Subject: Story: Suburban Quandry (M/f)
From: Kent Stoneking <kentls001@worldnet.att.net>
Date: Wed, 06 Oct 1999 07:02:05 -0700
Inspired by a series of pictures that appeared on ABPES a while back.
* * *
A neighborhood like any other, in a typical American locale: neatly trimmed lawns, flower beds, white picket fences. Peering through the kitchen window of one split-level ranch house, we see a teenaged girl up to her elbows in a sinkful of dirty dishes; again, not an unusual sight.
But there's something different about this girl, something which raises questions in our minds. Why is her face flushed? Why is she sniffling? Why, every so often, does she wipe fitfully at a tear rolling down her cheeks, leaving a trail of soapsuds behind?
As we enter the house and approach the girl from behind, our questions increase. Why is her navy blue pleated skirt pinned to her white long-sleeved button-down blouse? Why are her navy blue panties around her knees? And why are her thighs and buttocks bright crimson, as opposed to the remainder of her lily-white flesh?
If we were to retreat in time a brief passage, just a mere half-hour, we may find the answers to our questions. We now see the girl, her face unmarred by signs of distress and her skirt and panties in their proper places, recumbent on her bed, a telephone stuck in her ear, chatting with one of her many friends about the topics teenage girls spend so much time talking about ... fashions ... makeup ... upcoming dances ... boys.
The appearance of a tall, gray-haired man in her bedroom doorway interrupted the conversation. "Sandi, hang up the phone. We need to talk."
"In a minute, Uncle Dave."
"Not in a minute. Now."
With a heavy sigh, the girl whispered, "I'll call you back, Carla," and disconnected. With a sweet smile for her uncle, she said, "Yes?"
He pulled the chair out from her desk and sat down, putting them on roughly the same eye level. "Sandi, I asked you half an hour ago to do the dishes, and they're still not done."
"I've been busy, Uncle Dave --"
"Talking on the phone to Carla doesn't constitute being `busy' in my book."
Rolling her eyes, she muttered, "Okay, I'll do them right now," and started to get up.
"It's not just the dishes," he stopped her. "When your mother and I agreed you could live with me while you attend the Winchester Academy, instead of boarding there, part of the deal was that you'd do some chores and help out around the house. Do you remember that?"
She didn't answer, settling in for the apparent long lecture.
"Instead, you've been treating this place more like a hotel and me like the hired help. I have to remind you repeatedly before you do anything. And then you make a lousy job of it. I'm tired of that, and I'm tired of your put-upon attitude when you do deign to lift a finger. It's going to stop, and it's going to stop tonight."
Time for a token effort, she figured. "I'm sorry, Uncle Dave. I'll do better next time --"
"You've said that before, Sandi, and it hasn't helped. This time I'm going to make sure you get the message."
"What do you mean, Uncle Dave?"
By way of reply, he turned his eyes towards the wooden-backed hairbrush displayed prominently atop her dresser. Following his gaze, she stiffened. "Uncle Dave, no! Not that!"
"It wouldn't be my method of choice, Sandi, but your Mom tells me that's what works best with you. And, from all appearances, she's right."
"But I'm too old!"
"Not according to your mother. In fact, she told me she paddled your little po-po good and red just last month, when you missed your curfew. Isn't that right?"
Sandi flushed deep at hearing such an intimate portion of her anatomy referred to in such a juvenile fashion. "Please, Uncle Dave!" she wheedled. "Can't you give me another chance?"
"I've given you plenty of chances, and you've blown every one of them. I will give you one break, though."
Sandi's hopes flickered slightly until she heard her uncle's next pronouncement.
"I won't use the hairbrush. I'll just use my hand ... this_time." She couldn't help but hear the slight emphasis on those last words as she contemplated her now-sealed fate.
He sat up a bit straighter in the chair, smoothing his slacks across his thighs. "Enough talk. Come here."
"Uncle Dave --"
"It's either this, or you start boarding at the school."
She flashed back to her tour of the boarding facilities -- the gray dormitories, the communal showers, the cafeteria food -- and shuddered. "I -- I'll take the spanking, I guess."
"All right, then. Come here."
Just for a moment, she couldn't move. "Now, young lady. If you make me come get you, I will use the hairbrush."
Slowly, still hoping for a last-minute pardon, Sandi got to her feet, shuffled to her uncle's right side, and laid herself across his lap. He inverted her skirt, draping it neatly across her back, then inserted his fingers under the waistband of her panties.
"Please, no, Uncle Dave!" she begged, squirming under his touch. "Please, don't take my panties down!"
"Your mother says she always bares your bottom when she spanks you," he replied.
"Yes, but that's different. You're a guy."
He chuckled. "Sandi, I used to bathe and diaper you. Granted, that was a long time ago, but I'm always going to think of you as my niece. Nothing more, nothing less. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, gritting her teeth as her panties started their descent. He left them twisted around the middle of her thighs. She felt his palm running over the upper surfaces of her globes, as if seeking traces of her earlier punishments. Trying to distract herself, she focused on the carpet. It really is quite dirty, she thought. Uncle Dave is right. I do need to run the vacuum in here --
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! His heavy hand impacting her tender rump interrupted her reflections. Uncle Dave proved himself a quite able spanker, establishing a pattern of SMACK! a firm swat to her left cheek, SMACK! an equally firm swat to her right, and SMACK! an even harder swat dead center, right on her sit spot.
The sting arose from the very first spank and soon built to unbearable proportions. She thrust a hand behind herself in a futile effort to ward off the blows. "Oh, no. We'll have none of that," he admonished, taking hold of her wrist and pinning it to the small of her back. All her kicking, squirming, and wriggling proved equally fruitless; each spank landed directly on target. Her pleas for mercy and promises to do better fell on deaf ears. He kept on spanking and spanking and spanking, until she'd lost count of the blows and her entire bottom was one solid mass of burning agony.
When, finally, he did relent, she lay broken across his lap, tears streaming from her eyes. Through her pain, she sensed his hands busy at the hem of her skirt. He waited till she'd caught her breath, then helped her to her feet. As she stood, the back of her skirt, defying gravity, remained in its upright position. She attempted to adjust it before realizing he'd pinned it to her blouse.
"That's right," Uncle Dave said to her look of astonishment, "it's going to stay up for a while. And those" (indicating her panties, which had slid to her knees) "are going to stay down, while you think about why this happened and how you can keep it from happening again. Now, go do the dishes."
"Like this?" she wailed, her humiliation deepening.
"Certainly. No one's going to see you -- well, except me, and it's too late for modesty now. I think washing the dishes would be a more productive use of your time than standing in the corner -- which is the alternative. And then you'd have to do the dishes anyway. Any questions?"
After a moment's hesitation, she shook her head. "No, Uncle Dave."
"Very well." He stood up. "I'll be in my den. Let me know when you've finished. Do a good job, or ..." he cast another meaningful glance at the hairbrush.
"Don't worry, Uncle Dave. I'll do a good job."
"That's a good girl." Spontaneously, he gathered her into his arms and hugged her tight against his chest. "I didn't want to have to spank you, Sandi," he murmured in her ear, "but I'm glad you chose that over moving out. It's really great having you here, and I don't want you to leave." He kissed her forehead before releasing her and preceding her out of the room.
Waddling slowly into the kitchen, Sandi faced the sink, rolled up her sleeves, took a deep breath, and resolutely plunged in.
So, now most of our questions have been answered. We know the reasons for the flushed face, the tears, the raised skirt and lowered panties, and the reddened backside. But there's one aspect of the scene that remains puzzling, one question yet unanswered:
Why is the girl smiling?