The smack I’d just gotten from my Mom’s palm in my aunt’s
kitchen was no more than a quick sting on my skirted bottom,
but it followed being hauled in from an altercation with my male
cousin in the backyard, over whether girls were intrinsically
dumb, and it was accompanied by the time-honored and blood
curdling warning: “You just wait until I get you home, young
lady!” Still truculent and shocked at what looked like inevitable
punishment, I protested. “Mom, he said…!” I retreated quickly
from what looked like another impending swat but it wasn’t
delivered. Instead, my mother just stage-whispered, “You want
me to take down your pants right here and borrow Aunt Ellen’s
hairbrush?”
Rhetorical though the question was, I wasn’t about to push my
luck. I knew with sufficient provocation my mother would carry
out her threat and the thought of being paddled for my smart-
ass cousin’s entertainment was unbearable. I shut up and
shook my head, swallowing resentment. My mother swept
back through the kitchen door to the rest of the family at the
backyard cookout, leaving me to choose between skulking in
the kitchen or braving their stares. I did skulk a while, the
terrible inevitability of my situation sinking in, and then tried for
bravado, pretending nonchalance while, for the next hour, the
image of charbroiling meat made me think of the coming fate of
my behind.
When we finally took our leave, my parents seemed in a
relaxed and jovial mood, and I began to entertain hopes that
the whole incident had been forgotten. I hadn’t really hit my
cousin, after all, just lost my temper and dredged some epithets
out of my vocabulary that obviously amazed and shocked my
parents. Maybe shouted them a little louder and more clearly
than the suddenly still backyard scene required. And I had
been publicly scolded and jerked into the house for a serious
talking to. Surely that sufficed as punishment. My mood
improved as nothing was said in the car on the ride home. My
Dad drove, as usual, and they talked about Uncle Phil’s
business decisions (always bad) and Aunt Ellen’s cooking
(ditto). I kept quiet, hoping to be overlooked entirely.
When we got home it was nearly dark. My dad opened the
door, let the cat in, and I started to slip upstairs. “Gotta finish
my science paper,” I offered with an attempt at cheery
casualness. “Yes, you do that,” My Dad said. “Your spanking
can wait until you’re finished. And will also be for leaving it to
the last night before it’s due!” My stomach felt like it fell from
my throat to my knees. “Dad! I-It’s, no it’s really done…I just
need to…Mom?!” My mother calmly turned in response. “You
hear your father? You finish that paper up and wait in your
room. I’ve never heard such language in my life and you need
a good lesson. Now get!” I got. I’d lied about the paper; it was
finished and in my notebook, and now I’d get it worse if I
admitted the lie. I was almost to my room, dragging my feet,
when my mother called after me, “When you’re done, you leave
that paper out on your dresser and get your pants down. Your
father will be up in 15 minutes and you’d better be ready for a good
licking!”
I dragged upstairs, stomach gnawing with anxiety. Most of the
times I was spanked, the punishment was instantaneous, one
of my parents losing patience and administering a few quick but
painful smacks while I was secured over a knee or even
secured standing (but not still!). Being “sentenced” to a later
spanking seemed unbearable and only happened when my
misdeeds took place at someone else’s house or while out
shopping. Although they seldom failed to carry out the
threatened punishment, I always fantasized that a few hours of
exemplary behavior in between would intervene in its severity.
I had a feeling tonight wasn’t going to be one of those times. I
angrily threw the completed science paper on my bed and
pretended to work on it. She couldn’t mean I was supposed to
bare my bottom and stay in my room like that, waiting!? I just
wasn’t going to do that! After what seemed like hours, I heard
my father’s footsteps on the stairs and leaped to my feet,
galvanized, facing the door. He opened and said, “Where’s
that paper?” Words deserted me (I was still fully dressed and
regretting that further disobedience) and I pointed at the paper,
now back on the dresser. He looked through it and back at me.
“It looks ready to me.” I nodded, swallowing hard. “But you don’t
look like you’ve done what your mother said. Why aren’t you ready for
your spanking? You’re just going to make this take longer and
hurt more, you know.” “Da-addy, why do I have to get
spanked…I didn’t mean…” My voice rose as the reality set in,
but broke off entirely as he seized my arm and, in one motion,
sat down on the side of my bed and dumped me unceremoniously
over his knees. “Daaaa-ddy!” I was getting my pants taken down for me,
like a 4 year-old and I began to cry like one. I felt my panties
dangling at my knees and my thighs and buttocks quivered involuntarily,
then tightened as the air movement telegraphed the first smack, just
before it landed resoundingly:
<SMACK> “OWWWW!” <SMACK> “Dadd–EEOWWW!!!” It
was only his hand - but “only” wasn’t consoling my ass! The
smacks were forceful and stinging - and repeated! <SMACK-
SMACK-SMACK-SMACK!> “OOOO DADDY!!! OWWWWW
PLEASE - DADDY!! YOWWW!!” I’d taken about 15 before my
mother walked in. Tears were blinding me and I struggled
vainly. My father held me easily immobile and continued the
fiery spanks while my mother watched me buck and yell. My
hands were flying everywhere and my legs jerking every time
his hard palm connected with my cheeks! “Here, you better
use this,” she said calmly. “Wahhhhhhh!!! Nooo-ooo!”
Twisting to see, I instantly regretted having done so. My
mother was handing my father the hairbrush she always used
to spank me. But oh, surely HE wouldn’t spank me with it! The
swats he was delivering with his hand were unbearable enough
- the hairbrush would…“NOOOO, Daddy!” I howled again.
He connected squarely with my bare bottom with the hard, flat
wooden surface and I nearly leaped to the ceiling!
“EEEEEOWW!! OWWW!!! PLEASE!!! No-no-NO!!” He
stopped, letting me calm down. Just that long. Another hard
THWACK fell, aimed to connect at the fleshy center of my ass.
“DAAA—DDEEEE!!” I yelled, “OWWWW-HURTS—EEOWWW-
HURTS!!” I was screeching every time he scored a swat, my
bottom feeling like the incinerated burgers on the grill, but he
only accelerated the rate of the spanking, giving me at least 10
more than I thought would kill me!
The smacks stopped but the fiery pain in my rear continued as I
lay pinned over my father’s lap. My yells continued too,
“Ooooooh-ohhhhh-owwwwww! Owww, it hurts, Daddy!” My
parents consulted, evaluating my crimson backside. “You think
that’s enough?” my Dad asked, “Blistered her pretty good,
looks like. She ought to know better by now.” My Mom spoke
to me. “Well, young lady? Have you learned your lesson?” I
blubbered, got a terrific <SMACK> for not answering properly,
and howled, “YESSSS!!! OWWWWW! STOP!!”
“All right,” said my Dad, pragmatically. “Then this is for leaving
your homework to the last minute.” He raised the hairbrush
and I squealed continuously while he added ten more burning
welts to my butt. “Don’t make me do this again,” he
admonished me unnecessarily, pulling me to my feet where I
ignomimously leapt around with a flaming cheek in each hand,
"No, No, No…ohh Daddy, ohh please hurts NO…not again,
pormise!! - incoherent but clearly in agreement with his
sentiments. They left my room together, my mother noting, “I
expect you to clean up and get downstairs in 10 minutes.
You’re going to spend some time sitting in the corner to think
about your behavior, and then practice your piano lesson and
feed the cat.”
They couldn’t mean it! I lay sobbing on my bed for at least 5
minutes, trying to cool my bottom with my two hands. Then I
limped into the hall bathroom, whimpering with immense self-
pity. Usually, there’d be some rapprochment after a really bad
spanking had been earned and delivered. Instead of a hug and
forgiveness, I was going to expected to come down and do
chores? I washed my face and struggled up to stand on the
edge of the bathtub, craning to see if my backside looked as
bad as it felt. It did - flaming red from the hand-spanking and
overlaid with purpling bruises and welts from the horrid
hairbrush paddling. I couldn’t remember a worse spanking, but
it felt that way every time. I drew my panties up, but the pain
they induced just brushing my punished cheeks was intolerable
and I pulled them down again and off. I washed my face and
crept down the stairs. I stopped halfway down, hearing voices
besides my parents. Neighbors were in the living room
watching TV with my parents. I started to pivot and go back
upstairs, but my mother had seen me. “Gina,” she called, "It’s