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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: (FF, inc, spanking)
Authors name: S Batten (sbatten@icg.stwing.upenn.edu)
Story title : She Never Counts
--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2001. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
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She Never Counts
by S Batten (sbatten@icg.stwing.upenn.edu) (defunt)
Edited by MarciaR26@aol.com
***
[With apologies to L. Sexton]
I breezed through the door half an hour late, surprised
to find Leanne home. That afternoon, when she told me I
could use her car, Leanne said Jimmy was picking her up
after work. This was for their usual Friday night on the
town -- dinner, a movie, and drinks. Dancing might ensue,
followed by more drinks, then maybe to someone's house to
make out or whatever it is that thirty-four-year-olds do.
Whatever she did, it was sure to keep Leanne out past
midnight. (Often it was all night, in which case I had the
opportunity to entertain myself.)
I figured I didn't risk much staying out till 11:30.
I was wrong.
* * *
Leanne has always been anal. Half an hour late, and
suddenly I'm not trustworthy anymore. She hasn't trusted
me since the day I moved in, nine years ago. That day
Leanne ceased being my sweet--if somewhat overbearing--
older sister, transforming overnight into an uptight,
surrogate mother.
Surrogate father is closer.
Beneath that uptight facade, I know Leanne loves me as
much as Mom and Dad. Perhaps even more, because Leanne
never married. She needs me because I'm the only person
in the world who needs her. But grimly doling out
judgments, delivering scolds at the slightest
provocation, and punishments as if it were her solemn
duty to Bring the Girl Up Right. Leanne did worse than
make my life miserable. Our parent's deaths left a part
of her dead. A part she tried to replace with alcohol and
tough love. Twenty-five years old at the time, and me
seven, I understand why she felt the world had turned on
its head. But she should have gotten over it.
For me it was easier. When you're seven, life is pretty
much taken care of for you; I simply moved from my
parent's house to my sister's condo; other than that,
things were the same. Until the spankings.
* * *
She's downing gin when I come in. Most of the lights are
out, save for one in the living room where she's tucked
into the sofa's corner. She's obviously upset with me for
breaking curfew, but says nothing when I walk into the
room. I say "hi," as if there's nothing wrong, drop the
spare key to her Honda back in her purse, then back out
before the lecture. I make it all the way to my room. I
am amazed. When she's drunk, Leanne sometimes forgets to
lecture. Or she starts to lecture and forgets why she's
angry. I have escaped tonight, but she'll do her
lecturing in the morning. Her long-term memory is
perfect, even when alcohol dazed.
God, I hope I'm not like her when I grow up.
* * *
At midnight, Leanne staggers upstairs and goes into her
bedroom. She doesn't close her door. I slip into the
hallway and peek into her room, wondering what's brought
her to this. It's Jimmy of course: why she's drinking,
why she's home so early--if she left at all.
Setting down her half-full glass on the night table,
Leanne unzips her dress and begins to lower the top. She
catches me staring in. "What are you doing?" she says.
"Get in here."
It is an order, and I push back the door and walk in.
Already my stomach has antsy little knots.
Subconsciously, I know what's coming.
The top of her dress is caught her crooked elbows,
exposing her brassiere. Leanne has much bigger breasts
than I; it always makes me uncomfortable seeing us
compared. I also see as I come into the room that Leanne
is pissed at me. I'm about to get the how-can-I-trust-
you-if-you-break-the rules lecture after all. Instead,
she starts in about her car.
"Who gave you permission to use my car?"
"You did, Sis."
No, she counters, she most certainly did not.
"You've forgotten," I say. "Jimmy was picking you up
after work."
She winces and says that's a lie. She tells me not to say
that son-of-a-bitch's name. I should be ashamed, she
says, taking her car and then trying to cover it up. Her
chest heaves in righteous indignation. The knots in my
tummy grow bigger. Then Leanne says those words that
always weaken my knees.
"You've behaved like a spoiled little girl, Sandra."
She goes on with her rant; repeating herself, comparing
my actions to car theft, asking how can I deliberately
deceive her, then lie about it. I don't listen. I can't
believe I'm hearing this. I stand there in her bedroom,
stunned as though I have been punched in the face. I'm
sixteen years old, and she's giving me the same shit she
laid on me when I was six, nine, twelve, and fourteen:
"You've been a bad girl." "You may think you're grown up,
young lady, but you not."
"You're still a child, Sandra, and you're going to get a
child's punishment." My stomach turns slowly over; her
angry face moves in and out of focus.
"Come over here!" she exclaims. "I'm going to punish
you."
I shake my head, though in disbelief rather that
disobedience. Arguing with her is useless. The last time
Leanne spanked me I was fourteen years old. I argued with
her then it as I had argued before: it was inappropriate
when I was ten years old, I told her, even twelve--at
fourteen I was already developed and being spanked was
terribly wrong. Even by her. I told her this, but she
wouldn't listen. We even struggled, but Leanne's
advantage in strength was too great. Powered by alcohol,
she quickly overpowered me, and for my troubles I got an
unforgettable thrashing. I hoped it would be my last.
Now this.
Either ignoring my headshake or missing it completely,
Leanne continues her rant. I do not talk back. I say
nothing at all. I just stare. No fear, no contrition, no
shame. I am not even angry.
Just bewildered.
I suppose I could overpower Leanne, now, or at least
outrun her, but what's the point? Where would I go, what
would I do? I'm here under her good graces. If I don't
abide by her rules, she'd send me to live with my Aunt
Jean. I hate Aunt Jean. And attractive as thought is,
overpowering Leanne would only make her the victor,
validating her claim that I'm a bad girl. I'm screwed
whatever I do.
Leanne casts about for something to use, finally seizes
on a wide-backed wooden hairbrush. She flops down on the
edge of her bed, the top of her dress now around her
waist. It looks like an apron. If only she knew how
ridiculous she looks. My stomach has settled and my
knees, uncontrollably only a minute before, are solid. I
will not resist, but I will not cooperate, either. Leanne
can win only if I fight back, or by breaking my spirit. I
won't let it hurt. I won't give her the satisfaction.
"Well?"
She glares at me. Her breathing is heavily; the just
finished rant inflaming her passions. I smell the gin.
She waves her hairbrush menacingly, tells me to come
here. I walk slowly across the room, meeting her glare
with an indifferent gaze. Her chest, thinly protected by
the exposed white brassiere, continues to heave. From her
angry expression, I know Leanne wishes me terrified as
when I was younger, wants me to argue and to flail about
the way I did last. My indifference infuriates her more.
I will certainly pay the price.
* * *
If Leanne were my child, I would not beat her. I would
give her the love she craves; from me, from Jimmy, and
from the world. But she is not my child. And though I
love Leanne, I cannot show her love.
* * *
When she realizes I intend to submit quietly, Leanne
snatches out and grabs my wrist, pulling me clumsily over
her knee. I am not helpful. It takes several tries to
arrange me properly, through which she grunts and hisses
angrily. I lie there like a rag doll, face partially
hidden in the fanned pleats of her red dress. My legs are
stretched out behind me, arms hanging limp. I smell her
perfume, cloyingly sweet, almost nauseating.
"This isn't helping your case," Leanne huffs. Her voice
cracks from effort.
I say nothing.
With my upended bottom finally in her lap, Leanne yanks
up my cotton skirt and lays it over my back. Cool air
touches my thighs; my stomach rolls. She intends to lay
me bare.
Since I refuse to cooperate, Leanne takes her time
preparing me. She appropriates my right wrist and pins it
to the small of my back. We both know this is unnecessary
because, although my position on her lap is so precarious
I could easily fall off, I am going nowhere. I will bear
this spanking bravely.
With her right hand, she thrusts a thumb into the cleft
between my cheeks and peels down my panties. I am
disgusted, but fight off a shudder. Reaching beneath me,
she pulls the front of the panties down, then drags them
to my knees. I exhale softly. I have been holding my
breath.
For a time, nothing happens. The back of the hairbrush
rests gently on my right cheek, but nothing more. Then
she inhales loudly and the hairbrush is gone; Leanne's
weight shifts. I squeeze my eyes in anticipation, my one
concession to fear. And I wait.
Leanne sniffles.
After a time, I open my eyes and look back. Leanne holds
the hairbrush high above her head, hand orbiting in a
small ellipse, strain showing in every muscle. Tears
cover her cheeks. She seems terribly confused, as though
unsure how she got here, unsure what to do next. I wait
quietly, wondering myself.
Finally, she speaks. "I spank you--" she says, and her
voice catches in her throat. I know what she's going to
say, and I think, Spare me, Sis; I've heard it before.
Then she gets it out. "I spank you, Sandra, because I
love you." And then she brings down her hand. I close my
eyes and try to block it out, but the wide-backed brush
makes a horrendously loud noise. The pain is horrendous
also.
* * *
Leanne never counts. She just hits me until she is no
longer angry. Until I was twelve, she used her open hand
on me, and though never pleasant, at least I knew the
score. It hurt her nearly as much as me. Then suddenly I
was a young adult and Leanne resented this and I
graduated to the hairbrush or any other instrument close
at hand, as long as it inflicted pain. She paddled me to
her heart's content and worried about the consequences
later. The last time it was a wooden spoon.
* * *
I squeeze shut my eyes to block the tears, but out they
spring anyway. I remain silent, grinding my teeth. She
will not hear me sob.
After ten, I can no longer lie still; I suck air after
every blow and begin to moan. At fifteen I break the
silence completely. "Noooo," I begin to softly wail. My
wailing becomes louder. I begin to squirm. I squirm quite
a lot. Then I squirm uncontrollably.
I hate this. I hate my weakness. I hate Leanne.
Soon my feet jerk high with each spank, my toes curling
tight. My head flails and with it my hair. I nearly lift
off her thighs with each swing. I sob openly. I tell
myself over and over again: It doesn't hurt. I don't love
her. It doesn't hurt. I don't love her.
Doesn't hurt. Don't love her.
Hurt. Love.
Her.
Almost viscously, Leanne continues my spanking.
She never counts. She just hits until she is no longer
angry.
* * *
Finally Leanne stops, lets go of my wrist. She rests.
I rest.
It is not over.
I long ago learned to gauge my sister's breathing. She is
tiring, but not exhausted. Far from it. The break is for
me. I need a chance to catch my breath, consider my
plight. I cry silently into the folds of her dress, smell
her awful perfume again, and the gin. Also the faint,
musty scent of perspiration.
Though she is still angry, Leanne pretends inattention.
She plays absently with my hair; the other hand rests on
my bottom. She toys with me, shames me. She says my
bottom is bright red, welted. It's hot to the touch. I
should be sorry for what I've done, she says. Am I? I say
nothing.
All right then...
She takes my wrist again and lifts her hairbrush high in
the air. I close my eyes.
"Are you sorry, you bad little girl?"
I am not sorry. I did nothing wrong. I am silent.
She spanks me again, furiously, mighty blows that astound
me afresh. I cry out in agony and kick my feet and leap
on her thighs and shed tears for my seared bottom. I do
not apologize. I will not be sorry.
Through my stubbornness, it is she who is reduced to
pleading.
"Apologize! Tell me you're sorry! I'll keep spanking
until you do!"
Does she remember what I'm supposed to apologize for?
Just need to hear the words? She roars and hits me harder
and faster and I bawl at every stroke. But I won't give
in. Yet. Soon, but not yet. Because this has gone beyond
all reason and I am too weak now to fight, too
traumatized to take any more. She has won and I cry over
it with bitter tears. I have to say I'm sorry.
I just can't.
I won't.
I am unable.
Hurt.
Love.
Her.
* * *
Leanne stops on her own. Her arm gives out. She wails,
a horrible, tortured sound, something I've never heard
before. Still on the edge of her mattress, we wail
together, my tortured bottom on her thighs, her chest
clutched to my back. I have soaked the folds of her
dress; her tears soak my skirt. Sweat covers us both.
It is over, but neither of us has the strength to move.
We weep horribly. I hate Leanne; hate her for showing her
weakness, for forcing me to show mine. Because at this
moment I feel closer to Leanne than I ever have before.
Sandwiched between her thighs and her bosom, wrist
captured in her grasp, I heave with her in unison, pity
her frustrations. She has no love and knows no way other
than this to show it.
She spanks me because she loves me, she says.
It doesn't hurt because I don't love her, I say.
I turn on her lap and though shocked, she is in my arms
and I in hers. I show Leanne how to accept love. I show
her with my own.
THE END
This is a work of fiction.
The original draft was written by S Batten at the address
shown above, in November 1994. I liked the story so much
I downloaded it from "Old Joe's Collection" at
www.asstr.org, and rewrote it.
I didn't want to plagiarize someone else's work but this
story is just too GOOD not to be read. I tried
unsuccessfully to contact "S" for two months. The address
she gave is no longer valid and no one I contacted
through AOL claimed credit. I'm hoping "S" or someone who
knows her will read the story and have her contact me.
My editing consisted mainly of naming the two characters,
which "S" did not do, and cleaning up the text. Very
little was changed. My apologies to "S" for this insult
to her work.
*****
These are "S's" original comments:
The lines "She never counts... no longer angry" are
borrowed from a brief spanking reminiscence from Linda
Grey Sexton's memoir of mama Anne Sexton, "Searching for
Mercy Street."
Mea culpa if this presses anyone's domestic abuse
buttons. It presses all of my hot buttons. Thinking about
this image provided many minutes of, uhm, satisfaction
while driving to my parents' house for Thanksgiving last
year.
*****
Any comments or complaints, please contact me at:
MarciaR26@aol.com
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of the
hands of children. They should be outside playing in the
sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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