Size: a a a a    Colour: a a a
TEENAGE GIRLS, TEENAGE SPANKINGS - BOOK ONE

by Grace Brackenridge


My Stay with the Thumpers

"Your choice, Miss Sophia Carrett," Mr. Thumper tells me formally, like a judge sentencing a convict to death. "A paddling or a spanking? Go to the guestroom and think about it."

He looks at his watch. "I'll give you ten minutes to decide."

Okay, maybe I shouldn't have been so vocal.

But paddled?

Spanked?

So very, very wrong!

I hurry upstairs to my room.


I look at the "Favorites" on my iPhone.

I press Ashley's number.

When she answers, I explain the situation.

"Can he even do that?" Ashley asks.

"I dunno. My folks never said anything to me about it."

"How well do your folks know these people?"

"Mrs. Thumper is a friend of my mom's friend, Bunny Lapin. My folks don't really know them at all."

"Then why are you staying with them?"

"The Thumpers are willing to let me stay here for a month, while my folks are on their sea cruise. I think they like having a free nanny for their brats."

"Can't you call your folks?"

"No. They left their cell phones at home."

"I can't even imagine being separated from my iPhone!" exclaims Ashley.

"They're on vacation," I explain, not expecting her to understand. "They say I can call the ship if there's a medical emergency."

"If this Mr. Thumper paddles you hard enough, maybe you'll have a medical emergency!" she laughs.

"That's not helpful, Ashley. Please! Help me decide. I'm running out of time."

"Okay, what kind of paddle are we talking about? Ping-Pong paddle?"

"No, Mr. Thumper is a PE coach. He's got this big old paddle he uses at school."

"Ouch! That has got to hurt, Sophie. I say go for the spanking."

"There's problems with that, too. The other night, he spanked Tori."

"Who's Tori?"

"She's their 7-year-old. A real brat. A big crybaby."

"Did you get to watch?" Ashley asks eagerly.

"No, but I could hear it from the hallway. I left my door open. The thing is, Mr. Thumper sent her to wait by saying, 'You're gonna get a good, hard spanking on your bare behind.' And when he came upstairs to spank her, he had this little heart-shaped leather spanking thing."

"I've seen one of those," giggles Ashley.

"What's so funny?"

"I found one of those in my stepmother's dresser drawer one time during visitation. Since Dad never spanks me anymore - and since they don't have any kids - I bet my dad spanks my stepmom with it. The bitch deserves it, too."

"That's interesting, but not very helpful. I'm running out of time."

"Sorry!"

"So what do you think?" I ask Ashley. "Do you think if I choose the spanking, he'll spank me on the bare bottom?"

"That's unlikely," Ashley assures me. "His daughter's only seven. You're 15."

"Why does that make a difference?"

"Promise you won't laugh?"

"Of course I won't laugh."

"Daddy used to spank me bare when I was seven. But when I turned ten, Daddy let me keep my panties on. When I turned 12, Daddy spanked on the seat of my jeans or skirt. My folks got divorced when I turned 13. All the spankings stopped then."

"That's why I called you, Ashley. You've got experience. My folks never really spanked me."

"Really? Not even once?"

"Well, when I was little, Mom used to give me swats while I was standing up. She called them 'attention-getters'. Not real, hard punishment spankings."

"You're so lucky!" says Ashley. "Till now anyway."

"So you vote for the spanking?"

"Yeah, Sophie. If I were you, I'd choose the spanking."


"Are you crazy?" says Darleen.

Darleen is the next "Favorite" on my iPhone.

Like Ashley, Darleen is experienced.

"Ashley told me to pick spanking."

"Well, just because her dad stopped spanking her bare bottom, don't think for a minute that other dads do the same."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because last summer when I visited my cousins down in Mississippi, my Uncle Jethro spanked me on my bare butt. I was 14 at the time."

"Ouch! Darleen, I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, me too. The thing is, a bare-bottom spanking wouldn't seem so bad coming from my dad. Or even my stepdad. But I hardly even know my Uncle Jethro. I felt so humiliated, having this virtual stranger see all my girl stuff."

"He saw your girl stuff?"

"You try holding your knees together while some big burly guy smacks your bare butt! Trust me. You'll be kicking and squirming. This Mr. Thumper is gonna see everything you've got between your legs, Sophie. That's just how bare-bottom spankings work."

"Oh God! I would never be able to look him in the eyes again!"

"Yeah, giving a teenage girl a bare-bottom spanking is like molesting her. When I think about that spanking from Uncle Jethro, I feel dirty."

"Oh God! What can I do, Darleen?"

"Pick the paddling."

Knock! Knock!


When I return with the coach's paddle, Mr. Thumper is going through my dresser drawers.

I see he's already put a fresh pair of my oldest, faded designer jeans on the bed.

"You'll wear those," he tells me.

"Mrs. Thumper told me not to wear those. She says they're too tight."

"Yes," Mr. Thumper chuckles. "The seat is almost worn through. Perfect attire for where you're headed, young lady. I'm taking you to a world of hurt. Those pants are the perfect pants for where you're going. Power paddle pants. Hey, what are these?"

He pulls a pair of black thong panties from my panties drawer and holds them up.

I shake my head. "I don't wear those, Mr. Thumper. Mrs. Thumper saw them when she helped me unpack. She told me never to wear them."

"Paddlings are different, missy," he declares with a big leer. "Put on the proper attire, Miss Carrett."

"Here?" I exclaim in disbelief. "With you in the room?"

He smirks. "I'll turn around. But hurry!"

He turns his back on me.

Blushing, I pull off my sneakers and my gray yoga pants. But since there's no blouse or shirt, I keep on my tube top.


In fact, my tube top is at the root of my punishment.

I'm wearing this green metallic tube top with a hook-eye closure in the back. Since I have long, red hair, green is my color.

I'm about "average" in the boobie department for a 15-year-old, so no need for a bra. In my humble opinion.

Of course, my tummy is exposed. But I'm not out cruising the malls or anything.

Mrs. Thumper doesn't necessarily approve of my tube top, but she lets me wear it around the house.

However, she went to the mall with the brats. So no help for me from her.

Anyhow, Mr. Thumper tells me to wear something "more appropriate".

He acts like I'm violating the dress code where he teaches.

I explain that we're not at school.

I remind him, I don't even go to his school.

But what a 15-year-old girl considers explaining, a PE coach might consider insubordination.

That's what Mr. Thumper calls it anyway.

Insubordination.

That's when he gives me my own little Sophie's choice: paddling or spanking.


"I'm gonna turn around!" he threatens.

I'm naked from the waist down.

"No! Please! Just a few more seconds."

I'm in such a rush, I jerk my thong panties way into my crack. I don't have time to adjust.

I barely have my designer jeans up over my butt when Mr. Thumper turns around.

I have to zip and fasten the button with him looking right at me.

I feel like a stripper in a sleazy dive bar.

I feel cheap and dirty and scared.


Pat. Pat. Pat.

Mr. Thumper bent me over, with my feet wide apart. I dig my fingernails into my ankles.

My favorite jeans are so old, they pull halfway up my calves when I assume the position.

I feel like a denim sausage. Everything below the waist feels so compressed. My thong panties are riding up tight in my crotch, which is inexplicably wet.

I find out later that there's a difference between "sex wet" and "scared wet". But I don't know that now.

But my wet confuses and shames me.

"Right here, Miss Carrett."

He pats the lower hemisphere of my twin orbs.

"Do not let go, or the stroke doesn't count. Understand me."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you want me to say."

Whack.

I gasp.

"You say 'yes sir' and 'no sir.' Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"After each stroke, you give me the count. And then you say, 'Thank you, sir. May I please have another?' Understood?"

"I think so."

"How old are you again, Miss Carrett?"

"Fifteen. I mean, 15 sir."

"That's better!"

Pat. Pat. Pat.

Then I don't feel the wood anymore.

There's this excruciatingly long pause...

WHAP!

I leap up, clutch my butt, and exclaim, "Oh my God! I can't do this!"

"You want a bare-bottom spanking instead?"

"NO! No, sir. Please, let me try again."

I grasp my ankles, determined to hang on.

WHAP!

I grunt, trembling all over.

"Don't you have something to say to me, Miss Carrett?"

"Yes, thank you, sir. May I please have another."

"You certainly may..."

WHAP!

I grunt again.

"Of course, Miss Carrett, it's your responsibility to keep count. So since you didn't give me a count on that last stroke, please give me a count on this one. Starting with one. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. One, sir. May I please have another, sir?"

"That's more like it."

Pat. Pat. Pat.

"Wearing that tube top doesn't seem like such a good idea now. Does it, Miss Carrett?"

"No, sir, it does not."

WHAP!

"Two-ooo sir! Thank you, sir. May I please have another, sir?"

WHAP!

"Three-eee sir! Thank you, sir. May I please have another, sir?"

"Now you're getting into the spirit of it, Miss Carrett. So the next time I tell you that you're wearing inappropriate attire, what will you do?"

"Go change, sir. Go change right away."

"But what if you disagree with me, Miss Carrett?"

Pat. Pat. Pat.

"I'll keep my opinions to myself, sir!"

"Very good, Miss Carrett. You ARE a quick study..."

WHAP!

"FOUR, sir! Thank you, sir. May I please have another?"

And so it goes.


I stand facing a corner in the living room, weeping as softly as I can.

Mr. Thumper makes me hold the regulation PE paddle with both hands behind my back.

He says that's so I won't be tempted to rub my buns.

So that's two kinds of torture.

First, as my bottom starts the slow process of recovery, my bun-cheeks begin to tingle. It's like when the dentist's lidocaine starts to wear off and the numbness is replaced by that tingling sensation. Anyway, I want to rub and rub my poor bruised orbs. Cruelly, Mr. Thumper forbids it.

Second, that paddle feels so heavy after awhile! My arms are aching. My shoulders ache. But I don't dare complain. And I don't dare move.

I can't see Mr. Thumper, but I know he's behind me. Every so often, I hear him flipping the page of his Sports Illustrated. I can't believe he actually read Sports Illustrated. But then, I can't understand why anybody would read Sports Illustrated.

The front door swings open and the yapping of the Thumper brats fills the quiet.

"Hey, what's Sophie doing in the corner?" asks Timothy, the 9-year-old.

"Looks like somebody needed correcting for something while we were gone!" says Mrs. Thumper cheerfully, as the bags in her arms rustle. "What did she do, Thom?"

Her husband explains my "insubordination", the Sophie's choice he gave me, and my selection of the paddling."

"Thom," says his wife from behind, "I sometimes wonder how you ever made it through college. You don't have an ounce of brains."

Of course, I know the answer to that. He played football.

"What makes you say that?" he replies defensively.



© Grace Brackenridge
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.