by Lucy Appleby
I whimpered pathetically as the heat in my seat escalated to a burning swathe of fire. I didn't whimper because it hurt so bad; no, my immediate concern was because I knew my spanking was nowhere near over, that there was worse to come! I gulped as Brenda removed her iron palm from the heated surface of my scorched bottom, and I winced as I heard the clatter and slide of the wooden hairbrush as she grabbed it from the little alcove conveniently situated behind her spanking chair. How I hated that damned brush. It was my worst enemy; its deep mahogany paddle-shaped business end was fearsome, and Brenda wielded the thing like a pro... for my own good of course. As if!
Although, I have to confess, this time I might really be deserving of a proper punishment. I was rude you see, rude to old Mr Hempstock next door. One of the kids down the street dared me to call him a rude name. So I did. I can be so incredibly stupid at times.
"Bollock brain!" I shouted. "Saggy balls!" I continued in a sing-song voice, "Old Hempstock's got saggy ba... Uh..." That was as far as I got as a hand grabbed my right ear in a pincer-like grip. "Aahhoooww!" I hollered.
"You bad girl! How dare you insult Harry with such filthy and revolting words!" As she spoke, Brenda glanced up at Harry Hempstock's window. It was firmly closed and the curtains drawn; the old man must be taking an afternoon nap.
I almost breathed a sigh of relief that Harry hadn't heard my puerile name-calling. Almost... because I knew I was for it from Brenda, and I was right. She frogmarched me inside the house, deposited herself in the spanking chair, upended me over her lap, pulled my shorts and knickers down to my ankles and began berating my bare bottom with her frying pan hand.
"I'm s-sorry..." I sputtered, yelping as a fusillade of spanks seared my bare skin; but if I'd hoped for clemency, I received nothing but a derisive snort from my tormentor, who then proceeded to lecture me on the error of my ways.
"I will not tolerate rudeness," she said, bringing the brush down hard on the crest of my upturned bottom. "I will not tolerate rudeness in this house or outside of it!" The brush deposited two sharp smacks on my left cheek, followed by an even harder one in exactly the same place. I squealed. Loudly. "Really, Becky, I thought you would have learned some manners by now." The brush attacked my right cheek next with two nasty spanks, followed by an even nastier one.
"OOOWWWW!" I screeched, and kicked wildly, blind panic enveloping me as the pain in my bottom blossomed and filled my head with exploding fireworks.
"You know the rules, don't pretend you don't." The brush cracked down crisply on the heated surface of my lower cheeks. It stung like the devil. "And you know what to expect, don't you, young lady?" Six more stingers walloped my inflamed skin. "You know the price you pay for rudeness and disobedience." A further six whacks landed on my sensitive sit spots. "Dear me, such vile language - I simply won't stand for it!"
"Ooh! Owww! Please, not there!" She ignored me of course and continued to pulverise my sit spots. The prickling behind my eyes resulted in a release of tears, and I bawled, rivulets of tears dripping onto the carpet. I was very familiar with that carpet: it was a green Berber loop pile and I'd had ample opportunity to observe every little fleck and tuft up close when I was over Brenda's lap getting a spanking. Yep, I've had quite a lot of spankings.
"I really don't know what's got into you, my girl. And after yesterday's little episode too!"
Ah, yesterday... I'd deliberately thrown a plate on the floor, then jumped on it. It's what they do in Greek restaurants (or so I heard), but Brenda wasn't to know that, and she didn't appreciate her best china ending up in pieces.
"I think it's time I turned my attention to these thighs..."
My eyes bulged at the thought. "Thighs?! Nooooooo!"
Splat! Splat! Splat! The brush sang mockingly yet cheerfully as it did its work. Splat! Splat! Splat!
My thighs were so tender, filled with a red hot heat that prickled and tormented. And my poor bottom throbbed horribly. I thought I'd never be able to sit comfortably ever again, that I'd have to go through life permanently standing, suffering terribly from aching, swollen feet and an even achier, monstrously swollen bottom, probably swollen to the size of a hot air balloon. Well that's what it felt like.
"Right, I think we're done here. Up you get."
I was hauled effortlessly up and pressed into the comforting warmth of the maternal bosom where I sniffled and wined for a few minutes as Brenda cooed and fussed and stroked my hair and told me I was forgiven. I still had to go and stand in the corner though, with my shorts and underwear down, and my hands clasped firmly on the top of my head, and a snivel-snotty horrible mess decorating my chin. I hated corner time, because although I was partially hidden by the living room curtains, some nosey person coming down the street, intent on peeking in through people's front windows, might catch a glimpse of my bare bum. I lived in fear and dread of that happening; it would be the ultimate in humiliating experiences.
"Now you just stand there and think about how to be a good girl, you hear? You can do twenty minutes while I go through to the kitchen. And no rubbing!"
"Ok," I sniffed, already desperate to rub my smarting rump. I heard the familiar sound of water gushing from the tap into the kettle, which began to boil as Brenda reached for a mug out of the cupboard. I also heard the lid of the metal biscuit tin being prized open and I hoped she'd save me one of the nice double-chocolate cookies. I smiled then, because I knew she would.
Really and truly, I have such a lot to be thankful for. I'm so happy here. Amazingly happy. I expect you're wondering where 'here' is, and who I am, and what my relationship is to Brenda. Ok, I'll tell you. I'll tell you all of it.
This is my story...
My name is Rebecca King, and up until a few months ago I lived with my mum in Leicester. We weren't exactly close, Mum and I. She always did her best for me, making sure I was clothed and fed, but as I was growing up I sensed there was never any real warmth towards me. She was always aloof, keeping me at a distance. She rarely hugged me, and on the occasions she did, it was usually perfunctory. It was an odd way to be, but as she was always like that, I didn't miss what I never had. But as I got older and went to school, it became apparent that other girls' mums demonstrated their love for their daughters, and so I deduced that maybe my mum didn't love me at all. So I built defences. I read avidly. I always had my nose in some book or other, and I escaped into my fantasy worlds which were more real and comforting to me than the real world.
It didn't escape my attention that Mum had a different surname to me. She was Anna Fox, whereas my last name was King. When I was little, Mum told me I didn't have a daddy, but that I had a mummy who would look after me, and that was good enough. I accepted that, and it wasn't until I was twelve or thirteen that I tried to find out more about my father.
"What was his name?" I asked Mum one day.
"Johnny. Johnny King." She looked at me warily. "Why do you ask?"
I shrugged. "I just wanted to know a bit about him. I don't remember him at all."
She laughed hollowly and shook her head. "You don't remember him because you never met him. He was a travelling salesman and I met him when I was nineteen, and we... we had what's called a one night stand. He went away the next day and he never came back. He never knew about you."
"Oh." I felt deflated. "But he must have wanted me, because he made a baby with you on that stand, and that baby was me. Right?"
"Right," she said bitterly. "You were the result of our one night stand. He didn't want you, Rebecca, so don't go getting it into your silly head that he did. Now, I don't want to talk about him ever again. Do you understand?"
"But-"
"Do you understand?" she said angrily.
It dawned on me then, that not only did my father not want me, my mother didn't either. Nineteen wasn't that much older than I was at that point in my life. It seemed way too young to have a baby. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Instead, I stared defiantly at Mum, but there were tears in my eyes and I could feel my lower lip trembling as I was engulfed in an awful feeling of bleak hopelessness.
She softened. "Look... I know life's been tough, but we've managed, haven't we? We've got by. We've coped. Things would have been easier if my parents - your grandparents - had been supportive, but they weren't. When they found out I was pregnant with you, they disowned me and never wanted to see me again."
"I didn't know that," I said, tears spilling down my cheeks. That resulted in one of Mum's rare hugs. See, I know she did love me really, deep down; she just had a funny way of showing it because she'd been hurt and abandoned.
Things between us improved subtly from that point on. It wasn't a perfect relationship, but neither was it entirely dysfunctional. Mum was a seamstress, and a good one. She didn't make a heap of money but she made enough for us to live on and pay the rent and bills, with a bit left over from time to time for special treats. She showed me how to sew, and I got to be quite good at it, proficient at stitching by hand and using the old Singer sewing machine. I loved pedalling away on that old sewing machine, and the rumbling noise it made as the needle bobbed frantically up and down was music to my ears. It was relaxing, and I felt as though I was in a railway carriage on a train, swaying about on the rickety seat as the train rumbled rhythmically along the tracks.
I got through school without making any special friends. I always was a bit of a loner. I didn't particularly excel at anything. I was just average I guess, and I didn't have a clue what I wanted to do when I left school. Unfortunately for me, I have a very young-looking face, and I'm not very tall; when I was 16 I looked about twelve... which made it very difficult to get a job as prospective employers just couldn't seem to take me seriously. So I ended up staying at home, working with Mum. It wasn't brilliant, but it was okay, and I still had lots of time to read. I'd go down to the local library and devour whole shelves of books. That library was my second home.
It was just as well I enjoyed reading, because I had very few friends back then. They all looked so much more mature than I, and most were dating boys and having a good time going out.
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