I wasn't given much chance to recover.
Mom forced me up off her lap and demanded, "Roland, you are next, young man!"
My buns throbbed and I rubbed them furiously.
Despite my own personal torment, I watched transfixed as Mom pulled down Uncle Roland's pants and put him over her lap - just like me.
Uncle Roland is 5-foot-9; Mom is 5-foot-10.
But with my uncle over her lap, Mom looked like she was nine feet tall!
I felt sorry for my butt, but nothing like the pity I felt for Uncle Roland's fanny.
God!
I realized that Uncle Roland must have been used to spankings from his older sister. No way would he have allowed himself - a college graduate - to be spanked like that.
Bare bottom! And in front of his niece!
I felt sorry for Uncle Roland, but I liked what I saw.
That afternoon, I got to experience both kinds of 'uncle spankings' - the uncle giving and the uncle receiving kind.
And as much as I liked the former, I loved the latter more.
Spanking the Babysitter at Denny's
"Have you ever spanked a babysitter before, Mr. Nash?" asked the 13-year-old.
"Why, no!" he chuckled, turning his head sideways briefly, to read the expression on Sissy Boston's face.
But in the dark, coupled with the glare of oncoming headlights, Howard Nash couldn't see the teen's face.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because Mrs. Nash seemed upset that I spanked the girls."
"Well, Sissy," he replied with a sigh, "it's always best to get permission to spank BEFORE you do the deed. I think that's what upset my wife. She agrees with me that the girls deserved what they got. It's just that spanking the twins is my job."
Secretly, Howard was pleased the spunky teen sitter had such a take-charge attitude. And 8-year-old Beth and Mary certainly deserved the spankings they got. But at 13 years, Sissy was only five years older.
"You're right, Mr. Nash. I overstepped my boundaries. What do you do to Beth and Mary when they cross a boundary?"
He chuckled. "I spank them - whenever I can get away with it."
"Mrs. Nash doesn't let you spank the girls as much as they need. Does she?"
"No, those girls are under-spanked. That's for sure!"
"Well, so am I," sighed Sissy. "Ever since Dad died..."
She didn't complete her sentence. They rode in silence.
"Hey, Mr. Nash! Look! It's a Denny's Restaurant. Let's stop!"
"Why?" asked Howard, obeying as he asked by flipping the turn signal.
"Because Denny's lets parents spank kids in the restrooms," replied Sissy as they came to a stop in the parking lot. "My dad used to spank me at Denny's all the time."
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this, Sissy."
"Just follow my lead, Mr. Nash," Sissy replied, opening her door. "Here, Mr. Nash, hold me tight by the upper arm. There! That's good. Now lead me through the door."
As Howard escorted Sissy by the arm to the Denny's entrance, she coached, "When we get inside, walk me up to the counter and order a cup of coffee. Then say, 'My daughter will have a cup of hot chocolate.' Then you escort me to the men's room."
"You want me to take you into the men's room?"
"Well, you can't very well go waltzing into the ladies room, can you?"
---oOo---
"I'll have a cup of coffee," said Howard to the waitress, squeezing Sissy's arm tightly. "My daughter will have a cup of hot chocolate. We'll be back shortly."
As Howard escorted her to the men's room, Sissy pleaded, "No, Daddy. Don't spank me. I'm too old."
Inside the men's room, Sissy giggled. "I bet everybody thinks you're my dad. Look! The handicap stall is empty. My dad always liked handicapped stalls, because of the extra room. The handicapped stall was Dad's favorite spanking spot."
Inside, Howard sat down. Sissy locked the stall door and reached under her tight skirt to pull down her panties.
"Sissy, I'm not comfortable with bare. Not at your age."
Sissy laughed. "Mr. Nash, I've been spanked on the bare behind since before I can remember. I'm not changing now!"
Sissy pulled up her skirt and lay down, well before Mr. Nash could object.
"Okay, Mr. Nash. Go ahead and spank me. And don't you dare stop till I've had a good, long cry. Okay, I'm ready. Any time."
"Well," replied Mr. Nash, "if you would just stop chattering for a second..."
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Since Sissy asked for a good, sound spanking and a long cry afterwards, Mr. Nash was more than happy to oblige."
When Sissy finally stopped crying, she stood, pulled up her panties, and thanked her employer.
"I haven't had a good, hard spanking in years," she sniffled. "That's something I've been missing in my life."
At the counter, coffee and hot chocolate awaited the strict 'father' and the well-punished 'daughter'.
The waitress, a woman in her 50s wearing too much make-up, leaned over the counter and told Mr. Nash, "Most parents don't know that we have a company policy that's spanking friendly. Children and even teens can be spanked in any Denny's restaurant anywhere."
"I wasn't aware of that," said Mr. Nash.
"I had to tell him," said Sissy with a slight smile.
"I thought you didn't want a spanking," said the waitress.
"What makes you say that?"
"Because," the waitress reminded the teen, "you said 'Daddy, please don't spank me' as he was leading you to the restroom."
"Oh, that!" laughed Sissy. "I always feel that way right before a spanking. But afterwards, I always realize that Daddy spanks me for my own good. I actually appreciate that he's so strict with me."
The waitress nodded. "My stepfather whipped me till I was almost 18. Hurt my butt, but never did me no harm, near as I can tell."
"Maybe Daddy will spank me here again someday," said Sissy with a mischievous smile on her lips. "It's hard to get spanked at home. Mom doesn't approve."
The waitress nodded sympathetically. And she wasn't terribly surprised the following Saturday night when the same father escorted the same daughter into the restaurant.
"I'd like a cup of coffee," he told the waitress.
"And your daughter will have a cup of hot chocolate," smiled the waitress. "I'll have those cups on the counter. Now you two go take care of that spanking!"
You Got Mail!
Odd, thought Uncle Arnold as he passed the open door to his niece's bedroom. She usually keeps her door shut.
The computer was on; Uncle Arnold could tell by the glowing Apple icon, even though the screen was dark.
How many times have I told her? he asked himself as he clicked the 'return' key and the screen came to life.
Uncle Arnold knew how much electricity all these idle devices consumed. As the engineer in charge of energy conservation at the university where he worked, wasting electricity was a mortal sin.
"She's even left it connected to AOL!" he exclaimed out loud as the telltale blue-and-white screen display appeared.
The screen showed an e-mail - already open - with the 'Subject' box declaring, "RE: RE: RE: I got spanked!"
Somebody named "Candi," with the e-mail address of "SuperBadBrat123@..." had sent an e-mail to Heather, Arnold's niece.
The e-mail was the last in a series of exchanges, Arnold realized as he scrolled down.
"You are SO lucky he thinks you're too big," Candi had typed. "My stepdad thinks I am JUST RIGHT & so I get spanked even tho' I'm a year older than you. My butt is SO SORE!"
Arnold felt his anger rising as he read a previous reply from Heather.
"Unc Arn has permission while Im on vacation here w-him but he doesn't do it. I kno I can get away with lots cuz he wont do big girl my age. Little does he no whats going on w-teenagers nowadays. He has no idea how much teen parents spank these daze. Lets keep it secret!"
"Uncle Arnold! What do you think you're doing? That's MY com
puter and you've no right to sneak around looking at MY stuff!"
Heather stood in the doorway, her hands on her tiny hips. Her surly tone grated like the proverbial fingernails on a chalkboard.
The angry teen approached her uncle, her face livid, and attempted to push him away. At 6-foot-4, Arnold found his niece's attempt amusing. Not five feet tall - and not quite 90 pounds - Heather couldn't budge her muscular uncle.
Arnold chuckled and grabbed the girl's wrists in his massive hands, immobilizing her.
In her frustration, Heather exploded. "You asshole!"
Now it was Arnold who became livid, his face glowing.
Realizing the severity of her error, Heather's face turned instantly from an angry red to a cold, white pallor.
"Uncle Arnold, I didn't mean it! That word just sorta popped out!"
"That's not the only thing that's going to 'pop out,' young lady!" he exclaimed as he grabbed her tightly by the upper arm, sat down on her desk chair, and pulled her over his lap.
With a forceful tug, he pulled up her skirt and jerked down her panties.
"Oh, look!" he mocked. "Look what just popped out of Heather's panties! A bare bottom. The only thing is, this is such a pale, white bottom. No color at all."
Indeed, Heather's bottom seemed like soft ivory, compared to the dark, rich tan of her back and thighs.
"Let's see if we can fix that, shall we?" he declared as he patted her upturned fanny.
"Please, Uncle Arnie! I'm too OLD for this! I'm 13."
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
"Whaaa-aaa-aahhHH" wailed Heather, feeling her uncle's palm for the first time - experiencing the sensation of her first-ever bare-bottom spanking.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
Heather never imagined her uncle would be so thorough.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
"Whaaa-aaa-aahhHH"
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
When Heather's lithe body finally went completely limp in a gesture of unconditional surrender, when her sobs became gasps from hyperventilation, Uncle Arnold decided that his teenage niece had been spanked enough.
"Let that be a lesson to you, Heather," he declared as she sat on his lap, clinging to him like a spanked 5-year-old. "Watch your mouth. And don't waste electricity. I wouldn't have seen your e-mails if you hadn't had your computer wasting electricity in the 'sleep' mode."
"Y-y-yes, Uncle Arnold."
He left the girl to sniffle under her covers, closing the bedroom door behind him.
When her composure permitted, Heather went to her computer and fired off a quick e-mail to Candi.
Hi Candi,
Guess what? Unc Arn was sneaking round my room & saw our e-mails. I called him asshole and he SPANKED me! I guess I'm gonna be just another spankt teen from now on. I STILL think Unk Arn's a asshole tho.
Bye, Heather
Once she sent the e-mail, she logged off AOL and logged onto MSN. Typing in the username and password, she received the e-mail from herself. She quickly typed a reply.
Hi Heather,
Sory you got spanked. Bare? Paddled? My step uses a ping-pong thingy on mine. I want DETAILS girl! B careful yer Unk doesn't read this email or your but is dead meat fer sure.
Sory again, Candi
Heather logged out and returned to AOL. The reply from "Candi" was waiting for her. Without closing AOL, she put her Mac in the 'sleep' mode.
She wiggled into her swimsuit, making hissing sounds between her teeth as the tight fabric squeezed her well-spanked buns.
Her mother thought Heather had returned these tiny swatches of yellow fabric to the store because the suit was "too revealing." Uncle Arnold had seen her in it, but he hadn't said anything. But she thought she caught him "eyeing" her miniscule top once and wished she had more to show off.
In the mirror, Heather could see her uncle's palm prints above and below the hem.
As she left for the backyard pool, she left her door partially open. She would dive into the water and then sunbathe.
Uncle Arnold was a bit controlling, so he would probably check on her computer again, especially since she'd left her bedroom door ajar. No doubt, he would notice the glowing Apple icon and hit the 'return' key. He would probably read the most recent e-mails and come looking for her.
After swimming a few laps, Heather stretched out on the chaise lounge next to the ping-pong table.
When her angry uncle came looking for her, perhaps he would see the paddles and decide to give his niece a spanking to remember.
But even if he didn't make the connection so carefully '"seeded' in the e-mail from 'Candi', Heather could look forward to a spanking on her wet bottom.
An interesting sensation, no doubt! she smiled to herself, just as her uncle hollered from somewhere inside the house.
"Heather Jean Wilcox, where are you??"
"Out by the pool, Uncle Arnie. Right by the ping-pong table. You want me for something?"
"Yes, indeed!" he thundered.
When Uncle Arnold opened the sliding glass door, his niece stood in her skimpy yellow bikini at the closer end of the ping-pong table, paddle in hand, looking back over her shoulder. Her skimpily clad derriere broadcast the consequences of her last e-mail exchange - a red alert.
"Grab a paddle, Uncle Arnie! Bet I can beat you."
"Yes, I'll grab a paddle, Heather. But you're the one who's going to get the beating!"
"I don't care," she smiled, twitching her behind as she tried to cover some of it with the wet yellow fabric, pretending not to notice his angry words, the double entendre, or his red face. "It's all just a big game to me."
Old-Fashion Motivation
"Well, what did your mother say?" asked Mrs. Kimberly as she leaned against the counter while I filled the mop bucket in the kitchen sink.
I walk to the Kimberly's house once a week to help with household chores. Mrs. Kimberly had a mild stroke last winter and isn't able to handle all the housework herself.
It's a 20-minute walk from our house, but Mr. and Mrs. Kimberly pay me well for my services.
"Of course Mom was disappointed," I sighed, standing barefoot in the kitchen. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I used to be such a good student."
"I know the matter!" she said with a slight slur. "Boys! Karen had same problem when she 13."
"Well," I said, adding pine-scented detergent to the mop water, "she must have gotten over it somehow. She's on the dean's list at college now."
In fact, I wore the college sweatshirt that Karen gave me last Christmas. Karen, my former babysitter, was my role model. I so much wanted to go to the same college as Karen, although she would graduate well before I would arrive.
"Mr. Kimberly cured her," said Mrs. Kimberly from her chair as I mopped the floor. "Old fashion."
"Well," I sighed, "I'd go for any cure right now. I simply can't afford another report card like that last one."
Mrs. Kimberly got up awkwardly, dragging her left leg slightly as she walked across the floor.
Calling into the living room where the TV blared, she called, "Joseph!"
---oOo---
"Really?" I asked. "At 13?"
Even though he could speak clearly, Joseph Kimberly was a man of few words.
He nodded.
"Works!" croaked Mrs. Kimberly, leaning against the doorframe. "Really."
"And you want these down?"
He nodded again.
I unbuttoned the straps that held up the bib of my denim overalls. They dropped right to the floor, since I'm pretty skinny.
I wasn't sure what to do. Hesitantly, I stepped out of the crumpled denim on the floor and stood before Mr. Kimberly.
I wasn't used to all this formality. We lost Dad when I was four, so I barely remember him. Mom wasn't especially strict, but she wasn't above punishing me in a spontaneous way from time to time.
But since I'm so tall, it's been a long time.
"So you used this one just for report cards?
" I asked him nervously.
He nodded and reached out, pulling me over.
Draped awkwardly and staring at the bedroom floor, I felt a warning tug.
"What about these?" he asked his wife.
"Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Kimberly. "Down."
"What about her mother?"
"I am here," Mrs. Kimberly reassured her husband.
Nevertheless, I gasped as Mr. Kimberly followed through. My cheeks blushed. Both sets! Mom never did me this way...
Whap! Whap! Whap!
No scolding or nothing...
Whap! Whap! Whap!
Just wood against skin...
Whap! Whap! Whap!
No wonder Karen was such a good student...
Whap! Whap! Whap!
"Bwa-aaa-aaa-ahh-HHH!"
Whap! Whap! Whap!
I vowed that this would be my last report card with anything below a 'B'. This is how it works. If I don't like being here, Mr. Kimberly had explained, I better fix my report card next time...
Whap! Whap! Whap!
I wanted to pledge my newfound and heartfelt commitment to academic excellence to Mr. and Mrs. Kimberly then and there, but I couldn't...
Whap! Whap! Whap!
"Wha-aaa-aaa-ahh-HHH!"
Whap! Whap! Whap!
I had nothing coherent to say and - even though I'd learned my lesson and had packed away enough motivation in my muscle memory to last me an entire academic year - Mr. and Mrs. Kimberly had their own sense of what I required...
Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap...
---oOo---
Afterwards, Mrs. Kimberly led me back to the kitchen as if nothing had happened.
I sniffled as I mopped, but Mrs. Kimberly spoke to me in her broken way about nothing in particular. She never mentioned anything about what had just happened - about Mr. Kimberly's old-fashion technique for improving report cards.
"Ms. Supple still counselor?" Mrs. Kimberly asked me later as I cleaned the toilet.
"Yes," I replied. "She's still at our school."
"Ms. Supple gives weekly reports," said Mrs. Kimberly.
"Reports?" I asked, gritty Comet all over my yellow rubber gloves. "What kind of reports?"
The Spanking of Teenage Daughters - Book Two Page 8