The Showing

Everything was perfect. Not even a molecule could be found out of place in the entire house. I filled my glass with water only to have him fussing over me, polishing off water droplets on the faucet before they could become hard water stains. It was irritating and he did not care.

“Dad,” I said, taking his attention away from the polishing work, “nobody expects an antiseptic house.”

“Nobody is going to pay three quarters of a million dollars for a home that includes the disaster zone you typically call a bedroom either,” Dad said.

“It’s not like I didn’t clean it up,” I said, grabbing a yogurt out of the fridge and peeling off the foil top. “Besides, if the house doesn’t look lived in, nobody will think of it as a home.”

“No amount of cleaning can change the fact this place looks lived in,” Dad said, returning to his polishing. “The difference is whether people think slobs live here or normal people.”

“Normal people have water droplets on their faucets,” I said.

“They also sit at a table when they eat,” He said.

“What can I say,” I said with a shrug, “I’m more talented.”

“If you make a mess, you’ll find out just how talented I am,” Dad said, pausing long enough to stare his meaning into me.

My eyes took an involuntary turn toward the ceiling. I shook my head and dropped the yogurt container on the counter. Shoving it aside, the spoon almost toppled it over. I watched it, almost disappointed it did not fall on its side. Dad glared at me, scolding words clearly on the tip of his tongue, but I had no desire to continue the banter. I turned my back and started to walk away.

“If you’re done with it,” Dad said, stopping me in my tracks, “throw it away and put the spoon in the dishwasher.”

I huffed.

Dad said, “I’m not kidding.”

“You wouldn’t know how,” I said beneath my breath and turned around.

“What was that?” Dad asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“I’m not deaf,” He said and without thinking, I replied, “No, just dumb.”

Dad straighten up his stance, one hand grasping the edge of the kitchen counter like a vise. He tossed the towel in his other hand aside and scowled at me. I smiled and blinked my innocent eyes, hoping he would just let the little slip go. There was clearly a debate raging behind his beady eyes.

He said, “You’re lucky they’ll be here in less than ten minutes.”

“If you say so,” I said, with another shrug.

“Don’t push me,” Dad said, wagging a finger like I was a naughty dog.

I grabbed the yogurt off the counter and said, “Don’t have a coronary. I’m taking care of it.”

Dad said, “I don’t know what is with your attitude today, but as soon as they leave you can plan on spending some time in the corner thinking about it.”

“My attitude?” I said, fuming and waving my hands in the air, “Give me a break. Like someone is really going to take a hundred thousand off the asking price because I ate a fucking yogurt.”

“You’re making a mess,” Dad said, as a drop of yogurt fell from the container to the counter top.

“You’re insane,” I said.

I spun around intending to stomp out of the kitchen. The yogurt slipped from my hand and went flying through the air, splattering against the front door of the refrigerator. My breath caught in my throat. The mostly empty container and spoon clattered to the floor. Slowly, the white ooze slid down the door. I heard the click of the wall clock in the living room.

“Pick it up,” Dad said in a scary, quiet tone.

I said, “I didn’t mean to.”

“Now,” Dad said, and he pushed past me leaving the kitchen.

I knelt to the ground and picked up the container and the spoon. The container went into the trash and the spoon into the dishwasher. Under the sink I found the polish for the stainless steel finish of the refrigerator door and a clean cloth waiting to be used. Following the instructions on the can, I shook it. I glanced at my watch, noting the prospective buyers were due to arrive at any minute. Dad would never forgive me if it was not cleaned up before they arrived.

“Put that stuff down and bend over the counter,” Dad said, returning to the kitchen.

Glancing behind me, my eyes fell to the large leather paddle in his hands. Pleadingly, I said, “I’ll clean it up.”

Dad nodded and said, “I know, but first you are going to start doing what you’re told, when you’re told. Now put that stuff down and bend over.”

Reluctantly, I turned back to the counter and complied with Dad’s wishes. I kicked off my shoes and pushed then against the cabinets and then took two steps back. Leaning down, I grabbed the front edge of the counter and chewed on my lower lip, waiting for the first blow of the paddle. Dad took up position behind me and cleared his throat, making me jump.

“Lift up your dress,” He said and I did.

My hands barely grasped the counter again before the first thud of the paddle, smacked against my bottom. Tears welled in my eyes. Dad swung again. My body lurched forward under the second impact and breath exploded out of my lungs. The edge of the counter dug into my palms. The leather slapped into my bottom for a third time and I yelped, lifting my left foot off the ground.

I planted my feet back on the ground and held tight to the counter. Contorting myself, I looked back just in time to watch the tan leather blur through the air and brand itself against my bottom once more. Before I could turn away, Dad raised the paddle in the air again and began to swing it back down. Tears dripped from my eyes onto the counter. My bottom burned with the guilt and shame of my reckless action. It no longer seemed to matter that it was an accident.

“Take your panties down,” Dad said.

I reached back. My thumbs hooked into the waist band. I told myself to comply. My arms refused the command. I stood frozen, knowing noncompliance was a mistake and equally knowing compliance would only bring about more pain. My eyes fluttered closed. I imagined myself lowering my panties, exposing my bottom. Reality refused to reflect it.

“Now,” Dad said, his impatience vibrating in the tense air between us.

My arms jerked downward in response. I felt the cool rush of air across my bottom. My hands slipped away from the flimsy garment, reaching once more for the counter edge. The leather struck hard against my bare, burning bottom. I twisted and yelped. Dad pushed a hand into the middle of my back forcing me downward and I grabbed the counter’s edge to steady myself. All I wanted was to grab my bottom.

Dad tripled his pace. Blow after blow, swat after swat, the paddle swished through the air only to slap against my bottom time and again with one resounding smack after another. I sniffled. Tears ran down my cheeks and sobs threatened to shake my body to its core. Silly pride, choked off apologies and pleas for leniency. Dad was only interested in putting a fire in my bottom anyway. He succeeded.

“Stand up,” Dad said, dropping the paddle to the side of his leg.

I pushed myself upright from the counter, allowing my dress to fall back down and cover my burning bottom from view. My hands stayed in placed on the counter’s edge for fear I would be unable to resist the urge to rub if they were not locked in place. I could feel the scrutiny of Dad’s gaze on my back, hear the tautness in his jaw as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Are you ready to do what you are told?” Dad asked.

I nodded my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“I can’t hear you,” Dad said.

“Yes,” I replied, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“It’s about time,” Dad said.

“I’ll clean up the mess now,” I said, reaching toward the can and cloth on the counter.

“First,” Dad said, making me pause mid-reach, “You’re going to strip right down to your birthday suit. Next, you’re going to fold every piece of your clothing very neatly, placing them on the counter top and then you are going to clean up your mess.”

Red hot blood rushed to my cheeks and I said, “But the buyer will be here soon.”

Dad said, “When you’re finished cleaning up your mess, you’re going to go stand in the living room corner and our prospective buyers will see that everything in this house is well cared for, even when it isn’t convenient. Am I understood?”

Still blushing, I nodded my head and said, “Yes.”

My trembling hands lifted my dress over my head. I reached around behind me and unclasped my bra, shrugging it off my shoulder and letting it slide off my arms, landing on top my discarded dress. My panties joined the pile a moment later after a quick swoop of my hands down my legs. Dad watched from the other side of the counter as I folded each garment and neatly stacked them against the back edge of the counter top.

Naked as a newborn, face and bottom flushed red and hot, I picked up the polish and cloth. Tears stung at my eyes, with the thought of my forthcoming humiliation before strangers. I sprayed cleaner and wiped circularly against the door, methodically cleansing it of the mess I had made. Regrets plagued my mind, but there was nothing for them. Dad had made up his mind and there was no going back.

A knock on the door, jolted my mind to the unavoidable present. I was nearly finished, leaning down and wiping away the last of the yogurt. My ears prickled hot at the sound of the front door clicking open. The clack of footsteps rang out from the entry way. I glanced down at myself, blushing hotter by the second as my gaze brushed over bare breasts and exposed privates. My bottom burned just a little hotter as if to remind me of its embarrassing display as well.

“Come on in, take a look around,” Dad said.

He Said, She Said

“Don’t do that again,” He said.
“Or what?” She replied.
“Do it again and you’ll find out,” He said.
“Tell me,” She said, a devious smile spreading across her face.
With a smile of his own, he stared down at her and said, “I’m going to spank you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” She said, backing away from him until the wall stopped her.
He reached out, grabbing her wrist, pulling her to him and said, “I warned you.”

Most of us associate certain words, key phrases, with the act of spanking. It’s a natural connection for some who, like me, were raised in homes where spanking was part of the disciplinary process. My parents used a slew of verbal warnings ranging from the subtle to the blatantly obvious. To this day hearing one of those phrases, even innocently spoken, sends a shiver down my spine and a cold sweat to my palms.

“Do you want to go out to the car?”

Even if I did, the answer was always, no. We would be out shopping or relaxing or visiting friends and I had a habit of fidgeting. Sitting still and quietly listening while the adults talked about adult things was never my strong suit. I always had an opinion and I was loathe to keep it to myself. So, inevitably, I would open my mouth or try to leave the immediate vicinity and there would come that phrase from my Mom or my Dad.

I’m not really sure when I figured out that going out to the car meant a spanking and then coming back inside and apologizing, but I’m sure it only took a couple of those trips with Mom or Dad firmly clutching my arm and dragging me unwillingly to that fate. To this day, that simple phrase evokes images of spankings for me and I’m sure to most people the connection is tenuous at best and non-existent for many.

The point is not that I had bad parents or mean parents (if they were alive, they would no doubt argue I was more devil than angel as a child), but that the connections between phrases and spanking is often very personal. While there do seem to be some very common universal phrases, often the most powerful ones are those in which we have a more personal connection. I know when I read stories, I get a particular thrill in coming across those phrases I heard as a child, probably because I know they no longer hold any danger, but that’s beside the point.

When I write a story, dialog plays a prominent role in building the tension just before the spanking. I like to find those key phrases, both universal and obscure, and insert them into the mouths of my characters. Sometimes it adds a sense of comedy or lightheartedness to the scene, other times it strengthens the development of dominance and submissions inherit in the scenes, but it always help the scene come alive for me. I hear those words in my ears as they are written on the page and it sucks me inside the story. The characters feel familiar, like old acquaintances or new friends, but with something in common with me with which I can connect.

A few more examples from my childhood;

1. “We’re going to have a long talk when we get home.”
2. “Either straighten up or bend over.”
3. “You better enjoy sitting down while you can.”
4. “You won’t sit for a week.”
5. “I’m going to blister your butt.”
6. “Do I need to remind you why every room has a corner?”
7. “If you’ve forgotten how to behave, I can remind you.”
8. “Sitting is a privilege not a right.”
9. “There is only one butt in this conversation.”
10. “Nobody minds a bare bottom except the one who doesn’t mind in the first place.”

Are there any phrases or words you like to find in a story?

What to Wear?

She stood stiffly, her back to the corner. Eyes cast downward, hands wringing together, waiting for the words that would seal her fate. She knew the spanking was inevitable, of that there was no doubt, but was there any hope for her modesty? Had she been bad enough to bare it all?

As an author of spanking fiction I regularly find myself at this juncture. The spankee’s fate is set, she’s earned her marks and all that remains is to determine exactly how the discipline will be carried out. There are of course other kinds of spankings, but today I’m thinking about the disciplinary sort because it ties in with the project I’m currently working on, The Spanking Days of Summer. (Check out the latest post on Quest Five for more information.)

One of the most controversial decisions I make is the spankee’s state of dress. What type of attire is she wearing at the start? Uniforms are always a favorite, but there is also the casual attire, the bed clothes, the swimwear, and more. You might consider it rather insignificant, but it can play a huge role in how a spanking plays out. Although I have occasionally written spankings over clothed bottoms, I am more inclined to at a minimum remove the outer layer of protection, be it pants, jeans, shorts, or a skirt. In my opinion this act of preparing for the spanking carries with it an emotional charge as the spankee and the reader begin to fully anticipate the spanking to come.

Sometimes, a bare bottom just doesn’t seem like it’s enough. Maybe the spankee is throwing around a little extra attitude, or maybe they went beyond bad behavior to deliberately destructive, but there come these times when the story needs to go a little farther. There are various stages of undress which can be employed from removing particular articles of clothing (ie. skirt, jeans, panties, etc.) to removing every stitch of clothing and every glitter of jewelry. I find these scenes particularly powerful because I can’t help but put myself in their shoes-- uh place (naked usually means no shoes, doesn’t it?). Humiliation and liberation collide until the spanking intercedes and leaves us with the absolute certainty the spankee has been punished. Or has she?

As you can no doubt imagine, I spend a lot of time considering the possible states of dress before, during and after a spanking. Every detail has to fit the story, the characters, and the setting. If I get it wrong, the story falls flat and an otherwise perfect scene is forgotten before it is even read. Whatever your preferences, I’m sure you’ll agree the attire (On, off, or somewhere in-between) plays a prominent role in the fantasy.

Pop Quiz

“There was life before cellphones,” He said.

A figurative light flashed in my head and I said, “BC? Wasn’t that like over 2000 years ago?”

“Do you think I’m joking with you?” He asked.

I debated the question with the available facts. The muscles in his face were clearly suppressing both a smile and laughter, which definitely held in favor of joking. There was the dryness of his tone and squareness of his shoulders which suggested more along the lines of not joking though. How was I supposed to make a determination when his own body seemed to be conflicted about the issue?

I shrugged and went with the truth, saying, “I’m not really sure.”

“Let me clarify then,” He said, taking a step nearer and seemingly looming over me. “I’m not joking and this is a very serious matter. You are in a lot of trouble.”

I looked up at him doe-eyed and said, “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“When intentions and actions fail to align it is your actions by which you are judged,” He said.

“Huh?” I said, mentally scratching my head.

He sighed and said, “Just because you meant no harm does not change the fact you did harm.”

“To whom?” I asked, offended by the very thought.

“Yourself to begin with,” He said.

“I was only texting a friend,” I said.

“During the middle of a quiz,” He said.

“I wasn’t cheating,” I said.

“How can I know that?” He asked.

“Because I’m telling you,” I said.

“How do I know you aren’t lying?” He asked.

“Why would I lie?” I asked.

“To stay out of trouble,” He said.

“Apparently it’s not working,” I said.

“No, it’s not,” He said.

“And you think I would continue telling a lie that wasn’t working?” I asked.

“Maybe you maintain some hope it will prevail,” He said.

“Or maybe I’m telling the truth,” I said.

“Maybe, but I can’t play favorites,” He said.

I smiled and said, “Are you suggesting I’m a favorite.”

He said, “I think we are getting a little off topic.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, lowering my eyes, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He slipped a single finger beneath my chin and raised my head until our eyes met. A gentle smile formed on his lips and I returned it with one of my own. Our roles of student and teacher faded into the background. He was just a man and I was just a woman. I dreamed of him leaning down and pressing his lips against mine, encasing me in his arms and sweeping me off my feet.

“You are a beautiful young woman,” He said, gazing into my eyes. “I enjoy having you in my class, but I cannot ignore it when you break the rules.”

“Where does that leave us?” I asked.

“I’m going to have to spank you,” He said.

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes.

“It is,” He said, sounding grave.

“Are you sure?” I asked, stepping closer to him, until only electric air stood between us.

He took a step back and said, “This is serious.”

“Of course,” I said, taking another step toward him.

His hands grasped my shoulders, pushing me arms length away from him and he said, “This won’t be pleasant. Cheating is a very serious matter.”

“I wasn’t cheating,” I said.

“You could have been,” He said.

“But I wasn’t,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter,” He said.

“Do you discipline all your students for things they could have done or just the ones you consider beautiful?” I asked.

“Just the ones that give me an excuse,” He said.

“You’re bold,” I said.

“I’m not the one who was using a cellphone in plain sight during the middle of a quiz,” He said.

“I wasn’t cheating. I had nothing to hide,” I said.

“We’ll see about that,” He said, sitting down on the student bench behind him. His hands grabbed my waist and pulled me a half step closer to him. I considered pulling away from him, but the excitement of the moment held me glued in place.

“What are you doing?” I asked, settling my hands on his wrists.

He glanced up at me and said, “Taking your pants down.”

“What if someone comes in?” I asked, enjoying the exhilaration of the thought.
“I thought you had nothing to hide,” He said.

“I meant from you,” I said.

He tugged my jeans down to my knees and said, “The longer you wait to get over my knee, the greater the chance that someone does come through the door.”

I shook my head at him, but quickly waddled over to his side and draped myself over his lap. His arms held me to him, securing me in place and I almost forgot where we were. The gentle touch of his hand on my bottom sent shivers up my spine and I closed my eyes, savouring the sensation of safe vulnerability. His hand slapped against my bottom causing my eyes to jolt open.

“Ouch,” I said, looking back and up at him, “that hurt.”

He chuckled and said, “It’s supposed to.”

“It never does in my fantasies,” I said.

“Welcome to reality,” He said, spanking my bottom again.

“I’ve learned my lesson,” I said. “You can stop now.”

“I’m sure I could stop, but I’m equally sure you have learned very little yet so, if you don’t mind,” He said, patting my bottom as he spoke, “and even if you do, we’re going to continue this for a little while.”

His hand delivered a flurry of hard spanks all over my bottom and I said, “You’re a monster.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” He said, continuing the spanking with enthusiasm.

“I wasn’t cheating,” I said, wriggling against his hold of my body.

“You were using your cellphone,” He said, his hand rising and falling in tune with every syllable.

“So what?” I said.

“It’s against the rules,” He said.

“Okay, fine, but you don’t have to make such a big deal out of it,” I said.

“I’m not,” He said, keeping a steady, fast pace to the spanking. “You on the other hand, are making quite a big fuss for a minor hand spanking. I’m tempted to break out the paddle just to show you how bad a spanking can really be.”

“You wouldn’t,” I said, trying to pretend I was not panicking.

“Hold still and take your punishment or I will,” He said.

I stared at the floor. His hand impacting my bottom, jostled my view and kept my thoughts spinning round and round. My body pushed against him, my fists rested against the floor. There was no escape from his relentlessness. The only question which remained, burned in my thoughts. He would follow through with his threat, I had no doubt, but whether or not I wanted to push his buttons and test my limits, I did not know. I inhaled a deep breath, closed my eyes tight and made a choice. I held still, not quite brave enough to take things to the next level. Maybe next time.

The Bad Girl Shuffle

"Shorts, down to your ankles," He said in a gruff, uncompromising voice.

I stomped my foot in protest and stared at him. He didn't even blink, not that I was really expecting it. What he did do was lower his chin a notch, rest a hand on his waist and sigh. His finger pointed at my shorts and then at my ankles. I shook my head, he huffed.

"Now," He said, impatience resonating in his tone.

I looked from him to the man sitting on our couch. He was a neighbor. Not even a friend or family, just a neighbor we didn't even know that well. I shook my head again. Our neighbor grinned and chuckled. I wanted to run out the door and never look back.

"If I have to tell you again, you'll regret it," He said.

Our neighbor leaned back on the couch and folded his arms across his chest. The grin on his face and the tilt of his head left nothing to imagine in regards to his opinion. His eyes were focused on my shorts. I scowled at them both, realizing I had no choice in matters. My thumbs hooked into the waistband of my shorts and in a quick motion, I dragged them down my legs to rest around my ankles. I folded my hands in front of me hiding as much as I could while my face burned with embarrassment.

"Better," He said, nodding approval. "Now you can shuffle on over to the closet and fetch the paddle."

Resignedly, I began the careful act of walking across the room with my shorts restricting every step along the way. It felt ridiculous, which was obviously the point. There was no reason to keep my shorts on at all, save to humiliate me as I moved about. I glared at the closet as if it were responsible for the red shame emanating from my cheeks.

As I reached for the door handle, he said, "The big one, with holes."

I glared back at him over my shoulder, eyes widening at the realization of his intentions. He said, "That's right, I'm not just going to give you a spanking. I'm going to blister your butt."

My tongue had a strong desire to respond. Fortunately, my brain had a stronger desire for survival. I turned away from him and reached into the closet, lifting the large, hole ridden paddle off its hook. Holding it in front of my nakedness, I slowly shuffled across the floor back to the place of misery, standing before him and our neighbor. I stared at the floor and although I was hopeful, I can't say I was surprised when the floor failed to open up and swallow me. What did surprise me was him sitting down on the couch and starting a conversation with our neighbor while I was left to stand there, facing them with my shorts around my ankles and a paddle in my hands.

Their conversation droned on long passed the point of any interest. That I was uninterested when they began is irrelevant. If you were left standing half naked in a room with them, I think you would agree, the only point of interest was when, where and how the paddle was going to be applied to my posterior. Being left in the dark, I naturally fidgeted and imagined only the most horrendous of possibilities which had the unfortunate effect of brightening the blush on my cheeks and bringing a sheen of sweat to my forehead.

In a loud voice, he said, "I suppose we should get on with things."

Our neighbor shifted his position on the couch, securing a more comfortable viewing place for himself and said, "Yes, I'm sure the paddle will do more good in your hands than hers."

Chuckling, he replied, "I doubt she would agree."

Our neighbor said, "I'm not particularly interested in her point of view, are you?"

He took the paddle from my hands leaving them empty and said, "No, I suppose I'm not."

My gaze bounced between the two men as their conversation dragged. A mixture of anger and embarrassment graced my already reddened cheeks and my hands clenched and unclenched in fists. Saying anything to either of them was definitely not in my best interest, but their banter was almost intolerable. I cleared my throat, hoping to remind them I was in the room although, I cannot figure how they could have forgotten.

"Right," He said, turning his gaze to me, his smile morphing into a frown. "Step on up and bend down, hands on the cushion."

I looked into his eyes, forced a smile onto my lips and began the agonizing journey to the open cushion of the sectional his finger pointed toward. My shorts were like shackles, threatening to trip me up and send me crashing to the floor if I moved as quickly as I wanted. Our neighbors gaze bore into me deeper and deeper with every step forward. Bravely, I met his gaze with my own, flashing him the same antagonistic smile until my feet stumbled. Catching my balance and feeling like even more a fool, I focused the remainder of my energy on reaching the cushion while still standing. I stopped near its edge and leaned down, resting my open palms on its surface and inhaling silent strength, waiting for the inevitable crack of wood against my bulging bottom.

Tension permeated every fiber of my body. My legs trembled in anticipation of the first swat and my eyes clenched closed only to flicker open when too many seconds slipped past without action. I took short deep breaths, bracing against the onslaught of discomfort the paddle would bring. Silence ruled the room as they savored my readiness, my embarrassed anticipation. Beneath my breath, I cursed them both and then, when my attention had only just faded from the prospect of the paddle's touch, it whooshed through the air and landed squarely against my bottom with an earsplitting crack.

Tears squirted from the corners of my eyes and I cried out in pain. My legs squirmed to the side as if moving my bottom after the fact would somehow alleviate the sting. Ripples of the paddle's force rushed through my body, leaving my flesh jiggling and bring fresh waves of shame to my face. Our neighbor watched in silence, his only comment a slight smirk at the edges of his lips. I dreamed of slapping it away, but the paddle interrupted, cracking against my bottom for a second time.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice manifesting itself from the compilation of pain and shame pulsing through me.

"Of course you are," Our neighbor said.

"Sorry isn't good enough," He said and swung the paddle again.

"Please," I said, begging for mercy as tears spilled like waterfalls from my eyes.

The paddle snapped against my bottom again and he said, "Give you more? Certainly."

"No!" I said between ragged breaths.

I sobbed hearing the swoosh of the paddle cutting through the air behind me. Its impact brought fire and sting, temporarily cleansing me of shame and embarrassment. My entire world consisted of the burning pain in my bottom and the wooden paddle delivering it over and over again. I twisted and squirmed, raising my bottom higher and lower, futilely hoping to avoid the next swat only to have it land with perfect precision.

"I'm really, really sorry," I said.

The slap of the paddle into my burning bottom was his reply. Apparently I was yet to be sorry enough. I clenched and unclenched my buttocks, hoping to alleviate even the smallest amount of discomfort. The swats continued, undaunted by my efforts. My head dropped as low as it could, my hair brushing against the cushion below. Sobs wracked through my body and all the tension abandoned me. I surrendered to the paddle's will, to the burning pain and the stinging shame.

He slapped the paddle against my bottom one last time and said, "Stand up."

I obeyed, tears streaming down my cheeks, arms and legs quivering with the effort. Sniffling, I avoided looking at our neighbor. I forced my breath back into a regular pattern, combating the sobs threatening to overwhelm me. All I wanted was to curl up on the floor and nurse my tortured bottom back to a cool pain-free state, but of course that was not an option.

"Turn around," He ordered and I obeyed. He held the paddle out toward me and I reached out, taking it from his hands. He pointed to the pillar behind him and said, "Over there and hold the paddle above your bottom."

I took a deep breath and shuffled toward the pillar. It no longer bothered me that they were both watching my every move. The whiteness of the pillar felt comforting, like an escape from the reality around me and my eyes drank into it. I raised the paddle behind me, resting it over my bottom and came to a stop only inches before my nose touched the pillar. Behind me, I heard him settle onto the sectional and resume a quiet conversation with our neighbor. Part of me wished they would leave, part of me did not care what they did or said, and part of me wondered why I keep finding myself facing this pillar with my bottom bare and burning.