Payback

"Get 'em down," He said, closing the front door behind him.

From the couch, I blinked at him. "But—

"Now," He said, opening the closet door.

I stumbled to my feet, mind racing. It had been a quiet day, not the usual sort to land me in a spot of trouble. My fingers felt cold and numb as they fumbled with the button and zipper holding my bluejeans in place. The noise of the television turned from entertainment to distraction. I watched him pick through the closet, remove the wide strap and close the door.

He turned to me, his eyes scanning me from head to toe, pausing in emphasis at my waist before leading down to my ankles. I hesitated with my thumbs hooked into the waistband on my sides. The warm glow of embarrassment graced my cheeks under his daunting gaze. I swallowed pride and forced the nervous muscles in my arms to comply, raking my jeans and panties down my legs until they rested around my ankles. Straightening back up, I found a spot on the floor between us and stared. I forced my twitching hands to rest at my sides, exposing me to his gaze.

"Over to the table," He said.

I bit at my lower lip. The table loomed ominously across the room, almost as if it were laughing at me. I shuffled toward it, my feet shackled by jeans and underwear. My eyes flickered to him, looking for some clue as to the reason for my shameful walk. He kept it hidden, his stern face a mask only softened by the slight amusement gleamed from my shuffled walk. I might have smiled.

When I reached the table, he said, "Over."

I looked back at him, pleading for an explanation with big eyes and fluttering lashes. He pointed at the far side of the table. I turned back to the table, sucking in air and courage. My lips trembled with the questions plaguing my mind. I kept quiet, not a whimper escaping and bent at the waist, reaching for the table's furthest edge. My fingers wrapped around the cold smoothness of the glass top and I waited.

He stepped closer, draping the wide strip of leather on my naked bottom. My legs twitched at the touch. I closed my eyes, bracing for the inevitable conclusion. He raised the strap only to bring it back again with same teasing gentleness with which he began. I knew it would not last. If only I knew why, it would be so much easier to accept.

A jerk of his arm and flick of his wrist ended all the pleasantries. The strap snapped against my quivering bottom, sending waves of force rolling through my body. I gasped at the suddenness. My eyes flickered open and shut, weathering the beginning sting and the tingle of warmth emanating from my bottom. He pulled the strap away to linger in the unseen space behind me.

"I'm disappointed," He said, lashing the strap down on my bottom as if in demonstration of his feelings.

"I'm sorry," I said, blinking back tears caused by the sting of his actions.

"Are you now?" He asked, connecting the strap with my bottom like the physical representation of the question mark in his tone.

"Yes," I said, wriggling my burning bottom. The cause of my sorrow remained a mystery, but there was no doubt about its existence.

"What were you thinking?" He asked, the strap whipping the question into my very soul.

"I don't know," I said amidst tears of global remorse.

"You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you?" He said, punctuating every syllable with a snap of the strap against my naked bottom.

I held tight to the table. Tears spilled from my cheeks onto the glass. My legs kicked. My bottom squirmed. There was no escape from the strap or its effects. The burning built atop itself with no respite and the sting, coursed its way through my body, leaving my every extremity tingling. I cried out with every lash.

"You're lucky, Mr. Wicker is a friend," He said, swinging the strap twice more.

The connections sparked together. I had been caught. I should have known from the start. Mr. Wicker was my boss. He owned a small bookshop on the corner of Main Street. It was not the most popular place in town, but he keeps a unique collection of rare editions which sell quite well amongst collectors of such things. They often arrive from far off places with bundles of cash, willing to pay much more for the books of their desire than Mr. Wicker asks. It was wrong, I suppose, to have tricked the young man today. He knew no better, so it seemed the extra hundred dollars would be better valued in my hands than his.

"Remembering now, are we?" He said, the strap eliciting every detail of the memory.

"I'm sorry," I said, with renewed conviction.

"I bet you are, now," He said. "Anyone else might have just called the police."

"I'll give it back," I said, wiping tears from my eyes on my arm.

He lashed the strap down on my bottom and said, "You certainly will."

"It was stupid," I said and he swung the strap, hard.

"Yes, very much so and you'll pay for the stupidity," He said.

"Yes, sir," I replied, knowing my agreement mattered little in the scheme of things to come.

"I'm going to give you ten more now and when I'm done, you are going to sit down, on your bare, sore backside, and you are going to write a very lengthy and apologetic letter to Mr. Wicker and then another to young man you swindled. Understood?"

"Yes, sir,"I said.

"And when you're all done and I'm satisfied you've done a good job we're going to go see Mr. Wicker and this young man and you are going to return the money you stole, apologize to them both and personally deliver these letters. Afterward, if they are at all inclined, you will tell them exactly how you've been punished and show them your big, red backside. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," I said, blushing at the mere prospect.

He whipped the strap through the air allowing it to crash against my already tenderized bottom, ten more times. I pushed myself up from the table, gratified it was over even though it was not. Carefully sitting down at the table, I picked up the pen and brought it down against the blank paper he gave me. His eyes held no compassion for me. I blinked back tears and began to write, but the only thought on my mind was the burning in my bottom and the shame of what I had done.

Tears Of Consequence

I almost made it. My fingers were wrapped around the brass knob leading to the outside world, to freedom. I had tiptoed down the stairs and across the tile entry floor. Every movement was carefully planned to avoid detection from my bedroom all the way to the front door. No one should have heard or even known, but there he was standing behind me.

"And just where do you think you are going?" He asked.

I suppressed a shudder, turning around to face him. Masking surprise with innocence, I said, "Out."

He raised an eyebrow. I tried not to laugh. He said, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

I looked to the ceiling, pretending to ponder the question. My eyes floated from the left to the right and back to the left again. He stood there, tapping his foot. I said, "No, nothing I can think of."

"I'm not amused," He said and I replied, "Good, cause I'm not a clown."

"With all that makeup, I wasn't sure," He said.

"Who's the comedian?" I asked.

"The only thing funny here is you thinking you could walk out the front door without me noticing," He said.

"Maybe I didn't care if you did," I said, resting my hands on my hips.

"That's why you were tiptoeing," He said.

"Whatever," I said. "I'm going out."

"No, you're not," He said, stepping a little closer. "In case you've forgotten, you're grounded."

I said, "In case you've forgotten, I'm an adult now. I can do what I want."

"You may be old enough to drive, vote and drink, but so long as you need to verbally affirm your status as an adult for others to realize it, you are not an adult," He said and pointed up the stairs behind him. "Now you can go back up to your room and think about why your behavior continues to disprove the theory that you're an adult."

I said, "You can't make me."

He shook his head at me and said, "That's your argument; I can't make you? You're absolutely right, I can't make you do anything. So go ahead, walk out the door and pretend you've done nothing wrong. I am the ogre after all. How dare I expect you to suffer any consequences for your actions? Is that how you think?"

"I didn't say that," I said, looking at the floor because I could no longer look him in the eyes. "I just want to go out."

"And I'd like to be a billionaire," He said. "Unfortunately, to get the things we want in life requires hard work and sacrifice. Sure, there are shortcuts. You could walk out the door, I could rob a bank, but there are consequences for those kind of choices and while you might like the short term satisfaction, I promise you, the long term results aren't worth it."

"Nobody is going to throw me in prison for walking out the door," I said.

"Hopefully not, " He said, "but you will have disappointed me. I've raised you to have better character than this, to have better respect for yourself and for me. If you walk out that door, I'll know I failed to teach you the most important lessons about life."

I looked at the door and closed my eyes. "Fine," I said, turning back to him and throwing my hands up in the air, "if it's such a big deal to you, I'll stay home."

"I give up, " He said, turning and walking away, "Do what you want. I'm sick of your attitude."

"Bastard," I said under my breath, watching him walk.

He spun back around and said, "What did you say?"

"Nothing," I said.

"I don't think so," He said, walking back to me.

"Like you even care," I said and started back up the stairs.

He grabbed my arm stopping me in my tracks. "I've got half a mind to put you over my knee," He said.

"You wouldn't dare," I said, glaring back at him and trying to pull free from his grip.

"A good spanking is just what a brat like you needs," He said, pulling me back down the stairs and dragging me toward the living room.

Tugging against him in a futile effort to escape, I said, "I'll scream."

He chuckled and said, "Go ahead, I expect you'll do a bit more than scream before I'm done."

"You can't," I said.

"I can," He said, sitting on the couch and pulling me down onto his lap, "and I will."

My face buried in a cushion, I kicked and squirmed as his hand began bouncing off my jeans. It did not really hurt and if I had not been outraged, I might have laughed. The slap of his open palm against my denim protected bottom gave truth to the old adage of it hurting him more than me. Still, I protested saying, "Stop it," over and over.

"I'll stop when you've got what you deserve and not a moment earlier," He said, pausing the spanking and resting his hand on my jeans, "Now I think its time we had these down."

A tug on the waist of my jeans shot my eyes wide open as his intentions were made crystal clear. I twisted on his lap, reaching back and grabbing at my jeans in a desperate attempt to foil his evil plans. He laughed at me and pushed my hand away toward the small of my back. In frustration, I kicked my legs while I stared at the cushion, shocked he could be so cruel. His efforts were slowed by mine, but in the end my jeans were tugged below my bottom, exposing my adult underwear to his view and consequently, the bare globes of my bottom.

"That's better," He said, his free hand resuming the spanking with more enthusiasm than before. This time, every slap left a sting I could feel all the way to my eyes. I kicked and squirmed, pounded the cushion with my fist, but it was all in vain. Better, is not how I would describe the situation at all.

"I'll be good," I said and he replied, "I've heard that before."

"I promise," I said and he replied, "You'll actually mean it before I'm through."

My eyes filled with teardrops. His hand whisked through the air. The walls echoed with the sounds of my spanking. My bottom burned with the heat of shame. Tears rolled down my cheeks and in their glistening drops I saw myself. Such a bad girl, such a naughty girl, getting exactly what she deserves.