The story submitted to your site by Diane recently rang all sorts of bells with me, and all for the same (and wrong!) reasons. I too got caught shoplifting in my teen years (15, to be exact) and my punishment was at the hands of my father.
Unlike Diane, I targeted a small boutique in our town. I was tempted by a silk scarf I saw there (but didn’t have the money to buy it). The lady owner of the boutique must have seen me stuffing it in my bag because I was immediately challenged and told to open my bag. I claimed that I had been planning to buy the scarf, but of course when challenged to do so it became obvious I hadn’t nearly enough money.
Luckily, the lady was fairly kind in the circumstances. She said she wouldn’t call the police if I disclosed my phone number and one of my parents could collect me. Despite the apprehension in my stomach, it was something of a no-brainer when it came to an offer. Unfortunately, it was my father who answered the phone (had it been Mum, I think she could have got him to calm down a little) and even through the phone receiver I could positively feel the heat of his indignation and horror at his daughter’s conduct.
About half an hour passed after the call ending, during which I sat awkwardly beside the lady while she tended the shop. In between, she gave me some firm but gentle lecturing about dishonesty, and how much shoplifting cost her business every year. At one point she asked me: “Will you be in a lot of trouble at home?” I nodded mutely. “Good,” she replied. “I know you’re a big girl, but if I’d have done that at your age, I’d have had my bottom soundly smacked.” I blushed and didn’t say anything, but couldn’t help but feel I was about to suffer that fate when Dad got me home.
Presently he arrived and they both took me into the back storeroom, where I was commanded to apologise, and (by Dad) banned from ever going in the shop again and anywhere else in town for a month. He didn’t say anything about a physical punishment, and the lady looked a bit disappointed that he didn’t put me over his knee on the spot, but I knew from his expression that my troubles were far from over.
Sure enough, as soon as we were home Dad marched me into the kitchen, where a very disgruntled mother was also waiting for me. Dad read me the riot act, finishing with ‘you won’t be sitting down for a week!’ I wailed and pronounced myself too old to spank. Mum assured me that was by no means the case, and I think was about to put me across her knee herself when I yelled desperately: “Please! I’m on my period!” This was actually true, and I could actually feel like I needed to change my towel, but my embarrassment in front of Dad was a high price even to be spared a spanking.
“Go to your room!” Dad thundered, and I scuttled up the stairs without further prompting. At that point, I really felt like I had dodged a bullet, albeit at the cost of a memory that would not easily be erased from my memory. From my perch upstairs, I could hear my parents continuing to talk quietly, no doubt discussing my terrible behaviour.
After about half an hour, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and Mum came in to my bedroom, holding a box of Tampax which usually lived on her own dressing table. She barely looked at me and just said: “Go to the toilet and put one of these in, then come straight back down to the kitchen.” I heard her go back into hers and Dad’s room briefly before going back down.
Now, I never particularly liked wearing tampons, and both my lack of practice with the product and nervousness at what was to come made it fiddly to insert one into my vagina, but I eventually managed it, wiped myself and washed my hands, then went down the stairs with very wobbly legs indeed.
The first thing I saw on the kitchen table was a school-type cane with a curved handle and everything. I had never seen it before in my life – my parents were strict but the worst I had ever suffered before was bare-bottom smackings with their hands. Naturally, I knew what it was and what it was for, as I think did most kids back in the day (mid-1970s, I should mention).
“Please…” I began again but didn’t get a word further. Mum, who was on the other side of the table facing me, said simply: “Give me your hands, Sara.” I obeyed almost automatically and Mum pulled me towards the table. “Bend over.”
My nose was suddenly level with Mum’s crotch and very briefly I realised that she too was on her period. I believe women living together quite often ovulate in sync with each other and the smell coming from my own mother’s vagina was unmistakeable.
I didn’t have too long to think about that, however, as the next thing was I felt Dad fiddling with my clothing. My skirt was lifted clear of my bottom and then my knickers were slid down to my knees. I had to block out the thought of the show I was giving Dad back there, with a tampon string dangling from between my legs. Unlike Diane, I was a late developer and still had no pubic hair at that point, so I was completely smooth.
Again, I didn’t have too long to dwell on that either. I had the cane rattle as Dad picked it up from the table, and the next thing was a line of extreme heat straight across the centre of my naked bottom. I begged, promised, screamed and cried my way through an old-fashioned ‘six of the best’. That done, I was sent to bed with no supper and cried myself to sleep.
Needless to say, I totally learned my lesson, and in fact that was my last dose of corporal punishment. But there is a strange postscript to this story. My dad died quite young, in his early 50s, and when Mum finally joined him more than a quarter of a century later, it fell to me as the only child to go back to my old family home and clear out her clothes and other belongings.
Almost at the end of sorting out stuff from her big wardrobe to go to the local charity shop, I found a battered old shopping bag at the back. When I pulled it out, to my amazement I found inside both the cane which had been used to such good effect that day all those many years ago – and a stack of spanking magazines such as Janus and Fesseé.
I must admit that during the intervening years, I had developed quite a liking for the occasional well-smacked bottom before sex, and I went through the magazines page by page, realising soon that I was wet. I took off my pants and lay down on the bed, continuing to look at the magazines while I masturbated myself to a thrilling climax. Afterwards I whipped the cane through the air a few times experimentally, marvelling at how light and pliant it was for something capable of causing so much pain.
I ended up taking the magazines and cane home and showed them to my husband, who immediately ordered me to drop my drawers for six of the best. The sex which followed was spectacular, and I was glad for once that our own children (never spanked, by the way) had flown the nest and I could yell and cry openly, both as I was beaten on the bottom with that stingy cane and as my husband proceeded to fuck me afterwards.
I needn’t add that we have kept both the magazines and the cane, and our joint interest is how we eventually came to find your website, to which we are keen subscribers, so I thought I would add the tale of my own tail, as it were!
Contributor: Sara