Oh To Be A Kid Again
By Al Purvis
"Oh, to be a kid again," my mom likes to say. It used to drive me crazy when I was a teenager. That was the worst time of my life. Well, the second worst time of my life.
The worse time of my life came when I was thirty-three. The company I worked for relocated to another State and I couldn't. I wanted to. My husband George and I could finally get away from our hometown, but we owned our house and George made more money at his job and he had better promotional opportunities.
I didn't adapt to job seeking very well. I felt like a hooker swinging my purse every time I had to ask someone to hire me. My mother's constant nagging didn't help. She raised me without a husband to support her so she thought I should consider myself lucky to have George to take care of me, and no ungrateful daughter to be responsible for.
George thought I ought to enjoy the time off, do volunteer work, whatever. I really resented his attitude and we started to argue frequently for the first time in our eight year marriage, which didn't look like it was going to make it to nine.
I did try out for a part in a play at our community Little Theatre, but I didn't get it. I got another part I hadn't tried out for, the part of a teenage girl. I was embarrassed, but I couldn't think of a way to bow out gracefully. For my costume, I borrowed some schoolgirl clothes from my thirteen year old cousin, Gwen. I am petite and Gwen is an full sized little girl. With my hair braided everyone thought I really looked like a teenage girl in Gwen's clothes.
After the play, everyone went to the cast party in costume. I really felt like a bit player sitting around in little girl clothes, right down to cotton kid panties, with no make-up and my hair up in braids. I sulked and sucked champagne until I couldn't see straight. George and I didn't get home until after two in the morning. Then we had a Hell-roaring fight. I can't remember what frivolous faux pas set me off, but I went berserk and started throwing dishes at George. That was a mistake. George had had enough. He tucked me under his arm, lifted the back of Gwen's pleated skirt, and spanked the seat of my lollipops just as though I were the terrible teenybopper I looked and acted like. I hadn't been spanked in twenty years and I would never have suspected how hard George's hand would feel. I had never thought about it. I struggled with all my might, but he had no difficulty holding me right where he wanted me and spanking me right where he thought it would do me the most good. I screamed in frustration and squealed from the pain. To add to my embarrassment, I remembered the windows were open so I knew I would wake the neighbors and they would know from the smacking and shrieking that good old George was finally giving that spoiled little snot Anita the spanking she so richly deserved. I didn't have long to blush about the neighbors though because very soon I could only think about those stinging spanks on my smarting seat. Before George finished paddling my panties he had me wailing and wagging my tail and stomping my little feet. Then he stood me up and watched me bawl and rub my bottom with both hands. He dusted his palms together with a self-satisfied smirk. The smug son-of-a-bitch! I charged out the front door and stumbled down the block blubbering and rubbing my rump. I didn't know where I was going, but it was going to be as far away from George and this town as possible. I got to the corner before I realized I had left without my purse. I paused and pondered returning for it, but George might not let me leave. I couldn't go back for my car, since the keys were in my purse. I wasn't doing my most rational thinking, but I thought I just couldn't face George right then, so I kept walking. Two blocks later I realized I was tripping along the street in the wee small hours of the morning dressed like a junior high school student, braids and all, fondling and exposing the back of my little girl panties. I pulled my hands away from the seat of my agony and let the back of Gwen's little wool skirt fall down. Another two blocks and I reached the highway, the road out of here. I could hitch a ride to Springfield, the closest city, and call my mom ... no, George would call her looking for me ... call my bank, and have them wire me getaway money. In any other frame of mind I would never has considered hitchhiking.
Right on cue, a Cadillac Seville with a Florida license plate pulled over and a kindly old gentleman asked me where I was going. I stepped up to the open window and saw he was bald, with lots of hair on his body, wearing a tank top, shorts, and leather sandals. He looked at me concerned.
"What's a kid your age doing out this time of night?" he asked.
"My car broke down and I'm trying to get back to Springfield," I lied, trying not to breath champagne fumes into his face.
"You gotta driver's license?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, patting the side of my thick skirt as though I had a pocket. It was only half a lie. Of course I have a driver's license. I just didn't have it with me.
"I been drivin' all night," he told me. "You mind drivin' to Springfield?"
"No problem," I said as I walked around the car and he slid over.
I adjusted the well-padded power seat several ways, trying to find the most comfortable way to sit on my own sore seat. He reclined the passenger seat and got comfortable.
"Got a cigarette?" I asked him, as I pulled onto the highway.
"Don't smoke," he mumbled, "you shouldn't either ... about the same age as my granddaughter ... Rachael ..." He fell asleep.
I saw a pack of gum sticking out of the ashtray, so I helped myself.
The big Cadillac was smooth and quiet so I didn't notice that I was imperceptibly increasing the speed as I thought about all the places I would go now that I wasn't tied down by George ... and my mom ... and their town ....
Suddenly, I noticed the flashing red and blue lights behind me. I glanced down at the speedometer and saw I was going 92 mile per hour. Crap! The only time I've ever driven without my driver's license and I get caught for speeding before I've gone twenty miles. I eased the Cadillac to a halt on the shoulder so gently that the old man never missed a snore. I lowered the driver's side window as a tired young deputy sheriff strolled up with a flashlight in his hand. He flashed the light in my eyes and then on the old man. He whispered to me, "May I see your driver's license, Miss?"
I fumbled with my imaginary skirt pocket and gave an Academy Award performance, trying not to breath alcohol fumes on the deputy. "Oh no!" I whispered. "I left my license in my blue jeans!"
The officer flashed the light on the old man again and asked me, "Do you know this man?"
"Do I know ... Of course I know him. He's my grandfather," I lied.
"Oh yeah," the suspicious young deputy sheriff said. Then he asked me, "What's your name?"
"Rachael," I shot right back.
"Rachael what?" he asked.
I was saved the trouble of further fabrication by the old man, who woke suddenly and interrupted, "Wha! What's goin' on?"
"What's your granddaughter's name?" the deputy asked the drowsy old man.
"Rachael," the old man said.
"Rachael what?" the officer persisted.
"Rachael Horvath," the old man replied, starting to wake up more and more.
"See!" I said to the deputy, just as though I had previously given him Rachael's surname myself.
"You gotta driver's license, Sir," the young man asked the old man.
"Yeah. Sure," the old man fumbled for his wallet, dug out his driver's license, and handed it to the officer. I couldn't see anything on the driver's license as it was passed in front of me in the dark.
The office shined his flashlight on the license and asked me, "Where does your grandfather live?"
Since the car had a Florida license plate, I took a wild guess and said, "Miami," as though I knew what I was talking about.
"No, Sweetie-pie," the old man interrupted my interrogation, "We've moved to Palm Beach since you visited us last year." The old man was pretty quick on the uptake, considering his sleeping start.
The officer leaned into the car, handed the old man his driver's license, and said, "Mr. Horvath, I clocked your granddaughter at 91 miles an hour ..." Mr. Horvath and I nodded hopefully as the officer explained the situation. " ... I can't give her a citation without arresting her for driving without a license ..."
The police radio blared through a loud speaker in the grill of the deputy's car and his head snapped around to hear the cop babble. Then he quickly told us, "I gotta go now." Before he actually went, he gave an order to Mr. Horvath,
"You drive!" and then he told me, "Don't drive without your license, and slow down!" Then the young deputy sheriff ran to his car and roared away into the night.
Mr. Horvath was wide awake now. "Slide over, RACHAEL," he said sarcastically.
After he drove a few minutes, Mr. Horvath reminded me, "You said you had a driver's license."
"I left it in my blue jeans," I lied.
"Cut the crap, Honey," Mr. Horvath said, "You might be able to fool the county Mounty but I've raised six daughters so I know when a girl is lying."
"I really DO have a driver's license," I insisted.
"What's your name," he asked so suddenly I let the truth fall out.
"Anita."
"Anita, what?" he asked.
I didn't want to give him my real name, somehow I felt that if I did I would wind up back at home with George that night. I didn't have time to make up a better alias, so I said, "Jones."
Mr. Horvath glanced sidelong at me in utter disbelief. "I don't care if you believe me or not," I said like a spoiled little girl in a huff.
"You a runaway?" he asked me.
"No," I lied.
On the outskirts of Springfield, Mr. Horvath pulled into a closed shopping center and parked by a public telephone. "What's your home phone number," he asked me.
I looked at the clock on the dashboard and said, "You're not gonna wake up my mom at four o'clock in the morning, are you?"
"What makes you think she could sleep with you out running around at four o'clock in the morning?"
"My mom abuses me," I said, and the way I felt at that time in my life, it was close enough to the truth.
"What's her number?" Mr. Horvath insisted.
"I won't tell you," I said, and I imitated a teenage brat pouting. It was easy in the circumstances and it provided a protective delay, since my pretext was breaking down in a hurry.
Mr. Horvath unsnapped his seat belt and fiddled with one of his leather sandals; I thought he was fixing it so he could walk to the phone.
I unsnapped my seat belt, opened my door, and started to step out of the car, to position myself for a quick getaway. Mr. Horvath slid across to the passenger seat behind me, grabbed me and pulled me across his lap.
I saw the leather sandal in his right hand while I was en route to the traditional over the knee spanking position. I was too stunned to struggle. I felt the cool morning air on my thighs when he lifted my skirt, but I didn't consciously believe he was going to spank me until I heard the leather sandal smack on the seat of my panties. A split second later it felt like I had been branded with a white- hot iron. I gasped just as the sandal smacked my seat again.
He didn't waste any time. He spanked me eight or ten times in rapid succession. I struggled and screamed, but I couldn't escape and there was no one near enough to hear me, except Mr. Horvath.
My butt was already sore from the spanking George gave me, so each smack of the sandal rekindled a blaze on my burning bottom. Suddenly, he stopped. "What's your mom's phone number?" he asked me again.
I pretended to be crying too hard to answer. It wasn't much of a pretense. I WAS really crying. It felt like the seat of my panties was on fire. I tried to think of something clever, before that damn sandal fired fresh flames into my fanny.
"Well?" he demanded. I had a flash of brilliance, which could save my butt from a flash of fire. I sobbed out my old, disconnected, office number. He repeated it aloud. I thought my spanking was all over, and I could get away while he tried to call the worthless telephone number. Not so.
Boy was I surprised when he suddenly started spanking me with the leather sandal again. He gave me another dozen or so hard smacks in rapid succession. Each spank burned more than the last. I shrieked every time the hard leather branded me and I squirmed all over his lap trying to get away.
Suddenly, he stopped again, helped me to my feet, and slipped his sandal back onto his foot. "Wait here," he said. I didn't have to pretend this time, I WAS crying too hard to answer. I tried to rub the fire off the seat of my panties as he walked to the telephone. Watching him dial, I realized he was about to get a recorded message saying my old number had been disconnected. And I was about to get another message from Mr. Horvath delivered to the seat of my panties with that damned leather sandal.
With the passenger side door open, the interior lights were on in the Cadillac and I noticed the key was still in the ignition. I dove across the front seat, started the Cadillac, and blasted off with the passenger side door still open. Mr. Horvath ran after me, waving his fist and shouting. The scream and stench of the burning rubber echoed the burning in my bottom, but I had to sit on my smoldering rump to drive the damn car.
I kept the accelerator on the floor for about a mile. Through my tears I saw a traffic light ahead, changing to red. I glanced down and saw the blurry speedometer hit one hundred mile per hour. I would have ran the light, but the passenger side door wasn't closed, so I stood on the brakes and stood the Cadillac on its nose. The passenger door swung all the way open, until the car bobbed its head back up. Then the passenger door swung shut with a quiet but solid slam. I looked around for the electric lock button, found it, and locked all the doors at once. I looked up and discovered with a start that a Springfield City Police car was crossing the intersection in front of me. I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't run the light. I would have been caught again without my driver's license. This time I was driving a stolen car and I couldn't pass any kind of alcohol test.
I adjusted the power seat so I could put a lot of my weight on my shoulders. When the light changed I eased ahead and drove slowly around Springfield for nearly an hour looking for a cliff over which I could push Mr. Horvath's Cadillac.
I rationalized. He probably spanked all six of his daughters. He probably spanked his granddaughter Rachael too. He LIKED making girls cry. The old BASTARD! I hoped he was stranded back at the closed shopping center and had to walk for miles in his silly sandals. He probably bought those sandals at the Marquis de Sade Shop, especially designed for spanking girls' bottoms. He deserved to have his Cadillac destroyed. He probably cruises up and down the highway in it looking for female hitchhikers he can pick up and then find some excuse to spank them.
The first rays of dawn lighted Springfield before the first rays of rational reasoning illuminated my hysterical thinking. The burning in my bottom had subsided. The longer I rolled around in a stolen car, the more likely I'd get caught. Destroying the Cadillac would only make things worse for me, and would not hurt Mr. Horvath all that much. His insurance company would buy him a new one. The longer I deprived him of its use, the more trouble I'd be in. My best bet would be to park the Cadillac somewhere conspicuous where the police would find it sooner rather than later.
I went back to the main road and drove through Springfield and back before I spotted an appropriate drop spot for the hot car. It was a closed gas station which looked like it would open for business at any minute. I parked the Cadillac by a well-lighted gas pump and briskly walked away from it. I crossed the street and hid in the hedge surrounding a big building there. I watched the Cadillac, hoping the gas station would opened soon. I needed to use the ladies room.
Hours passed like days and nothing happened. The gas station didn't open, the Cadillac wasn't discovered, and I didn't get to use the ladies room. I wanted to get those things out of the way before I decided what to do next. My head ached from all the champagne I drank at the cast party.
My future full of freedom and fun was fraught with peril. I felt like a teenager wondering what she is going to be when she grows up. "Convicted felon" was near the top of my list of possibilities. A police car rolled right by the gas station, but the two officers in it didn't notice the Cadillac. Damnit!
Suddenly students carrying books started arriving and I realized I was lurking in front of a high school. At least I could go to the bathroom. I was nervous as I slipped into the school. Passing myself off as a teenager to a sleepy old man in the dark in the middle of the night was one thing. Fooling real teenagers in the bright light of day was quite another. All the kids looked me over as I passed and I thought they knew at a glance that I was twice their age. Some of them pointed to me and whispered to one another. I blushed thinking they were discussing the ridiculous old woman in kid's clothes. But I really had to go.
After I finished my urgent business, three girls in the "Girls Room" let me know why I was conspicuous.
Vanetta asked me, "Are you being punished or something?" Her girlfriend Dawn lit up a cigarette.
"Whaa? Well ... I ... ah ... " I stammered to Vanetta, while looking longingly at Dawn's cigarette.
"Why you dressed like a kid?" Randi asked me.
I ignored the question and asked Dawn, "Could I have a puff of that?"
"Sure," Dawn said and handed me the cigarette.
While I took a deep drag, Vanetta said, "My mom makes me wear my old junior high school clothes too, whenever she thinks I'm 'getting too big for my britches.' I know how dorky you must feel."
"Hasn't made you wear braids yet," Dawn pointed out my hairdo to Vanetta.
I was amazed. The girls only thought I looked out of place because Gwen's clothes were more appropriate for a younger girl. Vanetta Easton, Dawn Burke, and Randi Wade introduced themselves as we passed the cigarette around. I used my maiden name, Anita Harrison. That was my name last time I was in a high school. Randi offered to let me use her comb to eliminate the childish braids, and I would have done so, but suddenly the door flew open and a woman about my age stormed into the room. "The principal!" Randi gasped.
Dawn fumbled with the cigarette as she tossed it into a commode, too late.
The principal saw Dawn's juggling act, glanced up at the smoke cloud above our heads, and frowned as all four of us exhaled cigarette smoke. "Okay, girls," the principal said with authority, "Let's go to the Book Room."
The girls hung their heads and trooped out. I tried to hang back and disassociate myself from the others, but the principal stood there glaring at me with her hands on her hips. It's hard to explain now how I felt then. I was dressed up like a teenager, I had no adult identification, I felt guilty about my hangover headache, I had been up all night playing the role of a teenage runaway, I was wanted for Grand Theft Auto and I was back in high school using my high school name. I didn't think any of these things, I simply felt ... no ... for all intents and purposes, I really WAS a kid again.
I know now I could have simply told the principal the truth and she would have conducted inquiries and done things differently, but she thought I was a student and acted accordingly. I joined the line of girls and the principal brought up the rear. We filed into the Book Room, which was a book storage room with no windows. Stacks of used textbooks cluttered the shelves which lined the walls. There was a big table in the center of the room, but no chairs.
The girls lined up along one side of the tall table and I followed. I heard the door close and I turned around, expecting the principal to give us a stern lecture on the health hazards of smoking cigarettes. I was wrong. The principal was standing there with a big wooden paddle in her hand.
"No!" I said. I looked over my shoulder and saw the other three girls bending over the table, stretching up on their toes to reach the other side of the wide table top. The principal pushed me into the same position.
I didn't struggle. I don't know where my head was, but it wasn't there. It didn't even occur to me that getting paddled on my already bruised buttocks was going to be particularly painful. I could hear the principal talking in the same way you hear a radio in another room when you're reading a book and not listening. I felt the back of my skirt lifted, but I still didn't resist. Then the big paddle exploded across the seat of my panties.
"SMACK!" I gasped. I thought my head would split from the impact, then I felt the flush of fire from a flame thrower focused on my tender tush.
"SMACK!" "OW!" I screamed as I tried to stand up. The principal pressed her free hand in the middle of my back and held me tummy down on the table.
"SMACK!" "YEOW!" I flopped around on the table top trying to cover my burning bottom with my hands. Each swat stung more that the last and I knew I couldn't take another one. I only delayed the principal for a second, the time it took her to secure both my arms in a double hammer lock. Then she swung the paddle again.
"SMACK!" "NOO! HO! HO!" I begged and bawled and kicked my feet.
The principal was still talking and I was still not listening. My ears were ringing and the only thing I could think about was my blazing backside.
"SMACK!" "BAAA! HA! HA!"
I don't remember what happened next. I remember hearing a girl bawling and knowing she was me.
I didn't even realize my spanking was over until I heard the paddle whack the seat of Randi's blue jeans.
Randi grunted at first, then squeaked, but she never cried out like I did. Once I got a grip on myself, I was so humiliated by my own childish behavior that I really wanted the other girls to kick and scream bloody murder, but none of them did. Vanetta yelped each time the principal paddled her pants, but Dawn didn't make a sound.
While the principal was paddling silent Dawn, I started to hear the platitudes the woman was saying about her authority and our smoking. For example, she said that the only thing that was going to smoke in her school were student bottoms.
She finished spanking Dawn and said, "You can get up now girls."
We struggled off the table holding our burning butts. I noticed the other girls had tears in their eyes too, but they didn't look as devastated as I felt. I tried hard to regained my composure. It took all my self control just to take my hands off my sizzling seat long enough to let my skirt fall. I wiped the tears off my face.
The principal folded her arms across her chest, with the paddle still in her hand, and surveyed four humbled little girls, sniveling and rubbing their rumps. We choked back our tears and glared back at her in hatred. I spitefully imagined the principal herself bent over the table with her dress up getting a spanking with that awful paddle right on her panties. She wouldn't look so smug then. The bell rang, the principal said musically, "Don't be late for class, girls," but there was a clear threat in her voice. At least she put away the paddle.
We stumbled out into the bustling hallway, trying our best to look as though we hadn't been brought to book in the Book Room. It was tough not to touch my bruised buttocks, which felt about twice as big as normal. As I walked, my tush tingled in time with the tickle of my swinging skirt. A couple of girls at the drinking fountain giggled at us as we passed. We burned with shame, but we tried to ignore them.
In a whisper, Dawn derided me, "You're a big bawl baby, Anita."
She really hurt my feelings. Because what she said was true. "Come on, Dawn," Vanetta whispered in my defense, "Anita got the paddle right on her panties."
"YOU didn't," Dawn whispered back to Vanetta, "and you were hollering in there too. Cry baby." Vanetta looked as hurt as I felt.
I walked right into the First Period class with my new found friends. I sat at a desk behind a huge boy in the back of the room where the teacher couldn't see me. I had long since forgotten how hard the seats are on those little desks, but I was suddenly reminded when I plopped down and bounced right back up with a squeak. The big boy turned around to see what I was chirping about. I smiled at him nervously and eased my aching ass back down on the severely solid seat.
I discovered that when the teacher took the roll he only identified those students who were not present. He did not count the students in the class, so he never noticed that he had one more student in the room than the class roll indicated. I felt I had found a place to hide for an hour while I tried to figure out where I could go from there.
When the bell ended American History, I planned to slip out of the school, check on the Cadillac, and be on my way. Randi had other plans for me. She towed me into the Girls Room and quickly disentangled my braids with the comb and brush she had in her purse.
I told Randi, "I gotta get out of here, I don't belong in this school."
She assumed I was a student from another school and said, "They'll catch you for sure if you try to sneak out between classes. Wait 'til lunch time. You don't want your panties paddled again do you?"
I sure didn't.
During Second Period I got noticed in Algebra, because I didn't have a book. I told the teacher I left it at home. She wrote an equation on the blackboard and asked me to step up to the front of and "solve for X." I didn't have a clue, so I tried to talk her out of forcing me to make a fool of myself in front of the entire class. She didn't relent. She wanted to make an example of me. As I tried to figure out a way to calculate the value of the mysterious "X," the other students delighted in my disgrace and the teacher was pleased with herself. I was almost in tears by the time she finally let me return to my seat, which felt harder than ever. "Ms. Math," who had obvious ambitions to make it big as a stand-up comic, re-enacted my clumsy efforts. The class howled with laughter as she mocked me. Then she solved that damned equation with such ease that I wanted to die. I found very little solace in watching her embarrass another student later in the period. I had forgotten how much I hated being a high school student, but it was all coming back to me now that I had gotten "to be a kid again." I never welcomed a sound so much as I did the bell which ended that class.
Randi walked with me to the door overlooking the gas station. Enroute she asked me, "Wanna stay over at my house sometime?"
"Sure," I told her. Randi was so considerate. She is a really nice girl.
"How about tonight?" she asked.
"Okay," I said, assuming I wouldn't still be there by the time school was out.
"Don't you have to call your mom for permission?" she asked.
"To hell with my mom," I said, feeling every bit as rebellious as any other runaway teenage girl. I thought, 'At least I can be defiant.'
When we arrived at the door, I could see the service station personnel working around the Cadillac, which was still sitting right where I parked it.
"Going somewhere, girls?" the principal's voice challenged. Randi and I stuttered as we turned to face her.
I hated the woman's self-assurance. She enjoyed being in command, even if it was just the occasional opportunity to intimidate little girls. "I ... I ... was just looking over there," I explained. I hated the sound of my voice. It sounded to me just like it did when I was a teenager. The principal looked skeptical, and pleased to be so.
"My ... ah ... my cousin works over there in the gas station ..." I lied.
I noticed that both Randi and I had our hands on our hips, palms to the rear, as though the principal might give us another spanking right then and there. How humiliating!
As Randi and I edged around the principal, she continued to smirk at us in her self satisfied way. She finally said, "Don't be late for class, girls" in that musical, but threatening, tone of voice.
During Third Period I went to Study Hall with my partners in punishment. Not much studying got done. Unless you count writing notes, passing them around, and reading those composed by others. Dawn handed one of her compositions to Vanetta, who didn't think it was funny, but passed it to Randi anyway. Randi scowled at Dawn and crumpled the paper, but I took it out of Randi's hands. Dawn had drawn a crude cartoon of ME being held over the table with my skirt up by the paddle wielding principal. The picture is labeled "Anita" and my mouth is wide open with the word "WHAAaaa!!!!" coming out of it. I tore the piece of paper into smaller and smaller shreds, wishing it were Dawn.
At lunch time I started to leave the building again, only to see two police officers questioning the employees at the gas station about the Cadillac. I figured Mr. Horvath might arrive at any moment and he could identify me if he saw me wandering around the neighborhood. A sudden thought hit me right in the pit of my stomach. What if Mr. Horvath had told the police that I was his granddaughter Rachael? The police would turn me over to him and he would turn me over his knee! I gasped aloud at the very idea. Worse, sly old Mr. Horvath would probably drive me away to someplace private where he could take my panties down and blister my bare bottom with that damned sandal as long as he wanted! I turned and scurried back into the bowels of the institution, and back into my synthetic childhood.
I found my cohorts in crime in the cafeteria. The smell of food permeated the air and I suddenly realized I was famished. I didn't have a dime to buy anything, but Randi noticed my starved stare and asked me to eat half her sandwich. She said she just wasn't hungry, but I knew she was just being kind, because she instructed Vanetta to let me finish her coke.
I re-checked the Cadillac between classes throughout the afternoon, but it just sat there. Mr. Horvath was nowhere in sight.
The seats on my school desks grew harder and harder, and the probability that I would get caught impersonating a student loomed larger. Trapped in a time warp, I started to think that life with George, even at its recent worst, was not so bad as being a kid again.
Randi was one of the few students who had done her homework and she prompted me with the right answers in Fifth Period English.
As much as I liked Randi, I sneaked away from her at the end of the day. When I reached the door I saw Mr. Horvath across the street inspecting his Cadillac, so I ran to the doors at the other end of the school, where Randi was waiting for her mother to pick her up.
"Oh, THERE you are," Randi said.
"Got lost," I lied.
"Here we go," Randi said gesturing toward an old car which chugged to a stop at the curb.
Randi's mom is a big woman, just four or five years older than me. She seemed to be in a bad mood.
"Mom, this is Anita," Randi told her as we climbed into the rusty car.
Mrs. Wade ignored me and asked Randi, "Where's she going?"
Randi took an exasperated breath and said, "Mom. Don't you remember. You said I could have a girlfriend stay over if I got all 'A's."
Randi's mother turned her harsh frown on me and demanded, "Your mom know about this?"
"Sure," I lied. My voice sounded childlike.
Mrs. Wade asked me, "You get caught smoking too?"
I gulped guiltily and I heard Randi catch her breath.
I humbly nodded in the affirmative.
The older woman turned back to Randi and asked pointedly, "You sure this isn't just because you two got in trouble today?"
Randi fibbed with convincing sincerity, "We've been planning this for weeks!"
I heartily nodded my enthusiastic support for Randi's lie.
Mrs. Wade grunted and then drove us without another word. Randi seemed worried.
Their dilapidated house is in a poor neighborhood.
I decided I would call my mom from Randi's house. Even though Mom might tell George where I was, I could get her to come and get me out of this living nightmare. I never got the opportunity to ask to use the phone.
As soon as we walked into the Wade house, Randi's mom said, "In my bedroom, girls."
Randi puckered up to cry, but she obeyed her mother.
And so did I.
In the master bedroom, Randi sobbed as Mrs. Wade sat down on the bed and told me, "Whenever Randi gets paddled at school, she gets spanked again when she gets home."
"Not in front of Anita," Randi begged, "Please wait 'til tomorrow."
"You figured that if you invited Anita here I wouldn't spank you tonight?" Mrs. Wade asked her daughter sarcastically.
Randi shook her head "no" and I wanted to believe her. I liked Randi and I didn't want to think she befriended me just to get out of a spanking.
"Drop your drawers!" Mrs. Wade commanded.
Randi's hands shook as she unsnapped and unzipped her jeans, and let them fall to the floor. Tears flowed down her face as she peeled her panties down to her knees. Randi's naked hips wobbled as she waddled over to the bed, hobbled by her clothes, and laid herself across her mother's lap.
Mrs. Wade adjusted Randi's body, placing her daughter's rump right where she wanted it. Then she pointed to the dressing table and said to me, "Anita, hand me that hairbrush." I obeyed, although my knees were trembling so much I thought I might fall.
Randi slowly started bawling, in a low tone. At first I thought she was crying because I was watching, but I soon learned that she was crying in anticipation of what her mother was about to do to her.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Each time the back of the hairbrush whacked Randi's bare bottom, the loud crisp cracking sound made me flinch and want to pee in my panties.
Randi's bawling jumped higher and louder with each spank like a salmon plunging up a fish ladder. Mrs. Wade wasted no time.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Randi's flesh rippled from each spank and red ovals appeared on her snowy white rear end where the hairbrush spanked her. My bottom burned just watching.
Randi was shrieking shrilly and thrashing around like a fish out of water, but her big brawny mother had her well in hand and never missed a beat with that awful hairbrush.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" The fiery red ovals started to appear at the top of Randi's bright white thighs. Randi's feet kicked wildly and her blue jeans around her ankles added a desperate rustling sound.
Suddenly, Mrs. Wade stopped spanking Randi. Randi did not stop kicking and screaming.
Mrs. Wade instructed me to "Sit on her feet."
I didn't want to be any closer to the spanking than I was already, but I did as I was told. I had to collect Randi's kicking feet first and then force them down on the bed in order to sit on them.
"Thank you, Anita," Mrs. Wade said to me, as though I had brought her a cup of coffee or something. She then went right back to work spanking Randi's thighs.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I could feel Randi's feet kicking around under me and I felt so sorry that I was helping her mother spank her. Tears were streaming down my face and I could hardly get my breath. Mrs. Wade spanked Randi's thighs right down to the backs of her knees.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Randi spread her knees wide in her struggle to avoid the hairbrush and her mother took the opportunity to spank her tender inner thighs.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Randi screamed so sharply, I thought I would faint.
Suddenly it was over. Mrs. Wade helped Randi to her feet and steadied her as Randi stumbled to the corner holding her blistered bottom with both hands and crying as loud as she could. Randi leaned against the adjoining walls and wailed.
Mrs. Wade walked back to where I was standing, turned to look at her well spanked daughter, and said to Randi, "Hands!"
Randi's fingers came off her hips as though they were burned and she clasped her hands in front. Mrs. Wade turned to me and said, "You're next."
"NO!" I yelled right back at her. I could have explained that I was nearly her age and she could get in a lot of trouble if she hit me. Or I could have told her she was not my mother and therefore had no right to give me a spanking. No I couldn't. In my advanced stage of disorientation I could never have convinced her I was an adult, and in my state of shock she seemed to have every right to give me a spanking. The fact is, I never thought any of these things. I just tried to get away.
Hung over, sleep deprived, previously spanked, starved and scared out of my mind, I was no match for husky Mrs. Wade. In fact, the more I yelled "NO!" and the more I wrestled with her, the angrier she got. I flopped down on the floor in the fetal position, but she just grabbed the sides of my hips, lifted them up, sat down on the bed, and plopped my midsection down across her lap, demonstrating that wherever your hips go, the rest of you is bound to follow. I tried to back off of her lap and only succeeded in working my skirt up under my arms before she hauled me over her knees again. She wrapped her arm around my bare waist and placed my upturned bottom right where she wanted it. Pulling on the bed covers with my hands and waving my legs in the air did nothing to get me out of her grasp. She jerked down my panties with authority and I knew I was in big trouble. I had forgotten that making a mommy mad just before she gives you a spanking is the stupidest thing a naughty girl can do.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" The hairbrush spanking my hips felt as though I were being machine gunned in the butt. I kicked and screamed involuntarily from the beginning burst.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Mrs. Wade spanked me a lot harder than she did Randi.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I could hear myself screaming, but all I could think about was the intractable pain in my ass.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" My body jumped and jerked spastically out of control.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I know now that my flying feet protected my thighs from the same fate Randi had suffered. Since Mrs. Wade didn't have another mortified maid in waiting to sit on my feet, she concentrated all her effort on my blazing butt.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I wanted my flaming fanny to fall off to stop the stinging that shot through me from every spank with that damned hairbrush. I wanted to die --- but I simply didn't know how.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I was so hysterical I didn't even know my spanking was over, until I realized I was standing with my forehead pressed in a corner holding my skirt up and bawling my eyes out.
After I calmed down to merely deranged, I thought I was alone in the room, but I was afraid to turn my head and look.
Mrs. Wade was apparently admiring the ruby red results of her brushwork. Her voice jolted me when she suddenly told Randi, "Just wait 'til your father gets home." I heard Randi start to cry again in her corner. Then I heard Mrs. Wade leave the room.
Mrs. Wade's remark should have given me a clue that Randi and I had something to fear from Mr. Wade, but I couldn't think straight. My mind replayed the infantile antics I performed when I was across Mrs. Wade's lap getting the worst spanking of my life. I was so embarrassed by my own babyish behavior that my face blushed almost as hotly as my hairbrushed heinie.
After burning at both ends for what seemed like a long time, I heard Mr. and Mrs. Wade's voices conversing. I couldn't make out what they were saying.
Mrs. Wade came to the door and said, "Come out here, Anita."
I was so defeated I turned and walked to her still holding my skirt up, and with my girlish panties down around my knees.
"Drop your skirt," Mrs. Wade instructed me and I obeyed. She didn't say, "Pull up your panties," so I didn't.
I followed Mrs. Wade into the kitchen where Mr. Wade was standing with his hand on the telephone. He was a big rough looking guy in grimy work clothes. "What's your mother's phone number?" he asked me.
I ruefully recalled the last time a man asked me that question. I got spanked for refusing to answer. And I should have been spanked again for lying. I wasn't going to make either of those mistakes again. I gave Mr. Wade my mother's correct telephone number.
He dialed the number, handed me the telephone, and said, "Have your mother tell me she that you have her permission to stay over."
Once again I must plead "temporary insanity" for what I said to my mom. Of all the things in the world I could have said, what I said was: "Mom, I'm at Randi Wade's house, just like you said I could. Mr. Wade wants you to tell him that it's okay for me to stay over."
My mom later said she thought it was some sort of practical joke intended to test her grasp on reality by giving her a blast from the past, because I made my voice sound just like it did when I was a teenage kid. (My voice was horse from screaming, but it had regressed a lot of years by the time I spoke with Mom.) She said, "Sure, Anita, I'll play along. Put him on."
I handed Mr. Wade the telephone, my last link to someone who could help me escape my pseudo adolescence.
He said, "Mrs. Harrison? This is Randi's dad. Yeah ...
Well, the real reason I wanted to talk to you was to tell you our daughters caused a some trouble at school today. Oh, yeah ... Whenever Randi gets in trouble at school, she gets a lickin' when she gets home. Since Anita was right in there with Randi, you want us to give her a lickin' too? Oh, sure ..."
I reckoned that Mr. Wade was trying to get my mom's permission in order to justify the "lickin'" Mrs. Wade had already given me. I knew my mom would never give permission for me to be spanked. I was wrong on both counts.
Mr. Wade hung up the telephone and said, "Your mom says a good lickin' is just what you need, young lady."
I was hurled into a deeper state of shock. If I thought about it, and I don't think I did, I'm sure I still thought I had already been given the "good lickin'" he was talking about.
Mr. Wade took one of my shoulders in each of his big hard hands and turned me around. At least his hands looked clean. He then grasped the back of my neck with one hand and pushed me into the living room. En route, he bellowed, "Randi!"
Randi stumbled into the living room, with her blue jeans and panties down around her ankles, blubbering like a baby. She made no effort to cover herself. "Please, Daddy," Randi begged her father.
"You know the drill," he told her, "assume the position."
Randi bawled louder, but she bent over the back of the sofa and rested her forearms on the seat cushion. Her bare bottom, covered in red and blue bruises, stuck up in the air in an obscene display. Mr. Wade turned my head around to face him with the hand that held the back of my neck and said, "You too."
"NO!" I yelled, too scared to say a sentence. He ignored my protest and bent me over the back of the sofa next to Randi. I tried to push up with my arms, but Mrs. Wade took my wrists and pulled my hands off the seat cushion. She sat down on the coffee table and held my arms extended, keeping me hung over the back of the sofa. I struggled, but once again the powerful Mrs. Wade handled the hysterical Anita with ease.
I felt my skirt flipped up and I looked back in time to see Mr. Wade drawing the wide leather belt out of the belt loops of his work pants. I would later lament showing my naked underside to this man, but at the time my full focus was on the belt.
I think Mr. Wade as angry with me, so he whipped me first. He doubled his belt, swung it up over his head, and swooshed it down across both my buns. The sharp "CRACK!" of strap on my bare bruised butt made my ears pop. Then I felt the sting, like a white-hot sword pressed across both my hips.
The "Swoosh" of the belt through the air, its "CRACK!" across my naked ass, the surge of sizzling burn, and my out- cries continued at a walking rhythm even though my feet were running in the air and my arms would have been swimming a frantic free style if I could have gotten my wrists away from Mrs. Wade.
I now know that I protected my thighs with my feet, but that only left my rear to take all of the strapping. Every lick of the leather imparted a searing burn across my already scorched seat and stoked the bonfire building in my bottom.
I kicked and screamed and prayed that death would pluck me from the fires of Hell raging in my rear end. I was in such pain I couldn't tell where my lickin' left off and Randi's began. I suddenly realized that the crack of the strap wasn't increasing my pain and the screams which accompanied the strapping were Randi's, not my own.
Finally, the "Swoosh" and the "CRACK!" and the shrieking all stopped. Mrs. Wade shook my wrists and asked me , "Do you want some more?"
"NO! NO! NO!" I heard myself screaming, as though that question needed to be asked or answered.
"Then you stay right here," she said as she placed my forearms on the tear spattered seat cushion.
I hung my head and bawled until I could snort back my tears enough to check on Randi. She was in the same condition I was in. Her fingers were dug into the seat cushion in front of her. She looked devastated, but she had held herself in position, while her mother had had to hold me. I don't know how Randi did that. I know I couldn't have done it, even if I'd tried.
Randi and I sniveled together, draped over the back of the sofa with out bare bottoms exposed, while her parents did something in the kitchen for a long time.
Finally, Mrs. Wade came back to the living room and ordered us to bed without our supper.
I was ravenously hungry, but starvation seemed preferable to sitting down on my swollen buttocks for a meal, or facing the man and woman who had each given me a spanking. Both of them had seen me crying and kicking and exposing my private parts like a naughty little girl while I was getting spanked.
Randi loaned me a pair of her flannel pajamas. They had little blue whales on them. While we where changing, I noticed the red welts on Randi's white skin, over blue bruises from the hairbrush. Reminded me of an American flag. I figured my own posterior looked equally patriotic.
We eased into Randi's small bed side by side on our stomachs. The smells of food from the kitchen made my mouth water and my head swirl. The sounds of Randi's parents eating convinced me they could not hear me if I spoke softly, so I whispered to Randi, "It's not fair. They both spanked me harder than they spanked you."
"No they didn't," Randi argued, "You're just not used to getting a spanking."
"Oh yes I am," I argued. It sounds silly now, but somehow I felt I needed to justify not having taken my spankings with Randi's courage.
"With a hairbrush?" she asked.
"No."
"With a belt?"
"No," I said, "With a leather sandal."
"Well," Randi whispered, "Your mom and dad just don't spank as hard as mine."
Despite my hurt and hunger, sleep finally came.
I woke in the middle of a dream about starving while trying to gnaw through the tough skin of a huge marshmallow. I opened my eyes and discovered I was hugging the pillow and chewing on it. I thought, "What a nightmare! I shouldn't have gone to bed so hungry." I had dreamed that George had spanked me, old Mr. Horvath had given me a spanking with his leather sandal, a school principal had paddled my panties, Mrs. Wade had given me a bare bottom spanking with the hairbrush, and Mr. Wade had strapped my naked ass with his belt. I swung my feet off the side of the bed and gasped as I was shocked awake by the soreness of my seat. I looked down, saw the little blue whales on my jammies and realizes that it wasn't a dream. I really WAS spanked five times yesterday.
I looked around for Randi, but she was no where in sight. The house was quiet. "Where is everybody?" I wondered. The worst thing about being a teenager (other than getting a spanking) is that adults withhold information from you. They never let you know what's going on.
No sooner had I used the bathroom and washed my face and hands than Randi's mom appeared and ordered me to breakfast. She didn't have to tell me twice.
Grumpy Mrs. Wade served a hearty breakfast on the kitchen counter to the sore-tailed girl in the flannel jammies and I ate like a pig. Ready-mix pancakes with margarine and maple syrup, greasy sausage, and a big glass of milk, almost knocked me out from the blood sugar bounce. As soon as I had eaten everything but the design on the dishes, Mrs. Wade said, "You'd better get dressed, your mom and dad will be here to pick you up any minute."
Taken by surprise, I blurted, "My dad is dead."
Mrs. Wade gave me a disgusted look and said, "Your mom said you'd say that. She and your step-father, George, are coming to pick you up."
I knew I could never convince Mrs. Wade that I was George's thirty-three year old wife, not his sixteen year old step- daughter, and I figured I might get myself spanked again if I tried, so I nodded and stumbled off to Randi's bedroom to put on my kid clothes one last time. I stayed in the bedroom in my now-smelly costume until Mom and George arrived and I was called to the living room.
"I understand you got a spanking for smoking at school yesterday," my mother said. Before I could organize an answer, she held up the little plastic flyswatter she used to spank me with when I was nine or ten years old and said, "But I still owe you a spanking for running away."
I hadn't thought about that flyswatter for years, but the sight of it struck terror in my heart. "NO!" I yelled and turned to run away, but ran right into Mrs. Wade.
Mrs. Wade seized my elbows, penning my arms to my sides, and told my mother, "I'll hold her for you." I couldn't pull my arms free from her, even when I tried to drop my weight straight down.
I felt my skirt lifted behind me, looked over my shoulder and saw my mom delicately holding my skirt tail up with two fingers of her left hand as she swung the flyswatter with her right.
"WHAP!" it hit my inner thigh and stung a Hell of a lot more than I remembered. "OW!" I screamed.
My mother spanked my other inner thigh with the flyswatter, and I screamed again. I did a little dance. Mom spanked one of my thighs again and I screamed and danced some more. We repeated the process over and over and over.
With Mrs. Wade holding my arms, I couldn't get my hands in the way and I certainly couldn't get my bare thighs out of the way. Mom had me bawling big time and dancing that silly little dance for what seemed like forever. It felt like my legs were on fire, and the flames flashed right up through me. I thought she would never stop smacking my burning thighs with that damned little flyswatter.
Finally, my mother stopped spanking me. She asked me, "Are you ever going to run away again?"
"NO! NO! NO!" I blubbered, I was still dancing and crying too hard to say two syllable words.
Mrs. Wade released me and I bopped around the living room rubbing my burning thighs and screeching in a well-spanked little girl's voice. "Now about throwing the dishes," George said as he approached me.
"No! No! No! Please!" I begged repeatedly as he hauled me over to the sofa, sat down, and planted me face down across his lap.
My mother stepped over and pulled up the back of my skirt again, saying, "Let's get this out of the way."
Mrs. Wade volunteered, "I would take those panties down too."
"No! No! No! Please!" I squealed. I felt him grasp the waist band of the little girl panties I bought for the play.
I saw my mother shaking he head "no" (she later said she wanted to preserve my dignity in front of Mrs. Wade, as if I still had any left by then). I felt fortunate when George pulled the waistband up, rather than down. I was wrong. Later, after George saw how battered my butt was, he told me he would never have spanked me at the Wade house if he had lowered my panties and seen my welts and bruises. As it was, he had tightened the fit of my knickers so I would feel the full sting of his hand. My mother now insists that George didn't spank me all that hard. She says the little spanks he gave me were "love pats." They certainly didn't feel that way to me. He kept me squealing, squirming, and squalling for a very long time. Again, my mother says it was only a few minutes, but I KNOW it was a lot longer than that. After George spanked my panties for what seemed like forever, he stopped and asked, "You gonna behave yourself from now on?"
"YES! YES! YES! YES!" I squealed between sobs.
I rode home lying across the back seat of the car on my stomach, listening to my mother and my husband discuss my situation and my future as though I weren't there. George had reported me missing to the police. The police had put his report together with Mr. Horvath's stolen car report and interrogated Mr. Horvath all day yesterday. When the police department holding Mr. Horvath's Cadillac and the police department holding Mr. Horvath finally got together, Mr. Horvath got on his way, feeling lucky to be out of custody. (Good! I thought) George said he might have to pay Horvath not to charge me or sue me for stealing his car. I didn't like that idea, but I didn't say a word.
Mom said I could end my eight year old, mostly happy, marriage, or I could give George another try, but he shouldn't put up with any more of my spoiled behavior. George said he wasn't going to. George also said the President of a new company in town had made a significant job offer which I might want to think about, or I could relocate myself to some other locale, but with some adult dignity this time.
It sounds silly now, but I was lying across the back seat thinking that the most striking thing I had learned in my thirty-six hours of adolescence was: "Women spank girls a lot harder that men do."
The worst day and a half of my life is all behind me now. (In a sense it was all behind me then.) Six months have passed and I'm back home and happy. The bruises on my backside have all faded away. I haven't had a smoke since my night flight to Springfield. I love my new job, I love my old husband, and (I guess) I still love my mother.
My new company is expanding right here, with no plan to ever move in the future. I make more money, have more responsibilities, and have a lot more freedom to manage. As the company grows, so does my job and benefits.
Randi Wade is going to win the full scholarship I have set up for a deserving student in our region who wouldn't otherwise be able to go to college. That's the least I can do to get her out of her parents' home. Randi still doesn't know her girlfriend Anita Harrison is not really a teenage girl.
Neither George nor my mother (nor I) have ever mentioned my misadventure to anyone else. I have to appreciate them both for that.
George has given me two spanking since I've been back home. I richly deserved both of them. They were both long drawn out affairs. He first required me to take off all my clothes (in the privacy of our bedroom, of course) put me over his knees and spanked my bare bottom with his hard hand for what seemed like forever. He delayed so long between spanks that I got the full benefit of his stern lecture and my steady inevitable decent from my haughty high horse to squalling infancy.
Afterwards, George rocked me in his arms and, both times, we wound up having super sex. The comforting was almost worth the pain and humiliation of getting the spankings in the first place. George says if I ever need a spanking again, he'll give me a spanking again, and I know he's serious, so I'm trying very hard to be a very good girl. Fortunately, our bedroom is soundproof, so the neighbors didn't hear either of my last two spankings.
The neighbors all smile at me now, partially because I smile at them, but there's something else in their facial expression (I can't quite describe it) that tells me they heard George spanking me that first time, just before the abrupt change in my attitude.
My mom and I are about as friendly as we ever were.
I haven't forgiven her yet for giving Mr. Wade permission to give me a "lickin,'" even though she insists she never imagined how severely he would strap me and she swears she had no idea at all that he would bare my bottom before he blistered me with his belt.
I'll never forgive my mom for thigh spanking me with that damned plastic flyswatter. She really took advantage of the situation. I can't make too much of a fuss about it though, for fear she'll tell someone I know (anyone I know) that I'm not too grown up get a spanking, or as she put it the last time I mentioned it: she "can still make her little girl dance and sing to the beat of that little plastic flyswatter, just like when she was a kid."
Of course, it still makes me crazy every time my mom says, "Oh to be a kid again."
By Al Purvis
"Oh, to be a kid again," my mom likes to say. It used to drive me crazy when I was a teenager. That was the worst time of my life. Well, the second worst time of my life.
The worse time of my life came when I was thirty-three. The company I worked for relocated to another State and I couldn't. I wanted to. My husband George and I could finally get away from our hometown, but we owned our house and George made more money at his job and he had better promotional opportunities.
I didn't adapt to job seeking very well. I felt like a hooker swinging my purse every time I had to ask someone to hire me. My mother's constant nagging didn't help. She raised me without a husband to support her so she thought I should consider myself lucky to have George to take care of me, and no ungrateful daughter to be responsible for.
George thought I ought to enjoy the time off, do volunteer work, whatever. I really resented his attitude and we started to argue frequently for the first time in our eight year marriage, which didn't look like it was going to make it to nine.
I did try out for a part in a play at our community Little Theatre, but I didn't get it. I got another part I hadn't tried out for, the part of a teenage girl. I was embarrassed, but I couldn't think of a way to bow out gracefully. For my costume, I borrowed some schoolgirl clothes from my thirteen year old cousin, Gwen. I am petite and Gwen is an full sized little girl. With my hair braided everyone thought I really looked like a teenage girl in Gwen's clothes.
After the play, everyone went to the cast party in costume. I really felt like a bit player sitting around in little girl clothes, right down to cotton kid panties, with no make-up and my hair up in braids. I sulked and sucked champagne until I couldn't see straight. George and I didn't get home until after two in the morning. Then we had a Hell-roaring fight. I can't remember what frivolous faux pas set me off, but I went berserk and started throwing dishes at George. That was a mistake. George had had enough. He tucked me under his arm, lifted the back of Gwen's pleated skirt, and spanked the seat of my lollipops just as though I were the terrible teenybopper I looked and acted like. I hadn't been spanked in twenty years and I would never have suspected how hard George's hand would feel. I had never thought about it. I struggled with all my might, but he had no difficulty holding me right where he wanted me and spanking me right where he thought it would do me the most good. I screamed in frustration and squealed from the pain. To add to my embarrassment, I remembered the windows were open so I knew I would wake the neighbors and they would know from the smacking and shrieking that good old George was finally giving that spoiled little snot Anita the spanking she so richly deserved. I didn't have long to blush about the neighbors though because very soon I could only think about those stinging spanks on my smarting seat. Before George finished paddling my panties he had me wailing and wagging my tail and stomping my little feet. Then he stood me up and watched me bawl and rub my bottom with both hands. He dusted his palms together with a self-satisfied smirk. The smug son-of-a-bitch! I charged out the front door and stumbled down the block blubbering and rubbing my rump. I didn't know where I was going, but it was going to be as far away from George and this town as possible. I got to the corner before I realized I had left without my purse. I paused and pondered returning for it, but George might not let me leave. I couldn't go back for my car, since the keys were in my purse. I wasn't doing my most rational thinking, but I thought I just couldn't face George right then, so I kept walking. Two blocks later I realized I was tripping along the street in the wee small hours of the morning dressed like a junior high school student, braids and all, fondling and exposing the back of my little girl panties. I pulled my hands away from the seat of my agony and let the back of Gwen's little wool skirt fall down. Another two blocks and I reached the highway, the road out of here. I could hitch a ride to Springfield, the closest city, and call my mom ... no, George would call her looking for me ... call my bank, and have them wire me getaway money. In any other frame of mind I would never has considered hitchhiking.
Right on cue, a Cadillac Seville with a Florida license plate pulled over and a kindly old gentleman asked me where I was going. I stepped up to the open window and saw he was bald, with lots of hair on his body, wearing a tank top, shorts, and leather sandals. He looked at me concerned.
"What's a kid your age doing out this time of night?" he asked.
"My car broke down and I'm trying to get back to Springfield," I lied, trying not to breath champagne fumes into his face.
"You gotta driver's license?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, patting the side of my thick skirt as though I had a pocket. It was only half a lie. Of course I have a driver's license. I just didn't have it with me.
"I been drivin' all night," he told me. "You mind drivin' to Springfield?"
"No problem," I said as I walked around the car and he slid over.
I adjusted the well-padded power seat several ways, trying to find the most comfortable way to sit on my own sore seat. He reclined the passenger seat and got comfortable.
"Got a cigarette?" I asked him, as I pulled onto the highway.
"Don't smoke," he mumbled, "you shouldn't either ... about the same age as my granddaughter ... Rachael ..." He fell asleep.
I saw a pack of gum sticking out of the ashtray, so I helped myself.
The big Cadillac was smooth and quiet so I didn't notice that I was imperceptibly increasing the speed as I thought about all the places I would go now that I wasn't tied down by George ... and my mom ... and their town ....
Suddenly, I noticed the flashing red and blue lights behind me. I glanced down at the speedometer and saw I was going 92 mile per hour. Crap! The only time I've ever driven without my driver's license and I get caught for speeding before I've gone twenty miles. I eased the Cadillac to a halt on the shoulder so gently that the old man never missed a snore. I lowered the driver's side window as a tired young deputy sheriff strolled up with a flashlight in his hand. He flashed the light in my eyes and then on the old man. He whispered to me, "May I see your driver's license, Miss?"
I fumbled with my imaginary skirt pocket and gave an Academy Award performance, trying not to breath alcohol fumes on the deputy. "Oh no!" I whispered. "I left my license in my blue jeans!"
The officer flashed the light on the old man again and asked me, "Do you know this man?"
"Do I know ... Of course I know him. He's my grandfather," I lied.
"Oh yeah," the suspicious young deputy sheriff said. Then he asked me, "What's your name?"
"Rachael," I shot right back.
"Rachael what?" he asked.
I was saved the trouble of further fabrication by the old man, who woke suddenly and interrupted, "Wha! What's goin' on?"
"What's your granddaughter's name?" the deputy asked the drowsy old man.
"Rachael," the old man said.
"Rachael what?" the officer persisted.
"Rachael Horvath," the old man replied, starting to wake up more and more.
"See!" I said to the deputy, just as though I had previously given him Rachael's surname myself.
"You gotta driver's license, Sir," the young man asked the old man.
"Yeah. Sure," the old man fumbled for his wallet, dug out his driver's license, and handed it to the officer. I couldn't see anything on the driver's license as it was passed in front of me in the dark.
The office shined his flashlight on the license and asked me, "Where does your grandfather live?"
Since the car had a Florida license plate, I took a wild guess and said, "Miami," as though I knew what I was talking about.
"No, Sweetie-pie," the old man interrupted my interrogation, "We've moved to Palm Beach since you visited us last year." The old man was pretty quick on the uptake, considering his sleeping start.
The officer leaned into the car, handed the old man his driver's license, and said, "Mr. Horvath, I clocked your granddaughter at 91 miles an hour ..." Mr. Horvath and I nodded hopefully as the officer explained the situation. " ... I can't give her a citation without arresting her for driving without a license ..."
The police radio blared through a loud speaker in the grill of the deputy's car and his head snapped around to hear the cop babble. Then he quickly told us, "I gotta go now." Before he actually went, he gave an order to Mr. Horvath,
"You drive!" and then he told me, "Don't drive without your license, and slow down!" Then the young deputy sheriff ran to his car and roared away into the night.
Mr. Horvath was wide awake now. "Slide over, RACHAEL," he said sarcastically.
After he drove a few minutes, Mr. Horvath reminded me, "You said you had a driver's license."
"I left it in my blue jeans," I lied.
"Cut the crap, Honey," Mr. Horvath said, "You might be able to fool the county Mounty but I've raised six daughters so I know when a girl is lying."
"I really DO have a driver's license," I insisted.
"What's your name," he asked so suddenly I let the truth fall out.
"Anita."
"Anita, what?" he asked.
I didn't want to give him my real name, somehow I felt that if I did I would wind up back at home with George that night. I didn't have time to make up a better alias, so I said, "Jones."
Mr. Horvath glanced sidelong at me in utter disbelief. "I don't care if you believe me or not," I said like a spoiled little girl in a huff.
"You a runaway?" he asked me.
"No," I lied.
On the outskirts of Springfield, Mr. Horvath pulled into a closed shopping center and parked by a public telephone. "What's your home phone number," he asked me.
I looked at the clock on the dashboard and said, "You're not gonna wake up my mom at four o'clock in the morning, are you?"
"What makes you think she could sleep with you out running around at four o'clock in the morning?"
"My mom abuses me," I said, and the way I felt at that time in my life, it was close enough to the truth.
"What's her number?" Mr. Horvath insisted.
"I won't tell you," I said, and I imitated a teenage brat pouting. It was easy in the circumstances and it provided a protective delay, since my pretext was breaking down in a hurry.
Mr. Horvath unsnapped his seat belt and fiddled with one of his leather sandals; I thought he was fixing it so he could walk to the phone.
I unsnapped my seat belt, opened my door, and started to step out of the car, to position myself for a quick getaway. Mr. Horvath slid across to the passenger seat behind me, grabbed me and pulled me across his lap.
I saw the leather sandal in his right hand while I was en route to the traditional over the knee spanking position. I was too stunned to struggle. I felt the cool morning air on my thighs when he lifted my skirt, but I didn't consciously believe he was going to spank me until I heard the leather sandal smack on the seat of my panties. A split second later it felt like I had been branded with a white- hot iron. I gasped just as the sandal smacked my seat again.
He didn't waste any time. He spanked me eight or ten times in rapid succession. I struggled and screamed, but I couldn't escape and there was no one near enough to hear me, except Mr. Horvath.
My butt was already sore from the spanking George gave me, so each smack of the sandal rekindled a blaze on my burning bottom. Suddenly, he stopped. "What's your mom's phone number?" he asked me again.
I pretended to be crying too hard to answer. It wasn't much of a pretense. I WAS really crying. It felt like the seat of my panties was on fire. I tried to think of something clever, before that damn sandal fired fresh flames into my fanny.
"Well?" he demanded. I had a flash of brilliance, which could save my butt from a flash of fire. I sobbed out my old, disconnected, office number. He repeated it aloud. I thought my spanking was all over, and I could get away while he tried to call the worthless telephone number. Not so.
Boy was I surprised when he suddenly started spanking me with the leather sandal again. He gave me another dozen or so hard smacks in rapid succession. Each spank burned more than the last. I shrieked every time the hard leather branded me and I squirmed all over his lap trying to get away.
Suddenly, he stopped again, helped me to my feet, and slipped his sandal back onto his foot. "Wait here," he said. I didn't have to pretend this time, I WAS crying too hard to answer. I tried to rub the fire off the seat of my panties as he walked to the telephone. Watching him dial, I realized he was about to get a recorded message saying my old number had been disconnected. And I was about to get another message from Mr. Horvath delivered to the seat of my panties with that damned leather sandal.
With the passenger side door open, the interior lights were on in the Cadillac and I noticed the key was still in the ignition. I dove across the front seat, started the Cadillac, and blasted off with the passenger side door still open. Mr. Horvath ran after me, waving his fist and shouting. The scream and stench of the burning rubber echoed the burning in my bottom, but I had to sit on my smoldering rump to drive the damn car.
I kept the accelerator on the floor for about a mile. Through my tears I saw a traffic light ahead, changing to red. I glanced down and saw the blurry speedometer hit one hundred mile per hour. I would have ran the light, but the passenger side door wasn't closed, so I stood on the brakes and stood the Cadillac on its nose. The passenger door swung all the way open, until the car bobbed its head back up. Then the passenger door swung shut with a quiet but solid slam. I looked around for the electric lock button, found it, and locked all the doors at once. I looked up and discovered with a start that a Springfield City Police car was crossing the intersection in front of me. I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't run the light. I would have been caught again without my driver's license. This time I was driving a stolen car and I couldn't pass any kind of alcohol test.
I adjusted the power seat so I could put a lot of my weight on my shoulders. When the light changed I eased ahead and drove slowly around Springfield for nearly an hour looking for a cliff over which I could push Mr. Horvath's Cadillac.
I rationalized. He probably spanked all six of his daughters. He probably spanked his granddaughter Rachael too. He LIKED making girls cry. The old BASTARD! I hoped he was stranded back at the closed shopping center and had to walk for miles in his silly sandals. He probably bought those sandals at the Marquis de Sade Shop, especially designed for spanking girls' bottoms. He deserved to have his Cadillac destroyed. He probably cruises up and down the highway in it looking for female hitchhikers he can pick up and then find some excuse to spank them.
The first rays of dawn lighted Springfield before the first rays of rational reasoning illuminated my hysterical thinking. The burning in my bottom had subsided. The longer I rolled around in a stolen car, the more likely I'd get caught. Destroying the Cadillac would only make things worse for me, and would not hurt Mr. Horvath all that much. His insurance company would buy him a new one. The longer I deprived him of its use, the more trouble I'd be in. My best bet would be to park the Cadillac somewhere conspicuous where the police would find it sooner rather than later.
I went back to the main road and drove through Springfield and back before I spotted an appropriate drop spot for the hot car. It was a closed gas station which looked like it would open for business at any minute. I parked the Cadillac by a well-lighted gas pump and briskly walked away from it. I crossed the street and hid in the hedge surrounding a big building there. I watched the Cadillac, hoping the gas station would opened soon. I needed to use the ladies room.
Hours passed like days and nothing happened. The gas station didn't open, the Cadillac wasn't discovered, and I didn't get to use the ladies room. I wanted to get those things out of the way before I decided what to do next. My head ached from all the champagne I drank at the cast party.
My future full of freedom and fun was fraught with peril. I felt like a teenager wondering what she is going to be when she grows up. "Convicted felon" was near the top of my list of possibilities. A police car rolled right by the gas station, but the two officers in it didn't notice the Cadillac. Damnit!
Suddenly students carrying books started arriving and I realized I was lurking in front of a high school. At least I could go to the bathroom. I was nervous as I slipped into the school. Passing myself off as a teenager to a sleepy old man in the dark in the middle of the night was one thing. Fooling real teenagers in the bright light of day was quite another. All the kids looked me over as I passed and I thought they knew at a glance that I was twice their age. Some of them pointed to me and whispered to one another. I blushed thinking they were discussing the ridiculous old woman in kid's clothes. But I really had to go.
After I finished my urgent business, three girls in the "Girls Room" let me know why I was conspicuous.
Vanetta asked me, "Are you being punished or something?" Her girlfriend Dawn lit up a cigarette.
"Whaa? Well ... I ... ah ... " I stammered to Vanetta, while looking longingly at Dawn's cigarette.
"Why you dressed like a kid?" Randi asked me.
I ignored the question and asked Dawn, "Could I have a puff of that?"
"Sure," Dawn said and handed me the cigarette.
While I took a deep drag, Vanetta said, "My mom makes me wear my old junior high school clothes too, whenever she thinks I'm 'getting too big for my britches.' I know how dorky you must feel."
"Hasn't made you wear braids yet," Dawn pointed out my hairdo to Vanetta.
I was amazed. The girls only thought I looked out of place because Gwen's clothes were more appropriate for a younger girl. Vanetta Easton, Dawn Burke, and Randi Wade introduced themselves as we passed the cigarette around. I used my maiden name, Anita Harrison. That was my name last time I was in a high school. Randi offered to let me use her comb to eliminate the childish braids, and I would have done so, but suddenly the door flew open and a woman about my age stormed into the room. "The principal!" Randi gasped.
Dawn fumbled with the cigarette as she tossed it into a commode, too late.
The principal saw Dawn's juggling act, glanced up at the smoke cloud above our heads, and frowned as all four of us exhaled cigarette smoke. "Okay, girls," the principal said with authority, "Let's go to the Book Room."
The girls hung their heads and trooped out. I tried to hang back and disassociate myself from the others, but the principal stood there glaring at me with her hands on her hips. It's hard to explain now how I felt then. I was dressed up like a teenager, I had no adult identification, I felt guilty about my hangover headache, I had been up all night playing the role of a teenage runaway, I was wanted for Grand Theft Auto and I was back in high school using my high school name. I didn't think any of these things, I simply felt ... no ... for all intents and purposes, I really WAS a kid again.
I know now I could have simply told the principal the truth and she would have conducted inquiries and done things differently, but she thought I was a student and acted accordingly. I joined the line of girls and the principal brought up the rear. We filed into the Book Room, which was a book storage room with no windows. Stacks of used textbooks cluttered the shelves which lined the walls. There was a big table in the center of the room, but no chairs.
The girls lined up along one side of the tall table and I followed. I heard the door close and I turned around, expecting the principal to give us a stern lecture on the health hazards of smoking cigarettes. I was wrong. The principal was standing there with a big wooden paddle in her hand.
"No!" I said. I looked over my shoulder and saw the other three girls bending over the table, stretching up on their toes to reach the other side of the wide table top. The principal pushed me into the same position.
I didn't struggle. I don't know where my head was, but it wasn't there. It didn't even occur to me that getting paddled on my already bruised buttocks was going to be particularly painful. I could hear the principal talking in the same way you hear a radio in another room when you're reading a book and not listening. I felt the back of my skirt lifted, but I still didn't resist. Then the big paddle exploded across the seat of my panties.
"SMACK!" I gasped. I thought my head would split from the impact, then I felt the flush of fire from a flame thrower focused on my tender tush.
"SMACK!" "OW!" I screamed as I tried to stand up. The principal pressed her free hand in the middle of my back and held me tummy down on the table.
"SMACK!" "YEOW!" I flopped around on the table top trying to cover my burning bottom with my hands. Each swat stung more that the last and I knew I couldn't take another one. I only delayed the principal for a second, the time it took her to secure both my arms in a double hammer lock. Then she swung the paddle again.
"SMACK!" "NOO! HO! HO!" I begged and bawled and kicked my feet.
The principal was still talking and I was still not listening. My ears were ringing and the only thing I could think about was my blazing backside.
"SMACK!" "BAAA! HA! HA!"
I don't remember what happened next. I remember hearing a girl bawling and knowing she was me.
I didn't even realize my spanking was over until I heard the paddle whack the seat of Randi's blue jeans.
Randi grunted at first, then squeaked, but she never cried out like I did. Once I got a grip on myself, I was so humiliated by my own childish behavior that I really wanted the other girls to kick and scream bloody murder, but none of them did. Vanetta yelped each time the principal paddled her pants, but Dawn didn't make a sound.
While the principal was paddling silent Dawn, I started to hear the platitudes the woman was saying about her authority and our smoking. For example, she said that the only thing that was going to smoke in her school were student bottoms.
She finished spanking Dawn and said, "You can get up now girls."
We struggled off the table holding our burning butts. I noticed the other girls had tears in their eyes too, but they didn't look as devastated as I felt. I tried hard to regained my composure. It took all my self control just to take my hands off my sizzling seat long enough to let my skirt fall. I wiped the tears off my face.
The principal folded her arms across her chest, with the paddle still in her hand, and surveyed four humbled little girls, sniveling and rubbing their rumps. We choked back our tears and glared back at her in hatred. I spitefully imagined the principal herself bent over the table with her dress up getting a spanking with that awful paddle right on her panties. She wouldn't look so smug then. The bell rang, the principal said musically, "Don't be late for class, girls," but there was a clear threat in her voice. At least she put away the paddle.
We stumbled out into the bustling hallway, trying our best to look as though we hadn't been brought to book in the Book Room. It was tough not to touch my bruised buttocks, which felt about twice as big as normal. As I walked, my tush tingled in time with the tickle of my swinging skirt. A couple of girls at the drinking fountain giggled at us as we passed. We burned with shame, but we tried to ignore them.
In a whisper, Dawn derided me, "You're a big bawl baby, Anita."
She really hurt my feelings. Because what she said was true. "Come on, Dawn," Vanetta whispered in my defense, "Anita got the paddle right on her panties."
"YOU didn't," Dawn whispered back to Vanetta, "and you were hollering in there too. Cry baby." Vanetta looked as hurt as I felt.
I walked right into the First Period class with my new found friends. I sat at a desk behind a huge boy in the back of the room where the teacher couldn't see me. I had long since forgotten how hard the seats are on those little desks, but I was suddenly reminded when I plopped down and bounced right back up with a squeak. The big boy turned around to see what I was chirping about. I smiled at him nervously and eased my aching ass back down on the severely solid seat.
I discovered that when the teacher took the roll he only identified those students who were not present. He did not count the students in the class, so he never noticed that he had one more student in the room than the class roll indicated. I felt I had found a place to hide for an hour while I tried to figure out where I could go from there.
When the bell ended American History, I planned to slip out of the school, check on the Cadillac, and be on my way. Randi had other plans for me. She towed me into the Girls Room and quickly disentangled my braids with the comb and brush she had in her purse.
I told Randi, "I gotta get out of here, I don't belong in this school."
She assumed I was a student from another school and said, "They'll catch you for sure if you try to sneak out between classes. Wait 'til lunch time. You don't want your panties paddled again do you?"
I sure didn't.
During Second Period I got noticed in Algebra, because I didn't have a book. I told the teacher I left it at home. She wrote an equation on the blackboard and asked me to step up to the front of and "solve for X." I didn't have a clue, so I tried to talk her out of forcing me to make a fool of myself in front of the entire class. She didn't relent. She wanted to make an example of me. As I tried to figure out a way to calculate the value of the mysterious "X," the other students delighted in my disgrace and the teacher was pleased with herself. I was almost in tears by the time she finally let me return to my seat, which felt harder than ever. "Ms. Math," who had obvious ambitions to make it big as a stand-up comic, re-enacted my clumsy efforts. The class howled with laughter as she mocked me. Then she solved that damned equation with such ease that I wanted to die. I found very little solace in watching her embarrass another student later in the period. I had forgotten how much I hated being a high school student, but it was all coming back to me now that I had gotten "to be a kid again." I never welcomed a sound so much as I did the bell which ended that class.
Randi walked with me to the door overlooking the gas station. Enroute she asked me, "Wanna stay over at my house sometime?"
"Sure," I told her. Randi was so considerate. She is a really nice girl.
"How about tonight?" she asked.
"Okay," I said, assuming I wouldn't still be there by the time school was out.
"Don't you have to call your mom for permission?" she asked.
"To hell with my mom," I said, feeling every bit as rebellious as any other runaway teenage girl. I thought, 'At least I can be defiant.'
When we arrived at the door, I could see the service station personnel working around the Cadillac, which was still sitting right where I parked it.
"Going somewhere, girls?" the principal's voice challenged. Randi and I stuttered as we turned to face her.
I hated the woman's self-assurance. She enjoyed being in command, even if it was just the occasional opportunity to intimidate little girls. "I ... I ... was just looking over there," I explained. I hated the sound of my voice. It sounded to me just like it did when I was a teenager. The principal looked skeptical, and pleased to be so.
"My ... ah ... my cousin works over there in the gas station ..." I lied.
I noticed that both Randi and I had our hands on our hips, palms to the rear, as though the principal might give us another spanking right then and there. How humiliating!
As Randi and I edged around the principal, she continued to smirk at us in her self satisfied way. She finally said, "Don't be late for class, girls" in that musical, but threatening, tone of voice.
During Third Period I went to Study Hall with my partners in punishment. Not much studying got done. Unless you count writing notes, passing them around, and reading those composed by others. Dawn handed one of her compositions to Vanetta, who didn't think it was funny, but passed it to Randi anyway. Randi scowled at Dawn and crumpled the paper, but I took it out of Randi's hands. Dawn had drawn a crude cartoon of ME being held over the table with my skirt up by the paddle wielding principal. The picture is labeled "Anita" and my mouth is wide open with the word "WHAAaaa!!!!" coming out of it. I tore the piece of paper into smaller and smaller shreds, wishing it were Dawn.
At lunch time I started to leave the building again, only to see two police officers questioning the employees at the gas station about the Cadillac. I figured Mr. Horvath might arrive at any moment and he could identify me if he saw me wandering around the neighborhood. A sudden thought hit me right in the pit of my stomach. What if Mr. Horvath had told the police that I was his granddaughter Rachael? The police would turn me over to him and he would turn me over his knee! I gasped aloud at the very idea. Worse, sly old Mr. Horvath would probably drive me away to someplace private where he could take my panties down and blister my bare bottom with that damned sandal as long as he wanted! I turned and scurried back into the bowels of the institution, and back into my synthetic childhood.
I found my cohorts in crime in the cafeteria. The smell of food permeated the air and I suddenly realized I was famished. I didn't have a dime to buy anything, but Randi noticed my starved stare and asked me to eat half her sandwich. She said she just wasn't hungry, but I knew she was just being kind, because she instructed Vanetta to let me finish her coke.
I re-checked the Cadillac between classes throughout the afternoon, but it just sat there. Mr. Horvath was nowhere in sight.
The seats on my school desks grew harder and harder, and the probability that I would get caught impersonating a student loomed larger. Trapped in a time warp, I started to think that life with George, even at its recent worst, was not so bad as being a kid again.
Randi was one of the few students who had done her homework and she prompted me with the right answers in Fifth Period English.
As much as I liked Randi, I sneaked away from her at the end of the day. When I reached the door I saw Mr. Horvath across the street inspecting his Cadillac, so I ran to the doors at the other end of the school, where Randi was waiting for her mother to pick her up.
"Oh, THERE you are," Randi said.
"Got lost," I lied.
"Here we go," Randi said gesturing toward an old car which chugged to a stop at the curb.
Randi's mom is a big woman, just four or five years older than me. She seemed to be in a bad mood.
"Mom, this is Anita," Randi told her as we climbed into the rusty car.
Mrs. Wade ignored me and asked Randi, "Where's she going?"
Randi took an exasperated breath and said, "Mom. Don't you remember. You said I could have a girlfriend stay over if I got all 'A's."
Randi's mother turned her harsh frown on me and demanded, "Your mom know about this?"
"Sure," I lied. My voice sounded childlike.
Mrs. Wade asked me, "You get caught smoking too?"
I gulped guiltily and I heard Randi catch her breath.
I humbly nodded in the affirmative.
The older woman turned back to Randi and asked pointedly, "You sure this isn't just because you two got in trouble today?"
Randi fibbed with convincing sincerity, "We've been planning this for weeks!"
I heartily nodded my enthusiastic support for Randi's lie.
Mrs. Wade grunted and then drove us without another word. Randi seemed worried.
Their dilapidated house is in a poor neighborhood.
I decided I would call my mom from Randi's house. Even though Mom might tell George where I was, I could get her to come and get me out of this living nightmare. I never got the opportunity to ask to use the phone.
As soon as we walked into the Wade house, Randi's mom said, "In my bedroom, girls."
Randi puckered up to cry, but she obeyed her mother.
And so did I.
In the master bedroom, Randi sobbed as Mrs. Wade sat down on the bed and told me, "Whenever Randi gets paddled at school, she gets spanked again when she gets home."
"Not in front of Anita," Randi begged, "Please wait 'til tomorrow."
"You figured that if you invited Anita here I wouldn't spank you tonight?" Mrs. Wade asked her daughter sarcastically.
Randi shook her head "no" and I wanted to believe her. I liked Randi and I didn't want to think she befriended me just to get out of a spanking.
"Drop your drawers!" Mrs. Wade commanded.
Randi's hands shook as she unsnapped and unzipped her jeans, and let them fall to the floor. Tears flowed down her face as she peeled her panties down to her knees. Randi's naked hips wobbled as she waddled over to the bed, hobbled by her clothes, and laid herself across her mother's lap.
Mrs. Wade adjusted Randi's body, placing her daughter's rump right where she wanted it. Then she pointed to the dressing table and said to me, "Anita, hand me that hairbrush." I obeyed, although my knees were trembling so much I thought I might fall.
Randi slowly started bawling, in a low tone. At first I thought she was crying because I was watching, but I soon learned that she was crying in anticipation of what her mother was about to do to her.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Each time the back of the hairbrush whacked Randi's bare bottom, the loud crisp cracking sound made me flinch and want to pee in my panties.
Randi's bawling jumped higher and louder with each spank like a salmon plunging up a fish ladder. Mrs. Wade wasted no time.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Randi's flesh rippled from each spank and red ovals appeared on her snowy white rear end where the hairbrush spanked her. My bottom burned just watching.
Randi was shrieking shrilly and thrashing around like a fish out of water, but her big brawny mother had her well in hand and never missed a beat with that awful hairbrush.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" The fiery red ovals started to appear at the top of Randi's bright white thighs. Randi's feet kicked wildly and her blue jeans around her ankles added a desperate rustling sound.
Suddenly, Mrs. Wade stopped spanking Randi. Randi did not stop kicking and screaming.
Mrs. Wade instructed me to "Sit on her feet."
I didn't want to be any closer to the spanking than I was already, but I did as I was told. I had to collect Randi's kicking feet first and then force them down on the bed in order to sit on them.
"Thank you, Anita," Mrs. Wade said to me, as though I had brought her a cup of coffee or something. She then went right back to work spanking Randi's thighs.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I could feel Randi's feet kicking around under me and I felt so sorry that I was helping her mother spank her. Tears were streaming down my face and I could hardly get my breath. Mrs. Wade spanked Randi's thighs right down to the backs of her knees.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Randi spread her knees wide in her struggle to avoid the hairbrush and her mother took the opportunity to spank her tender inner thighs.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Randi screamed so sharply, I thought I would faint.
Suddenly it was over. Mrs. Wade helped Randi to her feet and steadied her as Randi stumbled to the corner holding her blistered bottom with both hands and crying as loud as she could. Randi leaned against the adjoining walls and wailed.
Mrs. Wade walked back to where I was standing, turned to look at her well spanked daughter, and said to Randi, "Hands!"
Randi's fingers came off her hips as though they were burned and she clasped her hands in front. Mrs. Wade turned to me and said, "You're next."
"NO!" I yelled right back at her. I could have explained that I was nearly her age and she could get in a lot of trouble if she hit me. Or I could have told her she was not my mother and therefore had no right to give me a spanking. No I couldn't. In my advanced stage of disorientation I could never have convinced her I was an adult, and in my state of shock she seemed to have every right to give me a spanking. The fact is, I never thought any of these things. I just tried to get away.
Hung over, sleep deprived, previously spanked, starved and scared out of my mind, I was no match for husky Mrs. Wade. In fact, the more I yelled "NO!" and the more I wrestled with her, the angrier she got. I flopped down on the floor in the fetal position, but she just grabbed the sides of my hips, lifted them up, sat down on the bed, and plopped my midsection down across her lap, demonstrating that wherever your hips go, the rest of you is bound to follow. I tried to back off of her lap and only succeeded in working my skirt up under my arms before she hauled me over her knees again. She wrapped her arm around my bare waist and placed my upturned bottom right where she wanted it. Pulling on the bed covers with my hands and waving my legs in the air did nothing to get me out of her grasp. She jerked down my panties with authority and I knew I was in big trouble. I had forgotten that making a mommy mad just before she gives you a spanking is the stupidest thing a naughty girl can do.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" The hairbrush spanking my hips felt as though I were being machine gunned in the butt. I kicked and screamed involuntarily from the beginning burst.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" Mrs. Wade spanked me a lot harder than she did Randi.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I could hear myself screaming, but all I could think about was the intractable pain in my ass.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" My body jumped and jerked spastically out of control.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I know now that my flying feet protected my thighs from the same fate Randi had suffered. Since Mrs. Wade didn't have another mortified maid in waiting to sit on my feet, she concentrated all her effort on my blazing butt.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I wanted my flaming fanny to fall off to stop the stinging that shot through me from every spank with that damned hairbrush. I wanted to die --- but I simply didn't know how.
"SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" - "SMACK!" I was so hysterical I didn't even know my spanking was over, until I realized I was standing with my forehead pressed in a corner holding my skirt up and bawling my eyes out.
After I calmed down to merely deranged, I thought I was alone in the room, but I was afraid to turn my head and look.
Mrs. Wade was apparently admiring the ruby red results of her brushwork. Her voice jolted me when she suddenly told Randi, "Just wait 'til your father gets home." I heard Randi start to cry again in her corner. Then I heard Mrs. Wade leave the room.
Mrs. Wade's remark should have given me a clue that Randi and I had something to fear from Mr. Wade, but I couldn't think straight. My mind replayed the infantile antics I performed when I was across Mrs. Wade's lap getting the worst spanking of my life. I was so embarrassed by my own babyish behavior that my face blushed almost as hotly as my hairbrushed heinie.
After burning at both ends for what seemed like a long time, I heard Mr. and Mrs. Wade's voices conversing. I couldn't make out what they were saying.
Mrs. Wade came to the door and said, "Come out here, Anita."
I was so defeated I turned and walked to her still holding my skirt up, and with my girlish panties down around my knees.
"Drop your skirt," Mrs. Wade instructed me and I obeyed. She didn't say, "Pull up your panties," so I didn't.
I followed Mrs. Wade into the kitchen where Mr. Wade was standing with his hand on the telephone. He was a big rough looking guy in grimy work clothes. "What's your mother's phone number?" he asked me.
I ruefully recalled the last time a man asked me that question. I got spanked for refusing to answer. And I should have been spanked again for lying. I wasn't going to make either of those mistakes again. I gave Mr. Wade my mother's correct telephone number.
He dialed the number, handed me the telephone, and said, "Have your mother tell me she that you have her permission to stay over."
Once again I must plead "temporary insanity" for what I said to my mom. Of all the things in the world I could have said, what I said was: "Mom, I'm at Randi Wade's house, just like you said I could. Mr. Wade wants you to tell him that it's okay for me to stay over."
My mom later said she thought it was some sort of practical joke intended to test her grasp on reality by giving her a blast from the past, because I made my voice sound just like it did when I was a teenage kid. (My voice was horse from screaming, but it had regressed a lot of years by the time I spoke with Mom.) She said, "Sure, Anita, I'll play along. Put him on."
I handed Mr. Wade the telephone, my last link to someone who could help me escape my pseudo adolescence.
He said, "Mrs. Harrison? This is Randi's dad. Yeah ...
Well, the real reason I wanted to talk to you was to tell you our daughters caused a some trouble at school today. Oh, yeah ... Whenever Randi gets in trouble at school, she gets a lickin' when she gets home. Since Anita was right in there with Randi, you want us to give her a lickin' too? Oh, sure ..."
I reckoned that Mr. Wade was trying to get my mom's permission in order to justify the "lickin'" Mrs. Wade had already given me. I knew my mom would never give permission for me to be spanked. I was wrong on both counts.
Mr. Wade hung up the telephone and said, "Your mom says a good lickin' is just what you need, young lady."
I was hurled into a deeper state of shock. If I thought about it, and I don't think I did, I'm sure I still thought I had already been given the "good lickin'" he was talking about.
Mr. Wade took one of my shoulders in each of his big hard hands and turned me around. At least his hands looked clean. He then grasped the back of my neck with one hand and pushed me into the living room. En route, he bellowed, "Randi!"
Randi stumbled into the living room, with her blue jeans and panties down around her ankles, blubbering like a baby. She made no effort to cover herself. "Please, Daddy," Randi begged her father.
"You know the drill," he told her, "assume the position."
Randi bawled louder, but she bent over the back of the sofa and rested her forearms on the seat cushion. Her bare bottom, covered in red and blue bruises, stuck up in the air in an obscene display. Mr. Wade turned my head around to face him with the hand that held the back of my neck and said, "You too."
"NO!" I yelled, too scared to say a sentence. He ignored my protest and bent me over the back of the sofa next to Randi. I tried to push up with my arms, but Mrs. Wade took my wrists and pulled my hands off the seat cushion. She sat down on the coffee table and held my arms extended, keeping me hung over the back of the sofa. I struggled, but once again the powerful Mrs. Wade handled the hysterical Anita with ease.
I felt my skirt flipped up and I looked back in time to see Mr. Wade drawing the wide leather belt out of the belt loops of his work pants. I would later lament showing my naked underside to this man, but at the time my full focus was on the belt.
I think Mr. Wade as angry with me, so he whipped me first. He doubled his belt, swung it up over his head, and swooshed it down across both my buns. The sharp "CRACK!" of strap on my bare bruised butt made my ears pop. Then I felt the sting, like a white-hot sword pressed across both my hips.
The "Swoosh" of the belt through the air, its "CRACK!" across my naked ass, the surge of sizzling burn, and my out- cries continued at a walking rhythm even though my feet were running in the air and my arms would have been swimming a frantic free style if I could have gotten my wrists away from Mrs. Wade.
I now know that I protected my thighs with my feet, but that only left my rear to take all of the strapping. Every lick of the leather imparted a searing burn across my already scorched seat and stoked the bonfire building in my bottom.
I kicked and screamed and prayed that death would pluck me from the fires of Hell raging in my rear end. I was in such pain I couldn't tell where my lickin' left off and Randi's began. I suddenly realized that the crack of the strap wasn't increasing my pain and the screams which accompanied the strapping were Randi's, not my own.
Finally, the "Swoosh" and the "CRACK!" and the shrieking all stopped. Mrs. Wade shook my wrists and asked me , "Do you want some more?"
"NO! NO! NO!" I heard myself screaming, as though that question needed to be asked or answered.
"Then you stay right here," she said as she placed my forearms on the tear spattered seat cushion.
I hung my head and bawled until I could snort back my tears enough to check on Randi. She was in the same condition I was in. Her fingers were dug into the seat cushion in front of her. She looked devastated, but she had held herself in position, while her mother had had to hold me. I don't know how Randi did that. I know I couldn't have done it, even if I'd tried.
Randi and I sniveled together, draped over the back of the sofa with out bare bottoms exposed, while her parents did something in the kitchen for a long time.
Finally, Mrs. Wade came back to the living room and ordered us to bed without our supper.
I was ravenously hungry, but starvation seemed preferable to sitting down on my swollen buttocks for a meal, or facing the man and woman who had each given me a spanking. Both of them had seen me crying and kicking and exposing my private parts like a naughty little girl while I was getting spanked.
Randi loaned me a pair of her flannel pajamas. They had little blue whales on them. While we where changing, I noticed the red welts on Randi's white skin, over blue bruises from the hairbrush. Reminded me of an American flag. I figured my own posterior looked equally patriotic.
We eased into Randi's small bed side by side on our stomachs. The smells of food from the kitchen made my mouth water and my head swirl. The sounds of Randi's parents eating convinced me they could not hear me if I spoke softly, so I whispered to Randi, "It's not fair. They both spanked me harder than they spanked you."
"No they didn't," Randi argued, "You're just not used to getting a spanking."
"Oh yes I am," I argued. It sounds silly now, but somehow I felt I needed to justify not having taken my spankings with Randi's courage.
"With a hairbrush?" she asked.
"No."
"With a belt?"
"No," I said, "With a leather sandal."
"Well," Randi whispered, "Your mom and dad just don't spank as hard as mine."
Despite my hurt and hunger, sleep finally came.
I woke in the middle of a dream about starving while trying to gnaw through the tough skin of a huge marshmallow. I opened my eyes and discovered I was hugging the pillow and chewing on it. I thought, "What a nightmare! I shouldn't have gone to bed so hungry." I had dreamed that George had spanked me, old Mr. Horvath had given me a spanking with his leather sandal, a school principal had paddled my panties, Mrs. Wade had given me a bare bottom spanking with the hairbrush, and Mr. Wade had strapped my naked ass with his belt. I swung my feet off the side of the bed and gasped as I was shocked awake by the soreness of my seat. I looked down, saw the little blue whales on my jammies and realizes that it wasn't a dream. I really WAS spanked five times yesterday.
I looked around for Randi, but she was no where in sight. The house was quiet. "Where is everybody?" I wondered. The worst thing about being a teenager (other than getting a spanking) is that adults withhold information from you. They never let you know what's going on.
No sooner had I used the bathroom and washed my face and hands than Randi's mom appeared and ordered me to breakfast. She didn't have to tell me twice.
Grumpy Mrs. Wade served a hearty breakfast on the kitchen counter to the sore-tailed girl in the flannel jammies and I ate like a pig. Ready-mix pancakes with margarine and maple syrup, greasy sausage, and a big glass of milk, almost knocked me out from the blood sugar bounce. As soon as I had eaten everything but the design on the dishes, Mrs. Wade said, "You'd better get dressed, your mom and dad will be here to pick you up any minute."
Taken by surprise, I blurted, "My dad is dead."
Mrs. Wade gave me a disgusted look and said, "Your mom said you'd say that. She and your step-father, George, are coming to pick you up."
I knew I could never convince Mrs. Wade that I was George's thirty-three year old wife, not his sixteen year old step- daughter, and I figured I might get myself spanked again if I tried, so I nodded and stumbled off to Randi's bedroom to put on my kid clothes one last time. I stayed in the bedroom in my now-smelly costume until Mom and George arrived and I was called to the living room.
"I understand you got a spanking for smoking at school yesterday," my mother said. Before I could organize an answer, she held up the little plastic flyswatter she used to spank me with when I was nine or ten years old and said, "But I still owe you a spanking for running away."
I hadn't thought about that flyswatter for years, but the sight of it struck terror in my heart. "NO!" I yelled and turned to run away, but ran right into Mrs. Wade.
Mrs. Wade seized my elbows, penning my arms to my sides, and told my mother, "I'll hold her for you." I couldn't pull my arms free from her, even when I tried to drop my weight straight down.
I felt my skirt lifted behind me, looked over my shoulder and saw my mom delicately holding my skirt tail up with two fingers of her left hand as she swung the flyswatter with her right.
"WHAP!" it hit my inner thigh and stung a Hell of a lot more than I remembered. "OW!" I screamed.
My mother spanked my other inner thigh with the flyswatter, and I screamed again. I did a little dance. Mom spanked one of my thighs again and I screamed and danced some more. We repeated the process over and over and over.
With Mrs. Wade holding my arms, I couldn't get my hands in the way and I certainly couldn't get my bare thighs out of the way. Mom had me bawling big time and dancing that silly little dance for what seemed like forever. It felt like my legs were on fire, and the flames flashed right up through me. I thought she would never stop smacking my burning thighs with that damned little flyswatter.
Finally, my mother stopped spanking me. She asked me, "Are you ever going to run away again?"
"NO! NO! NO!" I blubbered, I was still dancing and crying too hard to say two syllable words.
Mrs. Wade released me and I bopped around the living room rubbing my burning thighs and screeching in a well-spanked little girl's voice. "Now about throwing the dishes," George said as he approached me.
"No! No! No! Please!" I begged repeatedly as he hauled me over to the sofa, sat down, and planted me face down across his lap.
My mother stepped over and pulled up the back of my skirt again, saying, "Let's get this out of the way."
Mrs. Wade volunteered, "I would take those panties down too."
"No! No! No! Please!" I squealed. I felt him grasp the waist band of the little girl panties I bought for the play.
I saw my mother shaking he head "no" (she later said she wanted to preserve my dignity in front of Mrs. Wade, as if I still had any left by then). I felt fortunate when George pulled the waistband up, rather than down. I was wrong. Later, after George saw how battered my butt was, he told me he would never have spanked me at the Wade house if he had lowered my panties and seen my welts and bruises. As it was, he had tightened the fit of my knickers so I would feel the full sting of his hand. My mother now insists that George didn't spank me all that hard. She says the little spanks he gave me were "love pats." They certainly didn't feel that way to me. He kept me squealing, squirming, and squalling for a very long time. Again, my mother says it was only a few minutes, but I KNOW it was a lot longer than that. After George spanked my panties for what seemed like forever, he stopped and asked, "You gonna behave yourself from now on?"
"YES! YES! YES! YES!" I squealed between sobs.
I rode home lying across the back seat of the car on my stomach, listening to my mother and my husband discuss my situation and my future as though I weren't there. George had reported me missing to the police. The police had put his report together with Mr. Horvath's stolen car report and interrogated Mr. Horvath all day yesterday. When the police department holding Mr. Horvath's Cadillac and the police department holding Mr. Horvath finally got together, Mr. Horvath got on his way, feeling lucky to be out of custody. (Good! I thought) George said he might have to pay Horvath not to charge me or sue me for stealing his car. I didn't like that idea, but I didn't say a word.
Mom said I could end my eight year old, mostly happy, marriage, or I could give George another try, but he shouldn't put up with any more of my spoiled behavior. George said he wasn't going to. George also said the President of a new company in town had made a significant job offer which I might want to think about, or I could relocate myself to some other locale, but with some adult dignity this time.
It sounds silly now, but I was lying across the back seat thinking that the most striking thing I had learned in my thirty-six hours of adolescence was: "Women spank girls a lot harder that men do."
The worst day and a half of my life is all behind me now. (In a sense it was all behind me then.) Six months have passed and I'm back home and happy. The bruises on my backside have all faded away. I haven't had a smoke since my night flight to Springfield. I love my new job, I love my old husband, and (I guess) I still love my mother.
My new company is expanding right here, with no plan to ever move in the future. I make more money, have more responsibilities, and have a lot more freedom to manage. As the company grows, so does my job and benefits.
Randi Wade is going to win the full scholarship I have set up for a deserving student in our region who wouldn't otherwise be able to go to college. That's the least I can do to get her out of her parents' home. Randi still doesn't know her girlfriend Anita Harrison is not really a teenage girl.
Neither George nor my mother (nor I) have ever mentioned my misadventure to anyone else. I have to appreciate them both for that.
George has given me two spanking since I've been back home. I richly deserved both of them. They were both long drawn out affairs. He first required me to take off all my clothes (in the privacy of our bedroom, of course) put me over his knees and spanked my bare bottom with his hard hand for what seemed like forever. He delayed so long between spanks that I got the full benefit of his stern lecture and my steady inevitable decent from my haughty high horse to squalling infancy.
Afterwards, George rocked me in his arms and, both times, we wound up having super sex. The comforting was almost worth the pain and humiliation of getting the spankings in the first place. George says if I ever need a spanking again, he'll give me a spanking again, and I know he's serious, so I'm trying very hard to be a very good girl. Fortunately, our bedroom is soundproof, so the neighbors didn't hear either of my last two spankings.
The neighbors all smile at me now, partially because I smile at them, but there's something else in their facial expression (I can't quite describe it) that tells me they heard George spanking me that first time, just before the abrupt change in my attitude.
My mom and I are about as friendly as we ever were.
I haven't forgiven her yet for giving Mr. Wade permission to give me a "lickin,'" even though she insists she never imagined how severely he would strap me and she swears she had no idea at all that he would bare my bottom before he blistered me with his belt.
I'll never forgive my mom for thigh spanking me with that damned plastic flyswatter. She really took advantage of the situation. I can't make too much of a fuss about it though, for fear she'll tell someone I know (anyone I know) that I'm not too grown up get a spanking, or as she put it the last time I mentioned it: she "can still make her little girl dance and sing to the beat of that little plastic flyswatter, just like when she was a kid."
Of course, it still makes me crazy every time my mom says, "Oh to be a kid again."
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