Subject: The Candy Money
From: Hbrushed <>

The Candy Money

This is not a work of fiction, but rather a memoir of a lesson that I learned many years ago. It involves the spanking of an 11 year old girl (me!), and if that bothers you, please click this window closed. Naturally - if you are under 18 you shouldn't be reading this anyhow, so please go away. Additionally, you each should know that I had, and continue to have a great relationship with my parents, and that I'm not interested hearing what monsters you might think they are or were. They were doing what society, at that time in our town, believed was right. They were/are loving, caring parents who also believed that a warm bottom was an effective way of helping a girl learn how to behave herself. Spankings back then were expected and not thought to be cruel or unusual - even by those of us who got them. I hope you like the story. I'd love to have feedback here or by e-mail if you are so inclined.

Most folks in my community would agree that I'm a good person...and I usually try my best to live up to that image. One thing is for certain, and this is no joke here, I sure don't steal! I learned the consequences of stealing many, many years ago, but the lesson still stays with me. Well, perhaps not stealing, perhaps the lesson had to do with the misappropriation of funds...but I get ahead of myself.

Back when I was in school (and that is back a few years, especially to you young'ns!) our church ran an after-school program called "Church Club" (creative, eh?) for boys and girls in the 4th, 5th and 6th grades We met one night a week for several months. On Church Club days, those of us in the program would ride the school bus that went past the church and were dropped off there. We'd play games, sing songs, do some religious study and have dinner. At about 7:00, our parents would arrive and take us home. It was good fun, and probably good for our souls.

Once in a while we would take field trips, but as you know, field trips cost money. To keep the costs reasonable, we held fund-raisers... sometimes car washes, and sometimes candy sales. When I was in the 5th grade we held a candy sale, and I was a champion salesgirl. I sold up and down the street and all over the neighborhood. My parents offered to keep the money for me, but that was a terrible insult! Either they did not trust me (which was offensive!), or they didn't think that I could do the math (which was an affront). I raised the money; I would keep track of it and turn it in.

I'm sure that you have figured it out by now. In the days and weeks between collecting the money and turning it in, I fell to temptation. The day before it was due, I realized that I didn't have enough money to turn over. I had spent some, and I had replaced most (from my meager allowance), but I was short by a few dollars (which seems like little enough to you today, but believe me, it was an extraordinary amount to me in those days!). What did I have to show for it? Nothing but junk and perhaps a (temporarily) satisfied sweet tooth! I counted that money over and over again like an old miser in the treasury, but it always came up short. Oh, how I regretted not letting my parents keep it for me!

I was worried sick. I couldn't ask my sisters for money because they would surely tattle to my parents. Maybe I could get some money in school? Yeah, right! Even I knew that fifth graders didn't carry enough lunch money to bail me out of this. I conjured up reasons to explain the absent money. I dreamed fantasies of finding money. But I just knew that I would be found out as a thief and that every kid and adult in the town would point and call me horrible names!

I finally decided that my best and safest course of action would be to say nothing about the money until morning, just before leaving for school. I reasoned that mom would give me the money to turn in (not wanting a daughter of hers to be branded a bandit), and I was sure that she would be too busy in the morning to yell much, and much too busy to spank me before school. A good, solid plan - I was well pleased with my conniving. There was only one factor that I forgot - Mom was a better organizer than I would ever hope to be. So here we are, shortly after dinner, and mom calls up the steps to me....

"Pam! You have to turn your candy money in tomorrow, don't you, hon? Bring it down here and let's get it ready for you to take it with you to school."

My goose was cooked, and I knew it. I didn't know how I was going to get out of this as I gathered up the money and the papers. I thought of claiming that communists had crawled in the window and stolen it. I thought of blaming my sisters for stealing it. I though of pretending to have lost it, and I thought of accusing someone of not paying me.

When I carried the money and papers into the kitchen I was softly crying. Mom looked so concerned - something was troubling her dear, sweet, innocent little girl, and she was there to help. With tears pouring down my face, I blubbered a convoluted confession. I coughed and sneezed and cried and blew and finally mom got the whole story, and her demeanor changed bit by bit as the story tumbled out of me. She quickly changed from, "What's wrong sweetheart?" to "You did WHAT, young lady?" She was both furious and disappointed - and I was to feel the full force of her unhappiness.

"You stole your candy money? From the Church???"

"Nooo, Moooomy, I borrowed it, I *meant* to pay it back!!!! I'm *gonna* pay it back, honest!!"

This provided her with the opportunity to instruct me, at the top of her voice, in the finer points of theft, broken trust and disappointment. Her voice and my bawling eventually brought Dad to the kitchen, and I had to blubber the same confession all over again. Dad also seemed to believe that there was this vast difference between borrowing and stealing, and I just stood there crying and trying to convince them that I never meant for this to happen.

"We're going to straighten out this money right now, Pamela Joan, then I am going to take you upstairs and show you what happens to young ladies in this family who steal," she said as she plopped my little rear down on a kitchen chair. I had been crying before, but I was really crying now - I knew that her taking me upstairs was going to be an all together unpleasant experience. In Mom's little secret family code, her phrase 'showing me what happens...' meant that she was going to spank me, but first I was going to have to do all this paperwork.

Math never came easily to me, perhaps that is why I was in such a predicament in the first place. Now I was counting up sold candy bars, multiplying the sales by the cost per candy bar, counting the money and adding up the checks, and subtracting the amounts available from total amount due. This was a lot of math for an eleven- year-old girl, especially when under the angry and watchful eye of my mom. It was even worse since most of my brain was concentrating on the fact that the comfortable bottom I was sitting (and squirming!) on was about to become a very uncomfortable bottom when she gave me the spanking that she had just promised.

Under ordinary circumstances I could sit for hours and never even really notice or think about my bottom. But you can believe me when I say that once I was indirectly told that I was going to get a spanking, I become acutely aware of my rear as I sat at the table doing my 'sums', and I wondered if I would ever sit comfortably on it again. It was hard enough to do the arithmetic without having tear-filled eyes and worrying about being taken upstairs to learn what happens to girls in this family who steal!

Mom sat right there with me, unpleasantly glaring as I did my work...

"That's wrong."

"Re-do that, Pam."

"Do you have any more money upstairs?"

"Where is the check from Mrs. Johnson?"

"Print more neatly."

Finally we came to agreement on the amount of money due to the club, and the amount of money I had here on the table, and the amount of money that I had either borrowed (according to me) or stolen (according to Mom). Mom told me that she would lend me the money that I needed and that I would pay her back with extra jobs around the house. She was very clear that she was not giving me a penny but would loan it to me to be paid back by labor. Mother made a big production out of getting into her purse and digging out enough money to make everything balance. We sealed all the money up in a big envelope, and I wrote my name on the outside.

Once the money was settled up, the lecturing began again. I was crying now, pretty openly. There was no doubt that I was dealing with a very angry woman and that it was this angry woman who was going to take me upstairs in just a few minutes. I was trying so hard to prove that I didn't steal anything, but Mom was having none of it. She just didn't seem to understand that, at least to me, stealing had to involve a mask and a gun and a terrified bank teller. Taking money from a tattered envelope in the dresser drawer was borrowing!

I must confess, though I suspect that you already know, that I did understand that I had pretty much stolen the money. I clung desperately to my defense of borrowing instead of stealing because that was the only line of reasoning that I thought could possibly spare my 11-year-old bottom from the spanking ahead. I didn't fool myself into believing that I would be able to talk her out of spanking me - that was too certain to be avoided. I was now frantically doing all that I could to increase my chances of being spanked with my pants or underwear on, or at the very least, to avoid an encounter with her hairbrush when she gave me the inevitable spanking.

"But Mooommmyyyy....I didn't steal anything!!! I just sorta borrowed it!!"

"Does that money belong to you, young lady?"

"No....but, but, but...."

"Did anyone give you permission to take that money, Pamela Joan?"


"Then you took money that didn't belong to you, and you spent it on yourself, and that is stealing. Pure and simple stealing. Do you understand that?"

Boy, was I caught now. If I agreed that it was stealing, I'd get spanked for sure. But, if I kept being belligerent and denying this, I'd quickly earn myself a spanking for being stubborn. I couldn't agree, and I couldn't disagree, so I did the next best thing. As any defense attorney will tell you, when it looks hopeless, throw yourself on the mercy of the Court!

"Waaaah!!!!!! I'm so sorry, Mom!!!! I promise, Mom...I'll never take anything again, I promise, really I do!"

"I am sure you won't, young lady, and I'm going to give you a good reason to never steal anything ever again."

She grabbed my wrist and lifted me from the chair. I was in hysterics by now. I had been given 'a good reason' for things before. I had been given a 'good reason' not to lie, a 'good reason' not to fight with my sisters, a 'good reason' to get home on time, etc., etc., etc. I had been around long enough to know that the 'good reason' she would give me would be a red, warm and well-spanked bottom.

"Nooo, Mom, please!!! I'm sorry Mom, please don't! I don't want a spanking, please don't spank me, pleaase, Mommyyyy!!!!!!"

I was scared, embarrassed and trying to twist away as she led me squirming from the kitchen right through the living room to the stairs. I was so embarrassed as I was marched right past my brother and dad in the living room, then mom started me up the steps. There could be no doubt in Dad and David's mind about what was going to happen to me, and especially my bottom, and I hated to have them see me being marched to my doom. I bet I missed half of the steps as we flew up the stairs, then down the hall. Tammy and Jennifer were both up here doing homework, and that meant that they would hear my mother's showing me what happens to girls who steal. This was so miserable for me - the whole family was home, and the whole family knew what was going to happen to little Pamela's bottom, and why, and would be able to listen to me learning, across Mom's lap, what happens to girls in this family who steal. Since I am the youngest child in the family, my siblings often got to hear me getting 'good reasons' for things, but I was horrified that everyone was going to hear me getting spanked. I knew that Tammy in particular would enjoy this since she was the only other one in the family still getting spankings when she misbehaved, and I usually teased her unmercifully when it happened to her. Now she would have yet another opportunity to tease me.

When we turned into Mom's bedroom she gave the door a shove closed. I was expecting to be guided up to her bed, but instead my tummy turned over as we headed to her dresser. While still holding her bawling and squirming 11-year-old daughter with one hand, she opened the drawer and retrieved the hairbrush with the other. Mom's hairbrush was reserved for the most emphatic spankings, and seeing her draw that brush from her dresser drawer sent me into a more earnest fit of begging. I had been given spankings with that hairbrush before, though not too many, and I knew what it would do to an 11-year-old girl's bottom and that I didn't want a spanking with it today

"Please, mom!! Nooo...I promise to be good! Please don't use that, please???" Over to the bed we went, and she sat down laying the brush next to her.

She pulled me right up to her knees, and undid my pants. As she tugged them down below my knees, I was bawling and pleading to be given another chance. As I stood there in my panties - well - plain old sensible underpants, really - she again lectured me about theft and the difference between stealing and borrowing. She was lecturing, but the only question in my mind was if she was done pulling garments down.

"You have stolen money, little lady, and I am going to spank you for that. You know better than to steal, and I am very angry and disappointed that you would do this. Now you are going to get a good spanking, little girl, to help you remember to never steal anything again."

With the efficiency that only the mother of four kids could have, she reached out and dragged my underwear all the way down to meet my pants. We played a quick game of slap-hands as I tried desperately to keep my undies on, but she had them down faster than any future boy-friend would have ever thought possible.

"Waaah!!! No, Mommy! No, Mommy....not bare," I bawled at the top of my voice,"...please, Mommy, I'm, sooo sorryyy!!!!!"

I was at a most awkward age for this. I was old enough to have developed great modesty about the thin, soft downy fuzz below my tummy and that delicate part of me that it barely concealed. But I was also still young enough that the horror of having my panties taken down for a spanking had as much to do with the worry of how much more a spanking on my bare bottom would sting as it did with the exposure involved. The big girl in me screamed for my hands to cover the front of me, and the little girl inside screamed just as hysterically for my hands to protect my now bare bottom. Neither side won, as mom exerted the total control that she had.

She roughly took both of my hands in hers, keeping me from covering either the bashful or the spankable parts of me. She used my hands to guide me around to her side and then to drape me over her lap. I still fit comfortably there. Though I had already entered my growth spurt, I was not yet too big to be drawn over her knees to get my spankings. We did a litttle squirming here, both of us. I was squirming to get out of this terrible position, and she was busy shifting me to get us both settled in the proper position to her to spank me.

Finally she won when she had my head and feet in the air, my middle on her lap and my bottom right where she could tend to it. It took one or two good hand spanks to get me settled in this juvenile position, and a few more spanks accompanied another short lecture about stealing and broken trust as I squirmed there with my pants and panties pulled down and my poor little bare bottom on display.

Finally mom found her hairbrush, the hairbrush found my bottom, mom found her rhythm, and I found out what happens to girls in this family who steal. For those of you who haven't been following the story too well, what happens to a girl in this family who steals is that she gets an old-fashioned hairbrush spanking on her little bare bottom while perched across Mommy's knee!!

WAAAH!!!! I beg, I kick, I cry, and I squirm, all with no effect. Mom promised to give me a good reason not to steal, and she was not to be distracted in her teaching. Mom sternly tended to both cheeks of my bare bottom. She paid particular attention to the chubbiest parts of the crests of my bottom, but she didn't neglect the suburbs.

Though my bottom was beginning to round out a little, it was still small enough that the hairbrush could sting both sides of my bottom with each spank. These proportions of bottom and brush gave mom the opportunity to vary the spanking by either laying the full length of her hairbrush on only one cheek or the other, or sometimes carefully placing her brush across my equator to sting both cheeks of my poor bottom with one spank! Like a master artist she is painting red circles, but her brush is a hairbrush and her canvas is my poor denuded bottom! Not content to spank only the small territory of my bottom, she snaps her brush a few times on that oh so tender skin of the tippy-tops of my thighs.

"Waaahh!!! Please!! No more, please, oh please, Mommy, please stop!!!!"

To be absolutely honest, right now I'm not thinking much about stealing, and I'm not thinking that I'm getting a good reason not to steal. I'll contemplate the theories of 'cause and effect' a little later, and I will come to the conclusion that girls in this family who steal get spankings, and that no amount of stealing is worth the spanking that will result. But right now I am simply thinking that having my pants and panties pulled down, being turned over my mom's knee, and having her spank my bare bottom with a hairbrush is about the worst thing that can happen to an eleven-year- old girl. I'm thinking that I am the daughter of the meanest woman in the world, and that I'd love to get the chance to turn the tables and spank her on her bare bottom with a hairbrush. Then, after only about 30 seconds, I'm not thinking anything anymore. I'm simply bawling at the top of my lungs and wriggling my bottom in a desperate attempt to get it out of the range of that hairbrush!

As suddenly as the spanking started it was over. I continued to bawl and kick until it finally dawned on me that she was no longer spanking me. After a few minutes of recovery, she helped me to my feet where I demonstrated that it is entirely possible to spank every ounce of modesty out of a bashful eleven-year-old girl, even one who isn't wearing her panties. My bottom was on fire!! I tried in vain to rub the sting and tingle out of it, but it was still tingling as if a nest of hornets had stung me 'back there' with a vengeance!

Mom watched my little dance with her hairbrush in her hand and a look of resigned satisfaction on her face. She seemed confident that she had given the little girl with the red bottom squirming around in front of her a good reason never steal again. I was then told, in no uncertain terms, that if I ever stole anything again, I would be spanked again, only my next spanking would be much longer and much harder.

Mom almost always finished my spankings with those ominous words, "And if I ever have to give you a spanking for this again, Miss Pamela Joan, I will spank your bottom even longer and harder - and with your underpants taken down, too. Do you understand me, young lady?" If it had been a hand spanking, then she would shake her finger at me to emphasize her words, but if she had used her hairbrush she would display the brush to me yet again. I always cried and nodded my understanding, but it was always a little lie. Oh, I did understand and believe that my bottom would be spanked again, and I understood all too well that my underpants would be taken down for it, too. It always aggravated me that she had to spell that out like that, as if it weren't implied in the statement as I was standing there still bare-bottomed from this spanking. It was the 'longer and harder" part that I couldn't fathom. When I was standing in front of her with my panties still down, my bottom a scarlet red, and with every nerve of my backside on fire, I couldn't conceive of a spanking that could possibly be longer or harder than the one that I was still bawling about. It simply couldn't exist - I had just received the longest and hardest spanking possible!

Mom stood from her bed and told me that I could stay in her room until I was done crying. As I pulled my pants and undies back up, she made a production out of returning her hairbrush to its home in the dresser, and I flopped across her bed, sobbing my eyes out. My only revenge was a gallon of tears deposited on her pillow! Ha! Let her change the pillowcase before she went to bed!

Of course, facing the family was hell that evening - everyone knew that I had been spanked, that my panties had been taken down for my spanking, and that mom had used her hairbrush on my bare bottom to give me a good reason not to steal. It was so embarrassing, but at least it was all over.

As I had predicted, Tammy was overwhelmed by the giggles, and took great delight in mimicking the squeals and pleas and cries that she had heard as I was being undressed and spanked. She enjoyed herself the rest of the evening at my expense, squealing in her high pitched voice, "Waaah!!! No, Mommy! No, Mommy....not bare!!" and "Noo, Mommy...I'll be a good girl, I promise...please don't spank me!!", and smacking my still tingly bottom every chance she could. It did not matter that Tammy herself had her own panties taken down and the hairbrush applied to her 13-year-old bare bottom a week or a month before, nor did it matter that Tammy would find herself being spanked again in another week or month from now. What mattered today was that I was the little baby who got herself a spanking.

Soon it was time for bath and bed, and I was comforted and gently reminded to be a good girl as I crawled into bed.

Two things happened the next day that are memorable. The first occurred early in the morning when mom overheard my 15-year-old sister calling me a 'thief.' Mom quickly and forcefully admonished her, and I'll remember the gist, if not her actual words forever.

"Pamela is NOT a thief, Jenny. A thief steals things frequently and from many people. Your sister has stolen only once, and I doubt that she will ever steal anything else again. She made a mistake, and she has been punished, but she is not a thief." For some reason, this defense of my character, sullied as it had been, made me feel so much better.

The second event of the day was when I turned in the money at club meeting that evening. I swear my bottom started burning all over again when they made a big fuss out of how much I had sold and how much money I was turning in. I blushed like a fool, and I suppose that they thought that I was embarrassed by the attention - but I knew, and now you do too, that I was blushing because only twenty-four hours ago the lack of money in that envelope had resulted in one of my many trips over Mom's knee to have my bare bottom soundly spanked for me.