VibeReview Fantasy: Under-the-Bed Restraints, Pt. 1 - The Fantasy

Normally with my review of VibeReview products I begin or end with a fantasy in which the product plays a starring role -- mostly to assuage my guilt over my commercial whoring by making the review as hot as possible. However, after this fantasy spent several months in my subconscious lulling me to sleep over many nights, it became so damn long I've got to post it as a story all on its own.

Please note that this is my first attempt at debporn and is a story involving the touching and punishing of genitalia of a teenage girl by her parents. If you get squicked by that sort of thing (and god knows, it is disturbing) you might want to skip this story. I want to be very clear that no real children were harmed in this story. This is a fantasy in which I imagine me - who is very much an adult - in this situation. The only possible connection to reality this might ever have would be in roleplay between me (again, an adult) and another consenting adult. I do not support the spanking of real children, and I sure as hell do not condone in any way behavior such as this from real parents.

oOo

The Fantasy: Restraints of Biblical Proportions

I suppose I’ve always known they’re a bit strange in the bedroom of a teenage girl. Whenever my friends come over, I always stuff them in between my mattress and boxsprings. Most of the time, I hardly notice them. Except at bedtime, of course.

Every night after I brush my teeth and wash my face, I lay down on my bed over a pile of fluffy pillows and Mother uses them, the Under-the-Bed Restraints, to tie me down. She pulls my nightgown up and my panties down so that I’m ready for Father and my Purity Inspection. He’s been doing them every night since I started my period. He says this way he’ll know if I’ve been thinking unclean thoughts or worse.

Most nights he inspects me by poking his gloved finger into my womanhood. Tracing his finger up to my rosebud. Back down to my womanhood. And my bottom hole.

If I’m moist, I get the strop.

And I’m always moist.

Father takes off the rubber glove and Mother hands him the coffee-brown razor strop. He always tells me how disappointed he is that I’m not keeping my mind on “whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report...” He slaps the strop down on my quivering cheeks while he continues quoting Philippians 4:8. “If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

Of course, the only thing I can think on at that moment is how much I hate that strop. And how helpless I am pinned to the bed in the restraints.

When he finishes with that verse, he moves on to I Corinthians 6 while whipping the well-oiled leather against my increasingly angry red bottom and thighs. “Flee fornication,” he’ll call out like he does from the pulpit. “Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body. What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's..”

Because of the restraints, I can’t even squirm and wiggle like I can when I’m over his or Mother’s knee. Mother always cinches them as tight as she can without pulling out a limb. The most I can manage is to rock my pelvis a bit.  And cry into my pillows until it’s over.

But I’m always glad Father never inspects me afterward. I don’t understand it. I hate the strop but for some reason I’m always even more moist after my punishment. And I always want to touch myself. Touch my womanhood.

On Saturday night, after Mother has strapped me down to the bed, she holds my cheeks apart while Father more thoroughly inspects my bottom hole with his fingers to make certain I have not allowed it to be violated. When he is sure that I haven’t, he takes the tip of his belt and lashes my bottom hole. “Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence...”

It’s agonizing. I used to beg Father for mercy, but he only reminded me that to do so would show that he does not love me for “he that spareth his rod hateth his son...” And Father never spares the rod. Ever.

After the belt, Mother hands him the red hot water bottle connected to a long white tube and nozzle. She spreads my cheeks again and puts some Vaseline on my raw, throbbing bottom hole. Father pushes the nozzle inside my bottom and fills me up with warm, soapy water. When all the water is inside me, he plugs me up with a large rubber plug. If I have been particularly willful during the week -- talked back to Mother or was sloppy with my chores -- he plugs me with a large chunk of ginger root, its burn reminding me of the eternal fires of Hell.

While I hold the enema, Father gives me his Saturday evening sermon. Sometimes the topic is a shorter version of the sermon he’ll give on Sunday at church. Other times it’s a spontaneous one on a topic specifically for me, like resisting temptation, honoring my parents, or remaining clean and pure.

Sunday night is slightly different. Mother uses the Under-the-Bed Restraints to fasten me down on my back, my knees bent and spread apart. She holds my legs down while Father shaves my womanhood. Not only does this keep it clean, he says, but it more readily exposes any sexual immorality. Father reminds me of what a precious jewel my womanhood is, a gift from God that I will give my future husband and lord -- but only if I carefully guard my purity. “Always remember the words of Paul in first Thessalonians four, three through five:  ‘For this is the will of God, even your sanctification, that ye should abstain from fornication: That every one of you should know how to possess his vessel in sanctification and honour; Not in the lust of concupiscence...”

To remind me of the eternal hellfire awaiting whores and fornicators, Father whips my freshly shorn jewel with the wooden yardstick we use during Home School. Better for me to feel a little burn now than the all consuming burn of eternal damnation. Though I can’t imagine a worse burn than this. When Father first began to discipline my womanhood, Mother had a hard time holding my legs down. But over the years she’s gotten very strong. Between her arms and the Under-the-Bed Restraints, I’m practically paralyzed. Except I can feel everything, of course.

I used to hate the restraints. I hated feeling so helpless. Vulnerable. Dependent. I hated being completely laid bare and exposed and unable to hide anything. After a while, though, the Under-the-Bed restraints began to feel...right. Almost comfortable. I mean, my parents only do this because they love me and don’t want me to go to Hell, right? In a way, it’s like the restraints make me feel loved and protected. Even safe, in a way.

Except they also make me feel...wicked. Just thinking about them or the strop makes me...moist. Clearly you can see why Father has to do Purity Inspections. Why my parents need those Under-the-Bed Restraints, along with the strop and the washing outs and the shavings. I must learn to possess my vessel “in sanctification and honour; Not in the lust of concupiscence.” It’s what good, Christian parents do, right?

oOo

I'll have Part 2, the actual review, posted by Monday.

Story: Natty and the Confiscated MacBook

(Dedicated to A. & P., whose MacBook made this story possible -- Thanks!)

“Do I have to watch you every second?”

Natty nearly dropped her MacBook at the sound of Nanny Bea’s voice

“I...I just needed to check something real quick...”

Nanny Bea set a basket of clothes down on the chair and walked over to the bed where Natty lay with with her MacBook propped up against her thighs.

“Hand it over, please.”

“But...I promise I’m going to sleep right now.” Natty promptly closed the lid in a demonstration of good faith. “I won’t go online anymore.”

 “I’m not going to stand here all afternoon. Hand me the laptop now, please.”

Natty gazed up at her nanny with an expression of utter pathos sure to move even the hardest of Dickensian villains. But not Beatrice Seymour, who responded with her own steely, implacable gaze demanding submission -- which came quickly and with a grim sigh. And then a gasp when she placed the MacBook on top of the wardrobe, far out of the reach of her five foot charge.

“You can just wipe that scowl off your face right now...” Nanny said as she picked up the hairbrush on the dresser and sat down on the edge of the bed. “...And get yourself over my knee.”

This made Natty scowl even more.

“But I wasn’t on there for very long,” Natty whined with a huff and folded arms. “And besides, you took away my laptop, which is way too much punishment already.”

“‘Too much punishment’ indeed.. .” Nanny Bea grabbed Natty’s left ear lobe and yanked it hard. Natty quickly unfolded her arms, and with a deep guttural groan, laid herself across Nanny Bea’s lap.

But she was still scowling. With eyebrows deeply furrowed and lips pressed hard together, it was the scowl of defiance mustered by many a little girl in the face of such grave grown-up injustice.

The scowl, of course, gave way to yelps of pain once Nanny Bea had taken down her pajama bottoms and panties and began slapping the solid, ebony back of the hairbrush on Natty’s tender fleshy cheeks.

“When I put you down for a nap, young lady, I expect you to take a nap,” Nanny Bea scolded as she delivered two dozen smart smacks. “I do not want to find you on the computer, or reading a book, or watching television, or doing anything else but resting -- preferably, sleeping. Is that clear?”

“Ye -- oh! -- Yes!” Natty answered as she squirmed and squealed.

“And you still fail to understand that when I ask you to do something, you are to obey at once. I am not at all interested in debating the finer points of my instructions.”

With that Nanny Bea gave the back of Natty’s thighs five sharp slaps of the brush each, producing fresh sobs, blubbering apologies, and promises to be good.

“So, we’re going to try this again.” Nanny Bea set aside the hairbrush and stroked Natty’s hair. “You are going to lie down for a nap. In your bed. Without interruption. Got it?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Natty mumbled. She sniffled, crawled off Nanny Bea’s lap and back under the cotton sheet and quilt.

Nanny Bea bent down and kissed Natty on the forehead before leaving her. “Now be a good girl and get some rest.”

But Natty did not feel like being a good girl. Her repentance was a bit like her computer -- of the laptop variety.  Once she was no longer over Nanny Bea’s lap, she no longer felt particularly penitent. She lay in bed sulking and pouting over the many outrages she had suffered under Nanny Bea’s tyranny. Indeed she was even plotting how she might free her beloved MacBook from its confinement high upon the wardrobe when sleep - which so readily follows a good spanking - overwhelmed her insurrectionary aspirations.

The MacBook was still in captivity when it was time for bed that night. Daddy was there to cuddle and tuck Natty in, sitting on the bed with his legs stretched out as she lay her head against his chest all wrapped up in his arms.

“And were you a good girl today?”

“Well...mostly...”

“‘Mostly?’ Go on...” In a way that was prodding, stern, and resigned all at the same time.

“I just...well...Nanny was making me take a rest. But then I remembered that I needed to check something online so I opened my MacBook real quick but then Nanny --”

“-- What exactly demanded such immediate attention?”

Natty bit her lower lip.

“Um...something on Twitter...” she mumbled, knowing well Daddy’s low opinion of Twittering.

“I see. This is not sounding good...”

“But I just needed to see something really quick. And it was only going to take me a few seconds but Nanny took my MacBook away and put it on top of the wardrobe so I couldn’t get it back, which was way too harsh a punishment but then she still punished me more and it wasn’t fair!”

“Excuse me?”

Natty pressed her lips together. Hearing the subtle stringency in Daddy’s voice, she knew she had tripped onto very treacherous ground.

“But...but it wasn’t fair...” she stammered.

“Are you complaining about Nanny Bea, young lady?”

Natty had to think about her answer. If she said no, Daddy would say she was being dishonest. But she couldn’t acknowledge she was in the wrong given how justified her grievance. It would be admitting defeat -- and if there was one thing Natty hated, it was losing.

“I’m just saying that...it was...unreasonably harsh...”

“You’re just digging yourself deeper and deeper, aren’t you?” Daddy said with a raised eyebrow. “Right. I think you need a trip over my lap.” He patted his thigh.

“Please don’t spank me, Daddy! Please! Nanny already spanked me today and --”

“-- This is a poor choice of moments to argue with me, young lady.”

Would the injustice never end?

Natty tried desperately to think of some way -- any way -- to avoid the fate before her. But after a few seconds, when she could think of no means of escape, she finally sat up on her knees and lowered herself over Daddy’s lap.

“Let’s get these down,” said Daddy as he tugged at her jammie bottoms and panties. Once Natty’s bottom was bared, he peppered her fat cheeks with crisp smacks that quickly turned a keen pink whatever wasn’t mottled with purple and red from the prior spanking.

“I’m disappointed to see that you still hesitate before doing what you’re told.”

Daddy increased the force of his spanks, eliciting whimpers and yelps from Natty.

“Anything short of immediate obedience is simply not acceptable, and I should not have to keep reminding you of this.”

He dropped his hand down to the back of Natty’s thighs but the force of his blows remained the same.

“I’m also sad to see that you never stop trying to justify yourself.”

The sharp sounds of slaps and sobs reverberated off the bedroom walls as the words “disappointed” and “sad” began melting Natty’s defiance and self-pity into a puddle of regret and contrition.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” she said during a lull in the smacking. An apology of the heavy, permanent sort.

“I should think so,” Daddy responded. He struck her blushing cheeks several more times before he stopped. “No more stalling when I tell you to do something, yes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Daddy petted his little girl as her sniffling and staggered breathing gradually subsided. “And no more excuses?”

“No more excuses.”

“Good girl.”

He bent his head down near Natty’s face and stroked her hair.

“Now we still need to talk about what happened with Nanny Bea...”

Natty’s shoulders fell even as she nodded stiffly.

“Would you agree that you were moaning about her even though I have specifically told you not to?”

Natty’s nodding remained awkward.

“Excuse me?” Daddy cupped his ear.

“Yes, Sir...” was Natty’s tepid response.

“And would you agree that you were being very willful toward her this afternoon?”

“Yes, Sir...” With a gulp.

“And what happens to whiny, willful little girls?”

Natty blinked the sting and wet from her eyes as she let out a little whimper with her answer.

“They...um...they get...punished...”

“That’s right.” Daddy caressed her chafed bottom and bent over so that his lips were right next to Natty’s ear. “Best go fetch the cane,” he whispered tenderly.

“Yes, Sir.” Natty’s voice cracked.

Pushing herself up off the bed, she waddled to the door where the cane hung from a hook, her panties and jammie bottoms still scrunched around her knees. By the time she had made her way back to the bed, Daddy had already placed several pillows in the middle of the bedspread.

“Right. Over the pillows, please.”

Natty obeyed. She was almost shivering as her raw, exposed bottom waited for the cane.

“I’m going to give you twelve strokes, and I want you to count them, please. I want you to think about the fact that your Nanny does nothing but try to keep you healthy. When she makes you take a rest, it’s because you really need to rest. When she took your MacBook away, she did so in order to remove what was clearly a tremendous impediment to your getting the rest you needed. And you know full well that you never just spend a ‘couple of seconds’ on the computer. Indeed had she not caught you, you may well have missed your rest time altogether.”

The puddle of regret and contrition grew as Daddy delivered the twelve cane strokes. They were not particularly severe. After all, Natty was a rather sickly and fragile little girl. The twelve angry red stripes were, however, just hard enough to leave her feeling properly punished and penitent when she climbed back into bed.

However there was yet one last punishment left for Natty.

“Once you get your MacBook back,” Daddy said as he tucked and smoothed the blankets securely around his little one. “The first thing I want you to do is write a 300-word essay about how Nanny Bea takes care of you and why what she does is important.”

And for just that moment -- but only that moment -- Natty was actually a little glad her MacBook was well out of reach.


Copyright 2009 Natty


******************
You can find the first Nanny Bea story here, as well as her guest appearance here. Casey Morgan has written her own Nanny Bea story here, which I think is far more elegantly written than mine.

Story: Porn [M/F]

I've been holding this story back for a dry spell, but after the last post, this seemed like a good time to post it.

**************************************

Story: Porn [M/F]

They were spread out over the metal coffee table with a couple of tiny yellow Post-It pads supporting one leg. Glossy pages of careful, luscious poses.

"I found these under the mattress," said Adam, nodding to the contraband.

Melissa could feel the hot color warming her cheeks as she faced the blue-gold shag.

"Didn't imagine I'd ever find them there, did you?" he asked.

The instinctual gulp before she found her words. "No, Sir."

Adam sighed. Shook his head.

"I must say, I'm disappointed in you. Your lack of creativity. Allowing someone to exploit your fantasies for their own financial gain -- not to mention the people who work for them."

"But these people are Swedish," insisted Melissa as she pointed. "They always treat their workers well. And they don't cost much!"

"Excuse me?" The sharpness of his voice stunned Melissa back into silence. Back to staring at the blue-gold shag. "I think leather would be most appropriate on this occasion. Fetch me the strap, please."

"Yes, Sir." Melissa bit her bottom lip as she went to the bedroom. Pursed her lips as she returned to the living room and handed the strap to Adam.

"Right, then. Bare bottom, please. Over the back of the sofa." Adam unbuttoned and rolled up his right shirt sleeve while Melissa removed her trousers and panties and draped her voluptuous creamy buttocks over the plain, brown couch.

"I'm going to give you fifty."

She gasped but swallowed the protest filling her lungs.

"Count them, please," Adam instructed.

"Yes, Sir."

Adam's strokes were sharp, rapid splats that were hard for Melissa to keep up with.

By eight she began to panic knowing that forty-two more loomed ahead.

By seventeen she began to release her grip on the bottom of the sofa back.

By twenty-nine she was shutting her eyes tight and stumbling over the numbers.

By forty she was moving her hips back and forth to at least move the burn around.

Finally it came.

"Fifty," she squeaked out. Adam helped her stand up and led her around to the front of the couch.

"Alright, big cuddle for my girl," he said as he laid down and pulled her to him. Melissa smiled. She always smiled when it was over and he said that and they cuddled. "You and your furniture porn," tutted Adam.

"But look..." Melissa pointed to the bed on the cover of the Pottery Barn catalog. "So pretty! Oh and this..." She picked up the Ikea catalog and flipped to a coffee table. "...Would look perfect in our living room, see? And look at the price!"

"Fecking Ike-er," Adam sneered. "I see you've learned your lesson well."

About as well as the British have learned to pronounce words that end in an "a" without adding an "r." But saying that would be too cheeky.

"Yep," Melissa replied with a grin, "I need to hide my porn better."

There's always room, however, to be a little cheeky.

Copyright 2007 Natty

*****************************
While I wrote the story for the annual SSS Short Story Contest last summer, I also happened to write it on the occasion of Ikea finally opening here in Portland last July. Gawd I love their kitchens...

Story: A Grown Man [M/m]

Awhile back Kayley mentioned that M/m stories were connecting with her spanking imagination, which made me exclaim to my computer "omg - me too!" In fact, I thought I was quite odd even among us spanko freaks because I really liked reading M/m stories. But then Mija mentioned on the newsgroup once (or more) that she fantasized about being a naughty boy punished by an older man, and I had that same feeling I had when I first typed spanking into Google. You know, "omg -- I'm not the only one!"

Like Kayley, I suspect what fuels my M/m fantasies are the fact that most spankings in non-kinky fiction are boys being spanked by male teachers and parents. And historically speaking, boys were far more likely to be whipped than girls.

Before I got distracted by what became my research field before I left academia (American Evangelicalism and the Israel-Palestine conflict), I initially wanted to study/teach about the history of childhood in the Middle East. It would have been a brilliant way to read about spanking and get paid/funded for it. And as an undergraduate I took a seminar on the Oregon Trail to get practice using an archive (the Oregon Historical Society archive was -- and still is -- just down the street from me) and wrote my paper on emigrant attitudes towards education and child-rearing -- to practice writing legitimate research papers that fueled my kinky imagination. Despite my prof's concern that I wouldn't find enough to fill a twenty page paper, I found plenty, including the following anecdote from said paper that inspired the story for the 2002 SSS Short Story Contest that follows.

"The journey, however, presented parents with a number
of challenges to maintaining consistency in teaching their
children morals. One particularly devastating challenge was
sickness. Abraham Henry Garrison's father encountered this
difficulty when he became severely ill and was forced to
remain in bed for a significant amount of the trip. Henry
(as he was called), though only fourteen, but also the oldest
child, was required to take on the responsibilities of his
father, particularly in handling livestock. Yet, when he got
into a fight with another boy in their train, his father sought
to punish him because he had always taught Henry not to
fight. However, his father was physically unable to punish
him and so he sought the assistance of the captain of the
wagon train. The captain refused, arguing that the boy with
whom Henry had fought 'had it coming' and also that Henry
was doing the job of a grown man. Henry's father insisted
until the captain finally exclaimed, 'The man that tries to
whip Henry will have me to whip!' leaving Henry's father
helpless and Henry free of punishment." (See Garrison,
Abraham Henry. "Recollections, 1846 (1903)." Mss. 874.
Oregon Historical Society.)

oOo

Story: A Grown Man [M/m]

Henry kept his face turned left where the glow of the fireplace might not discover his bruising eye. Might not betray him to Father, who sat in the rocking chair next to the fireplace. His worn, leather Bible upon his lap.

“Henry -- is something wrong with your neck, Son?”

“No, Father.” Henry shifted his body toward the shadows.

“Son, look at me.” Father sighed as Henry turned. “You’ve been fightin’ again, have ya?”

“Father, I had to. Our family honor was at stake.”

“Oh, I doubt it was in that much trouble.” Father closed the Bible and set it on the table. “I’ve always taught ya not to fight, haven’t I, Son? To use your brains, not your fists…”

“Yes, Sir.” Henry looked down at the floor.

“Off to the barn with you, then.” Father stood up, walked to the kitchen and grabbed the razor strop.

*******

It had been weeks since the Garrisons left Missouri and three days since the wagon train camped along the Platt River. More than half the members were sick with cholera, including Father. For the last two weeks Henry alone had driven the oxen team, saw to the care of the livestock and his siblings. Even cooked the meals.

“You’re a fine lad, Henry,” Captain Pert said as he checked on the families under his command. “Don’t let that Prentiss boy get to you.”

Billy Prentiss, who was two years older, felt compelled to criticize the way Henry fed the livestock. Or loaded the wagon. Or made a stew. Not five minutes after Captain Pert left, Billy stood over Henry as he fed buffalo chips to the fire.

“You use too many chips.”

“How would you know?”

“You want my help, or don’t ya?”

“Not particularly.” Henry continued feeding chips to the fire. Billy glared at Henry. Picked up a buffalo chip.

“Don’t forget this one.” He hurled the dried dung at Henry, who had to step back to catch his balance when it hit his neck. Henry heaved a heavy breath, then turned and landed his fist into Billy’s eye. Then again across his right cheek. Billy fell to the ground and Henry jumped on him with another punch to his right jawline. Not more than two blows later Captain Pert was there to break it up.

“What’s that happening out there?” Father’s weak voice drifted from the wagon.

“Oh, nothing – just a skirmish between the boys.”

“Henry – you are fighting again?”

Henry hung his head as he and the Captain walked to the wagon. His temper had once again subjugated him.

“Captain Pert, I’ve always taught Henry not to fight but I am too sick to punish him – you must for me.”

“No, Billy’s had it coming. Besides, Henry’s been doing the work of a grown man. I can’t whip him.”

“But you must.”

“Look, the man that tries to whip Henry will have to whip me!” With that, Captain Pert left and Henry remained a grown man.

Revising

Not quite five years ago I wrote a story called "...To the pain," about a spanking which brings a previously dry-eyed woman to tears. I've always liked it very much but felt it had a major flaw in it, namely that while I referenced the Princess Bride in the title, I didn't in the story. It's something I've been meaning to fix for awhile and tonight -- er, this morning -- I finally did. The original version that I posted to the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup can be found here, while the revised version is here on the blog. Not only did I fix the Princess Bride lacuna, but I also added names to the two characters giving them a little more depth. Though one could argue that there is a sort of "everyman(woman)" feel to them remaining nameless. I dunno. Let me know what you think.

I remember someone saying once that crying during a spanking can be the Holy Grail for a lot of spankees, and I must admit to being among that group. There have only really been a few times that I've genuinely sobbed during a spanking. Once was while I was being flogged with a riding crop full force, though mostly it was tearing up during the flogging with the sobbing coming afterwards. Another time was this last March after a mere three strokes with the strap when I was still just a bit too sick for spanking play. I keep thinking there was another time but I can't think of it now.

However, this now-improved story remains a fantasy.

Story: Wrong Driver [M/F]

I'm doped up on a lot of drugs this week and don't know when I'll be awake enough to post something original. So, I dug around my archives and found this oldie.

It's another story looking at the darker side of the kink that I wrote after one of many lengthy threads on the newsgroup about discipline vs play spankings in which a friend of Mija compared disciplinary relationships (or domestic discipline if you are so inclined to call it that) to driving. It was an excellent discussion and the driving analogy helped me understand why an earlier spanking relationship I had didn't quite work, as well as inspired the following story.

*********************************************

Story: The Wrong Driver [M/F]

The dishes were still in the sink. Some crusty. Others floating in chili bean slime since Jenny went to visit her sister. And in the living room, Matlock was on.

“Oh, honey, you’re back!” James dropped the remote on the coffee table and jumped up from the recliner. Jenny let him embrace her, but didn’t return the hug. Just stood looking at the empty boxes that should be filled with the pictures and knick-knacks on the walls that would be moving in two days. Boxes he promised to pack while she was gone. “Oh, I missed you so much.” He squeezed her close.

“Yeah? Well, it’s probably good that I’m back then…Especially as those dishes need to be done," Jenny said a flat, tight voice. James blushed.

“I’ve been meaning to do those.” Then he straightened up. “But you’re not doing any dishes – the doctor said you’re suppose to rest. And if you don’t rest, I’ll beat yer butt.” Almost like he were taunting her. Jenny rolled her eyes.

[...]



“Then do the damn dishes.”

“Hey, don’t take that tone with me, young lady, or I’ll take you over my knee right now.” He was half smiling, but she knew he would.

“Fine. I’m gonna go lay down.”

“Alright.” He sat down and picked up the remote. “You did go to your doctor’s appointment yesterday, right?”

“No…” Fuck! “With the whole thing with Mom, I totally forgot. But, it’s just a routine blood test. No big deal to reschedule.”

“I understand, but…” He put the remote down and stood up. “We made the rule. No skipping doctor’s appointments”

“Oh c’mon, James. It was an honest mistake. Yesterday was crazy.”

“I know, but doctor’s appointments are important.”

She was too tired to argue as he pulled her over his lap.

The sting was gone as Jenny laid in bed that night but she was still sullen and she wasn’t sure why. Yes, she had agreed to the rule. It was a fair, necessary rule. And she liked rules. Structure. Discipline.

Yet, she also thought of the dishes, which he finally did after Matlock. The empty boxes, several of which he filled that evening. But only because she was home to make sure. To give him exact instructions. Like she did last month at the airport when she had to stay with him throughout the check-in process to be sure he didn’t get into an argument with anyone that would keep him from his flight. Or had been trying to teach him to call the temp agencies early in the morning to get jobs. And to sound peppy on the phone.

She knew he liked taking care of her. Liked trying to provide the structure she craved. But…

“I don’t want you to punish me anymore,” she explained when he came to bed.

...It was like being in a car with a driver who speeds excessively. Tailgates constantly. Is lost all the time…

And she didn't want him to drive anymore.

Copyright 2002 Natty

Story: The Office of Discipline Application [M/f]

This is the very very very first spanking story I ever wrote in March of 2002. At the time it was a recurring fantasy, and as I'd just joined the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup where everybody writes and shares stories, I thought I'd give it a go.

This has been slightly edited from it's original posting. Mostly to break up one long-ass paragraph the editor in me just couldn't handle posting as it was.



The Office of Discipline Application [M/f – school]


Natty gripped the cold silver door handle of the ODA and sighed. Rolled her eyes. Swung the door open wide and walked inside.

“Natalie…sent down again, eh?” Mrs. Franzen turned her head from her computer. Looked down her beak-like nose over her glasses. Natty bit her bottom lip.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, take a seat. Father Michael is on a phone call at the moment.” Mrs. Franzen turned back to her computer.

[...]



Natty sat down on one of the hard, plastic chairs with her arms folded, next to the thick wooden door of the Application Room. Checked off the familiar artifacts of Mrs. Franzen’s L-shaped desk separating her from the rest of the office. School photos of her two children. A verse-a-day calendar. A mug with a rainbow painted on it holding pens, pencils, scissors, and a letter opener. Laser printer and copy/fax machine behind her with trays holding plain and letterhead paper. Pictures colored by her kids hung on the wall, underneath a crucifix. A spider plant on top of the file cabinets…

“Natalie?” Father Michael stood at the door of his office, across from Mrs. Franzen’s desk.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, Father…” Natty stood and stumbled into the office.

“Have a seat, dear.” He pointed his pudgy hand to the chair in front of his desk as he took his seat behind it. “Well, what brings you here today?” he asked while pointing, clicking and typing to bring up her file on the computer.

“Um, Sister Rita sent me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, she sorta caught me reading during math class – I was reading The Bronze Bow and I’m at the part where they’re trying to rescue Joel from the Romans leading him off to the galleys and I just couldn’t stop for some stupid math lesson– but Sister Rita asked me a question, which I didn’t realize she had cause I was so into the story..."

Father Michael took off his glasses and wiped them clean with his handkerchief as Natty continued her tale in rapid speech.

"...so she came over and found me reading instead of paying attention to whatever it was she was trying to teach – something about exponents or something – anyway, then she went on at me about reading during her lesson which she spent a great deal of time to prepare and how it was rude, and then asked where my homework was and where in heaven’s name was my math book..."

The principal-priest suppressed a smile as he put his handkerchief back in his pocket while Natty took a breath and continued.

"...I told her that I’d sorta not had time to do my homework and sorta accidentally left my math book at home. She asked me why I hadn’t had time and I said cause I had been reading. She said that she appreciated that I like reading but I also had to do my math lessons and so I asked why and she said because it would better prepare me for the real world..."

Another breath in...

"Then I said that I didn’t see how exponents were going to help me in the real world because I want to be a writer and in fact, I think the school is doing a great disservice to me because they make me spend eight hours a day in classes that take my time from writing or reading other people’s writing and then they give me homework that takes even more time away and…well…that’s when she said to quit being cheeky and to come down here…” Natty took in a big breath then breathed heavily out and looked at the floor.

Father Michael smiled wryly and then drew in a breath of sternness.

“Well, Sister Rita was right on several counts. You were being very rude reading during her lesson. Teacher’s do spend a great deal of time preparing lessons to make sure you’ll understand the concepts they are trying to teach.”

“Yes, Father,” Natty nodded, still looking at the floor.

“She’s certainly right to ask about your homework – which takes just as much of her time as it does yours – and she is most definitely trying to teach you things which you will need to know later in life.”

“But how am I ever going to use exponents?” Natty’s eyes darted up and at Father Michael.

“Exponents themselves you may not use, but it’s the thinking behind them that you will – that is, if you’ve learned it. Especially if you’re going to be a writer. You have to be able to think in many different ways – use different parts of your brain to be a truly great writer. What if you have to write about a character who is a mathematician?”

“Hmm…I guess I’d never thought of that…”

“Yes, my dear, there are a good many things you never think of, which is why I get to see you so often…” Father Michael looked back at his computer screen. “It seems this is your fifth visit here this semester.” Natty gulped and looked back down at the floor. Father Michael scowled. Scratched his left temple where there used to be hair. Sighed. “Well, I’ll be getting Sister Rita’s report by the end of the day. And you can plan on attending detention tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Off you go now, back to class.”

The next day Natty again opened the door to the ODA. She walked past the Application Room, Mrs. Franzen’s desk, and Father Michael’s office to the Detention Room. A narrow cave with gray walls and a high ceiling. A chalkboard at the front. Underneath a crucifix. Twelve small tables with wooden stools filled the room. A catechism, paper, and pen lay on each table like party favors at a festival. A warped, twisted party, thought Natty as she sat down on a stool. Several other students staggered in and took seats. The detention bell rang and Mrs. Franzen stepped in and stood in front of the chalkboard.

“Alright, detention has now begun. You will begin copying from page 357 and wait for your name to be called to see Father Michael in the Application Room.” She walked back out while each person picked up their pen, opened the catechism and began copying.

The first time Natty had detention she only pretended to copy from the catechism while she wrote a story from her own imagination. But at the end of detention discovered she had to hand in what she was supposed to have copied and was thus assigned another day in detention. And another trip to the Application Room.

“Natalie Taylor,” Mrs. Franzen called out as a black-haired boy with swollen eyes rubbed his khaki-clad bottom while walking into the Detention Room. Natty put down her pen, stood and straggled along to the Application Room.

“Natalie.” Father Michael nodded to her as he sat at a table writing something on a file folder with his black shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

The yellow walls were muted underneath the flickering of the florescent lights. On the wall to the left of Natty hung two paddles, one with and one without holes, and several thick wooden rulers. Beneath that was a cherrywood bookcase with two crook-handled canes on the top shelf and two leather tawses on the bottom. Father Michael put down his pen and closed the file folder. “Well, now, Miss Natalie, I read Sister Rita’s report and it seems to run along the same lines as what you described yesterday. Though, she also added that you are missing seven assignments over this semester so far.”

“Yeah? I, uh, didn’t realize it had been so many…” Natty looked down at her Mary Janes.

“Well, I think it’s high time you realize these things, as well as pay attention in class and treat your teachers with more respect.”
“Yes, Father.” Her stomach felt heavy.

“So, for your punishment today it’ll be 10 with the ruler for arguing with Sister Rita, 10 with the paddle for reading during math class, and 7 with the tawse for each assignment you’re missing.”

“Yes, Father.” Natty gulped and scowled at the floor.

“Well then, unbutton your skirt, bare your bottom and then over the Bench with you.” Father Michael stood and walked around the Application Bench towards the other side of the room where all his tools were.

The Application Bench was a wooden box-like structure that stood in the middle of the room on a platform. The side of the box facing Natty was vertical with padded navy blue upholstering that ran from the cover of the small step at its foot, up over the top and down the other side, which was slanted. Natty stepped up onto the platform. Undid the buttons on the right side of the wrap-around skirt of her red plaid jumper. Pulled down her tights and panties until they were down around her ankles. Knelt down on the step in front of the bench and laid her torso down the slanted side with her braided pigtails pointing to the floor. Shivered and waited for Father Michael, who pulled her white shirt up and tucked it into the waistline of her skirt. Then velcroed straps connected to the Bench around her wrists, waist, and calves.

“Now, ten with the ruler for arguing. And might I suggest you reconsider quarreling with your teachers in the future.”

Natty winced and whimpered through ten sharp swipes of the ruler along her bottom and upper thighs. Perhaps discussing the usefulness of exponents with Sister Rita had not been one of her better moves…

“Now ten with the paddle for reading during math class…”

Each of the ten thuds and stings of the paddle made Natty whimper and moan and reassess whether reading about Joel’s rescue could have indeed been put off for a few hours…

“Now, seven with the tawse for those missing assignments.”

It took until the second stroke for Natty to appreciate the bite of the tawse. Especially on skin that was already raw. She tried to wiggle. To shift her weight in some way to offset the strikes. The Velcro straps held her firm.

“Four…”

Natty released the sobs she had been suppressing. She never cried when she was spanked. At least not most of the time. But three spankings in a row was hard…
“Five…” That one hit the inside of her left thigh. And it really hurt…

She tensed up to brace for the last two but there was no more strength left to hold herself rigid. Limp, she whimpered and sobbed through the final burning blow.

Father Michael return his tools to their appointed homes. He came over to the Bench and pulled the Velcro straps apart. Brushed his hand on the middle of Natty’s back.

“There, there, child. Take the time you need to gather yourself together.” Then sat down on the table to the right of the Bench and wrote in a file folder.

After a few minutes of deep breaths, Natty dragged herself upright, pulled up her tights and panties over her seared bottom, and buttoned up her skirt. She stood in front of Father Michael, hands behind her back, staring at her Mary Janes.

“Well, now, off you go back to detention.” He said.

“Yes, Father.” Natty turned and opened the door.

“And Natalie…don’t pay me another visit anytime soon, alright?” He winked.

“Yes, Father.” Natty smiled and returned to the Detention Room, where she aimed her bottom for the stool, placed it down gently and determined she would not be visiting the Office of Discipline Application for a very long time.

Copyright 2002 Natty

Story: Natty Gets a Nanny [F/F ]

Okay, how's this for eroticization of illness? ;)

I've been chipping away at this story for about a year now. Partly because of all the being sick and stuff. But also partly because I'll go through phases where I'll fantasize about enemas but then the phase will be over and the whole idea will really squick me.

It's also been funny to observe Natty and Nanny Bea in the story with the nanny sort of representing my adult self and Natty representing my, well, child-like Natty self. Needless to say, I have a lot of interesting arguments between the two. Lordy, no wonder I'm so sick...

At any rate, enjoy.

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Natty Gets a Nanny [F/F, spanking, thermometer, enema]


Natty's daddy decided that she needed a nanny.

Daddy was often out of town and Natty had a penchant for getting into mischief when left on her own. She was also rather sickly and needed help remembering to take her medicine and eat healthy meals and take a nap and not stay on the computer for too long and go to bed at her appointed bed time. And sometimes she was just plain naughty and refused to stay in bed at all.

So, Daddy put an advertisement in the Nanny Times. Interviewed many, many nannies. Only a very special nanny would be right for his girl.

[....]



Some of the nannies seemed too severe. Natty wasn't a bad girl, just a bit willful and rambunctious at times. She didn't need a concentration camp guard. Indeed, because she was sickly, she needed lots of cuddles and care.

But some of the nannies seemed a bit too lenient. Natty was a smart girl and could argue her way out of just about anything. She needed a wise, firm hand -- preferably a hand with a hairbrush.

When Daddy interviewed Beatrice Seymour, he decided that she was the perfect nanny for Natty. A tall, thick, middle-aged woman with a warm smile, she was the perfect mixture of tender caregiver and traditional disciplinarian.

"I see here that you used to be a nurse," Daddy said as he held her resume.

"Yes, for twenty years. Though, I should warn you that some of my methods are a bit out-of-style these days. I think people rely far too much on pills alone, if you know what I mean."

"Indeed. Often the old tried and true remedies are the best."

"Well, I think so," said Nanny Bea.

So, it was settled. Nanny Bea began as Natty's nanny that night, which was good because Daddy had to leave that afternoon to go far far away.

At 9 pm she told Natty to take her medicine and brush her teeth and put on her jimjams. It was hours earlier than Natty normally went to bed, but she was tired that night anyway. Once she snuggled under the covers, Nanny Bea read to Natty until she fell asleep. Kissed her on the forehead and turned out the light.

The next morning Natty couldn't help but scowl when Nanny Bea made her porridge for breakfast -- a thin gruel of rice, oats, and barley. No cinnamon toast or eggs and sausage or pancakes with maple syrup. And certainly no ice cream.

"It's what the Chinese eat for breakfast," said Nanny Bea. "They call it 'congee' or 'jook' and believe that the longer it simmers the more powerful it gets. I started it in the crock pot last night. This particular one is good for building your qi."

"But I'm not Chinese," mumbled Natty.

"No, you're not, but you could stand for a little more qi," said Nanny Bea.

"But can't I get it from Cheerios? Even Raisin Bran is better than this."

Nanny Bea smiled.

"Eat your porridge, please."

So Natty did, but felt sulky. Though, she did admit to herself that it was sorta cool pretending to be Chinese.

Later that day, Nanny Bea made sure Natty did her physical therapy exercises. She also made Natty take a nap in the afternoon and every time Natty got on her laptop, Nanny Bea would set the timer for one hour, after which Natty had to close her laptop and lay down for at least fifteen minutes. There was lentil soup for lunch and a chicken dish for dinner with something called millet. And lots and lots of vegetables.

When nine o'clock came around again, Nanny Bea announced that it was time to get ready for bed.

"But it's three hours before my bedtime and Daddy always lets me watch South Park reruns at 11."

"Fair enough," said Nanny Bea. "But you can only watch it if you get ready for bed now."

"Okay," agreed Natty, who nodded and headed to the bathroom.

"Natty, dear," started Nanny Bea, who entered the bathroom right behind Natty, "before you take your bath tonight, I want to take your temperature and give your insides a good cleaning out."

Hmm...Natty understood the temperature part. She often had fevers at night. But the cleaning out of her insides had her rather confused. Isn't that what Raisin Bran is for?

"Take down your trousers and panties and lay over my lap, please." Nanny Bea sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

Natty gasped. That was how Daddy spanked her!

"But I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Of course not, dear. I just want to take your temperature."

"That way? But I'm not a baby! I can hold it in my mouth just fine."

"Rectal temperatures are more accurate," Nanny Bea said calmly. "Now please do as I asked."

"No! No! That...that's ridiculous!" Natty stamped her little foot.

"Very well, then." Nanny Bea stood up and grabbed Natty by the arm. "I'll let you think about it in the corner while I get the enema ready."

Enema?!

Natty was so shocked by what she heard that it took her several seconds to realize her nose was pointed at the intersection of two white walls. However, once she realized that Nanny Bea was busy in the bathroom, Natty marched right out of that corner and over to the telephone.

"Daddy, you've hired a mad woman," she said when she heard her daddy's voice on the other line.

"Oh no! What's wrong?"

"First she made me eat this icky porridge for breakfast and now she wants to take my temperature in my bum and give me an enema!"

"Ah, won't do you any harm. Might even do you some good."

"But she wants to stick some pokey glass thing and a rubber hose up my ass!"

"Yes, and you'll let her," he said.

How could he be so completely indifferent to her suffering?

"Well...when that thermometer breaks, and I get mercury poisoning, you'll be sorry!"

Daddy chuckled. Then his voice got very stern. "And if you don't do what Nanny Bea tells you, you'll be very sorry when she gives you a good tanning. And then you'll be even more sorry when I find out that you were a naughty girl and give you a good caning."

Gulp.

Daddy's cane hurt. A lot.

"Yes, Sir," Natty said with a whimper.

"Now, be a good girl and do what Nanny says."

"Yes, Sir."

Natty sighed heavily as she hung up the phone and turned to head back to the corner. Except when she turned around, Nanny Bea was standing there with a hairbrush.

Gulp.

"And what does Daddy have to say?"

Natty swallowed hard. Looked at the floor.

"To be a good girl and do what you say."

"Indeed," said Nanny Bea. "But you didn't do what I said when I told you to stand in the corner, did you?"

Natty shook her head as she stared at the carpet. Nanny Bea sighed.

"Well, I'm sorry it's come to this so quickly, but I suppose that perhaps it's for the best that we established this up front." She grabbed Natty's wrist and led her to the couch. "Take off your trousers and panties and lay over my lap, please."

This time, Natty did as she was told.

"I know it's hard getting used to someone new, with all of the new things they do." Nanny Bea stroked Natty's hair and back. "But I'm only doing all of these new things because I care very much about you and want to do what would be the very healthiest for you."

"Okay," Natty squeaked.

"And because I only do those things that are good for you, I expect your complete obedience, Miss Natty. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Nanny," Natty answered barely above a whisper.

"Good."

Natty Bea placed her left hand in the middle of Natty's back and began peppering her plump bottom with the ebony hairbrush. Rapid fire smacks that had Natty squirming and crying out.

"Now, every night I'm going to take your temperature in this very position," Nanny Bea explained as she smacked her charge. "And then I'm going to give you a spanking to remind you to be a good girl. If you've been a good girl that day, then it will be a very short one, and I will only use my hand." The hard spanks continued to splat against Natty's flesh. "But if you have been naughty, then I will use this hairbrush very hard and for a very long time. Understood?"

"Oh -- OW! OWEE!-- yes, Nanny. OWWW!" Natty curled her toes and shut her eyes very tight.

"And once a week, after I've taken your temperature but before your spanking, I will give you a nice warm enema to make sure you're good and clean inside."

Natty whimpered and covered her face with her hands as Nanny Bea's hairbrush continued it's assault.

"And you will let me take your temperature, as well as take your spanking and enema like a good girl, yes?"

After more whimpering and crying, Natty managed to nod her head and murmur a "yes, Nanny."

"Good. And just for good measure, I'm going to give you several good, hard spanks on your thighs. Your daddy told me this is very effective on you."

"Oh no -- please, no, Nanny!"

But it was a futile plea as Nanny Bea laid ten solid, slightly less forceful spanks on each fleshy thigh. Natty squealed and kicked her legs.

"None of that, please." Nanny Bea gave Natty a stingy tap on her right calf, then returned to give her thighs ten more smacks while Natty howled. "Alright, then. All done."

Natty cried into the sofa cushion as Nanny Bea put the hairbrush on the table, rubbed Natty's blotchy red-purple bottom and thighs and stroked her hair.

"Shhh...it's all over now, dear. I know you'll be a very good girl now."

Once Natty finished crying and was breathing softly again, Nanny Bea led Natty into the bedroom. After assembling a glass thermometer, a tin of salve, and an enema bag on the table next to the bed, she put on a latex glove, sat down on the edge of the bed and laid down a towel.

"Okay, Natty dear. Come lay down on your tummy for me please." Nanny Bea patted the towel. After Natty positioned herself on the bed, Nanny Bea spread Natty's cheeks and dabbed a bit of salve on her bummy hole. Then slid the cold, glass thermometer inside the goo.

It was so pokey. Natty couldn't help but whimper. But Nanny Bea patted her bottom and stroked her hair while waiting until it was time to take the thermometer out.

"Excellent. No fever tonight." Nanny Bea put the thermometer on the table. "Now, I'm going to put my finger inside to help you relax that sphincter muscle a bit. But this time I want you to help me by holding your cheeks open with your hands and pressing down inside as if you're going to poop."

Natty reached back and held her cheeks open as Nanny Bea slathered salve on her latex-covered finger, then circled her finger around Natty's bummy hole. After massaging it a bit, Nanny Bea gently, but firmly pushed her finger inside, causing Natty to let out a soft gasp. Once it was in, however, it didn't hurt like she thought it would.

But it did feel very very weird. And it made Natty whimper.

"Just relax, dear." Nanny Bea caressed Natty's hair.

How do you relax when you've got someone's finger up your butt?

"Take a deep breath and then slowly breath out."

That made her feel a little better.

"Hmm...as I suspected. You can definitely do with a cleaning out." Nanny Bea grabbed the nozzle of the enema bag and put some salve on the end of it. "Okay, now I'm going to put the nozzle in. You keep being a good girl and hold those cheeks for me. "

After a gentle poke, the nozzle rested inside Natty's bummy hole. Natty whimpered some more.

"Alright, you can let go of your cheeks." Nanny Bea tapped Natty's bottom as her cheeks relaxed. Sorta. "I'm going to start the enema now. Once I undo the clip, I'll count to six, then clip the tube, count to ten, then remove the clip again until all the water is inside. If it starts to hurt too much, let me know and I'll pause the flow."

The warm water coming in didn't really hurt, just felt rather peculiar. At first. And then --

"I have to go! I have to go right now!" Natty cried.

"It's alright. Hang on for a few more seconds and it will pass."

So Natty bit her lip and took a breath and waited like Nanny Bea said. But she couldn't help it that she started to cry a little.

"Are you feeling okay now?" Nanny Bea asked a moment later.

"Uh huh," Natty nodded.

"Good girl," said Nanny Bea as she patted Natty's bottom and unclipped the enema tube.

After Nanny Bea filled Natty all up, she removed the nozzle and replaced it with a lubricated plug.

"I want you to hold the water inside for five minutes so it has time to work," she said. "This plug will help you keep it all in there."

And while they waited, Nanny Bea rubbed Natty's back and stroked her hair and told her what a very good girl she had been during her very first enema and that she was very proud of her. It made Natty smile and sigh a happy sigh, even though she still felt very uncomfortable.

"Now after you go potty," Nanny Bea instructed as the five minutes came to an end, "you are not to wipe." Her voice had a certain firmness to it that, while authoritative, was not at all mean. "I will do that for you whenever I give you enema because one, I want to remind you, Miss Natty, that while I'm your nanny, I'm the one in charge of every part of you." Then her voice softened. "And two, because you've had to take care of yourself all by yourself a lot of the time and I know that's really hard. I want you to always remember that I'm here to take care of you no matter how unpleasant or embarrassing it might be. Okay?"

Natty felt her eyes start to water again as she smiled and nodded. It was true. It really is hard to be sick all by yourself.

Nanny Bea then let Natty up and helped her waddle to the bathroom where she removed the plug and -- finally! -- let Natty go potty. While Natty sat on the toilet, Nanny Bea drew her a bath with lots of lavender-smelling bubbles. And when Natty was done, just as she said she would, Nanny Bea wiped Natty's sore bottom with a warm wet washcloth before letting her charge settle into a nice, hot bath.

"Oh!" Natty gasped as the water burned her bottom. "It stings!"

"Well, I should think it will for a few days," Nanny Bea smirked.

And she was right. Natty's bottom was still smarting the next morning as she ate her congee. And in the bath the next night before she got into her jimjams and watched South Park re-runs until bedtime. But it was a good sort of smarting. Just like after Daddy spanked her. A reminder that her new nanny loved her and would always take care of her.

Copyright 2006 Natty

Story: The Sub Strikes Back

Okay, I'm just reposting this story as I had to delete it when something about it messed up my whole blog last month when I first posted it along with its Short Story Contest second place certificate jpeg. So, here it is again sans jpeg, for you to read and be disturbed by it over and over and over again... ;)

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The Sub Strikes Back (Edge) 497 words [M/F; F/M]


Dennys smelled like cheap coffee, bacon and French fries. It made Dana hungry. Not that her stomach wasn't busy enough with all those damn butterflies.

Her eyes skimmed the booths and tables for a red polo shirt, finally stopping at a middled-aged man with a receding hairline in a far corner.

"James?"

[.....]

Her new disciplinarian bade her to sit down across from him. After a few moments of chit chat and menu-scanning, the waitress came to take their order. Dana ordered a bacon cheeseburger and fries.

"Actually," James said to the waitress, "she'll be having the Ceasar's salad." He looked down at Dana. "You said you were having problems with your weight. And clearly you are."

Dana flushed. Sucked in her stomach.

"What are you having, hon?" The waitress looked at Dana.

"The salad," she murmured.

James pursed his lips after the waitress left.

"I'll deal with this later."

When he said stuff like that online or on the phone, it usually made her giddy. But now it gave her a sort of painful, clammy feeling.

Later the salad sloshed uncomfortably as the pillows piled on her bed pressed against Dana's stomach. James rubbed her bare buttocks after smacking them hard for several minutes.

"You're a very bad girl, aren't you?"

Someone else had said that once to Dana while rubbing her bare bottom. When it was not quite as fat and her violated cunt was still bald.

She thought she was going to throw up.

"Bad girls get punished." James took off his belt. "Don't they?"

Dana blinked away the tears that were surfacing.

"Answer me!" James whipped her with the belt. "Bad girls get punished, don't they?"

Dana nodded into the pillows.

"I can't hear you." He slapped the leather on her skin again. "Tell me what happens to bad girls."

A hot feeling started at the base of her spine...That look the waitress gave James, then her. It moved up into her sternum, throughout her chest, arms and finally her stomach.

"I'm not a bad girl." Hushed, yet firm.

"Are you talking back to me?" He lashed Dana's flesh.

"Stop...you have to stop right now..." She paused for a moment. "Red..Red!"

"I don't do safewords," James laughed. "You're being punished. And there are no safewords during a punishment spanking."

Dana turned over onto her back, the belt cutting into the arm she held up to protect herself.

"I said stop!"

"I give the orders. You do what I tell you to do, bitch."

She didn't think. Just kicked. Her foot hitting his testicles. James dropped the belt as he doubled over and Dana scurried to grab it.

"I told you to fucking stop!" she screamed.

She whipped his legs. His ass. His hip. His back. Sobbing, Dana shook her head.

"I'm not a bad girl. I'm not."

Still clutching the belt, she pointed at the door.

"Now get the fuck out of my house before I call the police!"

Copyright 2006 Natty

Story: Dealing with My Disability [M/F]

This is an old story to tide y'all over while I'm sick. And as illness has been the topic of many of my posts lately, I thought I'd post this particular story which originally appeared at the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet newgroup in March of 2002. At that time I had recently been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (also called Myalgic Encephalomylitis outside the U.S) and was suffering a relapse severe enough to convince me that I had to take a leave of absence from school. As I'm in the midst of a similiar relapse, this seemed like a particularly apt story to post. It's not one of my better stories -- there are parts of it that make me wince a bit. And I kind of giggle to myself as the character of Walter is sort of an amalgamation of three people, all of whom I can recognize in certain lines. But, at any rate, here it is. Enjoy.

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Story: Dealing with My Disability [M/F]

"I think we need to meet..." Walter's voice lingered in my mind as the
clock ticked closer to 5:30. When he said those words, I knew I was in
trouble. And with only fifteen minutes left until he arrived, I couldn't
decide if I wanted the minutes to hurry up and pass already, or to stay
off, away in a future that wouldn't come. At any rate, I still had
fifteen minutes -- no fourteen minutes - to rehearse my arguments. To
practice my spin...

"Well, I see you haven't touched your meds for today..." He glanced down at the plastic rectangle with boxes for each day containing pills and
capsules of various size and color on the countertop of my kitchenette
as he came into my studio apartment. D'oh!

"Oh, yeah...I forgot," I said without thinking.

"Well, I'll have to make sure I help you remember."

"Well, I mean, I didn't really forget...I just haven't gotten to them yet.
And, well, my throat has been kinda sore so they're not as easy to
swallow..." Yeah, there was always a health ailment to get me out of
trouble...Or so I thought...

"Yes, but that's all the more reason to make sure you take them if
you're not feeling well."

"True...I'm just taking them after I eat dinner...and some of them are for
bedtime anyway." Lame attempt, I know.

"Of course." He looked at me with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow.
"Now, how about if I take a look at your journal." My
symptom/food/activity journal. It was something to help the doctors keep
track of my illness, as well as help me think about what I was doing. To
learn to listen to my body when I'd as soon ignore the headaches and
fatigue telling me I needed to rest before I get REALLY sick.

"S.s..sure..." Right to business, as usual. I handed him my spiral bound
notebook. This was the part I worried about. There in my pencil
scratchings, or lack of them, was the grim truth that I had not been as
diligent in keeping tack of my symptoms. And when I had written down my
food, it was stuff I shouldn't be eating. And when I tallied my
activities and the points of energy they cost me, I had clearly racked
up far too many.

"Hmmm..." Walter flipped through the pages as his eyebrow reached further
towards his hairline and his lips pursed together.

"See, I've been feeling better and I've been wanting to kinda see how
much more I can do...I mean, I think the herbal decoction from the
acupuncturist is really working - tastes like shi - I mean crap - but,
um, you know, I think I should push a little bit, try 'n get my body to
come back to the real world. And besides, I haven't had a relapse for
well over a month...I think I'm really starting to get better..."

"A month is hardly enough time to consider yourself 'cured,' my dear..."
His eyebrows crinkled towards the center as he looked away from the
notebook and down at me. He was only 5'10 or so, but as I'm exactly 5'
and ½ inch, he still towered over me. "And pushing yourself is why
you've gotten so sick in the first place." I rolled my eyes, sighed and
looked away. I hate when he insists on "logic" and "reality."

As my primary argument was no longer valid, I spent the next few minutes
as he flipped through the rule-lined pages trying to think of ways to
soften the edges of my transgressions. I used to try and think of
counter-arguments. Well, I still did. But I was no match for Walter. He
was a lawyer and had years more practice at it.

"You spent four hours at the mall on Saturday?? What were you thinking?
You're one major daily activity is only suppose one or two hours and not
that physically exerting...certainly not a four hour hike through the mall!"

"Well, I was hanging out with my sister...she was home and ---"

"And then you went out to a movie...and then out to a coffeehouse afterwards?"

"We would have gone to a bar but she's still underage." I grinned with
that mischievous twinkle. He glared.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"I won't die..." I mumbled.

"You never know..."

"Yeah, I do. CFIDS isn't fatal...it's just.... debilitating..." The last word
scraped through my mouth. I really despised it. Or any of the words used
in brochures, medical journal articles, books, websites, or newsgroups
to describe my illness. A dark scowl washed over me. I guess I still
hadn't finished going through the Five Stages of Grief...

"That's right. It is debilitating and will get even more so if you don't
take care of yourself. And clearly you have not been doing that." His
voice had that mixture of sternness and impatience.

"It's just..." I didn't mean to start crying. Really. I had never cried in
front of Walter. But my scowl turned into tears and then into sobs.
"It's just that I never get to have any kind of normal life. I'm just so
tired of watching life go by and never having the chance to grab hold of
it, you know? I'm tired of feeling like some old woman..." I folded my
arms as my eyes became red and puffy and my nose started to run. Walter
stood frozen at first, then grabbed a Kleenex and handed it to me. "I'm
sorry..." I said. "I'm not crying on purpose to manipulate you or
anything. I mean, I know your right...it's just..."

"No, I understand...it's okay." He put his arms around me as I cried into
his chest. After a few minutes I calmed down, took a deep breath, and
blew my nose one more time. Walter gazed at me while I tossed the tissue
into the trash. "You know, sometimes I really have a hard time spanking
you because I know you're in so much pain as it is and I hate adding to
it." I gave him a faint attempt at a smile. "But, if the few minutes of
pain I give you keep you from weeks of pain later, I will do it." He
walked over to my desk and wheeled the chair out away from the
furniture. Sat down and sighed. Patted his khaki-clad thighs. "Well, I
think it's time for you to come lay over my lap." I nodded and laid my
plump little body down so that my bottom was the first thing underneath
his right arm.

The full skirt of my pink summer jumper came up towards my neck and my
white cotton panties scooted down to my knees. My bare feet dangled off
the floor. That feeling of utter exposure. And I certainly didn't feel
like an old woman anymore...Walter tapped his thin, slender wooden paddle
against my skin a few times as I braced for the coming stingy blows.

And they came. One on top of the other. Over and over. I curled my toes
in pain. Squeezed my eyes shut. Pressed my lips together. Every now a
then tried to swallow a whimper.

"So once again we find ourselves in this very embarrassing position..." he
began lecturing. Why did he say "we?" I was the one with the naked butt
up for God and everybody to see. But I was focusing too much on how much
my naked butt hurt to mouth off. "And why are we here?"

"Cause...I...ow...wasn't...taking care of...oweee...myself."

"That's right. And how were you not taking care of yourself?" His voice
was calm and focused. Why did he ask me questions while he spanked me?
Did he not realize that it takes a great deal of concentration to get
through a spanking? These queries were extremely distracting. Eventually
he stopped the questions and just whacked away at my cheeks and thighs.

I was whimpering steadily when he stopped. He rubbed the middle of my
back as I gazed at the carpet pile. The sides of his thighs pressed into
my stomach. I relaxed. Wrangled with my fingers and picked at lint on
the floor.

"I know I don't need to tell you why you need to limit your activities
or not eat certain foods, or take your medication. You're a smart girl.
So, just do what you're supposed to do to get better. You've got to
focus everything on getting well. Okay?" That last word he said without
the sternness. More friendly. I nodded. He tugged the part of my hair in
a barrette. "Hey, you. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Alright then." I could see underneath the chair, down by my feet that
he was picking up the paddle again. Crap! I was getting more? A hot
splat on my backside answered. Apparently so. Another ten whacks seared
my already raw skin. The he stopped. Rubbed my back some more. Dropped
the paddle at his side to the floor. "Okay, we're done now." He held my
left arm as I pushed my right hand on his thigh to get up. As soon as I
was upright, I pulled up my panties and smoothed my skirt back down.

I stood in front of him as he still sat in the chair. Held my hands
behind my back. Bit my lower lip. Shifted my feet. Gulped and breathed
in staggered breaths. Walter smiled.

"Gosh, sometimes you really are such a little girl..." He shook his head.
I did a half roll of my eyes, smiled and bit my bottom lip again. "You
want me to help you put some ice on your bottom?" I nodded.

"Just lemme put some aloe vera on first." I went into the bathroom and
slipped off my panties. Cut off a half-inch portion of a leaf from my
aloe vera plant. Slit the side, peeled back the skin and rubbed the
cooling, gooey gel all over my backside. I came out and lay down on my
stomach on my bed. Walter placed the ice pack on top of my skirt
covering my bottom. As I bruise at the slightest touch, though not as
badly since I added Grapefruit extract and a synergistic Vitamin C to my
daily meds, the ice pack would keep the bruising to a minimum. Walter
patted me on the head.

"Now, I want you to rest and take care of yourself, okay?" I nodded.
"Then once you're better I can start beatin' on you to write those great
research papers for me to read." He grinned as I rolled my eyes and
scowled. "And you'll go back to being a great scholar and graduate
student -- why we started meeting in the first place..."

But at that moment I wasn't a graduate student or aspiring scholar, a
Person With CFIDS (PWC), or the old person I often felt with it. I was a
little girl who just needed someone to take care of me. Small.
Mischievous. Spirited. Rebellious. And little enough that my feet still
dangle when I'm over a knee getting spanked...

Story: Quality Time [F/F]

Dealing with all the repressed emotional trauma of late has made me crave maternal affection, which made me think of this old story. Though, today has been one of those super-fatigue days when the idea of canning peaches sounds exhausting. Hell, just getting out of bed feels a bit exhausting.

Anyway...enjoy. :)



Quality Time [F/F]


It was half past eleven by the time I pulled open the screen door to
Helen's kitchen.

"Hey there! Sorry I'm so late. Just couldn't seem to get out of bed this
morning."

"Well, there you are. Was starting to wonder." She nodded toward the box
of peaches on the kitchen table. "You haven't missed too much. I've
started cutting and peeling, but we've got two boxes of peaches, so
there's plenty left for you to cut and peel also." She pointed to an
extra apron and knife. I giggled.

"Darn, thought maybe I'd missed out on the hard work."

"Ha! Not on your life, kid." Helen dropped some peeled and sliced
peaches into a Mason jar. I sighed and grabbed a couple of peaches out
of the box. "You feeling alright, Natty? You look a bit pasty this
morning." Her brown eyebrows furrowed together as she looked at me.

"Me? Oh I'm fine. Just tired cause I haven't gotten much sleep lately."

"And why's that?"

"Oh, well..." My face flushed a bit. "I've sorta been up late talking with
a friend online the last few nights."

"Ah, I see." In that disapproving parent tone of hers. "Well, guess
you'd better be getting to bed a bit earlier then hadn't you? Don't want
you coming down with something..."

Funny how Helen was like that. I'd only known her for a few months as I
was housesitting next door to her. We started talking one day while I
was taking out the trash, and before I knew it she was having me over
for dinner and lessons on making the perfect pie crust.

We chatted, peeled, sliced and filled Mason jars. Talked about her
grandkids. Then about school.

"How's that thesis of yours coming along? Did you finally get some
writing done this week like you were supposed to?" There was that
parental tone again.

"Well..." I couldn't quite mouth the reality of my dereliction. "I,
um...haven't quite gotten around to it much this week..."

"'Haven't gotten around to it'?" She put down her knife and looked at
me. "And just what has kept you so busy this week that you 'haven't
gotten around to it?'"

My mind raced to find an answer that wouldn't make me look completely
irresponsible. But as I couldn't find one and my tongue wouldn't spit
out the truth, I simply gulped and stared at the counter.

"Hmm...think I know the answer. Procrastination and the Internet can keep you awfully busy I suppose." She picked up the knife again and finished slicing her peach. "Now, remind me again, how much of your thesis did you finish this summer?" I sighed.

"Er...um...not very much..." I sliced my peach very slowly as Helen actually seemed to pick up speed with hers.

"I see." She grabbed the next peach and had it peeled, sliced and in the
jar before I even finished slicing the one I had been working on. I
started working faster in an effort to feel productive. "You know," she
began after a long minute of painful silence, "if I were your mother,
I'd give you a darn good spanking."

"Well, you are kinda like a mom to me," I piped as I cut through a
peach. It just slipped out before I had time to really think about it. I
mean, it was true. Just sort of an awkward time to say it. She smiled at
first. Then pursed her lips and furrowed her eyebrows in a way that made
her look very stern.

"Hmm...maybe then I ought to have you spend some quality time over my
knee, young lady."

"Maybe." Again, popped out before I could think. She put down the knife,
wiped her hands, then handed me a towel.

"Very well, then, come with me." I dutifully wiped my hands and followed
her down the hallway to her bedroom. She led me to a corner next to the
closet. "You stand right here in this corner for a few minutes until I
get back."

And so, being the mature grown-up I was, I stood in the corner. My brain
finally clicked on within thirty seconds or so of standing there and
stammered to figure out at what the hell I'd gotten myself into.

"Alright, come here." I turned to see Helen sitting on the side of the
bed. She had a thermometer in her hand and on the nightstand was a small tub of Vaseline and a wooden hairbrush. "Take off your apron, jeans and panties." I reached back and began untying the apron. "Now, since you looked like you weren't feeling very well this morning I want to take your temp to make sure you're not coming down with anything."

"You mean like...in my..." I held the apron and stood frozen in front of her.

"Yes, in your bottom. It's -"

"--But why can't you just take it orally like normal? Besides, I'm fine.
No fever. Really."

"I'll be honest that I'm doing this as part of your punishment. I want
it to be very uncomfortable so you'll start thinking about your health
more. Staying up all night isn't the only thing you do that's not
healthy - I know you've been eating junk food and doing a zillion other
things that aren't very good for you. And since you act like such a
child I'm going to treat you like one in the hope that it makes you
start thinking like an adult. Now get those jeans and panties off and
come lay over my lap."

I certainly did feel very little as I climbed onto the bed and lay
across her lap. As the thin, cold glass thermometer slid between my
cheeks and then poked against my anus, I couldn't help but whimper like
a four-year-old. It was like being more naked than naked. Yet, I
couldn't remember a time when I've felt more safe and cared for as she
rubbed my back and patted my bottom. A few minutes later she twisted the thermometer around then pulled it out.

"Normal temp. Good." I lay there in an odd state of contentment and
fear. The affection felt nice, but I knew that wooden hairbrush would
not. "Now, Natalie, I'm going to spank you. It is going to hurt very
much. But I hope it will motivate you to be more responsible to do your
work and take care of yourself. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I mumbled with a nod.

"Good girl." She patted my back.

Then they came. Sharp, crisp, wooden smacks on the middle of my
backside. I winced. Then squeaked as they got harder. And when she
started slapping my thighs, I yelped. Curled my toes and gripped the
bedspread. And they kept coming. Burning my skin. I put my face in my
hands and hoped they would stop soon. But they didn't. I began kicking
my legs slightly. Helen landed a very hard smack on my thighs.

"None of that please." And went right back to work on my bottom.
Eventually the combination of the cumulating pain in my bottom and
thighs, the inscrutabilty of it ending and the ever-present feeling of
childishness made me do what any child in that situation would do: bawl
my eyes out. "Alright. It's alright." The spanking ended. Helen was
smoothing my hair and rubbing my back again.

Once my sobbing slowed, she helped me up and into my clothes. Then led
me by the hand into the living room where she sat down in her rocker and
sat me on her lap. And there in her big arms I finished crying.

"There now. It's all over. I know you're going to do much better from
now on." She kissed the top of my head as I nodded. "Think you're ready
to finish canning peaches?"

"Yes, Mommy." I smiled at her. And she smiled back.

Copyright 2003 Natty

Story: Why Tommy Lee Jones Spanked Natty [M/F]

And this, my gentle readers, is the fruit of spanko daydreams.

And to you my dear, Mija, I dedicate this most mediocre spanking story. ;) (I promise that someday I'll write a much better one to dedicate to you lol)

*************************

Story: Why Tommy Lee Jones Spanked Natty [M/F -- like you couldn't have guessed]


One night Natty and her Uncle Tommy cuddled on the couch watching "Law and Order." It's a sad show (and sometimes scary), so it's important to watch while cuddling.

As they watched, there were the usual commercial breaks to woo them with Toyotas, Whoppers, and Carnival Cruises. Then a commercial for Uncle Tommy's new movie, "Man of the House."

"Oh, oh your new movie is out! I can't wait to see it."

"Nope. You're not watching that. Not a good movie for my Natty to watch."

"But why not? It's only rated PG-13."

"Baby, it's not the rating that's the problem. It's that it's a stupid movie and you're too smart to see it."

Natty laughed.

"Oh that's just silly, Uncle Tommy. How can you be too smart for a movie?"

"Easy. Most movies are crap."

"But you're in it."

"Yep. That's cause your Uncle Tommy has to do stupid movies sometimes so we can have this nice house. And a big tv to watch "Law and Order" on. And your pony, Snickers."

Natty smiled when she thought of her pony. Then pouted.

"But I want to see it, Uncle Tommy. It looks funny...sorta.. I mean, Cedric the Entertainer is funny...sometimes."

"Nope. You're not to see it and that is final, young lady."

Hmph.


The next day, Natty's friend Anna-Maria called.

"Hey, let's go see your uncle's new movie."

"I can't. He told me I couldn't watch it."

"What? Why wouldn't he want you to see his movie?"

"He says it's too stupid. That I'm too smart for it."

"But that's ridiculous. I mean, most movies are stupid. That's the point. What does he expect? That you're going to 'expand your mind' all the time?"

"I dunno," Natty shrugged. Rolled her eyes.

"Well, if we go to the mall and then see it there, how will he know?"

"Hmm...that's true. Yeah, we could see it there."

It was settled. They would meet at the mall in an hour.

Except that Uncle Tommy was passing Natty's room while she talked with Anna-Maria.

"Miss Natty, did I just overhear you planning to disobey me and go see that ridiculous movie?"

"Umm..." Natty thought for a moment.

Should she lie? Could she make up a story fast enough?

She nodded slowly. She was a horrible liar and not a very fast thinker.

"Well, young lady, you just got yourself grounded. You can just stay here in your room for the rest of the night."

Hmph.

Natty couldn't bear the thought of calling Anna-Maria to tell her she was grounded. It was so embarrassing.

Maybe if she just turned her stereo on so that Uncle Tommy would think she was there... And snuck out the window...The movie was less than two hours. She would be back before he came to tuck her in.

Uncle Tommy was right about the movie. As she sat there with Anna-Maria, they could almost finish every line. And they groaned at all the silly cliches and bad jokes. And hardly laughed at all. And even felt a little embarrassed for Uncle Tommy.

And the popcorn didn't even taste that good.

And the Milk Duds sat like rocks in Natty's stomach because she worried the whole time about getting caught.

Which she did.

Just like a bad movie plot.

"Young lady, just where have you been?" Uncle Tommy stood beside Natty's big canopy bed with his hands on his hips as Natty lifted herself up to her window and straddled the window sill.

She gasped. Gulped. Bit her lip. Brought her other leg over the sill and stood upright in her bedroom.

"To the movies," she mumbled.

Now it was Uncle Tommy's turn to hmph.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he said as he paced the carpet. "I thought you had better taste than that. That you were smarter than everyone else who pays $10 to see such drivel. Had more sense than to waste two hours of your life with something so utterly banal."

Natty stared at the carpet. Teared up. Sniffled a little. Felt a guilty, sad tingle all over.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Tommy. You were right about the movie. I wish I'd never seen it. Never snuck out. Never disobeyed you and disappointed you." With that Natty began to cry.

Uncle Tommy sighed. Walked over to his niece and put his arms around her.

"I know you're sorry, Baby." He kissed the top of her head. "I try very hard to protect you from all the mindless mediocrity out there. That's my job. And to make sure you understand that, I'm going to have to give you a good, hard spanking."

The mere thought of which made Natty cry even harder.

Especially once she was across his lap with her jeans and panties down around her knees. And the old, thick, cherrywood hairbrush was smacking her backside.

And she cried really really hard when after that he made her bend over the bed while he spanked her with his belt for sneaking out.

But after the spanking was all over, and Uncle Tommy cuddled Natty, and she had gotten ready for bed, they decided to watch "The Fugitive."

At least in that movie, Natty didn't have to feel so embarrassed for her Uncle Tommy.


Copyright 2005 Natty

Story: Window into Heaven [MM/f, child]

As it's Lent, this seems like a good story to post. Please note that while this story does contain some autobiographical elements, it is fiction. The angel part? All made up. Not real.

Enjoy.

A Window Into Heaven [MM/f, child]


They are called “windows into heaven.” Depictions containing the energies of Christ, the Holy Mother of God, the saints, an event. As Julia stood in front of the rows of icons in that little shop, she could feel their power. St. George atop his white horse, lance stabbing at a dragon. St. John Maximovitch holding the Cathedral of San Francisco he helped build. The Theotokos of Vladimir, her head tilted toward the Christ Child, her smooth, maternal face up against his, her melancholy but caring eyes looking out. At Julia. She kissed her middle three fingers and pressed them against the Holy Mother. Crossed herself. Resumed her search. There. Between St. Michael the Archangel and the Annunciation…

His hair was longer than she remembered it being. But the eyes were the same. He was holding the hand of a small girl. With eyes remarkably like hers. In the other hand, he held a scroll: “He shall give His angels charge over you to keep you in all your ways.”

*****

The babysitter’s house was only a few blocks from school. Convenient for Julia to pick up the baby on the way home. Books on her back and baby in hand, she made her way the next several blocks to the house. Threw her backpack full of homework aside, put the baby in her walker and flopped onto the couch to watch cable reruns of Good Times and Little House on the Prairie. At 4:30 she shaked and baked the pork chops, heated the can of green beans, and mixed up the box of Stove Top stuffing. Her parents liked her to have dinner made by the time they got home. The parents who often forgot that Julia was only 11.

Dinner was done and dishes were safely in the dishwasher as Julia headed back to the living room to watch TV. Her stepfather stopped her at the doorway.

“Where’s your mother?” he growled. Julia’s eyes glazed with fear. He was mad. Dangerous.

“I…I don’t know,” she said with her most submissive voice.

“I wanna know where your mother is.” His eyes were wild. She gulped.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure…” She wanted to look around for her but she dared not look away from him. He asked again. And again. Frustrated, she raised her voice slightly. She didn’t know any other way to tell him that she really didn’t know.

“Don’t you talk back to me!” He grabbed her arm, yanked her toward his left side, and began delivering heavy, sharp blows to her bottom. Blows that did more than hurt her backside. That took something from her. That left a blackness in her soul.

“What’s going on?” Her mother asked as she walked in on Julia still in her stepfather’s grip.

“Where were you? I’ve been looking all over for you. The baby has a fever…”

“I was just in the attic – what’s the matter?” She stared at the two of them.

“Don’t interfere with my discipline.” His eyes were sharp. Narrow.

“I wasn’t. I was just asking what happened…” She glanced at Julia with a mixture of fear and irritation. Finally freed, Julia wandered toward the living room as her parents argued about whether or not to call the doctor.

Report cards came out the following week. Julia left hers on the kitchen table with anticipation tinged with guilt. She waited for her parents to scrutinize it. To ask her why she got an “A” in social studies (she liked social studies), but an “F” in math (she hadn’t done any of the homework). Two days later she found the report card in the garbage as she took the bag out to the can in the garage. They hadn’t said anything. Not about the “A.” Not about the “F.”

A strange, confusing feeling swam around in Julia’s stomach as she laid in bed that night. On the one hand, she was terrified of her stepfather and his spankings. Her whole body tensed as she heard him downstairs in the kitchen. What if she hadn’t wiped the counter right? He’d be mad…

Yet, she had really wanted her parents to be upset that she got an “F” in math. To scold her for not doing her homework. To tell her how she was capable of doing much better. To even spank her and tell her that she could not watch TV until her grades were better.

To be like real parents. To let her be a real kid.

“Dear God,” she began, her hands folded over her chest. “I wish so much I could have parents who didn’t make me scared. Who care about what I’m doing in school and all…I mean, I know these are my parents and you can’t just give me new ones or anything – not that I want them to go away. I love them. It’s just that…” She sighed. This prayer was turning into a rambling mess. “Well…maybe you could at least send me an angel to be with me or something. To sorta help me, you know?” Julia wasn’t even sure if she knew as she drifted to sleep.

Her homework had not left her backpack since arriving home with the baby the next afternoon. And it was the furthest thing from her mind as she slipped into her nightgown, brushed her teeth and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Upon crossing the threshold, she looked up to see a man sitting in a chair next to her bed.

“Do not be afraid, Julia,” he said with a soft smile as Julia opened her mouth to scream. “I am your guardian angel. The Lord has heard your prayer.” Her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes gaped. Then a smile slowly broke out across her chubby cheeks.

“You’re…really…an angel?”

“I am.” He chuckled yet maintained a distinct seriousness.

“How come you don’t have wings or anything?” Julia skimmed over his average looking khaki pants and white shirt.

“Well, you remember from Sunday School the story of the angels visiting Abraham?” Julia nodded. “Yes, I know you do,” he said. “I know how well you pay attention at Church.” She beamed. “So then you remember that the angels in that story looked just like men. When we take on human form, we look human. No wings.”

“So, what’s your name?” Julia asked as she sat down on the bed across from him.

“It would be unpronounceable to you, so you may call me Malachi.”

“Okay.” Julia glowed before him. A real angel. Her angel. He gazed back at her with that soft, gentle smile.

“The Lord knows you’ve been very lonely, Julia. And that sometimes you’re very afraid.” He lifted her from the bed and set her down on his lap. “He sent me to comfort you. To let you know that you are not really alone. Even when you’re scared.” For several minutes Malachi held Julia against his chest.

“How long will you stay?” She looked up at him.

“I’ve always been with you, Julia, even if you couldn’t see me. And I always will be with you. I’ve been given charge over you. To keep you in all your ways.” He picked her up off his lap and placed her back on the bed. “But, there are times when you really need me to be in the flesh and during those times I will take on human form so that you can see me and touch me.” He held her hands as he sat across from her. “Times like now when you really need someone to hold you. As well as to help you.”

“How are you going to help me?” Julia stared at Malachi.

“Well, what did you mean when you prayed last night for someone to help you?” He looked right inside of her. The intensity forced Julia to look at the floor.

“I dunno.”

“I think you meant someone to help raise you. That it’s hard trying to make sure you’re doing your homework all by yourself. Or being kind to the other kids at school. Or going to bed when you should.”

Julia blushed as she continued to analyze the carpet shag. Malachi cradled her hands.

“Though you’ve done such a good job so far. You’re obedient to your parents. You go to church every Sunday and listen quietly during Sunday School and the service. You even memorize all the Bible verses they give you and believe them with all your heart. You’re really a very good girl.”

Everything was still – the room, the house, the air outside – as Julia looked up at Malachi. With his warm smile. And gentle eyes.

“But, much of the reason you are good is because you are afraid. Of your stepfather. Afraid that people won’t like you. That God won’t like you. I’m here to help you not be afraid anymore. To help you be the person God created you to be – the smart, vivacious, playful, passionate person you hide away because you don’t know where the boundaries are. I’m going to help you by giving you boundaries.”

Boundaries. She had heard this word before. At Church probably. About how good parents set boundaries for their children. Rules…

“Yes, Julia. That does mean rules. With rules, you know where the boundaries are so you don’t have to be afraid you will cross them accidentally. You will know exactly where you are.”

Not like with her stepfather where she never knew where she was. When or what would make him mad.

“I will start with something you already have a good idea about: your schoolwork.” His smile faded into a stern, but not unkind look. “Your mind is a precious gift. And school is a wonderful way to grow that gift. But when you watch television after you get home from school instead of doing your homework, you are throwing away that gift.”

Malachi still held fast to Julia’s hands as she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth with her upper teeth and fixated once again upon the carpet shag.

“And so, another way I am going to help you is by disciplining you.”

It took a moment for Julia to really hear him say that. As it traveled along to the recognition circuit in her brain, she raised her gaze back to Malachi. With his firm stare.

“You mean, like…spank me?”

“Yes.” He paused as she searched his face. “It will be different than any spanking you’ve had before. For one thing, it will be on your bare skin. But the most important difference is this: it will not be done to take my anger out on you, but rather as a sign of my devotion to you. To help you.” The soft smile mixed with the firm stare.

Julia nodded. Stood. Malachi let go of her right hand and gently pulled her by her left arm to his right side. Then over his lap. Swept her nightgown up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Set his left hand on the middle of her back. Slapped her unprotected bottom. Again. And again…

It stung terribly. Much more than her stepfather’s. But, it hurt less. Gave something to her. Brought a light to the blackness her stepfather had left.

****


“Ah, the icon of the Guardian Angel. It is a lovely one, isn’t it?” Father Demitri, in a long, black cassock with a beard that looked like St. Nicholas, studied the price on the back of the icon and punched it into the cash register.

“Yes it is,” said Julia with a smile as she pulled out some cash.

“You know, the little girl in the icon – her face looks a lot like yours.” He held it in white tissue paper in his hand. Julia blushed. Smiled again. Father Demitri grinned and finished wrapping the icon. “Don’t forget to have your priest bless it during Divine Liturgy on Sunday,” he called to Julia as she walked to the door.

“I won’t, Father.” Another smile and she walked outside to catch the bus coming up the street.

The key to her apartment had a habit of getting stuck in the lock. Julia jiggled it. Coaxed it. Pushed it.

“Damn this lock!” It came out of the keyhole then snapped back in, pinching her finger. “Son of a bitch!” Julia brought her finger to her mouth, winced, and then tried the key again. A click. A turn. She sighed and muttered as she opened the door. “Damn it I hate this lock…”

“Julia – what kind of language is this?” He was there. Sitting at her desk. Chair swiveled toward her. That soft smile with the stern eyes.

“Malachi…you’re here…” She gripped her bag holding the icon as she stood before him. Turned to look at the door, then turned and faced him again. “Oh, um…well, I was angry. The key…and the lock…it gets stuck…and…”

“You’ve developed a nasty habit of swearing lately. I thought I had helped you with that years ago.”

“Well, you had…” She fingered her keys as she looked him in the eyes. “I guess I fell back into it.”

“Apparently.” He nodded. The soft smile overtook his stern eyes for a moment. “You’re so passionate, expressive, confident – not at all like you were that first time I became visible to you. And I’m so glad.” Then he sighed. “But, part of my job has always been to guide that passion. To give it boundaries.”

Yes – those boundaries. Julia pursed her lips together and nodded. She knew where this was going.

It was during high school that Malachi started using the rod. A thin, swishy stick. Her freshman year. Julia had skipped school with her friends to go to a movie. Now as he stood up from the chair in front of her desk, he grasped the rod and motioned her toward the back of the chair. She set her bag and keys on the table, bent over the black cushioned back and grabbed the edges of the seat. He swept her skirt up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Sliced her unprotected bottom with the rod. Again. And again…

It still stung terribly. But still gave something to her. Still left a light in her soul.

“The icon is a very nice one,” he said later as he stroked Julia’s hair while she lay on her tummy under the blankets in bed. “The icon writer did a lovely job letting you see into Heaven.” Julia almost giggled as she turned to him.

“Is your hair really that long in Heaven?”


Copyright 2002 by Natty.