Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking From: an191970@anon.penet.fi (alias HAL) Date: Sun, 9 Apr 1995 05:16:36 UTC Subject: Mark Twain I will be away for about a week excpet to check my mail on Tuesday morning, so I will not be able to post anything for a while. (Keep the applause down, folks.) Several people seemed to enjoy my recent story "Vacation Spankings." It seems that as long as we all know these things are fiction entirely, there are many of us whose hot buttons are pushed by children being spanked, especially if "deserved." (The quotation marks are there because I do not believe spankings such as I describe are ever deserved except, perhaps, in our own imaginings, by us.) This is entirely fiction, a story I wrote last year for DDD which they have not published, but one I enjoy myself more than most. The Hell with Mark Twain! Yes, I know Mark Twain may have been America's greatest writer, and Huckleberry Finn may be the most widely read book by an American author. Yes, Mark Twin is still quoted all the time. His work is a national treasure. So what do I have against Mark Twain? Tom Sawyer, that's what, one scene in particular, and how that scene led me into painful error. You must have guessed, by now, that the scene in question is in the chapter where Tom takes Becky Thacher's punishment. You remember: Becky and Tom are secretly examining the teacher's book, which has a revealing (for that era) illustration of the human anatomy, and when they hurriedly try to put the book away, the picture is torn, and the teacher soon discovers it. His intimidating stare will soon reveal the culprit, and as he roams the classroom, peering into the eyes of his frightened students, Becky is just at the point of breaking down, admitting her guilt, and having to be whipped in class, something which has never happened to her before, when Tom, in a moment of chivalrous and romantic frenzy, jumps to his feet and cries out, "I done it!" The subsequent use of the master's switch is described as unusually severe, but Tom's thrashing is not described in detail. What lingers in his mind is a fantasy of Becky's face, turned to him in a glow of love and gratitude for his selfless sacrifice, and her imagined words: "Tom, how could you be so noble?" This passage was one which stirred my imagination, stirred more than that, in truth, since I had always been curious about what it would be like to be chastised, as school children once were, or even spanked, which I never was. Perhaps because my name was Tom I identified with this youthful hero, brave, resourceful, and impetuous. I could not hide out on an island for days with friends; I could not explore in a nearby cave; I could not, really, have any of the exciting adventures Tom Sawyer packed into his childhood. But the time did come when, I believed, I could at least emulate my hero in one respect and prove myself a selfless and brave young man, as I wished to be. When the opportunity arose, I seized it, but the painful and humiliating result was not at all what I had expected. The time was 1952. I was a summer guest at the home of my cousin, Sally. We were of the same age, eleven years old. She lived in a small rural community in the midwest, not unlike the town where Tom Sawyer had lived one hundred years before, and when my aunt invited me for a two week visit, my parents were happy to give me the opportunity to experience something quite different from our apartment living in the city. We did not have chores, or whitewash fences, but the pace of life was slow. Daytimes the boys and girls my age amused themselves with pick-up softball or soccer, or just hanging around, or trading comics. There were long evenings to stroll in the fields near our house, or sit on the porch, or once a week take in a movie. TV reception then was pretty bad, and only a few homes had sets. We amused ourselves. And, like most kids left to their own devices, we sometimes got into trouble. Sally got us both into trouble at the beginning of the second week of my stay. We were in the house together. Aunt Bea and Uncle Chris had gone to the movies, but the movie was, they felt, inappropriate for us. Their traditional upbringing did not allow our exposure to violence, rough language, or any sexual knowledge at all, and such matters had begun to creep into films. In their community, there was no reason to be concerned about leaving two eleven-year-old children home alone; neighbors were nearby in case of emergency, and the thought that we needed supervision never crossed Sally's parents' minds. They truly did not know that our knowledge of matters such as they were watching at the movies was far beyond what they believed. I guess Sally was a bit angry with her parents for not allowing us to attend the movie with them; most of her friends had gone. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that we were alone, and her friends were otherwise occupied, which caused Sally to be daring enough to suggest to me that we sneak into her parents' room and see what we could find. She had never dared to do this before, but my presence obviously emboldened her and, of course, it wasn't my family, so why should I object to a little snooping? We knew we had at least an hour and a half before they returned home. Their bedroom was all in blue, with flowered wallpaper, a flowered bedspread, and a profusion of knick-knacks on wall shelves and table tops. We looked at these without much interest; there were some souvenirs of trips to Niagara Falls and Cape Cod, and many family portraits, but none of these piqued our curiosity. It was Sally who began to open closets and bureau drawers, but even these contained only familiar clothes, and our exploration soon became rather boring. Then Sally opened the drawer of one of the end tables next to the bed. I knew what those little square envelopes were. The circular impression which pressed against the inside of each envelope clearly revealed the object inside; the brand name was familiar to me. Sally did not seem to understand why I was giggling and pointing, and, with some embarrassment, I explained to her what I knew (which was not very much) about birth control methods. She was fascinated. She wanted to see one of those objects inside the little envelopes; to tell the truth, I did too, as I had no first-hand knowledge of these devices. There were five or six envelopes in the drawer. Would her parents know if one were missing? Did we dare risk it? Sally soon made up her mind; she tore open an envelope and, exploding with laughter, we both gazed upon the object of our interest, unrolled it, giggling and snorting, and tried to imagine Sally's parents making use of it! Our conversation was a new experience in boldness for us, and we felt drawn together as we naughtily discussed subjects of which we were supposed to be in ignorance. As a consequence of our absorption with these topics, we forgot about time passing until we suddenly heard the door slam downstairs. The main stairway was only a few feet from the front door; in a minute Sally's parents would find us in their room, the evidence of our guilt in our hands. I stuffed the offending object in my pocket, as Sally shut the drawer of the bedside table, and we exited the room at top speed, each of us dashing to our own rooms as silently as we could. I threw myself on my bed, picked up a book, and pretended to be absorbed in it. I expected a knock on my door any instant, but even after I heard footsteps ascending the stairs, nothing happened. I held my breath. There was no sound. Sally's parents had returned to their room and, I had to believe, found nothing amiss. I could breathe again. We had covered our tracks. Then Aunt Bea, without knocking, opened the door of my room. Her expression was difficult to fathom at first. She seemed angry, but puzzled, upset, but coolly controlled. Then I saw, in her hand, the torn little square envelope we had forgotten to collect during our hasty exit. "Which of you has been in our room?" Aunt Bea asked. "And how dare you snoop there? And what possessed you to . . . to . . . to look at . . . to open this . . . I am shocked! How could you . . . young man, I don't know how your parents would feel about something like this, but, let me tell you, in this house . . .under my roof . . . well, we don't abide sneaking around, and we don't abide taking things which aren't ours, and we certainly don't abide . . . nasty, filthy behavior like . . . we just don't. There is only one thing I know to do in a case like this. One of you, or both of you, will get some good, sound, old-fashioned bare-bottom spankings. Spankings you will not soon forget. The question is, which of you? Who did this? Who decided to go in our room? Who opened the drawer? Who opened this package, and who has the, uh, you know, 'thing' which was inside? Answer me! The longer I wait, the longer and harder the spankings will be." Sally had suggested our expedition to her parents' room. She had opened the drawer, and certainly she had opened the envelope. Was it really a memory of Tom Sawyer's sacrifice which inspired me to my own bravado? Whether it was or not, I heard myself saying, "I did it." And from my pocket I pulled the offending latex evidence. Aunt Bea's face froze into a mask. "Just wait here, young man," she said. "I will be back in a moment. Don't move. And give me that thing!" Taking the object from my hand, she turned and left the room. I waited, hearing a muffled conversation from down the hall. Then it was quiet. I stood by me bed, my heart beating fast, wondering what was in store. I was going to get my first spanking, that was clear. I was going to be a sort of hero, too. But would it be worth it? Would I cry? Would Sally appreciate what I had done for her, and, even if she did, would that compensate for what was about to happen? What would it be like? In a moment, I knew more about what it would be like. Aunt Bea had reappeared in the doorway, and in her hand she held an oval, wooden hairbrush. That was something I had not counted on. And it was too late to turn back now. Aunt Bea did not close the door; what was about to happen would be audible throughout the house. She walked over to my bed and sat down. Without a word, she reached for my belt, undid the buckle, pulled down the zipper, and slid my trousers to the floor. The she reached for the elastic waistband of my underpants and slid them down, too. Placing her right hand on the small of my back, she pushed my across her knees, then placed her left hand on my upper back and finally spoke. "All right, Tom, now your going to get a good, hard spanking, one you richly deserve, for coming into my room without permission." And in a fraction of a second, I felt her palm explode across my backside. I heard the smack before I felt anything, and then, before I had really felt the full sting of the first blow, the second one fell. Aunt Bea's hand fell fast and hard, and in less than a minute I felt my backside begin to burn with the rapid succession of alternating slaps. I cried out, but not loudly, for although the spanking certainly hurt, it was a bearable pain, a pain worth, perhaps, Sally's gratitude. Worse than the pain, actually, was the embarrassment of lying there, bottom bared, helpless, jumping and wriggling as the spanking went on and I felt my behind beginning to smart. And then, Aunt Bea stopped, although she held me there, and I exulted in my having survived my initiation into bare-bottom punishment. I tried to get up. I wanted to tell Sally what I had done for her; I wanted to hear her say, like Becky Thacher, "Tom, how could you be so noble?" "Just a minute, young man," Aunt Bea said. "You didn't think that was all, did you? I told you you would get a spanking for sneaking into our room. And you did. And now you're going to get another spanking, for looking into my private possessions. I'm just resting for a moment. You don't think that's as hard a spanking as I can give, do you? That was just a warm-up, and, you know, your bottom looks pretty well warmed up now! This next spanking will be a little longer, and harder, and on that red behind, I think it will have quite an impression. Do you understand?" I did not answer. I realized that, probably, the next spanking was not necessarily the last one I would get, and that the last one . . . I didn't want to think about it. But I should have answered. Aunt Bea's hand rained down four times - SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! - extra hard. "Answer when you are spoken to!" she said. "Do you understand? Are you ready for your next spanking? And do you know why you are getting it?" "Yes, Aunt Bea," I managed to say. "You are going to spank me . . . OW . . . for looking in your . . . OW drawer . . . OH! . . . only please don't . . . OUCH! . . . spank me so . . . OWW! . . . hard . . . OUCH! OH, OWWW!" And that was all I could say. For the next five minutes or so, the spanking went on, slower than before, but harder, too, turning my bottom cheeks to a solid, hot, sore surface. I could no longer help but cry out; I did manage to hold back tears, but each new slap on my inflamed buttocks caused me to jerk across aunt Bea's lap and let out an embarrassing howl of pain. Did Sally hear me? Did she know what was happening? Was this humiliating punishment worth it? I could only hope so. I could do nothing about stopping Aunt Bea's punishing palm. Yet it did end, and Aunt Bea allowed me to stand up. I stood there, my hands automatically reaching back to rub the sting out of my burning bottom. Still, I feared that more was to come; somehow, I knew there was more to come. Aunt Bea hadn't mentioned what must have, for her, been the most serious offense of all. And there, on the edge of the bed, lay the hairbrush. I knew what was going to happen next. At least, I thought I knew. I was wrong. What happened next was the appearance of Uncle Chris, holding Sally by the hand. Sally's face was tear streaked. She was still wearing her dress, but she shuffled along, her panties around her ankles, and I realized that she had been undergoing her own punishment by Uncle Chris at the same time as I had been over Aunt Bea's lap. My cries had drowned out hers. I had forgotten about Uncle Chris. I had forgotten that Sally might admit what she had done. Uncle Chris spoke. "Sally admitted that it was all her fault, Tom. She knew she would get spanked. It's not the first time. I don't know why you didn't tell us the truth in the first place; Aunt Bea and I discussed it at some length after we talked with each of you. But we decided that you both deserved punishment, if for different reasons. And now you are going to get your last spankings together. My good right hand is strong enough for Sally, and I'm sure her spanking will impress upon her how wrong it was to tear open that little package which you naughty children found. But you, Tom. Although you didn't do that, what you did was just as bad: you lied! We do not tolerate liars in this house, and Aunt Bea will now make that lesson clear with an application of her hairbrush to your bare bottom, an already very red bottom, I see. I think you two will long remember the spankings you are about to get, side by side; you can each watch the other being spanked at the same time as your own spanking is going on, and maybe that will help you avoid getting in trouble together. All right, Bea, I think it's time these two went over our laps now." And as I saw Sally's skirt being raised, exposing two round globes as red as my own, being lowered across her father's lap, and felt myself being placed in position as Aunt Bea grasped the hairbrush in her right hand, I heard Sally say not the words which I had hoped for; instead, just before I jumped and cried aloud when the first smack of the hairbrush descended on my already sore behind, I heard: "Tom, how could you be so stupid?" The hell with Mark Twain! -"Hal"