Date: Wed, 4 Sep 1996 21:34:55 -0400 X-Sender: teddyt@teddyt.pop.crosslink.net Mime-Version: 1.0 To: laura@netgate.net From: Ted Subject: Sound Investment Sound Investment (Mm/f) (The following story involves the spanking of a pre-pubescent girl. Even if it didn't, I just love writing the word pre- pubescent.) Looking back, it isn't difficult to see why Margaret Mae became so successful a financial analyst. From the time she could climb trees, swim naked at the quarry and entertain her parochial school classmates with general mischief, the girl had an innate sense of risk and reward. Most of the time, her exploits paid off in sheer fun, and even now, beneath her swept back short silver-streaked brown hair and under her prim business suits adorned with only a single pearl brooch, lay the curiosity and roguery of a nine-year-old in pigtails and jeans. But, understanding cost-benefit analysis from the moment she decided to be born and get a slap on the ass anyway, Margaret Mae knew full well that each of her deviltries could result in a temporary debit to her fund of pleasure. Yes, spankings. Margaret Mae got 'em all right, but never would she recall one that was not deserved, and in all honesty she would recall maybe a hundred adventures in which the risk turned out to be on paper only. One Friday afternoon in late September, she slunk home from school, late from an hour's of detention and carrying in her Brady Bunch lunchbox a 20-pound weight. It was not iron or lead, but a single slip of mimeographed paper from Sister Josephine, the righteous rector of rectitude at Ste. Mary's of the Presumptuous Assumption. It was the required form indicating that Margaret Mae had been kept after school for disrupting the class and that she had chosen detention every day for a week rather than accept swifter punishment. As she mulled over the odds of beating the rap with her father, or getting a friend's older brother to forge his signature next to the box indicating a parental reprimand had been delivered, Margaret opened the door to her house and suddenly remembered it was Daddy's birthday and she would hurriedly have to wrap his present. The surprise was on her! The living room was filled with aunts, uncles and cousins for an early evening buffet dinner of corned beef and cabbage. She quickly kissed Uncles Frank, Hank and Manny and ran toward daddy to wish him well, so well that he wouldn't ask her why she was late. No dice. "Where have you been?" he whispered sharply in her ear as he lifted her from the floor so fast and so high that cousin Kevin nearly choked on his licorice stick at the momentary flash of white cotton panties. Margaret Mae flashed her front-toothless smile at the room indicating all was well and then whispered back: "detentiondaddynobigdeal." He stood her back down on the floor just hard enough that she got the message, and if she didn't, dad reinforced it with a quiet declaration: "Later. Your room." She looked glum but for a moment, then, as if nothing had happened, Margaret Mae rejoined her aunts and uncles and cousins and had as good a time as a kid can have with such a sentence hanging over her bottom. Well, she couldn't keep her mind on her manners that evening, and, in no time she was bossing her younger siblings and cousins around to the consternation of all. Dad, a tall, gentle man who was steadfastly faithful to the concept, spirit and practice of both justice and discipline, pulled his angel into the kitchen and unfolded the accordion door to afford a quick moment of privacy. "What in the name of Jesus, Joseph and Mary has gotten in to you?" he asked with genuine concern. She hung her little head and pouted her little lips. "I dunno, daddy," she said slowly raising her head so that her blue eyes looked sraight ahead at the buckle of his frayed belt. "How can I have a good time and behave when I know what'th gonna happen anyway?" Her father was taken aback, for this apparently was a new strategy. No arguing, no alibis, no pleas for mercy. She was actually seeming to be honest with him. After a moment, he placed his calloused bricklayer's hands on the shoulder of her white blouse and knelt down to face her at eye level. "I understand, darling, but you should have thought of the party when you decided to goof off in class. AGAIN, I might remind you. "You left me no choice, Maggie. I am going to have to punish you the only way that seems to get through to you. You'll just have to wait it out. And I know you can act like a lady until then." He was so proud of her; and she of him that suddenly, with no premeditation by either of them, they hugged each other hard and she began crying. "What's the matter, baby?" he solicited. "There will be plenty of time for that later. Let's just try not to spoil MY party," he cajoled with a grin. "Daddy," she asked, quivering. "Could we get it done now? I mean I hate having made your party a bad time, but I can't look anyone in the eye and thmile every time I think about later." He stroked his chin, stared into her eyes to determine that she was serious, and then slid the kitchen door open again. He took her tiny warm hand in his and strolled with her to the stairway, announcing, "Margaret Mae and I have some business upstairs. Don't mind us. We'll be back, soon." Upstairs they went, into her small pink and yellow room. They talked it out first and she promised she understood why this was happening and that she would try as hard as she could to behave in school. Cousin Kevin, almost four years older than Margaret, was the only one in the crowded living room who had picked up on the import of her father's seemingly innocuous announcement. He WAS rather a brat, himself, and with the cunning that would make him a Pulitzer Prize winning reporter in later years, sneaked up to the second story landing. He didn't want to get caught, so he lingered in the hallway just long enough to determine what was transpiring, and he did so with the unsullied joy of a cat in a Star-Kist factory. What did occur had to be left to his imagination, and if had the eyesight of his hero, Clark Kent, his imagination would have been fulfilled in every possible way. A tearful Margaret Mae stood before her father with her hands clasped in front of her as he sat on the edge of her ruffled bedspread and lectured quietly. A paternal pat on the bottom signaled her to step back, then to the side. The final bow of her elaborate curtsy was across her daddy's lap. He continued the ritual by curling his long left arm almost fully around her waist, lifting her from underneath while his right hand drew up the blue and green plaid skirt to reveal the regulation white panties. As had been practiced many times before, the sniffling Margaret Mae reached back and quickly pulled her own underpants down to just below her childishly-flat cheeks. Dad picked up the paddle and, true to his word, administered a lengthy dose of Catholic soul-cleansing to his daughter's bottom. By that time, Kevin was long gone (actually out in the bushes behind the house) and no one noticed when dad took Margaret Mae to the blue-tiled powder room to help her wash up and compose herself. Five minutes after their departure from the party, father and daughter, both imperceptibly wobbly, had made their way downstairs. Now she could go find Kevin, and purged of dread, flirt with him. He had completed his adolescent business and met her as she stepped down the wooden stairs leading from the kitchen to the back yard. He already had enjoyed the party more than he could have expected, but being who he was, Kevin could not resist teasing her right away. "Where ya been," Maggie Mae, "playing with your daddy's pool cue?" She blushed six shades of passion purple and then, without warning, kicked him in the shins. "OWWWW," he yelled unconvincingly. "Maybe you need another one!" "Kevvvvvvinnnn!!!! How dare you thay that to me! How did YOU know what happened!" He cupped his hand to his ear, indicating that he had eavesdropped. But he was of no mind to make Maggie any angrier and suffer any possible consequences for himself. So he hugged her, very cousinly, and said, "Sorry, Maggie. Spankin's suck." "Kev?" she said. "Thith one wathn't tho bad. YOU get it a lot. 'Ya think we actually *like* it?" Kevin was stunned. "Like it? God I hate it! My mom uses that hairbrush with the crucifix on the back and dad gives me the strap worse than anything!" She knew that of course, but confessed out loud, "My dad'th pretty cool about it. He maketh uth talk about it firtht and then he letth me have it, but only until it thtarts to hurt and I cry. And then he'th thooo nithe afterward." "You mean you're not mad now, Maggie?" And then, the revelation that takes many of God's children decades to comprehend settled peacefully over the girl. "Kev, I thortta wished it would have lathted a little longer." She smiled beatifically and tilted her head toward the toolshed. Although he would become a famous journalist, Kevin was even at that young age able to put two and two together and led his younger cousin down the primrose path. There was only enough room inside for a small metal chair liberated from the church basement, but it was enough. Kevin upended her and bunched up her skirt. "That'th enough, Kevin McGillicuddy," she announced through clenched molars. "Undies only." In no mood to toss away his lottery ticket, Kevin spiked that one last carnal desire and complied, spanking her soundly, palmskin again cotton, until the chair broke and they both collapsed in incomprehensible glory. The two had made their way closer to the house just in time to hear their names being called -- to share in the birthday cake. When it came time for the gift-giving, Maggie Mae manipulated events so that she would be the last one to bestow a present on her father. "Why Maggie! How did you know I needed this?" daddy exulted in genuine surprise as he unwrapped the long cardboard box and unfurled a hand-tooled leather belt -- wider, softer, shinier and more promising than any other gift of love they would ever share again. ###