by Frank Martinet
I was in my garden weeding when I heard them. It was my neighbor, Roger Brand and his daughter, Emily. She was young, fourteen or fifteen, I think, but extremely pretty and mature for her age. I had noticed her attracting boys, older boys, not the kind of boys she ought to be associated with, either. We live on a cul-de-sac, with only our two homes at the end, so we don't get much traffic, but lately I'd been seeing more and more awful teenage boys in tough-looking black leather jackets or those horrible baggy jeans and backward baseball caps. Bad boys, through and through.
Of course I had done my civic and neighborly duty to inform Roger of these sightings and apparently now he had decided to do something about it. I heard them arguing in their back yard. He was telling her that she was not going to see such boys and she was telling him to - oh, I dare not use the language she used, so let's just say she told him what she thought of his rules. Quite the rude girl. Just as I was thinking what my father would have done if I'd spoken to him that way, Roger said the most astonishing thing.
"That's enough, Emily Ann Brand!" he barked. "You march right out there and cut me off two sturdy switches, do you hear me? And make them good ones, or you'll regret it!"
The stern tone of his voice sent shivers through me and I felt compelled to move a few steps closer to the fence where I found a knothole and peered through. I saw six-foot Roger standing on his deck with his petite daughter shrinking next to him. She wore cut-off jeans and a short T-shirt that left her midriff bare, her full breasts jutting the front of the shirt quite obviously. Her long dark hair was wild and her black eyes were grim with fury.
"Never!" she shouted. "You can't make me! It's ridiculous!"
Roger folded his broad arms in front of his barrel chest, the very picture of implacability. "Right now it's one switch and a spare," he growled. "If I have to order you again, it will be three switches, and I'll wear two of them out on your naughty bottom!"
My heart fluttered at these words and even now, twenty years after my last switching, a hand instinctively flashed behind me to protect my own bottom. I could well remember the furious switchings of my father, the last given to me when I was a year or two older than young Emily. The white hot razor pain of those thin branches cutting across my bare flesh had been unbearable, and yet the discipline had undoubtedly benefited me.
I watched as Emily folded her own arms to mimic her father and the two had a standoff. For a moment I wondered who would win, but then I saw that already Emily's eyes were darting away nervously and she was fidgeting. She would not last long. Her rebellion was mere bravado, the teenage foolishness of needing to make a show of her independence.
"Three switches," snapped her father a minute later, and Emily screamed in fury and stamped her foot.
"It's not FAIR!" she howled. "I'm not a child! I'm a woman! You can't... you can't SPANK me like a baby!"
"I'm only treating you the way you act. If you insist on being a brat, a whipping's the only way to treat you. Now you've got five minutes to bring me those switches or I'll tan your bare bottom right out here in the back yard."
Emily's mouth fell open and then she used some particularly ugly words I won't repeat here. She wavered a moment, then when her father looked at his watch and said "Four-and-a-half left," she spun away and ran off the deck and toward the back of the yard. She was grinding her teeth furiously and I thought for a minute that she might try to escape by climbing the wall and running away, but she did not. Apparently she had been trained in the past and she could not disobey completely.
I had to move to a slit between two boards where I could see the back of the Brand's yard. There I saw Emily's lithe figure moving between the two hickory trees as she used a rose cutter to clip off several long thin branches. My breath caught in my throat and I shivered as I watched her peel off the twigs and leaves to create a smooth, lean switch. She knew what she was doing, which surprised me, as she'd been so undisciplined lately I had figured her father didn't know how to punish her.
"Two minutes," called out Roger, and Emily hastened her task. She had one switch finished and quickly worked on the second. But her search for a third switch was less successful, as the first branch she cut wasn't long enough, being a clear eight or nine inches shorter than the others. As her father called out "one minute" she reluctantly tossed it and started over with a fresh branch. She worked quickly, but it was hopeless, and she was running back toward the deck when he called out "Time!"
"I guess you'll get a good old-fashioned outdoor whipping today," Roger said grimly.
"You can't be serious!" said Emily sullenly, but her eyes showed that she knew he was. Tears welled up in her eyes as she changed her tactic from rebellion to pleading, holding out the switches in a gesture of good faith and begging her father for mercy.
"Please Daddy, you don't have to do this. I'm sorry. I know I was bad, but it won't happen again, I swear it. I'll be good from now on, you know I will!"
"I know of no such thing. The only thing I know is that when I make a promise, I keep it, and you're getting two switches worn out on your bare bottom right here, right now."
"Noooo," sobbed Emily. "Please, can't we go inside? What if... what if someone sees?"
"Bah, who's to see? There's only Miss Chelsea next door and she keeps to herself."
"But Jason said he and his friends might stop by later..."
"I told you, they are not permitted to hang out here! And if they do show up, well then... I guess that will be part of your punishment."
"Daddy, no! You cannot be serious. You can't whip me out here, you can't!"
"The sooner we get started, the sooner this will be over. If you delay this, it will just increase the chances of Jason and his pals catching you in the middle."
The logic of this didn't escape the girl, who was nodding reluctantly. "Okay, fine. Let's just get it over with." Her hands went to her shorts and she paused for a final plea. "Does it have to be bare?"
"You know the rules."
So down went the shorts and underwear and there stood the two proud bare cheeks of Emily Brand. She looked gorgeously sexy, standing there half-naked on the deck, her cutoffs around her ankles. She turned and placed her hands on the railing, presenting her bottom for the switch. I moved down a few steps to another opening where I could get a better view.
What followed was a terrific whipping. My father would have been proud. Mr. Brand didn't hold anything back but lashed his daughter's bare buttocks and thighs with that switch until it fell apart in his hand. Then he picked up a second stick and used it, too. Emily's buttocks were streaked with thin red lines, many swelling up into genuine welts. Emily wept and wiggled, screeching at the top of her lungs with every fresh cut. But though she writhed out of position on at least a couple of occasions, she mostly stayed in position with her bottom thrust out.
It was thrilling to watch the whipping. Not only was it well-deserved, but Emily was an attractive girl with an extremely floggable bottom. She was slender but her buttocks were full and amazingly pert, with a firmness only a teenager can have, and the wiry switch bit deep into the rounds with a sickening hiss.
Seeing Emily's well-wealed bottom brought back so many memories of my own punishments. My father had passed away two years earlier and I still missed him. I am only thirty-six, but I never married and we were always close. I suppose I never married because I never found a man that measured up to my father. He was so strong and confident and capable, with the highest moral standards, and it is tough to find someone like that in today's evil world.
Like Emily, it was just my father and I, though my mom didn't intentionally leave like hers - mine bravely fought through three years of cancer. The trial of that brought my father and I closer, and I drew on his incredible strength to endure it. Mom died when I was twelve, and it was a year or so later that I began to rebel and misbehave. That's when my father was forced to become a disciplinarian. Though he loved me, I needed sharp lessons, and he was strong enough to provide them. It appeared that Emily's father was a similar man.
Roger and Emily had bought the house near me just two years ago. We'd met on several occasions, had dinner at each other's homes, and I'd gone to their place for Thanksgiving last year. We borrowed tools from each other, watered plants for the other when one of us was away, and that sort of thing. Our relationship was kindly but not overbearing. We got along well and I had been a comforting ear for Roger for the first few months after they moved in and he was struggling with coping with his divorce. He and his ex had been separated for a year before that, but moving into a new home sort of made things 'official' and he'd been depressed.
Oddly, it had never occurred to me to think of Roger in a sexual way. I suppose it was because of that initial consulting attitude I'd adopted when he and Emily first moved in next door. I thought of him as a good friend or maybe a nice cousin. He was busy with his divorce and raising his daughter and I had my own life, so the thought of us romantically had never entered my mind.
That all changed the day I saw him whipping Emily on the deck. From that moment on I couldn't think of him in any way other than sexual. I thought of him at night as I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and touched myself into a drowsy orgasm. I pictured Emily's whipped bottom, and then imagined my own looked like that. Then I dreamt that it was me in her place, being whipped like that, getting an old-fashioned switching like my father used to give me. I suddenly saw Roger as a tall, strong, and handsome man, a man who could command a woman and she would obey. It was quite a contrast from the broken shell of a man who'd moved in next door after his divorce!
It was nearly a month before I got up the nerve. Several times I'd seen Emily go off and I knew Roger was home alone, but still I hesitated. Once I took over a pumpkin pie as an excuse, but I lost my nerve and never brought it up, pretending the pie was the only reason I'd stopped over. You'd think after all that time my crazy desire would have faded, but it didn't. In fact, the opposite happened, as my craving for a whipping grew maddeningly.
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