Bragging rights galore

Yup. I stuck with it, and churned out text without stopping to worry about quality. Quality is for later. So I am the proud winner of bragging rights galore, along with the proud owner of more than 50,000 words of text that can be the foundation for the rest of this immense thing I'm calling my novel.

You'll notice how it was easy for me to hit 50,000 words without finishing, given that it's taking me this many words just to say that I finished it. Ah well, there are few times in this world when verbosity is its own reward.

Story: How Was I To Know

I wrote this story several years ago, before I met W. The interaction between Michelle and Janey is, I think, very different from my and W's interactions around smoking (and around public spankings, for that matter), but it's still a very fun story for me. Part of the fun of the Janey and Michelle stories, for me, is watching their interactions with their housemates. It's purely imaginary, since neither I nor my housemates would have been quite so... open about spankings. But it's fun to imagine and pretend.

Hope you enjoy the story!


"How Was I Supposed to Know?"
======================

"Well, how was I supposed to know you didn't have any underpants on?" Janey asked.

"Janey, I had zero reason to think you were planning on pulling down my pants and spanking me, in the BACK YARD at a PARTY." Come to think of it, if I'd had any reason to think Janey would make it to the party that early, I wouldn't have been smoking in the first place.

"I've told you. If you want to feel like you're being bad, fine, but come tell me, and I'll give you a spanking. You don't need to smoke." She looked at me for a minute. "Plus which, it wasn't that big of a party. Really, it was only housemates and their lovers."

I glared at her. She came over and rubbed my bottom. "Am I forgiven?" She smiled fondly.

I continued glaring. Finally, I allowed, "I guess."

"It was funny, wasn't it?"

"NO!!!"

"Well, let's go back down to the party. They're about to have cake. Maybe I should offer Liza a birthday spanking?"

"You do that."


....................................
Janey had thought she would have to work late, and she'd made plans to take Liza out for her birthday later in the weekend. So I assumed I was single for the night, and hung out on the deck, watching the barbecue heat up, and talking to Gwen, Samantha, and Sam's boyfriend, Kenny. When Kenny asked if I minded him smoking, I bummed a cigarette.

We were talking, and watching fireflies, and generally enjoying ourselves. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. "What did I tell you about smoking, Michelle?"

Shit, shit, shit. "Um, that it's bad for me?"

"And…?" Oh, shit. She'd promised to turn me over her knee immediately if she caught me.

I stubbed out the cigarette, and stood to head up to my room. When Janey plans on doing something immediately, there's no getting out of it. But as I turned towards the door, Janey tightened her grip. She sat down on the bench.

"No, Janey. Please! Not here. Not right now!"

"Yes here. Yes right now," she said implacably.

I writhed as much in embarassment as from fear of a spanking. Janey pulled me firmly over her lap, and started smacking me over my shorts. After fewer than a dozen spanks, she reached for the waistband. Desperate, I fought her for the shorts.

"NO! Janey..."

She pulled them down, and must have been surprised to discover me bare underneath. Which, of course, didn't stop her from continuing. As usual, she spanked long and hard. I wriggled, and squirmed, and tried to get away from her hand. I was doubtless putting on a very good show for our friends.

Janey paused. "Hi, Liza. Happy birthday."

"Hi, Janey. Is this my present?" I looked over, and saw Liza leaning appreciatively in the doorway. I have GOT to get my own place!

"Well, it's a bit of a surprise, but it can be your present if you like. Any requests? If you go get a nice wooden spoon, I can finish her off."

By this point, I just buried my face in my arms. Liza and Janey continued discussing possible approaches for the rest of my spanking. Eventually, Liza went inside to get a hairbrush. If it hadn't been her birthday, I would have been livid. No, wait, even though it was her birthday, I was ticked off.

Liza brought her girlfriend out to watch. It had to be the most embarrasing moment I've ever lived through, at least in that house.

As Janey set fire to the backs of my thighs with the hairbrush, I heard Liza's girlfriend comment, "Hoo boy, I wish I'd known this was the kind of entertainment offered here at Liza's. We'd be spending more weekends here, and a lot fewer in Brooklyn!"

"I know. I should be here more on weekends," Gwen and Liza commented together, and then gave each other five.

Janey put the final touches on my backside, and put the hairbrush down on the bench. She gently rubbed my bottom, and then pulled up my shorts. I shoved my way through the crowd on the deck, and went up to my room to sulk.

Janey, of course, followed me. "I warned you about smoking," she offered. I know it was her way of apologizing, but it didn't seem very apologetic.

"You gave me a BARE BOTTOMED spanking in front of FIVE people," I pointed out.

"Well, how was I to know you didn't have any underpants on?"

The Rule of Silence/ Story: Revenge

We don’t talk about these things. If there was one rule obeyed in our family, it was the rule of silence. As adults, I think each of us has touched on speaking, and then backed away, putting up walls of denial between ourselves.

My sisters and I, between the four of us, probably show nearly every symptom of having been sexually abused as children. Physical problems, mental ones, emotional ones: the signs are there, but we don’t talk about it. My older sisters talk almost constantly about their various physical problems, but have never mentioned sexual abuse as a possible factor. My younger sister? Well, she’s the one who does the acting out, sleeping around, making really unwise choices, having brief intense affairs, and all of that.

Four or five years ago, she asked me whether I had ever wondered whether I’d been sexually abused. Her timing was bad: I was on the way out the door to the first meeting of a class, and our younger brother was visiting. I meant to get back to her on it, but… well, I didn’t.

Part of it is because it’s all tangled up in shame and guilt and denial. As much as things happened to us, there are the things we did to each other. And it becomes difficult to confront, because I don’t know how to approach one part without acknowledging the others. I remember the sheer mean-ness of how we—me, my older sisters, my mother—treated my little sister because we were jealous of how her father favored her over the rest of us. We teased her, a lot. And none of us protected her.

And there is the anger I hold towards my next-older sister, who even if she didn’t sexually abuse me (she may or may not have, I don’t remember clearly enough to say), definitely taught me that she had the right to touch my body whenever and however she chose, whether or not I wanted her to do so. It’s something I’m not entirely able to forgive, and as I grow older, I still hold her responsible for it. She may have been hurt herself, she may have been young, but I still believe she should have been old enough to know better.

I worry, sometimes, that part of why I am reluctant to get clear memories of my childhood is that I, too, did things to hurt my siblings. I don’t know, and I also have no idea what I would do with those memories if I had them. The rule against speaking holds strong, and words are a weak tool for making up for sins I committed a quarter of a century ago.

The rest of this post is a story I wrote quite a few years ago, pulling together some memories I had on this topic.


================

Revenge
=======

Excitement flared as soon as I saw the door. I had to have that room. It HAD to be my room. A lock, and no one in the family had the key. Nothing could be better than that.

I got the room, not so much because of the lock, but because the room was roughly the size of a large closet, and only had a tiny window, which looked out on the blank wall of the neighbor's house. When we moved in, the room was mine. And there was no key to the lock.

For the first time in my memory, I could sleep every single night, safe behind my dead-bolted door. I had that room for six months.

The next summer, I went to visit my father for the first time. I was away for the whole summer. I was eight, and I mostly forgot what it was like, back home. At the end of the summer, I returned. I was nine now, and, with my hair in fancy cornrows and beads, and my ears pierced, I was a new person. Someone who could sleep at night for three whole months, with the door wide open, and not have to worry.

I took my suitcase up to my room, and got ready to show my family all the things I'd made and gotten that summer. But something was different. I looked around the room. My red white and blue quilt still lay across my bright red bed. My books were on their shelves. My toys were piled in their box. My winter clothes sat on the closet shelves. What was different?

And then I saw it. The lock was broken!

Mom! What happened to my LOCK?!

My little sister, the blonde haired, blue-eyed princess, the one everyone loved best, had been in the room. She locked the door. No one could get it open. She couldn't get it open. My stepfather got a ladder, and climbed into the room from outside. He broke the lock so she wouldn't get stuck in there again.

How could she ruin this for me? How could she RUIN it?!

I was furious. I was helpless. I wanted nothing more than revenge.

My revenge came within a few weeks. She said she had missed me. She begged and begged, and finally convinced me to move my bed out into the big room, and have it across from hers. We could share a room. We could be friends. I didn't want to be her friend. She ruined my lock.

That night, I heard the sounds, and I turned to face the wall. I didn't have to hear them. I closed my eyes. I didn't have to see the shadows. I made myself a story. I didn't have to be in that room.

Later, I heard her voice. "I had a nightmare. Can I get in bed with you?"

My revenge was ready. "No. You'll be fine. Go to sleep."

The next night, as we got ready to go to sleep, she begged. "I don't want to have a nightmare. Can I sleep in your bed?"

"No."

"Please, please, can I sleep in your bed?"

"No. Here," I gave her my stuffed cat, a present from my stepmother. "Sleep with this. You won't have nightmares if you sleep with this." It was a lie, and I knew it. But I was her big sister, and she believed me.

The sounds came again that night, and the next, and the next. I learned always to sleep facing the wall. I had to be invisible. If he noticed me, I wouldn't be safe any more. With her in the room, I was safe. He didn't love me, because I wasn't his real daughter.

She finally gave up begging to share my bed. We didn't talk about our
nightmares.

But she finally figured out how to get her own revenge. One day, we were playing outside, and both of us wanted the bicycle at the same time. I was three years older, so I was able to shove her away, and get on the seat.

"I hate you," she shouted,

"Why?" I asked, since that had stumped her in the past.

"I hate you because you're black." The words, lashing from the mouth of a six year old, couldn't have been her own. We didn't talk about me being black in the family, not openly. We both knew it was something not to talk about, even if we didn't know why.

It hurt. She hated me for something I had no control over.

Even if it wasn't really my skin color at fault.

She slapped me. I ran inside to tell.

She ran after me. Mom was at the store, or at the doctor, or somewhere not at home. My sister's father was taking care of us.

"She slapped me," I tattled.

"Because she pulled down my pants outside," she lied in retaliation.

My stepfather grabbed the excuse. Even though it would never occur to me to do that, he was happy to punish me.

"I'll show you what it's like to have your pants pulled down," he shouted, and yanked down my pants and underwear. My sister and brothers watched, without surprise. Spankings were common enough.

He quickly glanced around the room, and picked up an extension cord. He pushed me over the arm of a chair, and began to lash my bottom and thighs. "You'll never do something like that again," he warned.

The pain began to burn through my whole body. "I DIDN'T do it!" I protested. It did no good. He continued to whip me with the extension cord.

My body was on fire. I couldn't make it stop. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I begged, but I couldn't stop him.

Afterwards, my bottom and thighs were raw with welts, but it was okay, because it was fall, and I wouldn't be wearing shorts any more until summer. No one would see the welts.

My sister and I kept seeking revenge. I pulled further and further away from her. She searched out ways to punish me for the things that neither of us could control.

I still hate her for making me lose my lock.

I still feel guilty for not sharing my bed.

I am finally learning that I hated the wrong person all those years.

Story: Got Topping?

I wrote this Janey and Michelle story for the SSC Short Story Contest a few years ago. I was reminded of it by facing the same situation at the grocery store earlier this week. Why is it they can have an excellent price on ice cream... and have nothing but vanilla on the shelves (or, in the case of this week, also Edy's brand Spumoni, which is just not appealing to me!).

Anyhow, here's the story:

Got Topping?
=============

I observed my flavor options for the ice cream that was on special this week, and pouted. "Vanilla. Nothing but vanilla. What is UP with this city?"

Janey ignored me.

"Not EVERYONE prefers VANILLA," I grumped. Janey continued to ignore me, but I was getting a few glances from other shoppers.

"I mean, really," I continued, trying to provoke Janey, "SOME people are a little more ADVENTUROUS, and would like MORE than VANILLA." I was either feeling feisty or premenstrual. Sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference.

"Okay, fine." Janey reached into the freezer, and plunked a carton of vanilla into the cart. She started walking away. Since my bag was in the cart, I figured I'd better follow along.

"I said, I don't WANT just VANILLA."

"No problem," she said, and kept walking.

She turned the cart into one of the aisles. "I can provide you with some TOPPING." She put a jar of fudge sauce into the cart, and walked briskly on.

Waiting in line, she said, "I'll be right back." She returned with a wooden spoon.

"What's that for?" I asked suspiciously.

"We need a special one, for the topping," she explained snidely. "It doesn't stop being vanilla unless the topping gets BEATEN in."

A woman my grandmother's age was behind us in line. "I don't think you should beat it that hard, sweetie," she suggested, "It might get all drippy."

Janey and I looked at each other, and tried not to snicker.

We got to Janey's house, and as soon as we'd put the ice cream in the freezer, she had me bare-assed and leaning over one of her kitchen stools so she could test out the spoon.

And then, to make up for the bottom-smacking, she gave me ice cream with hot fudge sauce. But she let me use my own spoon to mix it in.

Story: Six Out of Seven

I realized it’s been quite a while since I last posted a story, so here’s one for your reading pleasure. This was one of the first Janey and Michelle stories. I wrote it originally for the soc.sexuality.spanking Short Story Contest in 2001. It’s veeerrrry loosely based on a true event (which is to say, I’d gone to a poetry reading with a friend, and the poet offered the statistic that inspired the story). And for the next half hour or hour, I kept harping on the statistic to the friend. Other than that, though, it’s all fictional. I was single at the time, for one thing, and for another, I’m actually very leery of public spankings.


Six Out Of Seven
========================

"Surveys indicate that one person in seven participates in some form of s/m sex," the poet commented. I listened to her poem, and then realized....

“Six out of seven people are vanilla?!" I whispered to Janey. "That can't be right!"

"Shhhhh, Michelle," Janey whispered. "Let people listen."

But as the poet left the stage, I had to repeat, “Six out of seven! No way!! A lot of people had to have lied."

"Michelle! Shut up!" A few heads turned our way.

"They *must* be lying," I consoled myself. I didn't think again about the statistic until we left. Every several minutes, as Janey and I sat in the café with our friends Liza and Sam, I would comment, “Six out of seven?! No way!!"

Janey rolled her eyes. "Michelle. We all heard. Be quiet."

"Nanny-nanny-boo-boo, you ca-an't make me."

"Stop being a brat and drink your coffee."

"I know you are, but what am I?"

As we waited for the train to go home, I commented again, “Six out of seven. No way!!"

"Michelle. Shut up. I mean it."

"Anybody want a peanut?" I asked, engaging in some subtle brattiness. "They had to be lying," I added.

Janey had finally had enough. "Why don't we find out?" she asked, her voice dangerous. "There are about fifty people in here. Let's see what they think."

"They wouldn't tell us!" I pointed out.

"No problem. Sam, Liza, you're both observant women. I want you to watch, and see how many people seem interested." Janey firmly grabbed my arm, and pulled me across her lap.

"Wait! Janey! What are you *doing*?!" I asked as quietly as I could, trying not to call attention to myself, draped across my girlfriend's lap.

Smack! Her hand cracked down, but over my shorts, it didn't make much noise. No one noticed. It was overalls, and she wouldn't take them off, not in public. Unfortunately, the shorts were baggy, and there was plenty of room to drag the legs up.

SMACK!! The slap reverberated through the station. SMACK!! I kept my face down, cheeks burning. SMACK!! SMACK!! Janey concentrated on the spanking. SMACK!!! I concentrated on being quiet. SMACK!!! SMACK!! After about a minute, Janey asked, "Do you two think you've got an accurate count?"

Liza smirked, "Yeah, I think we have pretty fair assessment."

Janey let go of me just as the train came. I hurried to be the first one on. The others followed me. Liza and Sam got seats halfway down the car from us. I glared out the window, and wouldn't look at Janey.

"So? What did you observe?" Janey asked the other two when we got to my house.
Liza and Sam giggled. "Janey, you won't like this, but Michelle was right. I'd say a good third of the people there were *quite* interested."

I smirked at Janey, stuck out my tongue, wiggled my hips, and said, "Ha-ha, ha-ha.
I was right, and you were wrong." And then I trotted upstairs.

Story: Cheaters Never Prosper

I wrote this story several years ago, as a break from grading student papers. It's another of the "Janey and Michelle" stories. Hope you enjoy!

Cheaters Never Prosper
======================

I stared at the paper. What was I supposed to do? Clearly, large chunks of it had been plagiarized. But I couldn't bear to face the facts. I put the paper down, and went back to checking my email. Maybe I could come up with a solution if I didn't think about it too hard.

"Hey, Michelle." Janey stuck her head in my study door. I looked up guiltily from the email. "All done with grading?"

"Well, no. I just needed a break."

"What's up? You said you were determined to get it finished with by tonight." Janey sounded peeved, but also concerned.

"Well...." I couldn't quite explain myself. Janey walked over and leaned on the desk.

"How many more?"

"About five. See, I got to this one right after I took my lunch break, and I haven't been able to read another one since. It just really bothers me."

"That bad, hunh? Or maybe it's so good, and you're dying of jealousy...."

"No. It's that it seems mostly lifted off the Web. And I can't decide what to do."

"Can't decide?! That's called plagiarism. The kid flunks."

"Well, but I called her, and she said she didn't mean to...."

"Didn't mean to... get caught," Janey snorted. Then she looked at me. "Wait! You're considering not flunking her?!"

"Well, I mean, it's a lot of pressure, and she might not have realized...." my words faltered off at the furious, disgusted look on Janey's face. "What?"

"It's people like you who allow cheating to go on. This kid was cheating, Michelle. It's not something you should let your students get away with."

"Well, I was going to have her write a new paper, and I'd drop the grade by two points."

"No. That's not acceptable. She cheated. She can't have the equivalent of an extension. Because I know perfectly well that students' grades get dropped by that much, if they were just two weeks late. You're going too easy on her."

"But Janey, I don't want her to hate me. If I flunk her, she'll hate me."

"And what about those other students? Is it really fair to them, if you let her get away with this? I know that most of them handed in rough drafts, and busted their butts to do well on this paper. I saw some of the kids in your class in the library until midnight last week. How about this one? She pops online, gets a few different sources, and thinks that will count? And now you're going to let her have a second chance? I don't think so."

"Well, if you put it like that.... But what if she is mean to me?"

"So what. Okay, let's go upstairs."

"What? I still need to do these papers."

"It's Wednesday, and you don't have to turn in grades until Monday. You're fine. Come upstairs. We need to have a.... talk."

My eyes bulged. We don't normally "play" on weeknights. Although, it wasn't a school night anymore. And it was earlier than usual, too. I logged off the computer and followed her upstairs. She motioned me ahead of her into my bedroom, and then shut the door firmly behind her.

"Now, we've got to talk about this whole cheating thing."

"What?! I didn't cheat!"

"But you were all set to think of a way to let someone else cheat. And that 's really worse, because you're in a position of authority. Look, Michelle, I know you feel guilty about flunking the student. So I'm going to let you have the punishment you want for doing it, and then you can do what you need to do in clear conscience."

"Okay." I still wasn't quite sure about it, but I was starting to feel less tense.

"Now, you know that cheating is wrong?" Janey took on her "teacher" persona, so I followed suit.

"Y-yes, ma'am." I hung my head, stared at my toes.

"And you know that cheating needs to be punished?" I nodded. "What was that?" she asked, sharply, "I didn't hear you."

"Yes, ma'am, it needs to be punished, but..."

"But nothing. This is a serious offense. You'll get a firm handspanking over your..." Janey broke character. "Hey, have you ever considered a school uniform?"

"No! Absolutely not!"

"Okay," Janey sighed, and got back into character. "A firm handspanking over your pants. Then we'll pull down the pants, and it will be the ruler over your underpants. And then those will come down, and you'll get the strap on your bare bottom." I nodded, back in character myself. "Okay, assume the position." I leaned over the edge of the bed. Janey didn't walk over.

"What now?" I asked.

"Let's go downstairs. I've got a good idea for how this can play out."

"Where downstairs?" I asked, suspiciously.

"Your study. It'll be nice and private. Besides, it's what I have in mind. You wait up here for five minutes, and then come on down."

"Geeze, Janey, get me all set up, and then call it off? This isn't funny."

"Just you wait, Missy, this is going to be better this way."
I sat down on the bed. Four minutes later, I went downstairs, and jotted a note to the housemates on the white board: Playing in study, all is well, don't interrupt, -Michelle.

I opened the study door slowly, to find that Janey had tidied things away enough to give a semblance of order near the desk. She had twisted her hair up in a severe bun, and had found some bizarre reading glasses. It took me a few seconds to catch on that she meant to make this like a principal's office. Or, knowing Janey, like a headmistress's office.

"Well, young lady," she said sternly, and picked up a piece of paper from the desk. "This says that you were caught helping another student cheat."
All of a sudden, I started to get into the scene, and felt both nervous and aroused. "I wasn't really going to help her, ma'am," I protested.

"But you didn't stop her. This is a serious offense, don't you think?"

"Y-yes, ma'am."

"The official policy requires suspension."

"But, but, I can't be suspended." My voice cracked just like there were a real danger.

"Okay. But you need to find out how serious this is. I think that corporal punishment would be in order."

I hung my head. "I've never been spanked. What will happen?"

Janey snorted, as herself, but quickly became the headmistress again. "You will lean over the desk. I will spank you firmly with the paddle until I feel like your bottom is warm enough. Then you will pull down your pants, and get a thorough spanking over your underpants, with the ruler. Then, just to make sure you're never going to allow this to happen again, you will get an even more thorough spanking with a strap, on your bare bottom. Do you understand?"

"Y-y-y-yes, ma'am. And I won't be suspended?"

"Not if you take your punishment well. Lean over the desk."

I walked over, wondering what she meant by "the paddle." Then I realized that she'd made a detour into the kitchen on her way to the study, and had a particular wooden spatula she's had her eye on since we last went to the kitchen store. It came in the package of wooden spoons, and, so far as I could figure out, was good for little but spanking. But I'd insisted that she buy her own spanking implements, and left the spatula in the utensil drawer. Clearly, Janey was getting bold.

Janey smacked my bottom with it repeatedly. It didn't do much, because it was too light, so she gave up on that pretty quickly. I had a suspicion she 'd use it the next time we started out playing in the kitchen, and I had nothing on but a bathrobe, though. Well, presuming the curtains were drawn, and my housemates were out! Hopefully..

"That's enough of that. Take down your pants."

I complied. SMACK!! The ruler crashed down on my bottom. We played with the ruler often enough that both of us were familiar with its impact. SMACK!!! Janey was making up for the failure of the paddle. My bottom started to get warmed up. "What happens to cheaters, miss?"

SMACK!! SMACK!! SMACKK!!! "Well?" Janey panted.

"They get punished," I responded. She gave five more smacks with the ruler, then put it down on the desk.

"Let that be a lesson. Pull down your underpants."

I found myself getting very much in character. I held on to my underpants, and started to beg. "Please, ma'am, I'm sorry. I've learned my lesson. I promise. Please, don't spank me. Please. I'll be good. I promise."

"Begging won't get you out of this. Pull down your underpants, or I'll give you five more with the ruler, and we'll try again."

I pulled down my underpants. Janey stood to my side, and doubled the strap that usually serves as the shoulder strap on her satchel. I knew from experience that it hurt, but it wasn't unbearable. The leather thudded into my bare bottom. I wiggled, but Janey wasn't even bothering to lecture. She balanced one hand firmly in the center of my back and continued spanking me.

She put down the strap, and said, "Pull up your pants. I want you to go sit on that chair while I write a note for your parent or guardian to sign when you get home." I looked at her, trying to figure out what she was up to. I sat gingerly on the chair she'd indicated.

She handed me the note, and whispered, "Kitchen, in about a minute."

I sat and counted out the minute. When I went into the kitchen, Janey had changed her hair back closer to its usual style, and was mucking about with dishes. "Hi," I said, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Hi, sweetie. How was school?"

I blushed. "Well...." She raised an eyebrow. I handed her the note.

She read it. "Oh. I see. Go upstairs to your room."

I turned to go up, and she was right behind me.

"What have I told you about school?" she asked, sounding play-furious.

"Um, to be a good student?" I guessed.

"I have told you, over and over, that if you ever get punished at school, you can expect more of the same as soon as you get home. I guess you'd forgotten all about that, hadn't you, Michelle?"

"Well, no, but..."

"No buts about it." Janey sat down on the chair I usually use to pile my clothes on. She patted her lap. I went to lay across it. "Bare bottom," she snapped. I stood again, and pulled down my pants and underwear. Or I started to. All of a sudden, I was a little reluctant to get yet another smacking. "NOW!" she snapped.
I decided I didn't want to use my safe word, and pulled them down. "You may as well take them all the way off." I complied, and lay down over her lap. Janey began to smack my bottom. Her hand got harder and harder. I started to squirm. "Hold still!" I tried. The smacking went on. I wiggled. "Okay, you're nice and warm. Go get the hairbrush."

My stomach clenched. My bottom was burning already. She glared at me. I walked over to the nightstand. I walked back with the heavy, solid hairbrush. Then I stood in front of her. "Please, I'm really sorry. I really am. Please, don't spank me!"

"You should have thought of that sooner. Lean over. If you weren't smart enough to not stop cheating, well, I guess I'll have to teach you." She began to whack my bottom with the hairbrush. It really started to hurt.

"Cheating is serious. You need a serious punishment to teach you to never do it again," she said, and "Now I'll give you five more hard ones, just to remind you."
It wasn't the hardest she'd ever spanked me, but it did hurt a lot. She let me up. I stood in front of her, pants on the floor, bottom burning. "Okay," she said calmly, "Now, I want you to go downstairs and email that student. Let her know that she's failing." I couldn't tell whether this was Janey, or my "mother" speaking. I looked at her quizically.

"Look, Michelle, the sooner you do it, the better. I'll wait for you up here." I reached for my pants. "Don't bother with those. Just put on your robe. I'm sure you'll want the kind of comfort only your girlfriend can give you when you're done," she smirked.

I slipped on my bathrobe and went down to write the email. It was still uncomfortable. I sympathized with the student. I wondered how she'd cope with the failing grade. I wished I didn't have to do it. But then, I remembered Janey's comment about the other students. It certainly wasn't fair to them for this one student to get away with cheating. I sent her a firm email, including the number of lines in the first couple of pages that I'd easily found online. More than two thirds. I started to get ticked off. I hit send. Then I went back upstairs.

"You did it?" Janey asked lazily, sprawled across my bed.

"Yeah. Thanks. I guess I just needed a reminder."

"Uhm-hm. Take off that robe." I complied. "Turn around." She had that girlfriend-commanding tone in her voice. I complied. "Oooh. You're going to have a few little bruises. I hope you don't mind."

"Well, gosh, Janey, now is a great time to ask, isn't it? No, I don't mind." Amazingly, I no longer felt the slightest bit guilty about having to fail the student. So I curled up in bed, to get the kind of comfort any good girl deserves when she's had to do something hard.

Story: Collective Bargaining

I was inspired to post this story because Pink of Pink Bottomed Girls requested some ideas. I wrote this story several years ago, and posted it to the SSS newsgroup. It's fiction--sorry to those of you who might want to transfer!


Collective Bargaining
or, A Voice in the University Community
====================

The latest membership meeting of the incipient graduate students’ union was nearly finished, when Marjorie stood up. “Okay, everybody, it seems like we’ve got a credibility problem. We’re telling the university that we need a union because it will enhance our status as professionals. The problem is, apparently, a lot of you have incompletes. If we’re not getting our work done, then how can we convince people we’re professionals?”

The room erupted in irritated whispering. Marjorie continued, “I know, I know, everyone’s got a very good reason for all of their incompletes. But the fact remains: we’re acting like kids, and waiting for someone to make us get our work in. The administration is never going to take us seriously if we can’t even manage our time well enough to do our own work!”

The buzz continued, as people thought about this, and continued to voice their excuses.

“So, what should we do about it? We shouldn’t expect the faculty to nag us to get things finished on time. So, I’ve got a proposal: the union should have a discipline committee. And the discipline should be…” she paused, and then went on, “I think the punishment should be a sound paddling, and then five strokes of the cane for every incomplete. It would certainly inspire us to get our work done, but it wouldn’t cost us any money.”

The air in the room electrified. Eyes widened, and graduate students looked around the room. A hand went up in the back. “Ummm, who would administer the discipline?”

“I think there should be four members of the committee, freely elected by the membership of the union. If someone has an incomplete, the committee member of their choice could administer the discipline after the next meeting.”

People considered the suggestion. I wasn’t sure what I thought. On the one hand, I thought, it would encourage people to get their work finished. On the other hand, I had three incompletes, and I certainly didn’t want a paddling or a caning. But, after discussion, we decided it was the best move. Most people thought it would provide us with incentive to finish our work, and any incentive seemed like a good idea. The graduate students voted overwhelmingly in favor of Marjorie’s idea.

Just as everyone began to stand up, a guy in the front row raised his hand. “Marjorie, since this was your idea, I think you should be the first to go.”

Marjorie blushed. “But, um, I thought we agreed there would be a grace period until the meeting next month. And, well, we don’t have a discipline committee set up yet.”

But the woman sitting next to him said, “I think you should go first, just so people can get an idea of the consequences for not getting their work done.”

Marjorie stalled, but she finally acquiesced. The meeting officially ended, and we agreed to take a break while Marjorie selected someone to give her the punishment, and while the guy in the front row went to his car to get a cane and paddle he “just happened” to have in the trunk.

Very few people moved from their seats. Five minutes later, when everyone was back in the room, and the pamphlets and empty coffee cups had been moved off the table in the front of the room, Marjorie and another woman stood at the front of the room.

“Ummm, this is Helen,” Marjorie offered, and then stared very firmly at her feet.

“Hello.” Helen spoke calmly, with great assurance. “I think this will help to set the tone for the rest of you. Depending on how this works out, I may decide to run for the discipline committee.” She smiled at us, and added, “I haven’t had a single incomplete since coming here, and I’m well on my way to finishing my dissertation. I am very much in favor of discipline.” She motioned to Marjorie, and Marjorie leaned across the table.

I was in an excellent position, in the front row, well over to the side. I could see both Marjorie’s red face and her bottom, in profile.

Helen placed the paddle and cane on the table. She pulled Marjorie’s pants and underpants to her knees. “In my experience, discipline is most effective when applied directly to the skin.” She lifted the paddle, and (to my great relief) she stood on Marjorie’s other side. I watched people on that side of the room shifting into the few empty seats, and even standing up, for a better view.

SMACK!! I think everyone in the room gasped. Helen caught my eye, and I shivered. The paddling continued. Even though I could see her bottom turning bright red, Marjorie took the paddling well. She only squirmed a little bit. Helen continued the paddling, and Marjorie began to grunt and sniffle.

No one else in the room moved as we watched. I know I wasn’t the only person planning on a more rigorous work schedule. Finally, Helen put the paddle back on the table.

“Marjorie let me know she’s got two incompletes,” Helen announced, “so she will be getting ten strokes.” If it’s possible, the room became even more still.

Helen held the cane, and flexed it. She turned slightly towards the audience, and waved it briskly in the air. I flinched as I heard it whistle. Helen turned back to her task, catching my eye again. I felt an unpleasant electric shock in my chest. Somehow, I suspected Helen would easily win a position on the discipline committee.

Without warning, the cane lashed through the air, and landed on Marjorie’s bottom. “OWWWwww.” The next four strokes came almost without warning. Marjorie’s knuckles turned white, grasping the far end of the table, and she cried out with each stroke.

“Oh, no more, I’m sorry, I’ll get it in, I promise, I promise.” Marjorie’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but I could hear her desperation. Helen ended the respite, and the cane was a blur as she delivered the next five strokes. Marjorie didn’t cry during this set. Instead, she desperately repeated, “Nomorenomorenomore,” almost as a mantra.

And then it was over. Helen lay the cane on the table, rearranged Marjorie’s clothes, and then led her gently towards the bathroom, shutting the door behind them.

The rest of us regarded each other nervously. I know I wasn’t the only one squirming. But, gradually, we returned to normal. Except, instead of our usual post-meeting drinks, most of us either went to the library or home to our computers. And I don’t think we were checking email….

Story: Caught

It's dreary and raining, like it's been all week. I'm going to console myself by posting the very first Janey and Michelle story I wrote. I particularly like the deus ex machina whereby they found out about each others' kink.

Caught
=========================

"Michelle, I have a confession to make." I looked up from the book I was reading. Janey looked... different. Not really nervous. But not like herself. Then she added, "Or, perhaps, you have a confession to make."

I raised my eyebrows in a question. She didn't add anything. "I don't know what you mean," I said, puzzled.

"I was using your computer while you were at class, to type up that grant proposal," she said. My heart paused for a second, but then I thought, 'no, she wouldn't look through my private documents....'

Then she continued. "I had saved the document to your hard drive, just using my name, because I didn't have a disk with me. But when I came back from lunch, I couldn't remember which folder I put it into, so I just did a search for files titled with my name, so I wouldn't have to dig through your private stuff." I started to blush uncomfortably. "Imagine my surprise," she said, "When I discovered that there are about a dozen files under my name. And I only saved one."

She hadn't! She couldn't! I looked at her face. She had....

"You didn't...?" My voice caught.

"Oh, I read them. The first one was a bit of a mistake. I thought it was the letter, so I opened it. But then, um, the story caught my attention." My mouth was dry. I just stared at her. She added, somewhat wryly, "I think we need to talk." I continued to stare.

"Well, are you going to tell me about the stories?"

"Ummm...." My mouth was still very dry. I swallowed. "I just wrote them, you know, to see if I could."

She raised an eyebrow. "They were very specific. And quite graphic. Try again."

I stalled. "What did you think about them?"

"We'll talk about that later. Tell me why you wrote them." Her voice was firm. I hadn't heard her like this before. Although I was desperately embarrassed, I was also getting a little bit turned on. Even if this was going to be the end of our relationship, there was a kind of a thrill in getting caught.

"Well, um, I kind of have these fantasies," I said, and paused.

"Yes, you clearly do," was all she offered.

"And, well, I just wanted to, um, imagine what it would be like, if you..."

"If I?"

"If you and I did those kinds of things together." I licked my bottom lip nervously. Now she'd say I was weird and perverted, and that would be the end.

But she folded her arms across her chest, and frowned at me. Not in a distant way. "Don't you think you should get my permission before writing things like that about me? Or perhaps you thought I'd never find out."

"Well, I didn't think you'd ever find them," I admitted.

"But now I have." The look she gave me left me half-turned on, and half-terrified. Maybe she had fantasies like this. Maybe she'd act them out with me. Oh, shit.

"So, what did you think?" My voice cracked a little, but there, I'd asked the question.

She smiled at me. Relief flooded through me. I like our relationship, and I'd rather not lose it. "I liked them. A lot. I think we should talk."

"About what?" I asked innocently.

"About doing something to make it more than a fantasy," she said calmly. I swallowed. "You've never done this except for fooling around at parties, have you?" I shook my head no. "Neither have I. I guess we're all talk and no action. But if the stories you wrote really reflect what you like, I think we’ll do just fine together."

"So you'd spank me?" I asked, nervously. There. I'd said it.

"Oh, yes. I think I'd like that. And I'd do the other things, too." I blanched. Some of those fantasies were a little more heavy than I really thought I could handle.

"There's no one in the house right now," she said, calmly. "Perhaps I should give you a little taste of what we're talking about. Besides, I'm a little ticked off that you'd write stories like that about me, and keep them on your hard drive, where anyone could find them." My heart began to thump. She sat down on the ottoman, and patted her thighs. "Come here."

I got up from the armchair and took the three steps to the ottoman. I stood in front of her. "Well?" she asked, and patted her thighs again.

I awkwardly knelt on the floor beside her, and then she helped me to position myself across her lap. I could hardly believe this was happening. She rubbed my butt gently for several seconds. Then, I felt one of her hands leave, and she brought it down--neither hard nor soft--on my bottom. I let out a little squeak of surprise.

She paused. "Is this okay? Just say stop, and it's over."

I blushed even more furiously. "No, it's fine. I like it. I was just a little surprised, that's all." My reward was a sharp crack on the bottom. And then another, followed by several seconds of hard smacks. She stopped, and rubbed my bottom a bit.

"Maybe we should pull down your pants," she suggested. "I don't want my hand to get sore too soon."

I stood up and turned to face her. I couldn't believe I was about to pull down my pants for a spanking. I hadn't done that since I was a kid, and I certainly hadn't enjoyed it then! But this was different. She wasn't doing this because she was angry, even if she had given the excuse of the stories. All of a sudden, I remembered that it wasn't the spankings I hadn't liked when I was a kid. It was the lack of power. But I didn't feel powerless now.

I slowly unbuckled my belt, and then unbuttoned my pants. I pulled them down, just about to my knees. "That's enough," she said. "Get back over my lap for your punishment." The care in her eyes was enough to remind me that we were both adults, and that this wasn't really a punishment. I lay back down over her lap, and she began to smack my bottom, hard. I had forgotten what it was like to actually get a spanking. I began to wiggle my butt a little bit, writhing to get away from her hand. She stopped.

"It's okay," I panted. "I like it."

She didn't say anything, but then I felt her fingers slide under the waistband of my panties. I wasn't sure what to think. I mean, sure she'd seen me naked before. We were lovers. But to get a bare-bottomed spanking from my lover... was I ready for this? But I didn't tell her to stop, and my panties joined my pants, at my knees.

SMACK! Her hand cracked down hard, several times. My bottom began to burn. It was really starting to hurt. "I think just a couple more," she said, breathing hard. The spanks covered my bottom and thighs.

"Your butt's nice and pink," she said, happily. Then I felt fingers between my thighs. "Oh, my. And you're very wet."

I sat up, wincing slightly at the touch of the rough fabric on my tender bottom. I slid my fingers under her skirt. "You're pretty steamy yourself," I commented. We smiled at each other.

Story: Road Trip

I've decided the blog is getting way too serious, so I thought I'd dust off a couple of my less serious stories and post them for your enjoyment.

I posted this story to the SSS short story contest in 2001. It was inspired by a road trip in horrid traffic, but the events are otherwise completely made up.


Road Trip
======


Hot. Sticky. LOWS in the 90s. Janey called. “Let’s get out of town. I’ll finish work at noon tomorrow. How about you?”

“I should be done with this paper tomorrow morning.”

“Good. I want to get into the ocean.”

Janey made reservations for a camp site. She has a friend working at a state park, so we managed to get one.


When Janey came by early Friday afternoon, I was in the living room, eating a popsicle and watching television. She knew from my guilty start that the paper wasn’t done. She turned off the television. I finished my popsicle quickly.

“How much more?”

I bit my lip. “I’ll work quickly.”

“I’ll put together a bag for you.” Janey went upstairs. I typed. Janey went to the store to get road food. I continued typing. By three-thirty, I finished, and we drove away.

Of course we ran into traffic.

“Why can’t all these people go somewhere else? Why can’t they drive faster? Why do they have to tailgate?”

Janey made soothing comments. She even let me choose all the CDs we played. It wasn’t enough. “I HATE traffic. Why couldn’t we go earlier this week?”

No response.

“When are we going to GET there?!”

Janey half-smiled, half-snapped, “You won’t like what happens if I pull this car over, Missy.”

And then it started to pour. “This is stupid. I hate rain.” Janey glanced at me, and kept driving. “These people don’t like to be outside in the rain. They can go home. I HATE traffic.”

“Michelle, enough. Take a nap, or talk to me. Stop whining.”

I glared out the window. How can she be so calm?

We needed to change lanes. No one would let us in. “Why can’t these idiots learn to DRIVE?” I flipped off a particularly offensive motorist. Janey put her signal on again, and pulled off at the next exit.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m pulling over.” She pulled to the shoulder in a small wood. She unbuckled both our seatbelts, and got out. Tropical air rushed into the car. Janey walked around, opened my door, and then the back door of the car. She pulled out the hairbrush.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop whining, Janey.” Even that was a whine.

“Get in here. NOW.” Reluctantly, I climbed across her lap. My bottom was immediately on fire. The brush seemed to stick to my sweaty skin. She paddled my thighs until I was nervous about whether I’d be able to sit at all.

Hairbrush smacks and drumming rain filled the car. I finally stopped wiggling and kicking, and lay across her lap.

“Janey, I’m sorry, I won’t whine anymore. I promise.”

“Good,” she said, finally. “Now get back in your seat, and think about what I’m going to do when I get you to the camp site.”

Fantasy # 2

Fantasies change as I write them, morphing into something that exists halfway between fantasy and what would make a good story. And, really, I do have a variety of fantasies, so I thought I’d write up another of them.

(And, sweetie, just in case you’re concerned, I’m writing this Tuesday night, not Wednesday day!)

She knocks on my study door, and opens the door. “Come into the bedroom.”

“In a couple of minutes,” I say, not really looking up from my email.

“Not in a couple of minutes. Come with me right now.”

I turn my head, but she has already gone into the bedroom. I go in, wondering what she needs, a little irritated at being interrupted. As I close the bedroom door behind me, she says, “When I tell you to come, you come. Understand?”

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. This isn’t like her.

“Take off your clothes and get onto the bed.” I hesitate, and she says, “Now!”

My hands tremble as I undress. My heart pounds as I climb onto the bed.

She looks at me appreciatively, and then reaches her hand to grasp my cunt. “Whose is this?” she asks.

“Yours,” I murmur, slipping into a submissive state of mind.

“And when can I touch it?”

“Whenever you want to,” I reply.

“Good. Come here.” She strokes me, then grabs the back of my head and kisses me roughly. She lifts her other hand to twist my nipple, and electricity jolts through me, centering on my clit. She moves her head down and bites my other nipple. Then she pulls me across her lap.

Her hand is strong, firm, unstoppable. Spanks cover my bottom, and the tops of my thighs. She pushes me a little away from her, and lifts the blue whip. She lets the strands of it drift across my sensitive flesh. She begins to tap me with it, gently, then harder and harder. I shift to look at her, and she grabs my hair to point my face towards the bed.

She picks up a rhythm, and begins to strike more fiercely. I squeal, and she pauses to stroke my bottom. Her hand slides between my thighs, and I hear her moan softly as she feels the slick wetness. She lifts the whip again and continues. I would swear that I can feel the heat radiating from my bottom.

“You’re so red,” she sighs, and pulls me back over her lap. Her hand feels even more powerful now that my skin is so tender. She alternates smacks with lingering caresses of my asshole and cunt. When I clench my legs, trying to squeeze my clit, she pulls them apart. “You will come when I say you can,” she says firmly. And then she begins to spank the insides of my thighs. I squirm, but she holds me.

She finally pushes me off of her lap. My bottom and thighs are throbbing, and a different rhythm is beating in my cunt. “On your knees, facing the door,” she orders. I comply. She settles herself behind me, and begins to slide her fingers into my cunt.

“You’re so wet, so open,” she says. “I love your amazing body.”

I blush, knowing that anything I say will seem trite. And most of my powers of speech have been overtaken by the sensations somewhat further down.

As she begins to slide her whole hand into my cunt, I tense. “Maybe some lube?” I ask.

“Whose cunt is this?” she says, and slaps me with her other hand. “Don’t you think I know your body? Do you trust me to know what you need?”

“Yes,” I say, and relax. She does know my body, sometimes better than I know it myself.

“I know when you are ready, and I know what you can take,” she says. I ride the sensations. I hear the half-sigh, half-growl she sometimes makes when she slides her hand into me, and I know she is inside me to her wrist.

The sensations are electric, and overpowering. My cunt is burning, and the glow is spreading through my whole body. She makes me come, but she doesn’t stop. Her fist moves in and out, in and out, and I come over and over again. By the time she is finished, I can’t feel my toes or fingers.

Slowly, she pulls out her hand, and strokes it over me. She comes beside me, and kisses me, only slightly more gently than before. She growls slightly in the back of her throat, as she bites and sucks. “Mine,” she says, over and over again.

“Yours,” I agree.

Fantasy

I want it to be a surprise. Perhaps it would go something like this:

She sends a text message on her way home from work, when the train comes above ground. “Put on the clothes that are in the bottom drawer of the dresser, and stand in the corner of the hallway until I get home.”

I text back—“What?!”

And she responds—“Do as I say. Or you’ll be in even MORE trouble.”

My clit starts to throb from the mere fact of bottoming. I go into the bedroom and open the drawer, wondering what I will find. It’s a school uniform, or a close approximation: knee-length plaid skirt, white button-down shirt, striped tie. Knee-high socks, my lace-up oxfords, plain cotton underpants.

I blush as I change, and knot the tie carefully. I consider my hair, and put it into two French braids, because that seems to fit.

My heart is pounding, and I feel quite silly as I go to stand in the corner. I wonder how long it will be before she gets home. I wish I had my watch. I stare at the wall, and think about what she might have in mind. I wonder whether she’s really going to spank me, or if something will happen to distract her before she gets home. I wonder how long I have been standing in the corner, and consider whether I have time to go check my cell phone to see how long it’s been since she called. She will have no way of knowing how long I have stood in the corner, after all.

But, deep down, I’m a good girl, so I do as I’ve been told. The wait seems longer and longer. I wonder whether something has happened to the train, or whether she has stopped to talk to one of the neighbors before she comes in. I wonder why she decided to give me a spanking.

And then I hear feet on the stairs outside our apartment, and a key in the lock. I force myself to keep facing the wall. She walks up beside me and looks closely at how I am dressed. When I turn my head to see her, she firmly points it back towards the corner. She lifts my skirt to be sure that I am wearing the full uniform. “You’re properly dressed,” she murmurs. “That might help.”

She opens the bedroom door, and turns to make sure I haven’t left the corner. I hear her rummaging through the cupboards, and then going into the bathroom. I am dying with curiosity, but I keep my eyes to the wall. Much as I want to know what’s happening, I am grateful that the situation is so completely in her control. I take a deep breath as I stand there.

Finally, she says, “Come here.” I notice that she is wearing a uniform that is identical to mine. I wonder when she got them, and how she managed not to mention it to me. I grin, to think of how hard it must have been for her to keep the secret.

“What are you smirking about? This isn’t funny.”

“I—“ I start to protest, but then I decide to be “in character.” I look down, and examine my shoes, waiting to find out what our role-play is going to be.

“You know that as the head girl of our form, it’s my job to keep order, right?”

I look up at her, and nod.

“You are a senior student at this school, and I would think that you would help by being a good example to the other students. But you haven’t been, have you?”

“I am a good student!” I protest.

“You may be very smart, and you may even behave in your classes, but outside of class, you have been a very bad example to the other girls. Just look at this!” She hands me a sheet of paper.

September 2. Convinced entire first form that the common room is haunted by the ghost of our first headmistress. Four first form girls caught sneaking out of their dormitory at midnight to see the ghost.

September 5. Helped two first form girls put salt into all of the sugar bowls in the dining hall before breakfast.

September 9. Short-sheeted the beds in all of the senior dormitories.

September 12. Left the dormitory after lights-out, and read a novel in the common room until two a.m.

September 13. Overslept and caused the house to lose 10 points because bed was unmade and drawers were untidy.

September 15. Convinced five second form girls that it was the headmistress’s birthday, and that she would like to receive a singing telegram to mark the occasion.

September 16. Left the dormitory after lights-out, and read a novel in the common room until two-thirty a.m.

September 17. Replaced all of the articles in the school newspaper with parodies of the school songs. Disaster was narrowly avoided, as the assistant editor discovered the substitution shortly before the paper went to the printer.

September 20. Went to town and bought all of the supplies for the third form to have a midnight feast. Hid their food in the craft cupboard in the common room, and loaned them a travel alarm so they would be able to wake up.

September 24. Inserted two long passages from Enid Blyton boarding school stories into the school newspaper. Disaster once again avoided when the assistant editor discovered the insertion.

September 26. Hid ten alarm clocks, set to go off at different times, in the school auditorium. These interrupted a speech by one of the trustees.

Now I had to grin. These were entirely silly crimes.

“This isn’t funny. You are undermining the authority at this school, and you are setting a very bad example for the younger girls. The only reason the head hasn’t found out about this is that the other seniors, especially the prefects, have been making sure you aren’t caught. What are you thinking?”

“Well, it’s my last year here, and I thought it was time to have some fun,” I grin. “Besides, that was the most interesting speech that particular trustee has ever given, and you know it. Even the head looked relieved.”

She frowns at me. “I can see you aren’t taking your behavior seriously. You know that most of the items on this list would get you caned if you had been caught.”

“But I was careful, and I wasn’t caught, was I?”

“Yes,” she says, “you were caught. I caught you, and you know that I have the same power to punish misbehavior outside of class as any of the teachers have in a class.” She points to the bed, and I notice that she has both a cane and the bath brush arranged beside a pile of pillows at the edge of the bed. When I don’t move, she says, “I’m sure you remember the drill. Go lean over the edge of the bed.”

I walk over, my heart thumping. I wonder how seriously she is going to take the game. Very seriously, it seems. She stands beside me, and lifts the hem of my skirt.

“I am starting with a hand spanking, because many of the misbehaviors on this list are the kind of thing a silly first form girl would do, and silly first form girls don’t get the cane.” I can tell that she has been reading up on how to give a hand spanking. My bottom is uncomfortably warm, and I am squirming with each slap by the time she is done.

She pulls my underwear to my knees, and lifts the cane. “There are eleven items on my list. I’m sure that you have done more than that, so I’ll make it an even dozen cane strokes. If you move out of position, I will start again from the beginning.” I brace myself.

Swwiiissshhhh-CRACK! I squeal as the pain hits, but I stay in place as the second and third strokes come whistling down. She must have been reading about caning, too, because this is far more intense than she usually is with a cane. I really feel that momentary pause between the impact of the cane and the pain from the stroke.

She picks up the pace. I can’t help twisting to the side after the seventh stroke, just to get a break. She pushes me back into position.

Swwiissshhh-CRACK! “One,” she says, letting me know she is starting over. I clench my bottom and draw a slow breath. She keeps to a slower pace for the next several strokes, and then begins to go quickly again.

“Owww!! Slow down! Please! It really hurts!”

“Of course it hurts,” she says. “It’s a spanking, it’s supposed to hurt.”

CRACK! “Nine.” I clutch the bedspread and tense my legs, doing everything I can to stay in place. Just three more strokes, two more strokes, one more stroke…. I breathe a sigh of relief when it is over, and resist reaching back to trace the lines I knew she has left on my bottom.

She lays the cane down and climbs up on the bed. “Now that I’ve gotten your attention,” she says, “I want to make sure the lesson sticks. Give me the bath brush, then take off your skirt and underpants, and come lie over my lap.”

I look at her, my heart pounding. She can’t really mean that there’s more of a spanking. “I think the lesson will stick,” I say, rubbing my bottom gently.

“This will be over when I say it’s over,” she says firmly. “Come here now.”

I slowly do as she says, and find myself face down over her lap. She strokes my back for several seconds. I break character just enough to look at her, and we smile at each other, reassuring ourselves that this is all right with each of us. Then she gets back in character and firmly turns my head towards the bedspread.

“I want you to think about the behavior appropriate to a senior at this school,” she says firmly. “What you do reflects on all of us. And if you behave poorly, it makes me look like a bad head girl.” She emphasizes her last sentence with firm smacks of the bath brush, and then begins to spank me in earnest.

When I kick my leg just a little too much she stops, pushes me forward so that I am resting mostly over her left knee. She puts her right leg over the back of my legs and starts the paddling again. I squeal and squirm, but the brush keeps coming down. I know that she could hit me harder than she is, but the steady cracks are taking their toll.

Despite the increasing pain in my bottom, I have room to wonder how far she will go. Experimentally, I reach back to cover my bottom. She stops long enough to grab my wrist. “This spanking will continue until I think you’ve learned who is in charge,” she says resolutely.

Without the option of moving, I find that I can’t pay attention to anything but the steady smacks of the bath brush. Each one burns across my bottom and thighs. I relax completely into submission. I allow myself to squirm, but I also allow myself to yelp. As my bottom gets warmer and warmer, I slip further into the role-play. I promise to be good, I apologize for my misbehavior. The bath brush keeps slapping my bottom.

Finally, my emotions have nowhere else to go, and I start to cry. I cry because of the pain, but also because of the fact that I know it is safe to let go. I am not in charge, I do not have to be in control. No matter what I do, I will get this spanking. She is giving it to me not as a punishment, but simply because she knows that I need it. Several more smacks land on my bottom and thighs, and then she puts the bath brush to the side.

She slowly rubs the small of my back, and runs her hand over my bottom. Then she slides down and we rearrange ourselves so that we can snuggle. I rest my head against her chest, and she strokes my hair.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re very welcome, love,” she responds.

Story: What I Need

I posted this on the SSS newsgroup probably four or five years ago. It's another of the Janey and Michelle stories, and I figured it would do some of the work of lightening up the mood on here, since it's not depressing at all.

“What I Need”
F/F, consensual
=======================


I had been in a rotten mood for weeks, and I had no idea why. I would force myself through necessary interactions, controlling my temper with sheer force of will, and then hole up in my study trying to make myself work in between times.

I felt guilty for neglecting Janey, but that was better than sniping at her, which is what I did when we spent time together. But Liza invited her over for our house’s “family night,” when we would each clean one room, and then play games afterward. I’d volunteered to clean the bathroom, and I’d tried to take out my irritation on the mildew in the grout. I was sweaty, but just as irritable as I’d been before I started.

I washed up, and joined the rest of my house, plus Janey, for pizza and Scrabble. The first game was fine, because I started out with a word that used all seven letters, and continued kicking butt for the rest of the game. It was easier to be nice when I was winning. But I didn’t do as well during the second game, and I found myself wanting to snap at people.

Everyone teased me in a friendly way, trying to cheer me up. They could tell that something was wrong, but they’d all given up on figuring out what it was by that point. So they tried to be nice.

Finally, I managed to get a word worth a measly six points on the board, and then discovered there were no more letters in the bag. “AAARRRGGHH!! I HATE this game!! I’m no good at it! I’m TIRED of being so STUPID!” Everyone looked at me curiously.

“You kicked our collective butt in the last game,” Liza pointed out.

“You’re not stupid,” Gwen reassured me.

I glared at both of them, trying to keep myself from flinging the board across the room.

“Do we need to have a talk upstairs?” Janey joked, hoping that the spanko reference would cheer me up.

I was stunned by the surge of relief I felt when she said it. I looked at her thoughtfully. “Actually, maybe we do.”

Janey looked at me; Liza and Gwen glanced from me to her. Finally, Janey broke the silence. “Will you two excuse us for a moment?” Liza and Gwen nodded, half smirking. Janey led me out of the living room and upstairs to my bedroom.

She sat at the edge of my bed, and patted the spot next to her. I sat down in the chair instead. “What’s going on, Michelle?”

I stared at the floor. Finally, I said, “I don’t really know. It’s not PMS, since I’ve been edgy and irritable for almost a month now. And I’ve had my period. I… I just want to snap at people. I seem to need to get into an argument and shout and throw a fit, and that’s not okay. Nothing is helping, and I just keep getting more and more and more tense.”

“We’ve noticed,” she said wryly. I felt a surge of irritation. What right did they have to notice?! I swallowed it, and didn’t say anything.

“So why are we up here?”

I examined my fingers, and the end of the bed, and the grain of the wood on the floor. Finally, I whispered, “Um, well… Okay, when you asked if we needed to come upstairs, I felt so… relieved. I had this image of you giving me a spanking, and… I think it would make things better.”

Janey looked at me consideringly. “Fine. Let me go down and tell Gwen and Liza to play without us.” She stood up.

“Wait! If you go down there, they’ll know exactly what’s going to happen up here!”

“Michelle, whether or not I go down there, I think they’ll have a pretty good idea,” Janey laughed. “Even if you’re really quiet,” she added.

I sat on the chair waiting for Janey to return, half nervous and half relieved. I got up and rummaged through the toy box and found the stingy little hairbrush. I put it in the middle of the bed, and then sat back in the chair as though I hadn’t moved.

Janey was laughing as she came up. She composed herself at the doorway, and then closed the door quietly behind her. She raised her eyebrow when she noticed the hairbrush, but she didn’t say anything to me about it. She sat on the bed with her back against the wall. She patted her thighs. “You may as well take off your pants and underpants right now,” she said. I complied, and then got into position over her lap.

Janey rested her hand on my bottom. “I’ve wanted to get you in this position for a few weeks,” she mused, rubbing gently. “You’ve been a real pill lately.” SMACK! “You need to realize {SMACK!} that you don’t have to be perfect.” SMACK!! SMACK!!

“What?” I protested. The last thing I’d been for weeks was perfect. I had been more imperfect than ever, and I have never approached any kind of reasonable standards.

SMACK! “Michelle, we will {SMACK!!} still love {SMACK!} you, even if you’re crabby.” Janey stopped talking for a few moments while she smacked my bottom. “It’s okay to just let us know you need some comfort.” She delivered several stinging smacks to the tops of my thighs as she said this. “You don’t have to lock yourself up all alone just because you’re feeling hurt.” Janey punctuated each word with a sharp smack.

My bottom began to feel tingly and warm. Some of the tension started to ebb away. Janey stopped long enough to pick up the hairbrush. “Why, where on earth did *this* come from?” she joked. “Perhaps someone really needs a sore bottom tonight.”

CRACK!!! I yelped. That brush had never hurt like THAT before! “You need to learn to relax,” she said. She continued whacking my bottom and lecturing me. Instead of the usual sting, the hairbrush was setting my bottom well and truly on fire. My irritability and frustration seemed to radiate out of me along with the heat in my backside. Finally, Janey put the hairbrush down on the bed. She slowly rubbed my bottom and back.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I sighed, and took a deep breath. “Thanks. That helped.”

“Shall we go back downstairs?”

I followed Janey downstairs, and I felt better enough that I didn’t even mind the teasing I got from Gwen and Liza about “learning to play nicely.”

Story: I Have Learned My Lessons Well

I've been thinking about this story a lot, lately. In part, it's because my wife thought Make Me Whole Again was a story from my own life. That one isn't, but this one is. I posted it to the SSS short story contest in 2003. I placed it in "edge" because it's quite edgy for me to talk about negative parts of my childhood. Things are only hinted at in this story, but I "tell" by not telling.

Parts of me kick in, wanting to say, "It wasn't that bad, there were good parts, too." And there were. But it's the not-good parts that I struggle with, and that add so much extra, unneeded confusion to my relationship.



=================
I have learned my lessons well:
Good girls don’t remember.
What they remember, they don’t tell.


It’s hard to forget things. Especially when you’re only supposed to forget some things.

“I thought I told you to fold the laundry.”

“I forgot.” My voice is small. I make myself as numb as possible, so I won’t try to protect myself. That only makes them angrier.

Chores sometimes get mixed with the things I’m supposed to forget. “Don’t tell your mother I was in here.” “Don’t let your teachers know.” “Don’t remember what I did when you were five… when you were three… when you were eight….”

Don’t remember. Don’t remember.

It’s a more important rule than don’t feel, don’t need, don’t tell.

How can I help it if the forgetting leaks out?

It’s easier this way. I cannot let them know at school what happens at home. Nothing here is bad enough for us to be taken away, and when social services did come, after… I don’t remember.

But I remember not to tell.

There are lots of ways of telling. Drawing pictures is telling, unless you’re careful to draw happy pictures, with smiling suns. Forgetting your homework is telling, fighting is telling, crying is telling… I practice being good very hard, because everything else is telling.

I become the perfect student. My teachers love me. They say how proud my parents must be. I don’t say that no matter how smart I am, nothing will make them proud of me. I’m too horrible, and I keep on remembering.

I learn that a lie can be just as good as forgetting what I can’t erase. My mother is drunk and remorseful. “I still feel guilty for when you were five and I beat you for half an hour because you lied to me.”

“I don’t remember that,” I lie.

But I do remember. I found a quarter. I remember the glint of metal between the seats of the car, fishing it out from between them. She insisted I had stolen it. I insisted I hadn’t.

I remember her rage. I see the wooden spoon. I remember her eyes, and the smoke floating up from the cigarette. “I’ll teach you to lie!” My heart pounds until… I can’t remember.

But I learned my lesson: No matter how innocent I am, it is better to accept the punishment.

I only lie when I must. “Yes, I did it.” “It’s my fault.” “I don’t remember.”

I make my mind large, to encompass the forgetting. I skirt carefully around the places I must not travel, relaxing only in the safe grounds of classrooms and story books.

I lock the memories behind thick walls. When I was ten and took too long coming home. When I was three and wouldn’t eat enough dinner. When I broke the dinner plates. The memories loom, threatening until… I don’t remember.


I have learned my lessons well.
Good girls don’t remember.
What they remember, they don’t tell.

===============

Story: Make Me Whole Again

I'm so glad people seem to have found my blog. Greetings, especially to those of you I know from SSS.

Because Natty mentioned it, I thought I'd post a story I wrote several years ago, before I met my wife. As I noted when I posted it to SSS, even though I wrote it before I met her, we've had several of the scenes work out almost exactly the same in real life. However, the story is fiction. Warning: it has some flashback scenes of abuse.



Make Me Whole Again
=================

"Hey, you," Janey said fondly, and kissed the top of my head. "Can I watch with you?" She sat down on the arm of the chair. "We could cuddle on the couch while we watch," she suggested.

"Because cuddling fits in so well with Tales from the Crypt," I laughed, but I got up to sit next to her. I lay my head on her shoulder, and wished… I don't quite know what I wished for, but I wished I felt different. It had been my day for therapy, and I really hate going to therapy. It stirs up all kinds of things I'd rather not think about. And it was worse than usual today.

Janey pulled loose several locks of my hair, and twisted them around her fingers. We snuggled, not saying anything, even during the commercials. When the show was over, Janey picked up the remote, and hit mute. I continued to stare at the TV screen.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" I asked evasively.

Janey sighed. "Did you think I forgot this was therapy day? You're really spaced out. Do you want to talk?"

"I'm fine."

"I know you're fine. Do you want to talk."

I snuggled into her shoulder. I sighed. "It's. it just stirs things up. I'd really rather not talk."

Janey nodded. We cuddled some more, while watching television without any sound. Then Janey turned the t.v. off. She walked towards the kitchen. "I'm making tea. What kind do you want?"

"Headache tea," I sighed, knowing she wouldn't let me just have none at all. I sat at one of the stools in the kitchen, and watched her making a pot of tea. We sat in silence as it steeped, and then as we drank our tea. Janey looked worried, but she gave me space.

When we went to bed, she rubbed my back, still not saying anything. I closed my eyes.


**************
SMACK!! And then the sound of the belt being put down on the floor. I shuddered, hating the next part even more. "Stand up," my stepfather ordered..
**************

I shuddered, and opened my eyes. Janey's hand paused. "Are you okay."

"Um-hm." My voice was muffled. I really didn't want to talk. I wanted to blank out the sounds and the voices.

"Here. Why don't I read you a story?"

I rolled over enough to look at Janey. "Read me a story?!"

"Sure. I'll keep reading, and we'll see if we can't get you to sleep without any nightmares. It worked for me when I was little." She stood and looked through the bookshelf. "How about. oh, this is a good one. How about Spindle's End?"

I nodded, since I've always wanted to hear that book read out loud.

"The magic in that country was so thick and tenacious that it settled over the land like chalk-dust and over floors and shelves like slightly sticky plaster-dust," Janey began. I snuggled into bed, listening to the words of the story, and I fell asleep before the mean fairy even showed up at the christening.

**************
"Mommy! Mommy! It's the monster again!" A hand covered my mouth, a dark voice muttered, "Shut up! If she heard, you're going to get it tomorrow!"

I lay silent, and the sounds began again. It hurt..
**************

"Michelle. Sweetie, wake up, it's a bad dream, honey." Janey's hand was rubbing my back again. I sat up, blinking my eyes until I could see the clock. 3 in the morning. I sighed.

"I'm sorry, Janey. Go back to sleep. I'll be fine."

"It's not a problem, Michelle. Do you want to talk?"

"It was just a dream. I'll be fine."

Janey turned on the light. "Here, I'll read some more to you. Don't close your eyes until you've heard some more of the story. You don't have to think. I'll keep reading until I'm sure you're asleep, okay?" I blinked back tears, and nodded. It felt so stupid. When I was little, I could keep myself from having nightmares. But lately, it's been every single night. I can't make them go away. They even float up when I think I'm awake. But I drifted off to the sound of Janey's voice, and if I had any more dreams, they didn't wake me.


The next day was better. I was able to focus on my classes, and I didn't jump every time I heard a sound behind me. By Friday night, I actually felt like myself again. I called Janey to invite her over for dinner. Her housemate answered the phone. "Hi, Sam. Is Janey there? I wanted to know if she wants to come over for dinner?"

I heard Sam calling to Janey, but couldn't quite hear what she said. Janey got on the phone. "At your house, eh? Will I be allowed to bring anything, or will you insist on being a total kitchen top?"

"I know you are, but what am I?" I asked, in my brattiest tone.

"You're clearly feeling better. Do you need anything from the store?"

"You can bring dessert," I offered generously. "Ben and Jerry's," I added, then thought for a second about what I was cooking. "Bring that Turtle kind, with the nuts, if they have it. Or else Chocolate Fudge Brownie."

"Leaving me a lot of room for variation, aren't you? You are so bossy."

"Rubber, glue." I pointed out. "Okay, see ya in a bit."

"Uhm-hm. Love you."

"Love ya too."


After dinner, we were snuggling in front of the television, watching a re-run of Star Trek the Next Generation and eating ice cream. It was another of the ones showing off Riker's heterosexual prowess, so after I was tired of eating ice cream, I whined, "This is boooorrrriinng." Janey just raised her eyebrow, since I'm the one who picked the show in the first place.

I commented, "You know, Liza's spending the weekend at her girlfriend's, and Gwen's out dancing until who knows when.."

"So?" Janey said lazily, raising an eyebrow.

"So we have the house to ourselves. Let's get rid of this ice cream, and go up to my room." Janey held out her hand for my spoon, and took the ice cream to the freezer. She put the spoons in the sink, and headed upstairs.

I let her go up the stairs ahead of me, and kept trying to peek under her skirt on the way up. I don't know why, but it amused me a lot to do that.

"Stop that," she said, irritably. "I'm gonna trip if you're not careful."

"No you're not," I argued, just for the sake of argument.

"Good grief, you're in a bratty mood."

"Maybe you should do something about that," I challenged.

"Perhaps I should," she said, and shut the bedroom door. She sat down on the bed, with her back to the wall. I lay myself across her thighs, in case she hadn't gotten the right hint.

Spank. Spank. Smack. Her hand was gentle, but she paused to rub, in case there might be any sting. Smack. Smack! Spank. Rub. Smack! Smack! Rub.

"Want to take off your jeans? This can be more effective." she suggested.

I scrambled out of my jeans and lay back down. Smack. Smack! Spank. Smack! Her hand gently caressed my thigh. She paused in question, and then slowly rubbed between my legs. It felt sweet and good.

All of a sudden, I started crying. Janey pulled her hand away, quickly, and then slowly rubbed my back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I sobbed, "It's just.." But years of training kept the words from slipping past my lips. Even though I knew better, deep down inside, I still believed that my stepfather would appear to hurt me if I ever told. I had to stay safe.

Janey kept rubbing my back. "Is it about your stepfather?"

I nodded. She kept rubbing. Finally, I thought of what I could manage to say. "Janey, I like when you spank me. It's exactly the opposite of…" that part, I couldn't say. "Can you keep doing like you were doing, before I started to cry? It felt so good."

"But.." Janey sounded really uncomfortable.

"No, really. I'll tell you to stop if I need you to. You always say it isn't bad to cry," I added. I turned to face her, blinking through the tears. "Really. It's the good kind of crying, where you'll feel better after. And I liked the way it felt, to have a gentle spanking, and good touching." It was much easier to talk about what I wanted right now, rather than the things I'd had before, that I hadn't wanted. Janey slowly nodded, and turned me around.

Spank. Rub. Spank. Smack. Smack! Smack. "You are such a good person," she said. Spank. Rub. Smack! "And you're so beautiful." Smack. Spank. Spank. Smack! Rub. "I love you so very much." I continued to cry, and she continued to gently spank me and caress me.


Janey sat at one of the stools the next morning, watching me chop potatoes for breakfast. As I tossed them in the spices, she asked, "How are you?"

"Don't social work me," I said irritably.

"How could I?" she asked, reasonably, "I'm not a social worker."

I put the potatoes on a cookie sheet, and put it in the oven. I leaned against the counter. "Omelettes, or scrambled eggs?"

"Omelettes, I think," she answered. "And how are you?"

The woman is nothing, if not persistent. "I'm fine. Really." I cracked several eggs into a bowl. "Here, grate this cheese." She raised an affectionate eyebrow, but did as I said.

I watched the butter melt in the pan. As I swirled it, I turned to look at her. "I have an idea. Why don't we get more flexible safe words?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, like if I could use one word to say, 'keep going,' and another to say stop."

Janey looked amused. "What, and one to say, 'slow down.'"

"Yeah. Like traffic signals. How about red light, green light, yellow
light?"

"It's a thought."



Things seemed to be settling down, but then, the next Wednesday, it was the same as ever before. Every time I closed my eyes all day after therapy, the memories came rushing back. It made no sense. I was tired of it.

Janey watched me as we ate dinner. "Do you want to talk?"

"Not really."

She looked like she wanted to say something, but she gave me space.

When it got to be bedtime, I said, "Maybe I should sleep at home. I'll probably be having nightmares again."

"Why should you go home? Who'd read stories to you, so you can sleep?"

**************
SMACK!! SMACK!! SMACK!!! "I told you not to say anything!" SMACK!
"Why were you talking to your teacher?" SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

"But I didn't SAY anything!" The tears ran down my face. "I promise, I didn't!"
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! "Don't lie to me! She called the house today!" SMACK! SMACK!! SMACK!! SMACK!! SMACK!!!

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" SMACK! SMACK! "I promise!! I didn't say ANYthing! Maybe she just wanted to talk!"

He put the belt on the floor. I took a deep breath. It was over. He sat down. I closed my eyes. It was only beginning.
**************


"Michelle! It's a dream!" Janey shook me awake. She rubbed my back. "Do you want a story?" The light was already on.

"Yes, please," I sighed.

She handed me a mug. "Here's the rest of your tea. Drink some, it's still warm."

"I HATE therapy," I said.

"No you don't," she replied. "You hate what you remember." She opened the book, and began the next chapter.



I felt better than I'd expected the next day. When Janey went upstairs to take a bath before bed, I joined her, and events followed the natural progression.

We cuddled in bed, warm and damp. Janey stroked my back, and then her hand shifted slowly down my back, and reached between my thighs. I flinched. "Yellow light," I whispered. Her hand paused.

I took a deep breath. "Okay. It's fine." She continued.

I felt a knot of tension release, and tears started to fall. Janey stopped.

"Green light," I said, and turned to face her. She looked into my eyes, and continued.

I kept crying, but I had never felt so safe, or so happy.

Story: Cause and Effect

I've been thinking about this story a lot lately. I'm on a vanilla listserve, and one of the threads has been titled "Cause and Effect." It's rather distracting, because the thread has nothing to do with the story, but the subject line startles me every time.

I posted the story on the SSS newsgroup several years ago.

Cause and Effect
===========

She prefers to look at spanking as a cause, rather than an effect. So she refuses to spank me for bratting (“You like spanking,” she points out. “Why should I reward you for doing something that bugs the crap out of me?” I can recognize her logic, but it’s a hard habit to break.)

Sometimes she surprises me. “I wonder what it would be like to watch you squirm all morning,” she muses as we get ready for a brunch party. I pause in my search for socks and look at her sitting at her desk. She is holding a light, flexible metal ruler. She raises her eyebrows. I feel myself blush deeply.

Cause.

My heart thumps. I don’t even know everyone who will be coming. Do I really want a spanked bottom in front of strangers? I decide to take a chance. I lower my jeans and lean over the side of her bed.

She comes to stand beside me, and rubs my back. Swat! The first strokes with the ruler are light, tentative. She is still learning my body, and doesn’t want to hurt me more than I want to be hurt.

“Harder?” she asks.

“Yes, please.” My bottom is beginning to feel warm.

“Should these come down?” she asks, touching the waistband of my underpants. I reach back and lower them.

The strokes fall harder on my bare flesh. I hiss, and she pauses.

“You can keep going,” I say, ask, reassure.

She lands the ruler across my bottom several more times, pauses, rubs my back. Then the ruler cracks vertically down one buttock and onto my thigh. “That left quite a mark,” she comments, and examines it. Then, “For symmetry,” she explains, and cracks the ruler down on the other thigh.

“I think that’s enough for me,” she says. She lays the ruler on the bed, and rubs my back. “Do you want to look?”

I turn and examine the redness of my bottom in the mirror. Time is getting short. I pull up my pants, find socks, and prepare to greet our friends.

Effect.

My bottom stings and tingles. I can feel every thread of my jeans, of my underpants. The doorbell rings, and she ushers in the first guests. We are still preparing, and they came early to help. I am less bossy than usual in the kitchen, and one of my friends comments on this.

My girlfriend looks knowingly at me, and pats my bottom as she passes. I squirm.

More guests arrive. She pulls me down to sit on the arm of her chair. I squirm, and hop up to pass out glasses and plates. She stands behind me, and I feel the stinging of my bottom. Every move reminds me of my connection to her. I exaggerate my squirming just enough that she will notice it, but remain subtle enough that our friends don’t comment.
After the party, we are all taking the subway together towards the city. I hop up quickly to offer my seat to a woman with shopping bags. Our friends comment on my butch courtesy. My girlfriend and I exchange knowing looks.