Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking From: an191970@anon.penet.fi (alias HAL) Date: Fri, 7 Apr 1995 07:46:57 UTC Subject: Vacation spankings (children) inkyo@delphi.com's recent post included some evocative memories of those paddles sold in souvenier shops, which reminded me of a story I wrote a few years ago. Nothing special, just a standard spanked kids story-absolute fiction; I do not advocate spanking children like this, or at all. Still, in my story, I am the one who gets spanked, and that is something I still advocate. Vacation Spankings About twenty years ago, when my sister and I were twelve and thirteen respectively, our parents decided that we were old enough to take an extended trip and learn about the good old U.S. of A. We learned a lot, all right. We saw the Grand Canyon, and Yellowstone, and Washington, D. C., and all the other places our parents thought we should learn about. But what I remember best about that summer was how hard it was for my sister and I to sit, day after day, in the back seat of our car without getting into trouble and, thus, how it turned out that we were more often than not sitting there not too comfortably on well-warmed backsides. We lived in Chicago, and we headed East at first: Philadelphia, New York, and then Washington. For a day or so the turnpike driving seemed exciting, and we managed to amuse ourselves playing license plate bingo. In fact, the first explosion occurred over that game, late in a long day of steady driving. My sister, Babs, claimed to have seen an Ohio plate before I did, as I recall, or something like that; anyway, we got into a huge argument over nothing, yelling and slapping at each other until my father shouted at us to be quiet. When we persisted, his nerves just frazzled, and he said, "All right, now, be quiet! The next one of you who says anything is going to get a good spanking." I don't think he meant it, really. He just wanted some peace and quiet in the car. But I was too much of a wise guy to know when to shut up. "Anything," I said. That did it. Suddenly the car was pulling over to the side of the road. It stopped, I heard the front door slam, and then the rear door opened and my father's hand grabbed me by the arm. Before I knew what was happening, I was being hauled over his knee as he sat in the car doorway, and he was starting to spank me. But I had on jeans, so I really couldn't feel much, and I didn't think fast enough to react as if he was really hurting me. His anger was not helped by the fact that I was not acting like a kid getting spanked, or that my sister was giggling at his ineffective exertions. After only a minute, I was on my feet again, but this time I was, to my immense distress, having my jeans and underpants pulled down to my ankles, standing there naked while the passing traffic slowed to watch. I wasn't standing for long; in an instant I was over dad's knee again, this time feeling his hand descending on my bottom with real effect, aware not only that it really hurt but that the whole world, my sister, my mother, and anyone who happened to be driving by could see my humiliation. After that first time, you might think my sister and I would have learned to behave. Neither of us had ever experienced a public spanking before. Yet both of us were to experience many before that trip ended. My sister's turn came a few days after, and, as far as I was concerned, it was much worse than mine. We were arguing and fighting again, but this time we chose to do so at lunch, in a Howard Johnson's. As I recall, my sister went too far when she used some language my mother felt was totally unacceptable and, right in the middle of her lunch, my sister found herself propelled by our mother out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. Here, at a convenient bench, her dress was quickly raised, her panties lowered, and, bare behind exposed to anyone who happened to be entering or leaving the restaurant, she had a sound spanking thoroughly administered. It was a week after that when I made a mistake which was to etch that summer in my memory. We had been on our best behavior for some time, but the constant travelling was beginning to wear us down. Walking through a shopping mall after a morning rest stop, we passed a toy store, and we pestered our parents to let us look inside. They figured we might find something to amuse us in the car, and if I had been thinking clearly, I would have. But, instead, I decided that what I wanted, of all things, was a toy soon to be put to a use never intended. It was a paddle-ball game, one of those plywood paddles with a rubber ball attached by an elastic string. It was what I wanted, and it was what I got. But I did not get it in the way I anticipated. Two days later, Babs and I were waiting in line with my parents to visit the Space Museum. The line was endless. We were incredibly bored. We started fighting over who could play with the paddle ball, and in spite of our parents' dire warnings of the impending possibility of an unwanted trip over their knees, we continued to battle, first verbally and then physically. Pulling on the paddle ball, the string snapped, and I screamed at my sister, "You little bitch! Look what you did!" My sister's reply was, "Shove it, butthole!" In two seconds, the paddle was pulled from my hand, and we stared up at two very angry parents. Our hearts sank. We knew immediately what was about to happen. Our parents did not care at all about the crowds below us on the Mall. Right there, my mother sat down on the steps leading to the museum, swiftly raised Babs' dress, pulled her panties down, bent her over her knee and began to use the paddle on her bared bottom. Aghast, I heard my father say, "Watch this, Donny. When Mom's finished with your sister, it will be your turn, and you're going to get at least as sound a spanking as she is." And, indeed, each of us was turned over a parental knee that day, our behinds soundly smacked until they turned bright red, in view of hundreds of curious tourists. Babs tried so hard not to bawl, but after a dozen or so smacks with the paddle, there was no holding back. The tears rolled down her face as the paddle continued to descend. It was probably only a minute or two, but it seemed an eternity, and I was horribly conscious of how shameful it was for Babs to be lying there over mom's lap, being spanked so hard, while all the world looked on. It would only be a minute now before I would be similarly shamed, and the idea panicked me; I tried to run, but dad held me firmly. "You stay right there," he told me, "or, by God, I 'll have your pants down right now, and we'll see how well you can run with them around your ankles!" It was, in fact, only another minute before I was lying over his lap, pants down, bottom up, feeling my own backside turned to fire. It was the hardest, longest spanking I had ever had, and long after it ended and I had pulled up my pants and wiped my tears, I could feel my bottom burning, a reminder of my humiliation as we toured the marvels of the Space Museum. I remember little of what I saw there; I only remember thinking, "All those people are looking at me, the boy who was spanked in front of the museum this morning. I later asked my sister, and she said that was all she could think about too. That night, we inspected each other's bottoms for bruises. There were none. But the memory of those bottom-warmings would not go away. It wasn't the last time either of us were spanked that summer. The longer the trip went on, the more often we misbehaved, and the more our parents' nerves gave out, and the more frequently we found ourselves face down, having our bare bottoms smacked with that paddle. It was always the paddle from then on, always on the bare, and I can recall its sting to this day. Until I was paddled in front of Yellowstone Lodge, and the handle cracked. Then Babs had her bottom spanked soundly at a convenience store in Colorado, and the handle broke off! We thought we had finally been released from its painful correction ---for five minutes. Our parents marched right into the store and emerged right away with a wooden hairbrush! "Look," said our mother, "from now on, it's going to be a lot worse for the two of you if you don't straighten up and behave." And it was. We tried to behave. We really did. But for the next two weeks, hardly a day went by when one of us or both did not watch the other getting a sound spanking or feel that hairbrush descending on our own naked buttocks. We just couldn't keep out of trouble. And that meant we couldn't keep from finding ourselves, again and again, bottoms bared and reddening as the hairbrush descended. Sometimes it was in our motel room, but, as often as not, it was in a public place, in line at a tourist attraction, or in a parking lot, or on a park bench. There were lots of sights to see in the U.S. that summer. But one of the sights many summer tourists saw was Babs' or my bright red bottom receiving a sound hairbrush smacking while a tearful sibling stood by waiting his or her turn over the parental knee.