The following fictional story is being reposted by Mr Double.  If you are the author of this story and would like to receive proper recognition (an Author's Page at my website), contact me at mrdouble@ix.netcom.com.


From: teddytoes@aol.com (Teddytoes)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking
Subject: Paper or Plastic (FFF/f) (Teddytoes)
Reply-To: teddytoes@aol.com (Teddytoes)

**** WARNING ****

The following story, suggested by a precious lascivious lurker,
contains the spankings of an older teenager, a touch of
infantilism, a hint of non-golf lesbianism and a silly, allusion-
filled, plot. Thanks BAR.
                     ***
Paper or Plastic

They sometimes reminded her of the opening scene from that
Scottish play her 12th grade class at Harper Valley had just
studied, but Marcie really couldn't say no. 

Her mother had allowed the awkward 17-year-old girl to go to the
beach for the weekend on condition she help out with the PTA
rummage sale on Friday night, and that meant doing menial chores
for Tilly Masterson, Biddy Dombrow and Stella Topping -- the
president, vice president and recording secretary of the PTA.

Marcie had been looking forward to trying out her new bikini and
finally making some effort at socializing during the senior beach
weekend. She was only fair of looks, fair of grades and fair of
personality -- much like the good stolid citizens of any small
town. Bony and thin-hipped at 5-foot-7, she had long stringy
black hair, wore no makeup and had a vaguely cocky, vaguely
enticing pair of thin lips that never quite betrayed whether she
was smiling or making a comment. Her aquiline nose dominated her
face just a little too much for her to make the cover of even the
Cropp County beauty magazine. Though she would later bloom into a
striking, angular woman that men would stare at, Marcie would
look now a little like George Washington, without the powdered
wig.

Her teen years had not been easy for Marcie, as her divorced
mother had begun acting more juvenile than her only daughter --
cruising bars, picking up men, occasionally dropping by the
trailer park and working no harder than she had to as an
assistant safety inspector at the nuclear power plant. Marcie's
mom did everything possible to keep her budding progeny from
succeeding, seemingly in competition with her for the few
available young men in town and slyly and overtly putting the
girl down.

That wouldn't be so bad, but Winona Gilooley regularly
disciplined Marcie, who knew no better but than to accept the
all-too-frequent bare-back, bare-bottom strappings. If she did
not comply with her mother's command to "strip down to your bony
bare ass and bend over the table," Marcie knew that one of the
many tattooed musclemen her mom dates would be right over to help
out.

Friday night and the rummage sale was almost over. Marcie was
dreaming of the beach but fretting about how to pay for the
necessary frills -- T-shirts, Snowcones® and amusement park rides
on her meager allowance. So, she did it.

As the last dowager stumbled down the steps from the gym,
Marcie's unpleasant evening was about to get a lot worse.

"Marceeeeee!" cackled Mrs. Masterson, "just you wait one minute
before you skedaddle!" 

"Yes'm," the girl replied. Could that old witch know?

"There seems to be a 20-dollar bill missing here, honey? What do
you know about it?

Marcie stood mute and shrugged her shoulders.

"And I know which bill that is," declared Biddie Dombrow
triumphantly. "I noticed it right away -- the first currency in
Cropp County with Robert D. Rubin's signature on it!"

"Harrumph," harrumphed Stella Topping. "Maybe we should have a
look in young Marcie's pockets.

Marcie froze, and her bedsheet gray pallor told the truth for
her. "That won't be necessary," she mumbled, and took the
wrinkled, crinkled portrait of Andrew Jackson from her left front
jeans pocket.

"Oh, my!" crowed Mrs. Masterson. "What haaaave we here?" 

"Bad girl," tsk tsked Mrs. Dombrow.

Mrs. Topping, the youngest of the three, and the most
sympathetic, just shook her head sadly.

"I guess you won't be going to the beach, Missy," admonished Mrs.
Masterson. "When I tell your mom, if she's home tonight, I bet I
know what's going to happen to her young thief."

The sound of that last word made Marcie cringe. She was not a
thief. She had the best character in a valley populated by DNA-
deficient descendants of the Snopeses, Kallikaks and Jukeses.

"Pleeeeeze," Marcie whimpered. "Pleeeze don't tell ma. I've been
looking forward to the beach for so long." Her face was twisted
into remorse and supplication. The three hens waddled into a
circle and had a brief discussion. When they emerged, Mrs.
Topping, the flame-haired mascara factory who had always taken a
shine to young Marcie, sashayed forward and gently put her hands
on the girl's slumped shoulders.

"I think we can arrange something, honey," the recording
secretary told her. "You may go the beach and your mama doesn't
have to know," she said. Marcie exhaled relief, but stiffened
again when Mrs. Topping winked and continued, "But you won't want
to look forward to your return."

When the recording secretary sat down at the card table to write
out precise instructions, Marcie scribbled her name to it in a
wavering scrawl and rushed out of the gym sobbing.
                         * * *
Monday night could came far too soon for poor Marcie, who had
done her best to have fun at the beach, but returned only with a
fluttering stomach and a sunburn.

She tiptoed up to the Victorian bungalow and rapped three times
as instructed. Mrs. Masterson, holding a small shopping bag in
her hand, opened the door. "I am happy that you are keeping your
part of the bargain, sweetie," she chirped. "I know you don't
fancy another beating from mama."

Marcie hung her head and followed the woman's crooking finger
toward the wide-bottomed wicker chair placed parallel to the
tulip-print davenport. Mrs. Masterson sat down as daintily as she
could manage and made a West End production of smoothing, then
sliding the billowy housedress halfway up her mottled thighs.

"You know what to do, honeybuns," she commanded, and Marcie
turned around, lifted her A-line dress above her hips and paused,
hoping for a call from the governor's office. "Turn around, young
lady."

Marcie turned slowly, holding the Navy blue dress high and
blushing crimson. "Here," the woman directed, handing Marcie the
bag. "You must, of course, put these on."

Tears tumbled from the girls brown eyes as a wave of nausea
engulfed her as she examined the oversized plastic baby pants.
All she could think of was the sound of the oval wooden pearl-
handled hairbrush the woman was tapping against her left palm.

The girl turned away from Mrs. Masterson and glimpsed a portrait
of great-grandfather Bat above the mantel. Letting her dress fall
back into its proper place, Marcie reached up and quickly let her
K-Mart Collection panties drop to her ankles. She slowly but
dutifully stepped into the rubber pants, feeling the cold
impersonal plastic cut into her waist.

"You might wish to yell a little bit, pretty one," Mrs. Masterson
said solicitously, balling up the girls panties and carefully
stuffing them in her mouth.

No more time to protest; no more time to delay. The woman had
pulled Marcie across her bare thighs, relaunched her dress upward
and let the girl's hands and face rest against the davenport
cushions. The hairbrush against plastic made a sickening thwuck.
It didn't quite set Marcie's bottom on fire, but the velocity of
Mrs. Masterson's whipping rippled deep into the girl's gluteal
muscles. The shame, of course, and not the pain, had Marcie in
tears instantly.

It wasn't until Mrs. Masterson pressed down hard on the small of
Marcie's sunburned back that the girl began shrieking. "Oh, you
big baby, you," the old woman teased. "This will teach you to
steal!" And down came the back of the plastic pants to reveal the
flat pale cutlets of Marcie's bottom. Pulling the culottes of
correction outward and down with her right hand, the woman began
spanking sharply inside the pants with her left hand. It was,
really, a baby spanking, and Marcie cried like one. It was better
than a mama whippin', at least.

When the battleaxe decided the girl had been sufficiently
punished, she helped Marcie out of the pants, took the
humiliating habillement to her writing table and signed her name
large with a laundry pen on the left side.

                              ***

Tuesday night, when mama would be glued to Rescue 911 tighter
than the toupee was attached to William Shatner, Marcie solemnly
trudged down the block to Mrs. Dombrow's ranch house.

It couldn't be worse than the night before, and it wasn't. Biddy
Dombrow, alone, had been a mother, and knew that discipline
needed to be conducted with some dignity.

"It's all right, baby," she clucked as Marcie started opening the
paper bag. "We can dispense with that. I KNOW how to administer a
spanking. Now come over here and let's get it over with."

This small favor didn't do much to brighten Marcie's spirits, but
she was grateful and trudged to Mrs. Dombrow's kitchen, passing
the piano top with pictures of the woman's three grown sons -- a
tire salesman, a truck driver and a professional wrestler -- all
of whom no doubt had worn smooth the paddle she held firmly in
her right hand.

"Stand right in front of me and tell me you are sorry, dear,"
Mrs. Dombrow cooed.

"Sorry, ma'am. Truly I am sorry," Marcie replied.

"Turn over Biddie's knee, darling. You shall get a good paddling,
for you have shamed "yourself" and disappointed "me." Marcie did
as bidden, her hands flat on the yellow waxy buildup of the
linoleum floor; her toes just stretching on the other side; her
denim-clad bottom high above the woman's right knee.

WHACK! owwwwweeeeee! WHACK! scccreeeeeeccchhh SMACK! yowwwwwwwl!!

The jeans amplified the volume of the paddle licks but did little
to absorb the inferno of flat-against-flat flint fire. Mrs.
Dombrow knew what she was doing all right, administering 25
licks, some quickly, some delayed. She had the girl wailing and
crying from the get-go. Marcie's poor bottom hurt so badly she
did not even realize the paddling had subsided. But she realized
quickly, as she lay, her chest heaving in anguish, across the
woman's lap, that her jeans were being lowered, and her cotton
panties, too!

"Just a quick finisher-upper to let you know that stealing is a
very juvenile thing to do, Marcie."

The ceiling fan brushed cool thrusts of air across her flaming
bare backside but only for a moment. SLAP SMACK SLAP SPANK WHAP
WHACK SMACK SPLAT SMACK SPANK -- and the middle act of this round
robin tragedy was at an end. When Marcie finally gained control
of her knees and stood up, Mrs. Dombrow kissed the girl gently on
each side of her face, patting her bottom softly a little too
long, and bent over the table to attach her signature to the
right side of the plastic pants.

                         ***

To question Marcie's state of mind on Wednesday night would be to
ask Mrs. Lincoln how she liked the play.

But true to her word, she arrived promptly at Stella Topping's
Winnebago-on-blocks. With a bourbon and water in her hand, the
youngest of the Three Amigas breezily flung the metallic door
wide open and grinned her painted lips into a surprisingly warm
welcome for the girl.

It didn't take Marcie long to determine why this night was
different from all other nights. Mrs. Topping was dressed in the
sheer black lace of a nightie that came all the way down to the
freckle at the top of her left thigh. Her bosom ballooned upward
and outward; her oft-climbed mound of desire traced its
topography each time she sashayed across the synthetic carpet.

"Now, babycakes, let's have us a look at your new wardrobe."

Marcie hesitated, awash with conflicting desires -- to run or to
stay with the woman she had let herself think about one too many
times on hot summer nights alone in her loft. "Look,
sweetiepants, let's not have any secrets. You know why you're
here. Let's not pretend. Part of the deal, toots, is that you
have to model a little bit for me and then take your punishment.
Get nekkid!"

It was then that poor pitiful put-upon Marcie noticed the short
black handle of what looked like a twelve-tongued whip on the
woman's water bed. "Here, let me help," Mrs. Topping offered.

She began unbuttoning Marcie's white blouse, and the girl stood
relaxed for the first time this week. As the 32-B bra unhooked
itself in the woman's fingers, the girl's brown nipples stood at
royal attention. 

Finally, finally, she was proud of herself. Without further
bidding, Marcie undid the golden safety pin holding her kilt
together and unwrapped the plaid from her hips. She haughtily
thrust her hips forward, then, one leg at a time, Clydesdale-
stepped out of her panties. She bent over to reach the paper bag
on the floor and, displaying the bold signatures of her previous
corrections officers for Mrs. Topping, pulled the plastic baby
pants up high, tight against her crotch.

She stepped backwards toward the bedroom door and pirouetted, her
wry visage finally crinkling into a smile.

"How do you like it, Ma'am," the girl said, almost defiantly.
"Here I am. Punish me as you wish."

Mrs. Topping's grin showed plaque and tobacco stains, but the
girl would do anything for her now. And as she was told, Marcie
removed the baby pants, handed them for a final signature across
both sides at the bottom, knelt at the metal frame edge of the
water bed and laid her angular cheeks on the vinyl surf. Standing
at the opposite side of the rolling cradle, the woman tauntingly
lifted her nightgown above her pendulous breasts and then over
her arms, standing naked like a beacon for the storm-tossed sea
of pubescent confusion across from her.

She lewdly placed her left hand upon the close-cropped beard atop
the hypotenuse of her personality and manipulated the knob atop
and the envelope below. She picked up the martinet and strode
purposefully around the water bed. Marcie had not made a sound of
protest, just a few unintelligible sucking sounds, tasting a
first aperitif of passion.

The moment the whipping began, Marcie relaxed. Her three days of
hell were coming to an end at the hands of a woman she had always
wondered why she admired. Now she knew.

sssssssWHHHIPPP ssssssWWWWWWICKKKK ttthhhhRASSSHHH WWWWWHIPPPP. Marcie's
flat bottom rose to meet each kiss of the hard leather cords, then
thrusting down hard against the bed frame. The
bouncing action swelled her into orgasm long before the whipping
ended. As occasional thongs of leather slapped tender, previously
unseen, tissue between Marcie's nether cheeks, she screamed. But
it was in pleasure, in discovery of something hotter than a
magazine rack full of Brad Pitt. 

There was no more shame, no more humiliation. Each new whipcrack
pained her now no more than a paper cut.
                          # # #