The long walk

When I was nine years old, my maternal grandparents looked after me for a weekend while my parents were away. Although I was still quite young, there was part of me developing into a bit of brat, particularly when parents, grandparents or teachers told me to do something.

The farm where my grandparents lived had a 200-metre driveway – so if you had to take out the trash, you had to walk that distance to a garbage can placed beside the road.

It was a Saturday. Grandad was working in the woodshed, while Grandma had gone to buy some groceries. As she got ready to go, she asked me to take out the trash. This was not something I wanted to do, so I pretended not to hear.

Just as she left, she said: “Sarah, I expect to find that job done by the time I get back. Do you understand?” I answered: “Yes, Grandma” obediently enough, but I didn’t make any move to lift my bottom off the sofa, from where I was watching a TV show.

Well, you’ve probably already guessed what happened next. Grandma got back and I had still not taken out the trash. She began to scold me, saying: “Being part of a family is that we help each other, Sarah. If I can take the time to cook your food, the least you can do is help take out the trash.”

With that, she went into the kitchen and I heard her go out of the back door. I honestly thought I had gotten away with not doing as I was told.

However, about five minutes later she returned, and told me that my grandfather wanted to see me in the woodshed. Since the time I had broken one of my grandma’s porcelain birds, I knew what a trip to the woodshed was all about, and so slunk over there very slowly indeed.

When I got to the woodshed, Grandpa was still working on his project. In a low voice, I said: “You wanted to talk with me?”

He looked at me like he just remembered what Grandma had told him. “Yes, Sarah,” he replied, “come in and close the door behind you.” I reluctantly obeyed, and Grandpa sat down on a log. He took my chin in his hand and made me look him in the eye.

“You’ve been a very naughty girl by not doing as you are told. If Grandma asks you to take out the trash, we expect you to obey us – do you understand, Sarah?” I nodded. “Now you are going to be punished for your disobedience. What happens to naughty girls in this house?”

I made a last desperate attempt to save my bottom. “Please, Grandpa, don’t spank me! I’ll go take out the trash now!” He nodded: “Yes, you will take out the trash – but after I have dealt with you. First, you are going to have your bottom made sore.”

He took me by the wrist and gently but firmly placed me bottom up over his knee. I felt his left hand draw my jeans up, pulling the seat tight over my buttocks. Then he raised his hand and began to spank me. Even through a layer of denim and my panties, the smacking stung unbelievably and after only three or four whacks I was sobbing like a little girl.

In all, I got 18 smacks – double my age. I cried so much, and Grandpa held me as I had a weep on his shoulder. “I love you very much, Sarah,” he said, “so let’s hope you behave better in future. Now, you go say sorry to Grandma and then you take out the trash like a good girl.”

I walked slowly back to the kitchen, rubbing the seat of my jeans as I did so. I was still crying and fell into my grandmother’s arms, telling her that I was sorry. She held me gently for a little while I regained my composure, then asked gently: “Are you going to take the trash out now, Sarah?” I nodded with a little gulp.

I grabbed hold of it and began the long walk down to the end of the drive – now with a very warm bottom inside my jeans.

Contributor: Sarah

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