by W. Arthur
I want to state unequivocally and for the record that I don't enjoy and have never enjoyed being spanked - if by enjoy, one means becoming sexually aroused. And yet, hardly a month goes by that I don't find myself bent over, bottom bared, awaiting the sharp sting from a paddle or a leather strap, compliments of Joyce, my stepmother. (Although, in fairness, the frequency has tapered off over the past couple of years - it used to be two or three times a week.)
Since I have already stated that I don't enjoy - even subconsciously - being spanked, it is certainly reasonable to ask why I get spanked so often. Am I just a dumb kid? No. Is my stepmother an unreasonable martinet or an old woman who gets off on punishing 'naughty boys'? Again, not really.
At twenty-three, I hardly consider myself a kid anymore. And at forty-four, Joyce is hardly an old woman. So, what is the problem? It really is quite simple: I am a chronic underachiever with a natural propensity toward rebellion, while Joyce, as a high school English teacher, has high standards and expectations coupled with a low tolerance for bad behavior. And when it comes to me and my two siblings, the bar she would normally set is even higher. She fully expects great things from each of us - or at least that we live up to or exceed what she considers to be our potential. She simply will accept no less.
I was away at boarding school, struggling to get through my senior year, when my father married Joyce - one of those quick, spur-of-the-moment Las Vegas weddings, according to Dad. Caught up in my own world with my own issues, I didn't think too much about the marriage one way or the other. I had met Joyce a few times and thought she was nice enough - although a bit abrasive, at least on the surface. I also didn't begrudge Dad a little happiness, knowing how he had sacrificed following the death of our mother.
My brother and sister were older. Marty was in his senior year at college, while Laura was a junior. Because I was the youngest by three years and away from home much of the time, they rarely paid attention to me. However, several weeks after the wedding, Laura did tell me that Joyce's presence in the home had changed the dynamic and that our new stepmother had pushed Laura to be more careful with her behavior and more diligent with her studies. Again, I didn't think too much about it at the time.
Somehow, I managed to graduate and moved back home at the end of May. I was immediately confronted by a number of changes. First, Marty also graduated from college and enlisted in the Air Force. I only saw him for a couple of days before he had to report for officer training. We had one conversation before he left, during which he advised me to straighten up and do exactly what Joyce tells me to do. He didn't offer any details, but I knew he was serious.
Second, Laura, as part of her studies, had elected to take an internship in Germany. She would be gone the entire next year. She also advised me to do what Joyce told me to do, without question.
Now, having heard the same advice from both my siblings, I was naturally curious. But I could also feel my rebellious streak rising up. No new stepmother was going to tell me what to do! I decided that only my father, who had up to now either sheltered me or enabled me, could do that.
However, much to my dismay, in mid-June, Dad, a civil engineer, was offered a position supervising road construction in Kenya - for him, a dream come true. The job was to last four to six months, with the promise of additional jobs after that. Joyce, not too keen on the prospect of giving up the teaching position she loved in order to live in Africa, decided not to accompany him.
As with prior events, I didn't give it too much thought. I had my own plans for the summer and beyond, plans that definitely didn't include my father or my new stepmother. In fact, I thought, with no one to answer to - not to mention a car and the credit card Dad left - I would be free to do whatever I wanted, whatever that was.
Anyway, that was my thinking. And I clung to that fantasy up until two days after Dad left for Kenya. That evening, Joyce summoned me to the spare bedroom which she had converted into an office. From across the wide expanse of her polished oak desk, she gazed at me, as though seeing me for the first time.
Finally, after a few agonizing minutes, she took a deep breath. "Well, Jason, it looks like it's going to be just you and me for the next several months."
I wasn't sure how to answer so I just nodded, all the time wondering what she had in mind and remembering the advice my two siblings had given me on their way out of town.
Joyce flashed a small thin smile. "So... what are your plans for the future?"
Up to that point, my plans were to do as little meaningful work as possible, contact a couple of girls I knew, and see about getting hooked up. But I could tell from the expression on Joyce's face that that was not exactly the answer she was looking for. "Uh... I haven't quite decided yet," I replied.
She continued her relentless gaze. "I suspected as much," she said. "And that, young man, is unacceptable."
That got my heart rate up almost immediately. "What do you mean by that?"
She huffed. "Your father tells me he thinks you have a lot of potential, if only you applied yourself. I tend to agree, even though you barely made it through that prep school you attended." She paused, her eyes never leaving me. "I think we're going to work on bringing out the best in you."
I stood up, my inner rebel now fully emerged. "Look, lady, I don't know what you've got in mind, but I plan to enjoy myself for as long as possible."
She laughed. "See, you do have a plan," she said. "Too bad it's not the same plan I have for you."
I scowled. Who did she think she was to even imagine she might have some element of control over me? I took a deep breath. "Who gives a fuck what you think?"
Joyce's eyes flashed; her fingers twitched and her face reddened slightly. But, apart from these signs, she maintained her icy composure. "Young man, I would advise you to curb the attitude and the language."
I laughed. "Or else what? I'm eighteen. You don't have any control over me."
She smiled again. "You're right about that," she said. "So... Jason, you have three choices. You can move out of the house, get a job, and support yourself. You can enlist in the military." She paused and glared at me. "Or... you can stay in this house, under my supervision, and do exactly what I tell you or suffer the consequences."
I swallowed hard. Even in my current state of youthful overconfidence, I could tell she was very serious. Quickly, I considered the three options and knew that I didn't want to do any of them. Even thinking about it exacerbated my escalating sense of indignity. But how to mount an appropriate counterargument? "This is bullshit," I said in a loud voice. "My father would never allow you to kick me out or cut me off." I took a menacing step forward, believing I had effectively presented a point for which she had no adequate counter.
She never flinched. Rather, she relaxed in her office chair and folded her hands together. "Jason, your father isn't here. Nor will he be for another six months at least. He left instructions not to contact him unless there's an emergency... which this clearly isn't. He also left me in charge of the house and the finances. I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but there is no fourth option. Now, since you are my husband's son, I would prefer to help you realize your potential. But... in the end, it doesn't really matter to me which option you choose. All I ask is that you make your choice now so I can make my own plans."
I realized I was totally unprepared to make a choice. Yes, I could possibly get a job, probably at minimum wage doing some unpleasant work. I wasn't even sure if I could make enough money to support myself. I definitely knew I didn't want to enlist and spend three years wearing a uniform and following orders.
So, that left the third option, which didn't exactly thrill me either. I suddenly remembered the advice from my two siblings. I softened slightly. "So... what's the next step?"
"Have you decided on an option?"
I nodded. I knew I could always fall back on the first two options if I had to.
She scowled, pushed back her chair, and stood up. "Jason, nodding is not an answer. You need to say it."
For some reason, her statement angered me all over again. "Fuck you, lady!"
She flushed, and for a few anxious seconds, I thought she was going to have a stroke. But, a minute later, she composed herself. "You and your whole generation need to learn manners," she said.
With mounting anxiety, I watched her watch me, her blue eyes piercing me. I knew at that moment that I had probably gone too far, crossed some invisible line that I shouldn't have crossed. But I also knew it was too late to walk it back. Might as well play it out, I thought; dare her and see what she does. "And just how would you teach such a lesson?" I asked.
Her lips curled; her eyes narrowed. "Corporal punishment," she said in a deadly serious voice. "It has worked very well with my honors students. It worked pretty well with your sister and brother."
Once again, I swallowed hard. So that was what Marty and Laura were trying to tell me. But I couldn't get myself to believe she would actually do it. "I thought corporal punishment was banned in the school system. I mean, they couldn't even use it in that fucking prep school Dad sent me to."
She smiled. "I see you keep up with school policy," she said. "That's good. I admire that. But, I have my own policies when it comes to my students and my family. What happens outside of the school building is none of the school's business. The same goes for this house." She paused, opened a door in the credenza behind her desk, and pulled out a paddle. It appeared to be solid wood, about a quarter-inch thick, perhaps eighteen-inches long, and three-inches wide - what I now know as a classic school paddle. She gripped it with her right hand. "Okay, Jason, I believe it's time for your first lesson. Lower your pants and bend over the desk." She snapped her fingers. "Now!"
I backed up at least two feet. "No fucking way, lady!"
She didn't flinch. "First of all, my name is Joyce, not lady," she said. "Second, you will do what I tell you to do or pack your stuff. When you are packed, I will drive you to the YMCA on Fifth Street. I believe you can get a room there for about twenty dollars a night. Tomorrow, I will contact Kristy Swanson. She's the manager of Sammy's Steakhouse and a former student. She told me recently she's looking for a full time dishwasher. Or, if you prefer, the Armed Forces Recruiting Station is about four blocks from the Y."
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