Memories of the stick

I was fortunate growing up to have a large contingent of extended family living in the same neighbourhood. My mom’s sister lived just a couple of blocks from us, in a house on a large lot in a cul-de-sac that backed up to woods. There were six kids living there at the time this took place – my aunt and uncle’s five kids and a niece of my uncle, whom they had taken in at a young age (long story) and had since adopted.

I was especially close with this girl, whose name was Judith – Judi for short. We were just a few months apart in age and we hung together both in school and during the summer, mainly at her house.

Like my mom, my aunt was a ‘first response’ spanker. Although she tended to let more things slide than my mom did (probably because of the sheer number of kids there), spankings were not rare and, unlike at my house, were always administered openly in front of whatever family happened to be there. With the exception of the youngest boy, I’d seen each of my cousins – three boys and two girls – on the receiving end at least once, bent over getting the paddle applied to their bare bottoms.

My aunt also believed in the principle of ‘while you are a guest here, I expect you to follow the rules’, and I had also found myself in that bent-over position a handful of times when I stayed there over the years.

The last – and worst – spanking I got from my aunt took place during the summer between 8th and 9th grades, close to my 14th birthday. I was staying there for a couple days around July 4.

Judi and I had hatched a scheme to ride our bikes to the marina not far from their house. This marina was strictly off limits to us, a rule of both of our parents. Our folks knew the marina was a popular drinking hangout for high school kids and that a number of older guys frequented it, looking to hit on the girls. It was also located off a busy highway that was neither pedestrian nor bike-friendly.

On this particular day, we told my aunt we were going to ride our bikes over to the Custard Stand chili restaurant, then head over to the large neighbourhood park around the corner. My aunt said ‘OK’, but to make sure we were back by 3.30.

We readily agreed and off we went, riding directly past the Custard Stand and straight toward the busy divided highway that led to the access road for the marina. We had crossed two lanes of traffic and were standing with our bikes on the median when all of a sudden Judi let out a “crap!’

About 50 yards down the road in the opposite direction was her dad, in his truck headed to work. He did a slow crawl past us, just to confirm it was who he thought it was. He looped around at the next intersection and pulled up to us while we were still on the median. “Get in,” was all he said. He got out of the truck and put our bikes in the open bed.

My uncle said nothing on the short drive back. When we reached the driveway, he just pointed to the house and said: “Inside.”

We scuffled, hang dog, into the kitchen via the back door, my uncle right behind us. My aunt was in the kitchen and looked up, first at us, then at my uncle, who quickly briefed her on where had found us before he headed out the door again and back to work.

My aunt stood in front of us, glowering and arms folded. She was not a yeller and in fact, unlike my mom, was not prone to lecture much at all. “You two are in big trouble,” she said, confirming the obvious. She pointed at Judi. “Go get the stick,” she said.

I could see a wave of panic cross Judi’s face. The stick, it should be explained, was a mini blind wand, maybe 24in long and coated in vinyl. In that house, it was the ‘nuclear option’ and reserved for the most serious offences. I had seen it used on a couple of my cousins but I had never experienced it. Now, I was about to find out why its announcement had filled Judi with so much anxiety.

A certainty of a spanking in that house was that it was guaranteed to draw a crowd. As if by magic, our impending doom drew the rest of the kids into the adjacent family room from outside and every other part of the house.

First were the oldest of my aunt and uncle’s biological kids, the twins Jackson and Jordan, both around 14 at the time. Jordan, in particular, seemed to delight in seeing his siblings in trouble, especially the girls, and he always wore this smarmy look on his face while he leered at you.

My cousin Julia, aged 12, was next in, followed by Jason, who was around 11. I am not sure if the youngest, Jeremy, came in at some point, but it was the four other sibs who were in the family room when Judi returned from retrieving the stick from the back hall closet.

My aunt pulled a chair from the kitchen table and turned it so the back faced away from us. She wheeled around and pointed in our direction with the stick. “Get those down,” she said. Just as at my house, every spanking there was given on a bare bottom.

I was extraordinarily nervous, both at the prospect of a spanking with this wicked implement and having it witnessed by a gaggle of onlookers. Almost simultaneously, my cousin and I reached into the waistband of the  gym shorts we were wearing and lowered them and our panties in one motion to around knee level. I could feel my face flush and my breathing accelerate. I was not making eye contact, but I knew all eyes in the family room were riveted on us two girls’ midsections of Judi.

I had begun growing pubic hair about two years earlier (about six months before Judi) and I had become extremely body-conscious. The worst part of the whole spanking ordeal for me was no longer the physical part but the exposure and embarrassment, especially when witnessed. We stood next to each other, arms at sides. I was a swimmer, and while I did not shave, I kept my black wispy pubic hair in a tight landing strip. Judi, by contrast, did little trimming and had a thicket of dark ,bushy hair.

My aunt pointed at Judi then tapped the chair. Judi, familiar with the routine, shuffled over and gripped the sides. Though her legs were tightly together, the shape and contour of her body, and the position itself, still left her privates exposed and it heightened my anxiety to know that I would look the same way in a few moments.

Judi was olive-skinned and tanned easily, and her bare white bottom stood out in stark contrast. She was not fat, but she was thicker and built more solidly, and her bum was definitely wider than mine.

My aunt stood behind her and gave two small taps on Judi’s bottom. I heard the stick cut through the air and then land with a resounding crack that seemed to bounce off the kitchen walls. There was a beat, then Judi thrusting forward as she let out a low moan. Another beat, and then: “One, ma’am.” There was a two or three beat pause, then another whoosh-crack that drew an even louder moan, followed by the counting of the stroke.

Judi kept it under control through the first six strokes, which were spaced across the meat of her bottom, leaving a row of nasty red lines. The seventh landed at the very top of her thighs where they met her bottom, and she let out a small shriek and while still holding the chair, rose up on her tiptoes. Her voice was high and quivering as she counted “Seven, ma’am.”

Eight, nine and ten came in rapid fire and I could hear Judi breathing rapidly and sounding as if she were ready to break down completely. Eleven was another cut to the sit spot that elicited the loudest response yet and then 12 quickly followed, directly across the centre of Judi’s by now heavily welted rear end. As she counted out ’12 ma’am’ she stood up and began vigorously rubbing her bottom. As she turned to face me, I could see tears freely flowing down her face. She shuffled back over, pants still down, and stood next to me.

It took all of my strength to be able to move my feet to go over to the chair and bend over. I felt weak and almost in a fog. I gripped the sides of the chair until my knuckles turned white. I kept thinking how exposed I must be and what view my cousins were getting of me.

I heard my aunt say something, but I am not sure what it was, then a whoosh and then a crack. For one moment, I felt nothing, then instantaneously there was a searing jolt of pain that radiated out from my bottom through my entire body. I literally felt the hairs on my arm stand up. I would have screamed but I could not find air. I lunged forward and then back and somehow managed to croak out “One, ma’am.” (My mother also made us count swats, but did not insist on the ‘ma’am’ part.)

Just as the electric wave of pain was easing, a second whoosh-crack and again that same split-second delay as the pain coursed through my bottom. This time, I found my voice and let out a loud cry before I counted the stroke.

My aunt’s cadence for the spanking was patient and steady. As with Judi, she painted my entire bum with firm, even strokes. The seventh landed on my sit spot, a sensitive area that brought out my loudest and deepest response. I looked down and noticed that the seat of the chair now had a healthy deposit of my snot and tears. I prided myself on not breaking for spankings, but that one had been called early. I lost my dignity and was a sobbing mess.

The remaining strokes were carried out in more or less the same way. When the 12th was delivered, it was dead across the centre of my pulsating bottom. My knees buckled and I collapsed to the floor, sobbing openly. My aunt told me to get up, and somehow I did and worked my way back next to Judi, who was still sniffling.

Our punishment was not over, however. As at my own house, we had to each park our noses in a corner of the kitchen and display our marked bottoms in public for the next half hour. I was desperate to rub my poor bum, but there is no rubbing allowed in the corner, so I was forced to endure the throbbing fire in my behind without relief.

After that, we were sent to Judi’s room until dinner. To add to our indignity, both of us had lost our shorts and panties during the session. We scooped them up from the floor and made a hasty retreat down the hall to Judi’s room, giving everyone a last look at our welted bottoms.

Once we got there, Judi asked me if I wanted her to put some cold cream on my butt. I was hesitant but she insisted it helped. My bum was incredibly sensitive after my whipping and it hurt to even have Judi lightly touch it, but she rubbed in the cream gently and it did bring some relief.

Then Judi asked me to do the same to her. I felt a bit embarrassed at her request, as I’d never touched another girl’s bare bottom before, let alone rubbed cream on it, but in the end I thought it was the polite thing to do and obliged.

Dinner that evening was a muted affair. Even though my aunt’s chairs had cushions, Judi and I still fidgeted on our sore bottoms. It was early bed for us, and I was grateful for that part of the punishment at least. It’s a cliché, I know, but we did both sleep on our stomachs.

The next morning, I felt slightly better but still sore and stiff, and even simple tasks like using the toilet were complicated. Judi and I checked out each other’s bottoms to see whose was worse – she got my vote, though both of us had a series of red and purple welts and ridges that in my case would remain there for three or four more days.

That day was a Sunday so we had to go to church and fidget on the hard wooden pews, somehow convinced the entire congregation knows we got our bare bottoms tanned. When we got home, my aunt had a whole load of menial chores lined up for us.

I went home on Monday morning. It was a short bike ride but the small hard seat of my bicycle made it agonising. To add to my misery, my aunt had called my mom and told her what happened. She didn’t always do that if I got in trouble there, but this was considered ‘serious’ and my aunt felt obliged to tell. On the ride home, all I can think about is my poor sore bum and whether it would be the paddle or the strap when I got home.

I walked through the door and Mom immediately told me to go upstairs, drop my bag in my room and go to her own room to wait for her. In my house, that was code for ‘stand in the corner and wait for me to come and spank you’. I shuffled down to my folks’ room and planted myself in the empty corner. After about 15 minutes, I heard Mom coming up the stairs.

She entered the room and called me out of the corner. She was sitting on her vanity bench, the same bench she had used dozens of other times as she warmed my behind.

Mom ordered me to pull down my shorts and panties, then turned me around. For a few minutes she looked closely at my whipped behind. She gently touched one of the welts and I recoiled with the pain.

I waited for the expected order to bend over her knee, but Mom just said: “I think your aunt has made her point, judging by the state of your bottom. Keep those panties down, and go stand in the corner until I say you can come out.”

With that, I shuffled over to the corner, my bare bottom crossed with welts from the stick on display, where it remained for a full half hour, sore but grateful for a bit of motherly mercy.

Contributor: Lauren

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