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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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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
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type of literature, or you are under age,
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Garden Party Punishment
by The Strict Professor (no address provided)
***
Teenage daughter is humiliated by her mother when she
has to receive a bare bottom spanking in front of her
mother's garden party friends, AND A BOY! (F/f-teen,
exh, huml, spank, no-sex)
***
It's funny how memory works. You can be anywhere,
doing any little thing, and something will happen
which triggers a totally random string of memories.
Usually you can't even figure out what it was that set
the whole thing off; it just comes, and there's no
stopping it. You're handing over a ten for some
groceries and then suddenly you're remembering the way
the sun used to glint off the water at your friend's
beach house, throwing patterns on the wall.
I was doing just that on a Sunday afternoon. Buying
groceries, that is, when, instead of trying to
remember whether plastic or paper was more
environmentally friendly, I found myself remembering a
similar Sunday afternoon, 17 years ago, when I was 13.
I had been over at Susan's house, doing all the normal
Sunday afternoon things that teenage girls do at their
friends' houses: talking about guys (still, at that
age, alternating between how cute and how disgusting
they were as a species), griping about school,
wondering if that skirt *really* matched the blouse or
if it looked silly, and so on. And making prank calls.
Mind you, we had advanced far beyond "Prince-Albert-
in-a-Can" and "Is-Your-Refrigerator-Running?" at this
point. Oh no, we were pros.
We were into the heavy stuff: "We found your dog on
our tennis court. Oh, you don't have a dog? Well, WE
DON'T HAVE A TENNIS COURT!" And of course, what better
opportunity to experiment with our just-then
developing sexuality?
We called boys from school, guys at the market,
doctors and lawyers. Anyone who would stick around
long enough for us to ask gross questions (God! If
they had ever answered!) and fake a few orgasms (Which
must have sounded funny, since our knowledge of the
big 'O' was quite limited to the fact that one
screamed and moaned while having one).
And, in an error of tragic proportions, we dialed,
randomly... my father, the accountant. My father, a
very astute man, recognized my voice instantly and (I
thought I could hear a grin) when he said "Jackie? Is
that you? It IS you!! Why..."
I had of course slammed the phone down. At first we
couldn't stop laughing. I had actually screwed up and
asked my own dad if he liked getting blow jobs! We
were rolling on the floor for quite some time. Then,
in between gasps for air, it sank in. I had really
blown it.
My parents are quite nice folk, but rather old-
fashioned, and discipline has never been one of their
weak points. While my mother couldn't bake a cherry
pie to save her life, and my father has to call a tow
truck if he gets a flat, they did know one thing: I
was going to grow up as a "Good Girl." Not like one of
those "tramps," to use my mother's favorite term that
paraded by the living room window every day on their
way home from school.
As a means to this end of producing a "Good Girl,"
there were many rules I had to abide by as a child,
only half of which had ever been clearly stated in
advance. The other 50 percent were to be discovered
after the fact, and drilled in to me (for future
reference) through a wickedly effective strategy which
combined repeated lecturing and some heavyweight
physical punishment.
My folks, though dull in many ways, seemed blessed
with endless creativity when it came to meting out
punishment. Never the same thing twice, one could say.
One month it was over the kitchen counter, tennis
skirt up, tennis panties down for 5 swats with the
metal spatula. Next month an ice cold shower
supervised by mother (to "cool my temper") followed by
30 swats with dad's leather slipper.
I of course experienced the more mundane spankings:
over dad's lap, down with the jammies, for a warming
session from his smooth, un-calloused hands, or what I
always thought of as the "spur-of-the-moment" spank,
used with humiliating frequency by my mother in public
places, which involved a quick flip up of my skirt
with one hand and three or four quick smacks with the
other before I realized what was going on and managed
to dance away far enough to make my mother let the
skirt drop.
Such were my adolescent years, from as far back as I
can remember to the day I turned 16, that magic day
when, it had been declared in advance, I would
thereafter be spared the pain of spankings in exchange
for the boredom of groundings (a technique I found, in
those days when "popularity" ruled and socializing was
the reason for living, to be almost worse in its own
way.)
But I digress. I had just realized, lying there on
Susan's pink carpet, what a screw-up I had just
committed. No way was I going to get off lightly. I
was just beginning to formulate some of the possible
consequences of my rash behavior when Susan's mother
came in, a grim look on her face.
"Jackie, your mother just called. She heard from your
father what you girls have been up to and would like
you home right away. And Susan," she addressed her
daughter, who cowered in the corner like a scared
animal, "you can just forget about going to Disneyland
next week. You're grounded, and you probably wouldn't
be able to sit on the rides anyway after the hiding
you're going to receive."
I scurried around her room gathering my belongings and
slunk out of their house, already beginning to shake
as I walked down the sidewalk to my house, a block and
a half away. On the way I passed a few friends, but
shook off their greetings like water, unable to focus
clearly on anything. I imagined I could already feel
the sting of my father's belt on my bare behind, or
the wicked cut of a branch from the yard.
It was only as I turned up the drive to my house that
I remembered it was my Mother's turn to entertain the
garden club. Three or four cars were parked by the
curb, and two in the driveway. This realization
produced mixed emotions. On the one hand, I might have
my punishment delayed, since my mother would be busy
acting as hostess. On the other hand, past experience
suggested that the punishment might be carried out
nonetheless, only in the presence of the assembled
group. It could go either way, and I had no way of
laying odds.
I remember thinking, as I stepped up to the front
door, that I hoped I had chosen "plain-Jane" underwear
that morning. Unconsciously I reached down to smooth
out my skirt, my hand running across the narrow strip
of fabric which cut across my hip.
Shit, I thought. I would be wearing the string ones
today! But it had little bearing, I realized, since
for a crime as heinous as the one I had just
committed, the panties were sure to come down pretty
quickly anyway. Still, it would have been nice not to
be wearing what were, for me, at that age, my raciest
pair, if it came to displaying them to the guests.
I was just about to knock when the door was flung open
by my mother. Characteristically for such situations
she was obviously in a rage, but she was controlling
it admirably. This restraint lent an even more
intimidating air to her.
She spoke in an icy cold, steely voice. "Well, good
afternoon, my little phone tramp." She paused to glare
for a second, her stare piercing me and turning my
already queasy insides to Jello. "Go out back to the
patio and wait for me, young lady. You are in some
serious trouble."
I started to stammer a response but her swiftly raised
open palm silenced me, and I dropped my stuff just
inside the door and made my way to the back. Pausing
on the steps to the patio I took in the scene. Six
middle-aged women and one boy about my age were
staring at me, tea cups and biscuits held in varying
stages of arrested motion.
Apparently they had the situation explained to them
before my arrival. I blushed beet red and fidgeted
nervously with the hem of my skirt. The boy was
unexpected. Sometimes these women brought their
children, but this was the first I had seen that was
over five.
Mrs. Connors spoke first. "Jackie, this is my son,
Edward. Edward is 15 and home from boarding school for
his break. Edward, Jackie." He nodded. He too knew of
my plight, I could see, since his eyes were gleaming
with excitement. This caused me to turn an even deeper
shade and I felt my eyes grow damp with the first
tears. "I understand you're in a bit of trouble,
Jackie," Mrs. Connors continued. "I'm sorry to hear
that."
I could tell she wasn't in the least bit sorry, nor
were any of the others. They fixed me with stares of
disapproval, ranging from mildly condescending to
outright contempt. A nice bunch of friends my mother
hung out with, I thought.
As if reading my mind, she appeared behind me. I went
down the steps and turned. The first thing I noticed
was the yardstick in her hand. A thick, heavy oak
yardstick that I had grown to hate over the years. It
was solid enough to gain some serious momentum when
swung and long enough to afford my mother good
leverage. I shuddered involuntarily and wished I had
had the good sense to go the bathroom before leaving
Susan's. My bladder suddenly seemed ready to burst.
Mother motioned me to stand in the center of the
patio, in the middle of the rough circle formed by the
guests. Edward, I noticed, was about at 5 o'clock to
me as I stood facing my mother.
"Your father explained what happened, young lady. Now,
I do not hold such a low opinion of your intelligence
that I would imagine you had targeted him
intentionally. Therefore I am assuming that was not
the first such call you made. As I have said, you are
in serious trouble. You upset your father, you abused
Susan's mother's hospitality, you acted like a tramp
in front of, essentially, Lord only knows how many
citizens of this town, and now you have forced me to
interrupt an otherwise pleasant gathering of friends.
Do not think you will get off lightly, missie."
I was in a twilight zone of shame and humiliation. I
found myself thinking of nothing, staring straight
ahead, bright stars floating in and out of my eyes
occasionally. My heart pounded and my skin was clammy.
In the middle of her lecture tears began to trickle
down my face, and I was helpless to hold them back.
"Now. We will try to deal with this as quickly as
possible, so that we may all resume our conversations
and enjoy what's left of this fine afternoon." My
mother still stood at the top of the stairs, and
appeared as a giant silhouette to my tear-clouded
eyes. "First of all, let's have that skirt off,
Jackie."
I rocked in place. Before I could think to restrain
myself I exclaimed, "No, Mommy! Please, no! Not with
that boy here. Please!!"
"Nonsense, young lady. I find it incredibly nervy of
you, given the amount of trouble you are already in,
to suggest that I inconvenience one of my guests
simply to accommodate your modesty. Modesty which, I
hasten to add, you seem to have had no problem
overcoming an hour ago while you called people all
over the city and offered them sexual services. Now
not one more word. Get that skirt off immediately!"
She punctuated her command by slapping the yardstick
against her palm.
I literally jumped and began fumbling for the zipper
on my skirt. It took me some seconds to calm my
shaking hands enough to undo the zipper. Then, trying
my best to block out everything around me, I slid it
down to my ankles, crouching as I did so to avoid
presenting Edward with a nice view of my panty-clad
behind, and stepped out.
Standing, I held the skirt in front of my crotch and
looked at my mother beseechingly, hoping for a last-
minute reprieve. It of course did not come. In its
place my mother ordered me to put the skirt on the
table before me and return to my place. In turning,
after setting it down, I couldn't help glancing at
Edward, who was sitting crouched over, both hands
folded in his lap, obviously concealing his erection.
He made no attempt to show sympathy, but instead made
it quite clear that he was going to thoroughly enjoy
the impending spectacle, whatever it might entail.
I stood there before them all, hands at my side. To
Edward, and to the others for that matter, I presented
the following picture: a 13 year old girl, blonde,
slim, and with just the hint of developing breasts
concealed under her cotton tank top. My shirt stopped
at my waist, allowing a clear view of my pink satin
panties, which I just knew had ridden up in a very un-
ladylike fashion behind.
By this point my tears were flowing freely, though I
had managed to remain silent. My mother descended
slowly and came to stand in front of me. "Needless to
say, Jackie, this will only be a part of your
punishment. I'm sure your father will want some time
with you when he returns from work."
Her words threw me into a mental panic. Rarely was I
punished by both of my parents for the same offense.
When I was, you could be sure I would be feeling the
after-effects for weeks to come.
"Now, let's proceed. Mary, could you bring that over
here?" she asked one of her friends, pointing towards
the garden stool against the wall. Mary complied,
placing it in front of me and then glancing at me with
a look that spoke volumes: "Whatever is coming to you,
you deserve."
Amazing the faith my mother's companions had in her
parenting abilities. I of course knew what the next
step was, but I didn't want to propel events any
faster than their natural course, so I stood
motionless until my mother issued the command to kneel
over the stool. With the same feeling that I imagine
astronauts experience when the final air-lock is
sealed, I dropped to my knees (noting briefly how hard
and cold the concrete was) and then extended me arms
in front me, lowering my torso until I was lying
across the stool.
Throughout this maneuver I did my best to keep my legs
as close together as possible, well aware that Edward
was now almost directly behind me, sitting comfortably
with a Pepsi as he waited for this wet-dream come true
to continue.
My mother moved so that she stood directly behind me.
I wasn't going to risk looking back to see if she had
blocked Edward's view, but I fervently hoped that this
was the case. I flinched as I felt my mother's cold
hands on my waist, grasping me firmly and guiding me
into the precise position she desired. I noticed a
puddle of tears forming on the pavement beneath me.
Nothing could have prepared me for the next command.
"All right, I suppose that position will do. I would
prefer your behind to be a bit higher, but we won't
waste time looking for pillows. Now reach back and
slide your panties down, Jackie."
If my mother hadn't had the good sense to place a
forceful hand on the small of the back as she uttered
those words I would have sprung to a standing position
immediately. As it was, my outrage and disbelief was
clear to all. "NO!" I shrieked. "Mommy, I refuse! You
can't make me do that in front of everyone! You can't
do it in front of a BOY! I won't! PLEEAASSEE!" The
rest of my appeal was washed out in sobs and tears.
But Mother was not to be deterred. "Shut up, young
lady. That simpering is disgusting. Very unbecoming.
Reach your little hands back this instant and pull
those trampish panties down or I will have our guest
Edward do it for you!" She knew what buttons to push,
you have to give her that. In two seconds flat my
hands were at the waistband of my panties. I pulled
them down, feeling my stomach wrench as the fabric
caught in my rear cleft for a second and left them at
my knees.
It's really quite impressive how tightly a young girl
can clench her buttocks and keep her knees together
when she has the proper motivation. I concentrated on
nothing else, doing all I could to minimize my
exposure. No boy had ever seen any part of me naked
before, let alone been presented with a head-on view
of my asshole and pussy from behind, and I intended to
aid Edward as little as possible.
My efforts were short-lived however, as my mother used
her high-heeled shoe to spread my knees about six
inches apart. I let out the first true sob of the
afternoon, which turned into something more like a
wail as it trailed off. There was little doubt now
that everyone could see everything.
A couple of times I had "explored" the region now on
display, using a hand-held mirror while in a position
quite similar to the one I was now in. I knew quite
well what it looked like and I was dying of shame.
Even looking in the mirror I had felt a bit self-
conscious, feeling that such a view was perhaps so
private that even I shouldn't be looking too closely.
My mother was speaking, but I had a hard time focusing
on her words. I knew the lecture was continuing, but
the specific phrases were running together in an
indecipherable mush. One sentence stood out, however:
"so, you will get 25 with the yardstick."
The second wail leaped out of my mouth unbidden. I had
never had more than 10 before, and I was always a
wreck after the first five. At first I thought I had
misunderstood, until one of the ladies, (what dear,
sweet ladies) said she agreed with the judgment; it
was what she would have chosen for her daughter.
Thanks for the second opinion, hag.
I took a deep breath and stared straight down, honing
in on an ant which was crossing the ground beneath me,
lugging a piece of biscuit which must have been at
least ten times its weight. I tried to draw strength
from this, but when the first stroke landed, I forgot
all about it and let out a hair-curdling cry. The
first one is always bad, landing, as it does, on
virgin skin, with none of the residual pain from
previous blows to lessen its impact.
My mother was indeed trying to make this quick.
Habitually she went about her punishments as if there
were all the time in the world, pausing now and then
to continue the ongoing lecture or to suggest a
readjustment of position. I had even known her to
switch instruments midway through, unhappy with the
effects of the one she had originally selected. On
this occasion, however, she administered each blow in
a steady rhythm, allowing about four seconds between
each blow.
She worked over my entire butt, cutting all the way
from the top of my crack down to the upper portion of
my thighs. She was skilled (she should have been, with
as much practice as she had had) and I was grateful
that each blow landed flat. Nothing hurts more than
the edge of the yardstick, a fact I discovered during
a session with my father -- while remarkably skilled
with the belt, he never did master the art of keeping
the yardstick flat.
By the fifth stroke I was, as I had predicted, a mess.
Tears streamed down my cheeks and I knew snot was
joining the flow as well. My sobs were practically
continuous, with only a brief reprieve when I had to
breathe. I was bouncing around on the stool, scraping
my knees on the concrete and furthering my exposure to
Edward. Hands clenched tightly in fists, I thought of
nothing but the end. Finally it came. It took me some
time to realize, in fact, that the rain of blows had
ceased and gradually it came to my attention that my
mother was speaking once again.
"What, Jackie. Are you waiting for more? You heard me.
Get to your feet!"
I obeyed as quickly as possible, though I had to move
slowly: the skin on my ass and thighs felt like they
were tremendously sunburned, and felt as tight as
cured leather. I somehow remembered to cross my hands
in front of my crotch as I stood. Hoping for a little
sympathy after all I had been through, I remained
facing away from my mother. Wishful thinking.
She told me to turn -- was I going to tack insolence
and disrespect on top of everything else by turning my
back? So I turned. Though I had my eyes focused on the
ground before me, I could see Edward in my peripheral
vision, and felt so weak I could hardly stand as it
sank into me how I must look to him. "Hands at your
side, Missie. I want you to apologize to our guests
for causing this interruption."
I pretended not to have heard the first part of her
command, and Mother reached out with the yardstick and
slapped at my hands. So, hands clenched at my sides,
my practically bald pussy shining forth for all to
see, I stated that I was very sorry and that it would
never happen again. Mrs. Cooper chimed in that she
should hope not. Edward merely smirked.
"Ma'am? Hello. It's $7.03. Do you have the pennies?"
With a start I realized that I had been standing there
with my hand in my change purse for some time, lost in
my own private world of memories. I shook my head to
clear my thoughts and said I did. I still don't know
what it was that got me thinking about that afternoon,
so long ago, but I'd prefer it didn't happen again.
Some things are better forgotten.
END
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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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