The Spanking of Teenage Daughters - Book One

by Grace Brackenridge

  Now I'm sweating all over but satisfied... And I'm not grounded! I pick up the phone and dial Sheila, still breathing heavily.

  "Hello?"

  "Why did I ever listen to you?" I demand.

  Sheila giggles. "It's hot, isn't it? Especially with stepdads. Well?"

  "Yeah," I confess. "I did it, just like you said I would."

  "See? You should listen to me."

  Test Case

  "Are you sure you're okay?" asks my mother, her face pinched with worry.

  "Margaret," replies my father, putting his arms around my shoulder, "Grace needs our support right now. Not our fears and doubts."

  I hear the laughs and the pounding of feet up and down the bleachers, as the good students of Lyndon Johnson High School take their seats.

  Not much longer now...

  Soon all this will be behind me...

  My blue nylon gym shorts are too tight, digging uncomfortably into my crotch and between the crack that defines the hemispheres of my bottom. I wear a plain white cotton blouse with short sleeves, buttoned up to the collar.

  "The TV people are here!" says Mom, unable to hide her excitement as she parts the curtain to look out on the stage in front. "You're going to be on TV, Grace!"

  "Now Margaret," says Dad. "This isn't about making a celebrity out of Grace. We're testing the law."

  "You know, Dr. Brackenridge," says Mr. Bruster with a sigh, "I kinda hope y'all win in the end. I came here to coach football, not whup some skinny little girl on the butt."

  I look at the 'Board of Education' in his hand and shudder. A behemoth of an implement nearly a half-inch thick, it measures 30 inches by 8 inches. The blade is punctured by rows and rows of holes. This, according to the news accounts, allows the paddle to swing with greater velocity. Further, the skin of the buttocks is extruded into the holes, rupturing the capillaries and leaving crescent bruises.

  ---oOo---

  "Mr. Bruster," I had said. "I believe this is a marijuana seed. I found it in my backpack. I don't know how it got there."

  My dad was there and so was the news crew from Channel 10.

  "I will have this inspected," said Mr. Bruster awkwardly, more nervous than I in front of the camera. "How old are you, Miss Brackenridge?"

  "Seventeen, Sir."

  "If this is marijuana, I must follow the policy of the school board," said Mr. Bruster awkwardly. "You are a minor, Grace, and subject to disciplinary actions appropriate for a minor."

  I nodded and then added, "Yes, Sir, I understand."

  The results came back from the crime lab in about a week. Of course it was a marijuana seed.

  So, of course, Mr. Bruster was obligated to call an all-school assembly under the school's zero-tolerance policy.

  Two days before the assembly, Mr. Bruster requested a 30-day delay. My 18th birthday was only 20 days away. As an adult, I couldn't be punished that way.

  The attorney from the ACLU sent a letter protesting the delay to the school board, pointing out that all corporal punishment had to be administered in a 'timely manner,' according to existing board policy.

  How odd!

  The school board directed Mr. Bruster to proceed. They also set aside a pot of money for Mr. Bruster's legal expenses, in case he was sued individually.

  ---oOo---

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Bruster," I whisper, standing next to him while the TV crew set up their lights and cameras.

  "You and me both, Gracie," says the tall black man, a former football hero at this very same high school, right around the time it was first integrated. "We're just the second stringers in this game. I'm sorry, too. You know, for what has to happen."

  "Yeah, me too." I try to keep my voice steady, but I am on the verge of tears.

  "There's no shame in crying," he says.

  "I hear you're real good, Mr. Bruster. I hear everybody cries."

  He chuckles. "Let's go, girl!"

  On the stage, I do all the things I was told: Don't look at the kids in the audience... Tune out their cruel taunts... Don't look at the camera....

  I'm shoeless, so I place the soles of my crew socks on the foot-shaped markings on the stage floor, my legs about two feet apart. The chair has a low back, which I bend over easily, resting my tummy on the roll of terrycloth wrapped around the top crosspiece of the back of the chair.

  I grip the front lip of the chair seat, the fabric of my gym shorts stretched tight across my buttocks. I don't even hear the words that Mr. Bruster reads. I know the zero-tolerance policy backward and forward. I've listened for weeks while dad and the ACLU lawyer talked about it.

  I don't listen to the catcalls.

  "Brace yourself, girl!"

  WHAP! WHAP!

  I gasp.

  WHAP! WHAP!

  I squeal but I don't let go...

  WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

  I wail but I hang on...

  WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

  When Mr. Bruster finishes delivering a dozen strokes, the school nurse helps me walk off the stage. I'm sobbing, my hands covering my face. Everybody's laughing at me.

  In her office, the nurse inspects me. At the edge of campus, she reads a formal statement to the media, saying that she is recommending that I seek a medical exam from a physician. No surprises. All of this was planned beforehand.

  At the hospital, Dr. Brenda Waverly - a colleague of my father - gives me a physical. Afterwards, she steps to the hospital parking lot to read a statement. She reports to the assembled media that I received severe and significant injuries as a result of the paddling I had received that afternoon at Lyndon Johnson High School.

  "No," she says in response to a question, "her tailbone is not broken. But the bruising is significant. Similar to a 10-foot fall and landing on the buttocks. I will file a complaint of child abuse against Principal Robert Bruster and the school district."

  ---oOo---

  "I'm proud of you, Grace," my father says on the ride home.

  Dr. Waverly gave me an inflatable donut cushion to sit on till I feel better. I sit on it now in the back seat, my bottom beginning to throb. Dr. Waverly also rubbed a local anesthetic all over the bruises, but it's wearing off.

  "Well, just think!" says Mom. "You get to watch yourself on TV tonight."

  ---oOo---

  "I saw you on TV! Mr. Bruster whupped you something powerful!"

  Everybody has something to say to me.

  "He was just doing his job," I reply, walking past.

  It's a week later and I'm back in school.

  I head to the Principal's office with my medical excuse. Mr. Bruster welcomes me inside.

  "You okay?" he asks.

  "It turned really purple for a couple of days," I shrug. "But no bones broke."

  "I worry about you skinny-ass white girls," he sighs. "I tried to hit you low."

  "I know."

  "Well, did you know the paddle was invented to punish slaves?" Mr. Bruster asks me. "It doesn't leave marks like the whip or the cane."

  "Well, you should have seen my butt!" I blurt out and then blush.

  "I'm sorry for that."

  "You had to," I reply. "But about the paddle and slaves, how do you feel about that?"

  He shrugs. "Not good. Like I said, I want to coach football. Not hit kids."

  "My parents never punish me that way."

  Mr. Bruster raises his eyebrow. "Never? So this is your first?"

  I nod.

  "Well, maybe your sacrifice will make things safer for the kids who follow."

  ---oOo---

  "Mr. Bruster, you probably don't remember me," I say, extending my hand. "It's been a long time. I'm Grace Brackenridge."

  His short curly hair is graying and he stands slowly.

  "Gracie Brackenridge! How can I forget?"

  He shakes my hand warmly. We sit, facing each other across his desk.

  "You lost your drawl," observes the principal.

  "Yes," I reply. "I went to college in Californi
a. I'm a psychologist, practicing in Fresno."

  "I hear Fresno is almost as hot and mean-spirited as San Antonio."

  I shrug. "Still, Fresno is not in Texas. That helps."

  "You don't have good feelings about Texas, do you?"

  "Well, I only lived here my junior and senior year in high school," I reply.

  "And how about me, Grace? Or should I say, Dr. Brackenridge?"

  "I like you, Mr. Bruster. I never felt you derived any pleasure from hurting me."

  He shakes his head, his eyes watering. "No, I never like it. It's a chore that comes with the job."

  "I had gone to college and started my practice," I say, changing the subject slightly, "by the time the courts finally decided."

  "I always hoped y'all would win in the end."

  "Well, we didn't," I state flatly.

  The pause lingers.

  "You still paddle students, Mr. Bruster?"

  "Just the males," he chuckles. "We have the girl's track coach to paddle the females. I guess they figure that Phys Ed coaches are somehow best suited for that kind of chore."

  "That time you hit me was almost 20 years ago," I reply. "I'd hoped that things would have changed by now."

  Mr. Bruster laughs.

  "This is Texas, girl!" he chuckles. "Traditions die slowly. But maybe someday. Maybe before I retire."

  "Yes," I reply, standing and extending my hand. "Maybe someday."

  Diversion Program

  "Daddy," I said, sitting on the arm of his big brown chair, "I got an idea."

  It was Saturday morning. Mom had gone shopping, leaving Daddy to supervise.

  "You're supposed to be in your room, Grace."

  "I know, I know," I said irritably. "I'm grounded for the whole weekend. I know the rules."

  "Then why aren't you in your room?"

  "Because, Daddy, I wanted to talk to you about a diversion program. Something instead of grounding."

  I told Daddy what Mr. Williams did to Sheila.

  "And Sheila did the same thing as me," I reminded Daddy. "She and her dad took care of it last night. She texted me."

  "You shouldn't be texting," Dad scolded. "Besides, don't you think 15 is a bit old for something like that?"

  "Mr. Williams didn't think so," I retorted. "And Sheila is six months older than me."

  "Why did you wait till your mother went shopping to spring this on me?"

  "Cuz you listen to reason. With Mom, it's like talking to a brick wall."

  Daddy nodded slightly. He knew exactly what I was talking about.

  ---oOo---

  "But shouldn't we ask Mom about it first?" I asked, taking off my flip-flops and then my summer shorts. "What if she says no?"

  Only 10 minutes had elapsed since I made my suggestion. But here I was, in my bedroom, getting undressed.

  "This will make a better impression," Daddy insisted. "Your mother will like the idea that you suggested this. She'll like the idea you submitted to one without any strings attached."

  On the bed, Daddy sat with my old friend, Mister Bopper, on his lap. After a decade of distinguished service as part of their parenting toolbox, Mom and Daddy had retired Mister Bopper on my 12th birthday. For sentimental reasons, I kept Mister Bopper in the back of my closet. And now Mister Bopper was back for an encore - at my request.

  "Daddy, you know Mr. Williams let Sheila keep her panties on..."

  Daddy just smiled, shook his head, and patted his lap. After he put me in position, Daddy stretched the elastic band extra tight.

  "Ouch!" I exclaimed when he let it snap, exposing my bottom.

  Whatever discomfort I experienced from the nip of that elastic snap soon disappeared into a roiling tide pool of red-hot pain, as Daddy made Mister Bopper fly up and down at the speed of light - 186,000 strokes per second.

  Or so it seemed.

  After eons roughly equal to the Jurassic Era - the 62 million years when the dinosaurs roamed the earth - Daddy brought the first spanking of my teenage years to an end. My butt was spanked to a fuzzy numbness. The throbbing sensation seemed to pulse deep in my bones - not in the muscle and fat at all.

  Still sobbing, I heard the automatic garage door opening with a loud rattle. Mom was home.

  ---oOo---

  I couldn't figure out what was going on downstairs.

  Mom had been home for hours, yet nobody had come to release me from my bedroom. I was too scared of the consequences to go investigate.

  Finally, I heard a knock on the door.

  "Come in?" I replied, unsure what to expect.

  Daddy opened the door awkwardly, balancing a tray with my dinner on it.

  "What took you so long?" I demanded. "And how come I have to eat dinner in bed? Didn't you tell Mom about our diversion program?"

  "Eat your dinner," said Daddy, sitting at the foot of my bed.

  I ate in silence, gobbling my food, feeling angry and hungry.

  Okay," I said as I ate the last of my mac and cheese, "what did Mom say?"

  "Well, the good news is," Daddy replied, "your mother agrees that we retired your childhood companion too soon..."

  He pointed to Mister Bopper, which lay next to my pillow on the bed.

  ---oOo---

  As a preteen, I used to 'cuddle' with my little pink paddle after a ride over Daddy's lap. I used to pretend that Mister Bopper could talk and, afterwards, he always told me how sorry he was for what happened to my poor, battered bottom. And I always forgave Mister Bopper, because he was just doing his job. I felt the same way about Daddy, who wielded Mister Bopper 95% of the time. Daddy only followed orders from Mom.

  ---oOo---

  "So we're going to use Mister Bopper from now on?" I said excitedly.

  Daddy smiled and nodded.

  "So I'm not grounded anymore?"

  "That's a bit more complicated," said Daddy. "Your mother still feels that grounding is a good way to get the message through. So we compromised."

  "Well, what's the compromise?"

  "You're still grounded," replied Daddy with a sigh. "Mister Bopper is just something a little extra."

  "Extra! No fair!"

  "I know it seems unfair," Daddy shrugged. "But you know how your mother is. You want to hand me Mister Bopper?"

  "What for?"

  "Your mother thinks that once in the morning and once again at bedtime will make the lesson stick," Daddy replied.

  "Tomorrow too?" I whined.

  "Yes, first thing in the morning. Another at bedtime."

  "No fair!" I whined. "I won't do it, Daddy. I won't!"

  "Now, Grace. You've always been a good girl at times like this. When you were little, I used to brag to the other dads how easy you were to discipline. They all wanted their little girls to act like you."

  "Well, I still think it's unfair," I grumbled. "But I guess I got myself to blame."

  I put the tray aside and handed Mister Bopper to Daddy. As I took The Position over his lap, I told Daddy, "I really thought getting it on the bare bottom would be embarrassing. But it feels the same as when I was 11."

  With that, Daddy let the elastic band snap below my cheeks.

  Permission to Spank Never Dies

  "Just for future reference," Mom says into the phone, "we don't spank Grace anymore. No, not since she turned 12. Two years ago."

  She pauses to listen. "Yes, they do grow up fast, don't they? What, angry? Why of course not! I'm sure it didn't do Grace any harm."

  Covering the mouthpiece, Mom says, "Grace, I want you to tell Mr. Henderson there's no hard feelings."

  "Mom!"

  "Grace, don't act like a spoiled brat. That just reinforces Mr. Henderson's negative opinion of you."

  "Well, what am I supposed to say? Thanks for the spanking, Mr. Henderson?"

  Mom just shakes her head. "Just say you understand his position. And apologize for your language."

  "I already did."

  "Then apologize again." Mom hands me the phone.

&n
bsp; "Hello, Mr. Henderson." My voice is flat, bordering on insolence.

  "Hi, Grace," says the voice on the line. "Look, I hope there aren't any hard feelings about this. I just treated you the way I treat my own daughter."

  In my mind, I'm thinking: Your STEPdaughter ... Who hates your guts...

  Into the phone I say, "No, I understand. I apologize for the foul language."

  He laughs. "Well, you got off easy. I could have washed your mouth out with soap, too."

  I grit my teeth. I take a deep breath and exhale. "Thank you for not doing that."

  Mom takes the phone back and makes small talk for a minute or so.

  "No, Sir, no problem at all. You did the right thing. Goodbye, Mr. Henderson."

  "You did the right thing," I say, mocking Mom's sweet, cheerful voice. "He pulled my jeans and panties down, Mom. He spanked me with a ping-pong paddle."

  "Now, Grace, we did give Mr. and Mrs. Henderson permission to spank."

  "But that was when I was seven years old and I went to Disneyland with Stephanie. And why would you ask to spank somebody's child on a trip to Disneyland anyway?"

  Apparently," sniffs Mom, "you two needed it."

  In fact, Stephanie and I got spanked three times on that trip.

  "Technically speaking," Mom notes, "we never took back spanking permission."

  "But Mom, that was half a lifetime ago. I can't believe you aren't furious with Mr. Henderson."

  "What's all this commotion?" asks Dad, walking into the kitchen.

  "Apparently, Stephanie and Grace were yakking out in our backyard," explains Mom. "Grace used some foul language and Mr. Henderson hears it on the other side of the fence. He calls the girls over to his side, thinking it was Stephanie."

  I interrupt. "So I try to explain that it wasn't Stephanie, 'cuz she's scared he's gonna spank her. I tell him it's me."