A short story based on fact by a new writer to us

By Avena

My sisters and I were always spanked by our father. I have a variety of spanking experiences, from childhood to late teenage life; he only stopped spanking me when I was 19.

There were many times I was lazy, hanging out late with friends and never doing my schoolwork. My report card would often reflect this and my father would always adminster a spanking, never with his hand but with a device. Our mother would rarely spank us but would be present in the room.

“Get in your room!” I remember my father growling, once he returned home from work.

My teacher had called both our parents. My dad was at work and my mother was at home, so there was no way to lie. I was still in my school uniform as I entered the room with the table in the middle, having been cleared.

This was my father’s standard practice; we never got to lay over his knee or thighs. All our spankings were bare bottom; no ifs, no buts. Sometimes he would let us undress; other times, he would take off our lower clothes. On this occasion, he unclipped my skirt, pulled down my tights (or pantyhose) and yanked down my knickers (panties).

I lowered myself until my upper body lay flat against the table, squashing my boobs. My mother held my hands to prevent any unnecessary movement.

This time, I would receive eight strikes with the back end of a feather duster. Eight was the number because I scored eighty below my expected grade. I would have to count each stroke as usual and could cry as much as I liked but not swear or do anything to stop the spanking. If I did, I would get more strokes.

This wasn’t my first time but, somehow, the first stroke seemed harder than usual and I screamed so loud, with my saliva drooling out. By the fourth stroke, and the half way mark, I felt my voice nearly drying out, yet my father told me to count louder. At the sixth stroke, tears were all over my face.

“Eight!” I cried, with the wooden stick slamming against my naked bum.

I felt glued to the table and my mum had to literally pry me off. Semi-naked, she rubbed something oily over my bum and I screamed in pain again, not feeling any comfort. Still bare beneath, she picked up my lower clothes and guided me out, my steps somehow restrained by my sore and definitely red buttocks. Lying face down on my bed, I barely heard the number of days I would be grounded as more tears and saliva flowed, staining my pillow.

The End

© Avena 2018