, solid wooden hairbrushes. Mother pointed to a light tan, oval brush with white bristles, just the size, it seemed to me, of one half of my eleven-year-old bottom. $2.95 Bought in an instant, and held before our eyes as the salesgirl listened in surprise. "Now, you children, the next one of you who misbehaves is going to get the spanking of your life, with this, right on the bare bottom until you won't want to sit down for a week. Do you hear me? That means each of you, or, if it is necessary, all of you! On the bare bottom! Do you understand?!" We scuffed our toes along the floor and mumbled and looked as downcast and as invisible as possible. Even Brian was a bit daunted, although he knew mother's threat was not really for him. Cindy and I exchanged quick glances. Somehow, we both knew, we would find a way for Brian to have his pants taken down for the spanking he had deserved all his life. We had finished with Brady's. On to Zimmerman's, Zimmerman's with the escalators. But the threat of a hairbrush spanking on our still warm behinds kept Cindy and me from the kind of exuberant play which the escalators usually inspired. Brian managed to sneak off for a few minutes to run down on the "up" escalator while mother was trying on a dress, but we did not dare risk it, and we did not want to alert mother to any misbehavior of Brian's which was less than extreme. We were going to get him, and we were going to get him good. He continued, under his breath, the kind of comments we had learned to expect. "Why are you rubbing your pants, Hal?" "Isn't it warm in here, I mean aren't you kind of warm, you know, somewhere?" "Cindy, I see a pink spot on the back of your leg. I wonder why." "That's a big hairbrush your mother bought. I bet she uses it on both of you, but not to brush your hair, ha, ha!" "Cindy's going to get it! Hal's going to get it! Just you wait!" We did wait. We laughed, and smiled, and pretended that we thought his remarks hysterically funny. We were very nice to Brian as the day continued to wear on. We knew an opportunity would come. It came when mother decided to look at some fancy lingerie; Zimmerman's had goods of quality far beyond what Brady's offered. But this necessitated her absence from us for an extended period. Fortunately, the toy department at Zimmermans's was right next to the lingerie department, and it was extensive. "You children just amuse yourself here for a while." she said. There is plenty for you to look at without getting into any mischief, and I do not think I have to remind you what will happen if you do not behave. See that bench over there? That is where you will be spanked if you DARE do anything naughty. And here is the hairbrush I will use. I trust that I need say nothing further." We all nodded, seriously, and Cindy and I quickly began to plot. There were many wonderful toys, games, dolls, trains, books, puzzles, and other delights for us to look at, but looking is not much fun. There was also an area with wooden play sets, the type one bought for a family garden, with swings, and climbing ropes and even a seesaw. One such structure had three ropes on it, for climbing or swinging, and it stood right next to a set of child's furniture consisting of a painted dresser and bed set. If one stood on the bed and held the rope . . . I nudged Cindy, winking at her to follow my lead. "Look," I said," I'll bet I can swing farther than you, Cindy." "No you can't," she answered on cue. "I am older, and bigger, and I can hold on longer and swing farther than either of you. 'Specially you, Brian, 'cause you're really little." "Oh, sure, sure," I quickly countered, wanting to make it seem as if we didn't care at all whether Brian got into this contest, knowing that would make him want to do just that without considering the consequences. "Look. I'll prove it. Let's climb up on the bed over there, and grab the ropes, and we'll see who can swing out farther. I'll bet you a dime I win." Like two well-rehearsed con artists, Cindy and I bantered back and forth, raising the stakes to 15 cents, 20 cents, a quarter! Brian was getting pulled in like a fish on the line; his eyes grew bigger, and we knew we had him! Carefully keeping our eyes on the lingerie department across the way, Cindy and I inched towards the bed, sat on it, kneeled on it, and challenged each other, and then, begrudgingly, allowed Brian to join us in the contest. The rules were simple: on the count of three, we would each hold a rope, stand up on the bed, and swing out as far as possible. Winner gets a quarter. Got it? It worked out even better than we could have imagined. None of us had really looked at the area where we would be landing. So when I saw my mother standing with her back to us at the lingerie counter, completing a purchase, the moment had arrived. "O.K." I whispered. "Now. One . . .two . . .THREE!" Cindy and I dropped to the bed and sat there, demurely. Brian swung wildly across the aisle, flew into a large display of doll furniture, including tea sets and dishes, and brought the entire mountain of boxes crashing to the ground around him with a tinkling of broken crockery, just as mother turned around and started towards us. I remember the next five minutes with intense satisfaction. Brian, stunned, unbelieving, was hauled to his feet and marched over to the bench mother pointed out earlier, as Cindy and I innocently followed to enjoy the ceremonies. I remember what we saw: Brian's trousers at his ankles, then pulled off completely as he stood, petrified, then his little jockey shorts pulled down as he tried to cover his small but half-aroused penis just before my mother bent him across one knee, reached into the paper bag at her side, and brought that hairbrush down on Brian's bottom with a resounding SMACK!! Brian was too stupified to cry out, for a second, but his entire body jerked, his legs kicked, and his hands instinctively flew to cover his bottom. Calmly, my mother pinned them both to the middle of his back, and the spanking really began. I remember the sounds clearly: SMACK! ( OWW!) What did I -SMACK! -(OWW) - tell you - SMACK! (Ohhh, nooo!) - I would do if you SMACK! (No, Please..) misbehaved today? SMACK! SMACK! (But OWW I didn't OOOH! please) SMACK! (OUCHH!) You little brat SMACK! it's about time SMACK! somebody gave you (No, I didn't OOOOWWWWW do it OWWW) what you deserved SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! And so on. My mother was clearly furious, and the spanking she was giving Brian was at least as hard as any she had dealt out to us. I almost felt sorry for him as I saw his the hairbrush land over and over, first on one cheek and the other, the spots of red first standing out and then blending into one solid mass of hot, stinging flesh. Brian's words soon became just shouts and howling and then tears, but the tears did not seem to calm my mother at all, for she went right on as if she was spanking Brian for all the misdeeds he had ever committed in the past. I think she spanked him for about five minutes. I think Cindy and I, by the time the spanking ended, were just a bit in awe of what we had done. We held each other's hands, quite tightly, and even though we despised the little wretch who was being soundly whipped in front of us, we twisted and turned as we stood there, almost feeling the searing flames playing across Brian's scarlet backside. The rest of the shopping trip was uneventful. When Brian's spanking was over, mother pulled his pants back on and we took his hand and led him, sobbing, to accompany us onward. His wet, red tear-stained face now had a look of astonishment and wonder, and for the balance of the day he said nothing at all. From time to time he would slip his hand down the back of his pants to caress his inflamed cheeks, sniffle, and then plod on with us. In the car, on the way home, he tried to stand up in the back seat but, after a warning glance from mother, sat with great difficulty, blinkin ghis eyes and sniffing. Cindy and I spoke about the day's events together later in the evening. "Wow, did Brian ever get it," Cindy said. That was the hardest spanking mom has ever given. Did you see his butt? I have never had a spanking like that!" "Yeah. Oh, Oww, that must have . . . well, he deserved it, I guess, but . . . I am sure glad it wasn't me." "Me neither. Wow! Well, we got him back . . . I mean . . . I know it was really our fault, but he asked for it. And we got away with it. Whew! I mean . . . just think . . . what if we had gotten caught?" "Cindy?" "Yeah, Hal?" "What if Brian tells his mother? And what if she tells our mother?" "What do you mean, Hal?" "Cindy, mom still has that hairbrush. And I just heard the phone ring." "Hal" - who will never tell you what happened next. As Darla says, "hee, hee!"