Pamela's Weekend Punishment

Pamela Sprague quivered fearfully as Miss Skillings, Principal of Fundamental School for Girls, picked up the Senior Paddle and glanced meaningfully at Miss Tracy, the English teacher.
Pamela was held firmly by Miss Tracy, face down, on the six-foot long sturdy wooden bench. Her shoes had been removed. Her Scottish kilt-style knee-length skirt was raised in back and fastened to her pink blouse with safety pins. It was hoisted so far that a thin line of bare flesh appeared at her waist above her full cotton underpants. On her legs, she wore cotton knee socks.
Miss Skillings admired the smooth wooden surface of the formidable instrument of punishment, and thought to herself how good it was that troublesome girls were dealt with in this way.
She administered three or four gentle but foreboding pats to Pamela Sprague's posterior and the girl reacted with a gasp of anticipation. Miss Tracy pressed on Pamela's small of back so hard that the girl felt as if her navel was glued to the surface of the bench. Below and to the rear, Pamela's buttocks thrust provocatively out and back and (in this position) upwards, filling her panties so tightly that they seemed ready to burst. Her bottom trembled nervously, making ripples in the fabric that betrayed her growing apprehension.
Eighteen year old Pamela was beginning her final year at Fundamental High School. She had never
experienced the Senior Paddle - it was not used on lower class girls - but she had heard scary reports about it. The paddle was a traditional fraternity paddle, that - in past years - had been used in hazing ceremonies and brought many a rugged male student to tears, even when administered through thick woolen trousers. It was large and solid, made of hard mahogany, varnished to such a shine that you could see your reflection in its surface.
"Twenty strokes," said Miss Skillings. "Pamela, I warn you to keep your hands out of the way. Not only will I award extra strokes for any interference on your part, but this paddle could injure your hands if I should make a mistake and hit them."
Pamela's arms were at her side, her fingers clawing nervously.
The paddle lifted. Miss Tracy bore down harder. Pamela's bottom clenched rigid in dismay.
The paddle attacked ferociously, flattening the soft flesh, covering almost the entire surface of both buttocks in a single burning, scalding stroke that drew a squeal from the girl and set her bottom into frantic agitations to try to cope with the pain.
"One," counted Miss Tracy, calmly, with no emotion in her voice.
As Pamela struggled to cope with the pain, her mind flashed back, just as her disciplinarian intended, to the incident that had led to this.
Pamela was in the locker room, holding a bath towel that was wet from drying herself from her shower. She was naked, but so was snotty Eleanor Higgins, who had made the mistake of challenging Pamela to a towel fight. Now Eleanor's body was decorated with red blotches, while Pamela had barely a mark on her. Eleanor cowered in the corner, her own towel dropped on the floor, her hands darting from breasts to loins in an attempt to protect herself, while Pamela hefted her towel and scrutinized the quivering girl, preparing to strike quickly at a tender unprotected place.
"THWACK" High on Eleanor's right thigh front an ugly weal formed.
"Two." The teacher's voice was barely more than a whisper. CRACK!! The paddle loudly and painfully brought Pamela back to the present. Her barely protected rear squirmed in anguish. "OW!"
In the locker room, Pamela's friend Joan, herself clad only in underwear, darted in quickly beside and then behind Eleanor, grabbing the cowering girl's hands and pinning them against her hips. Eleanor struggled in the big girl's grasp, her breasts bobbing, and Pamela, grinning, hefted the towel and tried to decide which nipple looked most inviting.
"THWACK" Eleanor screamed as her breast bounced and reverberated with the pain.
"Turn her around," said Pamela to Joan and in a second she was presented with Eleanor's rounded rear.
"THWACK" the towel struck the frantically clenched crevice.
"Three," CRACK!! "YEEOOOHH!" Pamela's attention was yet again called back from her moment of bullying triumph to the retribution of the present, as the paddle demanded her undivided attention.
"THWACK: the towel struck across the shimmying expanse of fatty cheek. Eleanor's cry of pain was interrupted by an obscene "SPANK," as Pamela felt a burning flame across her own bare bottom and spun around in fear to look into the frowning eyes of the gym teacher who stood there glaring, her sturdy palm visibly pink from the blow it had inflicted.
"Four." CRACK!! "YOOOW! PLEASE!" Pamela forgot her short lived victory.
The strokes that followed were carefully timed and measured. They fell slowly, about six per minute. They fell inexorably, each more severe than the one before. Miss Tracy counted each one. Pamela's underpants, like female jogger's shorts, stretched and pulled this way and that. Pamela sobbed uncontrollably, unable to see through her tears.
Between whacks, Miss Skillings studied the frantically turbulent female bottom. At the base of the panties, where they just failed to cover the junction of buttock and thigh, she could detect a growing angry redness. These panties provided very little protection, but they did give some. Without them, the strokes would be smarter, sharper, striking directly at the tender full-curved skin. Miss Skillings wished she could see, instead of thin cotton twisting and heaving, bare youthful flesh cringing and reddening.
Pamela's hands clutched anxiously at her hips, fingernails scratching and denting her flesh.
For Pamela, this was a new and different punishment - and she did not appreciate the difference: The paddle was as hard as mom's hairbrush, but it covered so much more of her! With the hairbrush (or mom's sturdy palm - or any of mom's other spanking implements), she was always wondering where the next blow would land. With the paddle, Miss Skillings might attack one part of her seat more furiously than another (she did this by varying the angle at which she wielded the paddle-blade), but no part of her could escape being punished by each and every blow.
The strokes felt as if they were coming all the way from the ceiling, attacking full at the outermost jut of her rear, making the flesh smart and burn. Angry pinkness could be detected, like a soft glow, through the thin white cotton. Each time the paddle was raised again, her throbbing, momentarily flattened cheeks sprang back into shape, as if eager for more.
As she gasped and struggled with the pain, Pamela remembered the words of her mother, and thought of what she would say, and do:
"Any time you're punished at school," Mom decreed,
"you'll get another licking at home - and TWICE as hard!"
The tenth stroke was different. It swooped in sideways. The swing must have started around her feet and it travelled briskly, parallel to her threshing legs, gaining velocity until it attacked low on both buttocks, biting her fiercely where she sat down.
"Ten," whispered Miss Tracy.
Pamela could not control her hands. Both of them flew back to her pantied seat, ignoring Miss Skillings' admonitions, desperately trying to rub the pain away.
"Hold her arms," ordered Miss Skillings. Miss Tracy grabbed both of Pamela's struggling wrists and held them firmly crossed over the small of the girl's back, pushing the busy fingers into spine and ribs.
"Resume the count at five," said Miss Skillings, and Pamela moaned.
Throughout the interminable paddling, Pamela's fingers were almost as agitated as her bottom - so much so that Miss Skillings at one point threatened to restart the punishment from the beginning if her hands should break free.
When it was finally over, they gave her a few moments to compose herself. Pamela stood, unable to sit, with her hands gingerly attempting to soothe her scalded seat, her fingers searching in vain for a spot that was not hot and stinging. Her long hair, that reached to the middle of her back, hung dishevelled over a face wet with tears. Her long dangly earrings tinkled as she sobbed.
She barely paid attention as Eleanor was led in to take her place on the bench, while Joan waited her turn outside.
Pamela hobbled home. Her rump, as it always did, swung provocatively as she walked. Today, with each swing of her hips, she could feel the smart in her rear - an aching smart that would not go away, that reminded her of what she had been through and promised worse to come at home.
She wondered how she could bring herself to tell Mom, and then she thought of how dangerous it would be not to tell her. She wondered how Mom could possibly succeed in spanking "twice as hard" as what she had just received - but then she thought that Mom was very good at that.
Mrs. Sprague had been widowed at an early age. She had been left with two daughters: Pamela, now eighteen, and Susan, twenty-two. She worried about her girls. She herself had been brought up strictly. Her own father had been a stern disciplinarian who did not allow her to get away with anything. She fretted that, with no firm male hand available, they would not receive proper discipline. But she resolved to make up for it, to take on this job that she had always thought should properly be handled by a man. She sent Susan and Pamela to the strictest schools. She tolerated no nonsense at home. And, most importantly, she systematically set about learning how to spank.
She acquired a small collection of books on the subject, and a larger collection of punishment instruments.
The girls could testify, from painful past and present experience, that she had learned very well!
They also learned that Mom became more, not less demanding as they grew up. Susan, in fact, returned home after four years in college to take a highly skilled office job, only to find that she was still subject to corporal chastisement, just as if she had never been away!
But for all her instruments, Mrs. Sprague never gave up handspanking. There was a mother-daughter intimacy about it that she liked. And she knew how to do it with scorching thoroughness - the phrase "just a little hand-spanking" never entered the girls' vocabulary.
Pamela wondered what she would get tonight - at least Mom didn't have a paddle! Mom liked to administer these "home supplements", as she called them, as soon as possible after the school punishment. However, she would allow a daughter to postpone the inevitable for as long as forty-eight hours, but at a price: six smacks of the maternal palm across the front, six more across the back, and six more across the inside - of each bare thigh. It stung like blazes - Mom called it a "thigh-fry." The one time Pamela had agreed to it, she wished she hadn't.
At dinner, Pamela still wore her kilt and blouse. She wasn't the sort who had to change her clothes many times a day. Susan did not change either. She wore her office clothes to dinner: business suit, pantie-hose, and a starched white blouse.
Pamela sat down gingerly, opposite her Mom and next to her sister, and tried to summon the courage to confess.
She looked at Mom. Her mother was still quite youthful in appearance. She looked great, even in the simple house dress she was wearing. She loved her daughters with a caring tenderness that more than made up for her disciplinary harshness.
Pamela greeted her mother warmly and looked into her eyes. Her mother looked back at her with love. Pamela was just about to make her confession, when Susan abruptly started up a conversation about the people at work.
Susan had a lot to say, but Pamela hardly heard it. Throughout the meal, she squirmed uneasily, often mentally measuring the warmth still in her bottom. Her sister's talkativeness was an excuse to procrastinate, she knew, but breaking in to admit her sin would be so humiliating. And she had already been punished so thoroughly.
Would her mother really punish her again?
Yes, she would.
But Pamela's bottom was still so hot and smarting that the gentlest swat would be agony.
She was so preoccupied with the fate of her bottom that she hardly listened to anything Susan said - nor did she notice the anxious edge to her sister's babbling.
"May I speak to you alone, Mom?" Susan asked as the meal concluded.
The two went off upstairs to Mrs. Sprague's bedroom, leaving Pamela feeling uncomfortably curious about what might have been on Susan's mind - that made her now want to speak to her mother in private after talking constantly throughout the meal. Pamela sat alone at the empty table, wondering if she might have some small chance of escaping maternal wrath altogether. Should she try it? Did she dare not tell her mother?
Then she started to worry about her homework - even though it was Friday night.
She glanced at her watch.
At 7:45, when Mom and Susan had been gone about ten minutes, Pamela heard the distinct sound of a SLAP! coming from the upstairs bedroom.
There was no mistaking that sound. Susan was getting a spanking!
SLAP! SLAP! The spanking continued. The slaps fell briskly, yet with no fixed tempo so that neither Pamela nor her no-doubt-smarting sister could have any idea when the next was coming. Her curiosity aroused, mixed with anguished memories of the many times when she had been in her sister's place, Pamela went upstairs to her own room, next to her mother's, where she could hear better.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! The smacks were louder here. Susan was getting it bare!
At 7:50, the spanking sounds began to be accompanied by mild blubbering. This first whimper was immediately followed by a prolonged volley of hard crackling slaps that lasted - according to the sweep second hand of Pamela's watch - a full 80 seconds. From that point on, Susan sobbed uncontrollably, and the spanks became louder than ever.
Pamela wondered what it was Susan might have done. Then she recalled Susan saying that she had gotten a little tipsy at an office party a week ago.
But how could her mother have found out about that?
At 7:56, the spanking stopped, with a final explosive burst of smacks. Pamela heard movement in the room: a chair scraped gently across the wooden floor. Neither Susan nor Mom went to the door.
At 8:00, there emerged from the room a sound like a gentle "thwick" followed by a loud "OUCH!" from Susan.
"Thwick." A desperate "OW!"
"Thwick." A pleading "Mother, it hurts!"
"Thwick." "Please, No!"
In all, there were some twenty-five "Thwick"s, followed by increasingly agitated shrieks, moans, and pleadings for mercy. At the end, Susan broke into long, convulsive sobs.
A few minutes later, Susan, obviously expecting sympathy, hobbled into Pamela's bedroom, barefoot, wearing only her blouse, slip, and - Pamela presumed - underwear. With one hand, Susan carried her business suit, pantie hose, and shoes. The other hand was clutched frantically at her bottom. Tears streamed down her face. Her office makeup was smudged beyond recognition. She dropped what she was carrying, sprawled face down on the bed, and rubbed her rear with both hands.
"God, that hurt!" exclaimed Susan. "Where did she get that whalebone whip?"
"That sounded awful," said Pamela. Between her sister's frantically rubbing fingers, she could make out a pair of curvy fidgeting bottom- cheeks colored "smarting pink" and striped with painful-looking red weals.
"It was awful! I fessed up to Mom about the cocktail party. She really means it when she says we're not to drink!"
"I could have told you that," said Pamela, remembering with a shudder the time Mom had caught her sneaking a sip of wine.
"Oh," said Susan, almost as an afterthought. "Mom wants to see you now." She had a look of pity as she looked Pamela in the eye. "I'm Sorry," she said with a quiver.
Pamela's mouth dropped. Susan couldn't have! But Susan had!
And now Pamela had no choice. It was her turn now to have an audience in her mother's bedroom.
As she entered, Mom was putting away an extremely nasty-looking instrument. This must be what had just been used on Susan, Pamela thought. It was two feet long and made of black leather. The very sight of it was disturbing, and Pamela was thankful that it was being returned to a bureau drawer, instead of being brought out.
Her mother pointed to her very rumpled bed. The quilt of down and satin looked as if it had been grasped and twisted and probably cried into. Pamela thought she could see tear stains. Susan must have been made to kneel on it.
"Straighten out the bed, please, Pamela," Mom said, in a gentle and loving tone.
Pamela proceeded to do as she was told, smoothing out the comforter and putting the pillows back in their proper place.
"Susan just told me - under considerable duress I admit," said her mother, "that you knew about her escapade at the office cocktail party."
Pamela turned and faced her. Her eyes gaped like saucers. She didn't need to be told what was coming.
"You know that I expect you girls to report promptly to me any misbehavior on the part of either one of you." Her mother's face hardened, and she walked up to Pamela and glared at her. It was time to be very, very strict. It was time to put out of her mind, just a little, how very much she loved her daughter. No, she corrected herself. It was time to love her daughter so very much that she would not allow silly feelings of mercy and tenderness to interfere with the discipline that Pamela needed so badly.
"You have known for a week that Susan became intoxicated, yet I don't recall your mentioning it to me at all!" she accused her daughter. Her voice was raised, almost to a shout.
Pamela gulped. Her mother walked to the bed that Pamela had just arranged so neatly, and sat down on its edge.
"All right!" she spoke quietly as she saw an appropriate expression of meekness on her daughter's apprehensive countenance. "Bring your little bottom over here!" She expected complete cooperation from her daughters, and she almost always got it - because each girl had painful memories of what happened when they did not cooperate.
Pamela hesitated. Her hands discreetly sought out the back of her skirt and pressed against the requested portion of her anatomy. It did not feel so little, and it still felt very thoroughly paddled.
She did not think it could endure a spanking now! She did not dare obey and did not dare disobey.
"If I have to tell you again, I will instruct you to get out the implement that I just put away," said her mother firmly.
That was all Pamela needed to hear. Just looking at that whip had been punishment enough - even if she hadn't seen and heard the havoc it had just wrought on her sister!
Pamela took off her shoes and slid her body, quickly but reluctantly, bottom-up over her mother's lap. Now her fear of the upcoming spanking, which would be difficult enough to endure on a bottom raw from paddling, was mixed with an even greater apprehension that her mother would detect some telltale sign of the paddling, and she knew what that would mean for her!
Yet she tried to be brave. She cradled her face in her hands, and tried to believe that what was to follow would be somehow less painful and unpleasant than it had always been before.
Why hadn't she told Mom as soon as she got home? she reproached herself. Maybe she did deserve to be found out. Maybe it would teach her a lesson.
For the second time that day, Pamela felt the back of her checkered green skirt being lifted, pulled up, folded over her back.
Mrs. Sprague paused and considered her daughter's nervously twitching, thinly covered rear. Her right hand stroked the smooth fabric as she reflected on the fault the girl had committed and considered how severe a chastisement she should administer.
The panties were thin and made of cotton. She regarded them approvingly - they would offer little protection. They had a proper full cut. They were not the revealing bikinis that she so hated to see her girls wear.. She could make out the label: Love Pats - NOT a very good description of what Pamela was about to receive.
Then Mrs. Sprague's hands went gently to the tops of the girl's hips. These underpants were nice, but now they had to come down! With her fingertips she deftly grasped the pantie's waist, and proceeded slowly to lower them. She smiled with satisfaction as first the girl's delicate coccyx, her top of crevice, and then the full-fleshed and almost-too-fatty cheeks came into view.
A slight breeze from the window, that Pamela had not noticed before, played across the exposed skin of her rear. She had dreaded this baring, yet the gust of air made it momentarily almost pleasant. Her mother seldom spanked over clothing. No doubt she heartily approved Miss Skilling's efforts to introduce bare punishments at school. She shuddered at the thought of what that paddle would feel like on her bare bottom.
When the cheeks were completely bare, and nervously clenching- unclenching, her mother left the panties in a little band around the upper thighs, an inch or two below the bottom-thrust. She frowned. She could see little traces of pink that could only be the result of a recent thrashing. But, for the moment, she pretended not to have seen.
"Cross your wrists, young lady," she ordered. She only called her daughters "Young lady" at these times.
Pamela obeyed without hesitation, placing one wrist over the other on the small of her back. Her mother immediately grasped both wrists firmly with her left hand. She was only too aware of Pamela's annoying habit of trying to protect her bottom with her hands - a habit she persisted in no matter how many penalty strokes it cost her.
She raised her hand high and brought her palm down with a resounding SMACK that stung and reddened the girl's outermost right cheek and drew a gasp and a squeal. It was followed by three more stinging slaps aimed at precisely the same place.
The spanking had barely begun and already Pamela was choking back tears.
"You were punished at school today!" her mother accused her, in a voice that quivered with anger.
Pamela nodded, not daring to deny it.
Four more spanks rained down, this time at a new target area, low down across the squirming, cringing crevice, stinging both cheeks at once.
Her mother grasped the punished right cheek and squeezed so hard the girl squeaked with the pain. She proceeded to lecture her daughter.
"I have told you that you are to report any punishment you get at school to me immediately." She emphasized her point by squeezing the paddled and spanked flesh even harder.
"But, Mom, it was just a litttle rough housing!" Pamela protested.
"Are you questioning the discipline at your school?" her mother demanded angrily, punctuating the question with an angry SMACK.
"No, please," Pamela pleaded.
"What did you do? What did you get?" Mom grasped her other buttock.
"They gave me twenty strokes with the paddle."
"All right," said her mother, apparently satisfied. "You are grounded for the weekend. On Sunday I will administer the supplemental chastisement I always give when you are punished at school. Tomorrow, I'll give your bottom a rest, but I will punish you for not telling me about the school discipline."
Pamela mind was awhirl. Nervously she wondered what her mother had in store for the next day. She could be sure of one thing: she wasn't going to enjoy it.
"Now we will proceed with THIS spanking." Mom sounded really annoyed at her, but not angry. Mom was not often angry.
"Mom, please, I've been paddled so hard. My bottom can't take any more!" Pamela was scared!
But Mom was not often merciful either. "I'll decide what your bottom can take," she snapped. "You failed to tell me about your sister's drinking and now you are going to be punished for it!" Releasing her hold on the scalded buttock, she resumed the spanking. She concentrated on the lower curves, where the bared flesh pouted up at her most impudently. The harsh smacks echoed loudly though the room. They stung and burned the reddening squirming flesh.
When the last smack was finally administered, and her hands were released, Pamela sobbed loudly. Her seat was an angry pink patchwork of palm prints and overlapping finger marks. Gently and gingerly she touched the hot smarting surfaces, not even thinking, yet, of raising her lowered panties.
"We aren't finished, young lady," her mother interrupted her.
Mom had a practice of often ending punishments with an extra "sting in the tail." This added the last smidgen of discipline by prolonging the effect and rubbing in the lesson - though such benefits were seldom appreciated by the girl whose tail was about to be stung.
This final touch might take various forms.
Pamela obediently moved her hands away from her scorched cheeks and looked anxiously over her shoulder, twisting her head so that she could see, down across her own bare bottoms, her mother pulling open the drawer of her night stand, opening it, and removing a hairbrush.
The girl's first thought was "Oh No! More smacks!", but she was relieved to notice that this hairbrush had an almost fragile-looking plastic back, that didn't seem as if it would hurt very much at all. But then her eyes widened as she noticed the bristles. They were stiff and coarse and prickly. Her mother was holding the brush several inches above her bare seat, and turning it in her hand.
She was going to get it bristles down!
Her fanny quivered involuntarily, the two cheeks clamped tightly shut together. Her mother, with her left hand, pried the outmost cheek away from its twin, revealing a white, unpunished valley.
The hairbrush struck! The bristles bit painfully into the crevice.
Pamela received twelve strokes, that covered the surface of her cheeks, inside and out. Then it was her turn to stagger out, into her sister's room, so that Susan could try to soothe and comfort her scoured bottom.
She wondered if her bottom would be in any shape for another dose on Sunday. She wondered what Mom had in store for her tomorrow.
Breakfast, the next morning, was long and leisurely and actually enjoyable. Pamela put her impending ordeal out of her mind and giggled and joked with her sister. Susan was looking forward to her Saturday night date with Joe. Mom grudgingly assented to her having a steady relationship with a man - something she would not allow for Pamela.
Even though she herself was grounded, Pamela shared Susan's happy anticipation. Joe was handsome; he was a lot of fun. He knew how to make Susan happy and - unbeknownst to their mother - he also knew how to keep Susan in line. He was three years older than Susan and was both boy friend and father-figure, making up for the father she had hardly known. Many was the time that Susan had come home from a date with both heart and bottom throbbing from Joe's brand of discipline.
"There's a lot of love in that palm," Susan said of him - it was something both the girls often said of their mother.
When breakfast was over, and Pamela had reluctantly seen Susan on her way for one of her frequent Saturday morning shopping trips at the mall, Pamela retired to her room, with an uncomfortable feeling that very shortly it would be time to face the music.
She did not have to wait long.
Mom came in with a firm, authoritative step, and a look on her face that last night's session was about to be continued. She brought a thick pad of paper, some recently sharpened pencils, and a very solid looking eighteen inch wooden ruler.
She addressed her errant daughter firmly: "You will write two hundred times, 'I will report my school punishments to my mother immediately.'"
"No, Mom!" exclaimed Pamela, her face full of unpleasant anticipation, as she tried to mentally calculate how long this would take her. She was a slow writer. It would probably take all day.
Her mother set the paper and pencils down on her desk, but not the ruler. She turned toward her daughter, who, sensing what was coming, backed away from her, till her shoulder blades and scoured rump were pressed against the wallpaper near her bed.
"I'm going to make your task more challenging," her mother said. "Hold out your right hand."
For a moment Pamela hesitated. Light beamed through the window, illuminating the still-trim figure of the loving parent come to dispense justice. It was a beautiful day. She wished she could be outdoors in the sunlight. Her mother looked almost angelic in that light, but also very firm.
"Shall I count to three?" her mother demanded.
She vividly recalled Mom's methods of enforcing submission under punishment. The first time (not the last): Mom had come to her as she lay in bed, pretending to be asleep, hoping that her naughtiness would be overlooked at such a late hour. Mom had ordered: "Pamela, please turn over for your spanking and slide down your pajama pants." When Pamela did not immediately respond, Mom started to count: "One!" "Two!", pausing a second or two between each number. When she reached "Ten!" and Pamela still lay on her back, Mom left the room, and returned with a truly lethal hairbrush. Pamela quickly found herself turned and bared. Mom proceeded to apply the hairbrush to her daughter's bare buttocks until Pamela promised never, ever, to resist punishment again. And then Mom proceeded to administer - on a very sore bare bottom - the spanking she had started out to give.
Very reluctantly Pamela held out her hand, palm upwards.
Immediately Mom placed the ruler across the quivering outstretched fingers, at a slight diagonal, so it covered most of the palm and the end of the instrument touched the pad of her thumb.
"Fingers together! Raise that hand higher!"
It was horrible having to watch the careful preparation, knowing she would not only feel but also see the stroke in all its biting pain. At least with a bottom punishment Pamela's face was turned away. Now she would see everything!
Her eyes widened as the ruler was raised a full three feet above the trembling waiting palm.
"Don't you dare move that hand!"
CRACK! The ruler exploded against the soft tender flesh. Pamela squeaked in pain. Her eyes watered. Instinctively her reddened fingers bounded and curled so that her hand, though still raised, was now half cupped.
"Open up your palm!"
Again the ruler was raised and this time brought down more swiftly, bringing a louder protest from Pamela and leaving her with two red ruler prints slightly displaced from one another.
"Mom, please, it hurts!" Pamela pleaded as Mom lifted the ruler again.
After six scorching strokes, Pamela's fingers and palm were tingling. Though each stroke covered ample overlapping territory, each one had left a distinct sting and burn behind it, so she could still feel each individual bite of the ruler.
"Now your left hand, young lady," said her mother, and Pamela managed to get it out and up and watched through tear-blurred eyes as the ruler was raised again - and again - till she had received six scorchers on that hand as well.
But still Mom was not finished. "Hold out your right hand again," her mother said. "Hold it up and keep it up, or we'll start all over from the beginning," she warned her daughter.
Pamela's flaming right hand, that had received a brief respite while her left hand was punished, did not feel ready for what it was about to get. It quivered as she raised it into position. She clutched her right wrist with her smarting left fingers to try to hold it steady. Mom waited patiently, with the ruler at her side, until the proffered palm was ready. Then she raised the ruler high and opened fire. Pamela received twelve strokes. Unlike the first six, these were delivered in a nonstop volley. Pamela squealed and cried throughout the relentless barrage.
As Pamela sulked and weeped, her mother turned to her desk, arranging the paper and pencils, and adjusting the hardwood chair.
Pamela's rump still tingled from yesterday. Sitting in that chair would be a punishment itself, as mother and daughter both well knew.
"Take off your jeans," Mom said. Obediently and gingerly, Pamela reached for the fastenings. With the burn in her fingers, she had to be careful how she touched things.
"And your panties," said her mother. Then she turned her daughter round, lifted her blouse behind, and observed with satisfaction that the soft full cheeks were still pale pink from yesterday's ordeal.
"You will sit at this desk. You will not get up except to go to the bathroom. When you have finished the writing, you can get dressed and go downstairs." her mother instructed her. "If I come in and find any kind of padding or cushion between your fanny and this chair, I promise that you will be a very sorry young lady."
At first Pamela could barely hold a pencil in her hand. Somehow she managed to start writing. Her hand shook and the pencil moved unevenly. Her bare bottom squirmed in the hard wooden seat. She hoped the words were legible enough to satisfy her demanding parent.
It was seven o'clock, and she was tediously proceeding to line number 150 when she heard the doorbell ring downstairs. It was Joe, come for his date with Susan. She wondered if Joe would find reason to spank Susan tonight, and if she would be called upon again to soothe her sister's rumpled ego and rear. She wondered what it would be like to be spanked by a man - any man, but especially one as loving and handsome as Joe.
At seven-thirty (line number 163), mom brought her a simple but wholesome meal, which she attempted to eat at the same time she was writing.
At eight o'clock, she was at line number 170. The end was in sight - but she would barely be finished before bedtime. Her hindcheeks longed for a softer surface to press against and her hand felt cramped and strained. Downstairs the telephone rang, and she could her Mom answer it.
Mrs. Sprague was not surprised to hear Miss Skillings' voice on the other end of the line. Back when Susan had started in Miss Skillings' school - almost ten years ago - they had agreed that Miss Skillings would report any punishments that either of her daughter's received. They had also agreed that such reports would be about twenty-four hours after the fact, to give Susan and Pamela ample opportunity to confess.
"I paddled your daughter yesterday," Miss Skillings began, unconcealed satisfaction in her voice.
"I know," said the girl's mother.
"She admitted it?" inquired the school principal.
"Only after I saw the evidence. I had to spank her last night. And she's going to get a real thrashing tomorrow for not telling me sooner."
"So she got it bare?" the principal inquired. That was all she needed to launch into her standard campaign speech, with which Mrs. Sprague was already familiar, in favor of bare-bottom punishments at school.
Mrs. Sprague regarded this campaign with slightly mixed emotions. On the one hand, the girls needed discipline, and the harsher the better. But when it actually came to removing that last line of defence, and administering punishment to a backside that was not only squirming in anticipation but also naked, she sometimes felt that that was her own exclusive prerogative as a mother. She knew, for instance that Susan's boyfriend Joe often spanked, and she heartily approved. But if she ever discovered that he spanked bare, .. she shuddered at the thought - it would call for drastic measures - aimed both at Susan's love life and Susan's bottom.
Yet - Miss Skillings was very persuasive. She had almost enough parents' signatures to put her policy into practice. Mrs. Sprague hated to have the woman think she was soft and lenient.
She would have to think it over some more. For now, she needed to get back to the subject of Pamela. So she turned the conversation back to Pamela, and why she had been paddled. Mrs. Sprague fumed at the description of Pamela, caught in the locker room naked, belaboring the naked body of another student with a towel. And the other girl was being held down! How could Pamela do that? This required a severe punishment, one that would fit the crime!
That night as she lay in bed, sleeping on her stomach (although her rear had pretty much recovered), Pamela wondered to herself just how Mom would manage, without that paddle, to punish her "twice as hard" as at school. It was a subject that she tried very hard - and not very successfully - not to dwell on.
Breakfast was not as pleasant as it had been on the previous day. When she first got up, Mom told her she should shower but was not to change out of her pyjamas until after "our little session".
Her mother gave no hint of what was to come.
Susan sat down at the table very gingerly. She must have done something to displease Joe. Pamela wondered how Mom could fail to notice. Perhaps, she worried, her mother was preoccupied with how to make her own punishment severe enough.
Hardly a word was spoken at the breakfast table. Tension hung in the air. From time to time Pamela looked across at Susan, and her sister returned a quiet glance of sympathy. Mom kept moving back and forth between the table and the stove. Pamela was too embarrassed at the thought of what was coming to say anything to her, or even to look her in the face.
After breakfast, in the shower, Pamela tried to enjoy the feel of the warm water, set to needle jet flow, gently tingling her body. She felt soft and clean all over. When she glanced in the mirror afterwards, she saw that her buttocks were the color of ivory - not a hint of paddle or palm remained. She could think of nothing but the ordeal that lay ahead. She could not stop dreading how her backside would look and feel when her mother finished with it.
After breakfast, she waited - and waited.
"Mom, when are you going to..?" Pamela's voice trailed off. It was ten-thirty. She had been biting her nails, not daring to leave her room, anxiously awaiting the inevitable. Finally she couldn't stand the wait. She was at her mother's door, actually asking to be punished.
"Come in," said her mother. "I thought I'd let you anticipate for a while, but I guess it's been long enough." Pamela nervously entered.
"Take off your robe."
The girl obediently removed it and folded it over a chair. Then her eyes widened fearfully as she saw what was on her mother's bureau: two towels, of medium weight, that she might dry her face with. They were each intermediate in size between a bath towel and a hand towel. One was dry. The other was partially immersed in a bowl of steaming water.
Mom had decided to make the punishment fit the crime.
Pamela thought back to the towel fight she had been in just two days before.
Her mother observed her surprise and apprehension.
"Well, we are about to have our own version of the episode that brought on your school punishment the other day - except that this time I will be using the towel and you will be presenting your bottom to me."
Her mother picked up the dry towel. "And, unlike pretty Eleanor, you will - if you know what's good for you - stay in one place and not try to dart away." She motioned with her fingers for her daughter to turn around. "Bend over the bed, young lady, and lower your pyjama bottoms."
The girl hesitated, and thought of trying to plead. That towel, she knew, could raise a painful welt with a single snap if it was used effectively. But if it was not, she would only feel a gentle swipe. Her mother had never used a towel on her. Pamela wondered if she knew how to make it really hurt.
"I promise you that when I am through with you today, you will not be so eager to get into towel fights in the future," her mother said calmly.
In fearful resignation, Pamela turned toward the bed and fumbled with the drawstring of her pyjama pants. Slowly she lowered the single cotton covering. Her full cheeks bulged back nakedly.
"Mid thigh is low enough," said her mother.
She bent forward and placed her hands on the bed. The mattress gave an inch or so with her weight. She could see stress lines in the quilt. Behind, her pyjama top hung down so that it hid the dainty dimples at the top of her hips. Her mother stepped toward her and folded it up so that the small of her back was bare. "We'll have to remove this if it gets in the way," she remarked.
Then Mom stood back, grasped the towel firmly with her right hand, and aimed carefully. It had been years since the time - in her own adolescence - that she had used the towel on a cowering sneak of a classmate. She wondered if she would remember how to do it. With her left hand she gently clasped the business end - the end that, with luck, was about to nip her daughter's bottom.
Pamela's buttocks wobbled as the trembling girl shifted from foot to foot.
With a strong snap of her right wrist, the older woman made the towel bound forward in the air, as if it was a living thing seeking tender prey. An alternate jerk of the same wrist made the heavy cloth snap in upon itself, with an angry sound like the flap of a sail in a storm.
Pamela jumped in dismay, but the blow was short - spending its fury in the air, an inch or so short of her quivering left cheek.
Just a little closer, her mother thought to herself, as she watched her daughter's false-alarm trembles subside. But not too much closer, or it won't have any bite.
She drew the towel back again.
SNAP! This time the cloth exploded not in air, but on bare and vulnerable female flesh. Pamela shrieked. Both hands flew back and desperately tried to soothe the punished spot, in the center of her left buttock.
Mom watched in satisfaction - Pamela had really felt that one! She glanced at her watch and decided that her daughter could have one minute to recover before continuing.
"Uncover!" she ordered when the minute was over. Pamela's hands hesitantly returned to the bedspread. A small purple welt throbbed angrily on her white buttock.
"Turn the other cheek," her mother ordered with a faint trace of sarcasm, and Pamela submissively shifted her weight so her right bottomcheek bulged out slightly more than the left.
SNAP! This time the towel punished the right cheek. Again Pamela's hands flew back in distress. "Please, Mom, ..." she said in a tone of desperation, never finishing the sentence.
"Uncover!" was the only response, and the girl's hands hesitated for only a second or so, and then gave up their desperate attempts to soothe the intolerably throbbing smart.
SNAP! "OUCH!" The left cheek got it again, and Pamela lurched forward and then upwards, as if she had been shot. Her hands whipped around, as they had on both previous strokes, but her fingers touched the punished spot more gingerly this time.
Her mother stood back for a moment. Pamela glanced back nervously to see what she was doing. Her eyes were brimming full. A few tears - only a few - ran down her cheeks.
"Reach for the ceiling. Keep your legs together," ordered her mother.
Nervously Pamela obeyed. She did not dare do otherwise. Her mother was making her cooperate and participate in this punishment, to an extent that she seldom had been required to before. And this was a punishment in itself, in addition to the pain.
Pamela's body was stretched and taut. She could smell the nervous perspiration coating her wide-open underarms. She knew that her buttocks were obediently presented at their softest and fullest. Except for the three angry swelling places, the skin was still white and delicate.
Anticipating what was to come, the cheeks stayed in constant, bobbing motion, as if aware of how much tender surface there still was left to scorch.
The girl's stretch lifted not only her arms and hands but also kept the pyjama top well clear of the target area. Her dimples were exposed now, just beneath her hidden small of back.
Mom regarded her handiwork proudly. As this continued - and she was determined to prolong this punishment well past the point of desperation - she knew that she would have to strike ever more carefully. A blow on top of a weal might draw blood - something she promised herself to avoid at all costs.
She aimed for the center. Two birds with one stone, she thought to herself, as she watched the inner cheek-slopes rub each other nervously. She'll feel it in there, she thought.
She was standing too close. The towel never snapped at all, but instead thudded harmlessly against the waiting rump, provoking only a gentle moan of relief from the delinquent daughter.
But Mom was a fast learner, who seldom repeated a mistake.
SNAP! "No! OW!" The towel, almost as if it was alive, burrowed into Pamela's crevice at its fullest pout. For an instant the cheeks bounded open in a mad dash to escape, and then the girls hands rushed rearward in such haste that they clapped noisily against the frantically squirming fanny and it looked as if Pamela was trying to spank herself.
"Get back in position!" came her mother's order, "and remain there for the next two blows!"
Pamela, sniffling loudly, her cheeks (the ones on her face) now soaked with tears, was not sure she could obey. Why did her mother delight so in making her cooperate with this painful procedure?
"If you move between the next two, we'll have a hairbrush intermission," her mother promised, and Pamela shuddered.
Fortunately for her, the next two were delivered in quick succession, one on each side, on the exposed inner slopes, close to the site of the unforgettable inner-cheek smack.
But Oh-my-God they stung. Pamela started to wish that her mother was using the Senior Paddle. After the second one her hands went back again more slowly to rub - she really had slapped herself that last time.
"Uncover and hands up," her mother ordered again. "I'm going to give you another pair. Same hairbrush penalty if you don't stay in place.
SNAP! "Ooh! Ow!" The towel attacked hitherto unpunished flesh - on the quivering right outer flank-slope - so forcefully that the girl twisted with the blow, keeping her hands obediently raised but thrusting her left cheek aft in a gesture that - had it been to a boyfriend - would have been a punishable obscene invitation.
Which was precisely how her mother took it. SNAP! "Ow!" Against the lewdly outstretched summit. Why did it hurt so much there? rushed through her mind as her hands again returned to their rudely interrupted vain attempts to comfort her throbbing rear. Her mother was moving behind her again.
"All right," she said. "You don't have to keep stretching up." Pamela tried to relax, but she had a feeling that she would not appreciate this change.
"Pants off!" She was right. It sounded bad!
She let her pyjama pants slide down her legs and sloughed them off.
But why did they have to come off. Surely her mother wasn't going to use the towel in there?
Sometimes it seemed her mother could read her mind. "I want them off so that the target area will be prepared and ready in case you don't cooperate and I need to give you a penalty," she explained. "You see, you are now about to absorb four towel snaps without covering up."
"No!" Pamela protested. She glanced nervously behind her. Her mother had exchanged towels. The one she had in her hands now as wet and warm. Pamela had no idea how much this might hurt. And she had no idea if she could control her hands.
"You bottom has taken quite a bit, and it's going to get a lot more!" her mother continued, "So I won't use the hairbrush if you don't obey my instructions."
Pamela felt momentarily relieved at that.
"Instead I will give you another thigh-fry!"
Pamela's fleshy thighs reacted noticeably to the threat, rubbing against each other in anticipatory dismay. Vividly she remembered how - if the promised penalty was delivered - they would be wide-opened, as her mother's stinging palm crackled up and down, inside and front and back, till they burned as crimson as a hairbrushed bottom.
"Now crouch down, your chest flat on the mattress, and hold on to the far side of the bed," her mother ordered.
Fearfully Pamela obeyed this new instruction. She could feel the texture of the quilt with her nipples through the thin pyjama top, which was all that she now was wearing. Her face pressed against it too, and she knew that soon it would be soaked with her tears, just as it had been on Friday with her sister's. In this position, her legs were spread, thighs frightfully vulnerable, but worst of all her buttocks yawned open. Fortunately they were hefty enough that her mother could not see all the way to her dainty rear sphincter.
For a moment, her mother stood over her, the towel in her left hand as her right hand ran over the soft burning flesh, testing, appraising, deciding which places could best absorb more punishment without lasting harm. Pamela could feel the wet towel close, moistening her far left bare hip. Then her mother stood back.
SPLAT! "No! OW!" The towel stung her deep between her cheeks, low toward the base of her rear. She sobbed and cried, and her bottom squirmed desperately, as if it had a will of its own, trying to clench, but in that posture it could not hold itself shut for long.
SPLAT! "No! Please!" The towel struck the same place! While the rest of her body stayed immobile, her fatty-muscley yawning-clenching cheeks reacted with energy that she hardly knew she had.
SPLAT! "Please! Please!" She swore that this blow could not have been more than a millimeter higher than the last. She hands flew to her face, wiping at the streaming tears. Somehow she found the strength to thrust them forward again, instead of to her desperate derriere.
SPLAT! She was too weak to protest. Mercifully the last blow fell on "fresh ground," high on the right cheek. But it still hurt like hell. "Let's try for six this time," was her mother's order.
"Please, Mom, I can't" Pamela protested.
"Oh yes, you can! I promised you a real thrashing and that is what you are going to get!"
Unfortunately for Pamela, she couldn't! She made a valiant try, Her mother even helped - a bit - by letting her lie flat on the bed. In this position, her rear pouted temptingly upwards. The towel-blows, aimed from above, did not attempt to open the tightly clenched posterior, but instead were carefully distributed over the few places that were still pale and unblemished.
But blow number 5 was a scorcher! Pamela simply watched uncomprehendingly as her hands, with a will of their own, through no volition of hers, found their way in less than a second to her incredibly chastised rear.
But they did not stay there long!
"Turn over! On your back! Which thigh wants it first?"
"Neither one," Pamela groaned. As she obediently turned her body, even the soft quilt felt like fire on her rump. Soft goosebumps adorned the fatty flesh of her tender full thighs.
For her snotty response, she was rewarded with a double thigh fry - perhaps also because her mother decided, mercifully, that her bottom had had all that it could take.
Her mother had kept her promise to punish - twice as hard as the paddling at school. She was pleased with herself. She had been as strict as she had wanted to be. Pamela might not think so now, but in days to come she would be thankful for this discipline.
Two weeks later, unfortunate Pamela again had an audience with Miss Skillings. This time she had not been rough housing, but had accumulated an awesome count of demerits for a week of sloppy schoolwork.
Again Pamela was held down over the sturdy bench, this time with fashionable flair slacks lowered, as the paddle appraisingly patted her seat.
But now there was a difference! One that Pamela did not appreciate, though Miss Skillings and her assistant certainly did.
Pamela's full white cotton panties were not left to embrace her nervously trembling rear. They were drawn down to her thighs. Pamela's vulnerable soft bare buttocks shuddered, like a delicate white flower made of flesh, fluttering in a breeze. But they would not be pale white for long.
And even before the first paddle stroke fell, Pamela was thinking about her mother.