by Frank Martinet
When I was 17, I was a brat. No doubt I was a brat before that, but that's when I came into my own. I entered my teenage rebellion late, I suppose, just like I matured physically early. I was tall and broad, following after my non-existent dad (according to my mom). I'd grown up a tomboy, into sports like softball and soccer, and these changes to my body weren't welcome. They threw me off balance and messed up abilities. I took out my frustration on others, becoming a real bitch.
Mom was somewhat of a disciplinarian. She'd always spanked, so I was used to that, but she didn't really spank that hard. I never knew that, however. I just knew I could get through her spankings without shedding a tear if I tried. Still, it was better to avoid the spanking in the first place, if I could, and I was wily and not opposed to lying or hiding my crimes anyway I could.
Then that winter Mom slipped on the ice and broke her wrist. It was a bad break with complications and she had to have a cast on it for nearly two months. Since this was her spanking hand, I took advantage, defying her at every turn. What could she do about it? She threatened me with a series of spankings once that cast came off, but I was a kid, almost a teenager, and kids live in the moment. The future was far away and I didn't care.
So I didn't do my chores, I came home after curfew, went out with my friends without telling Mom where I was going, stole money from her purse, drank her wine, and did all sorts of bad shit. The more I got away with, the more invulnerable I felt, and the more daring stuff I did. Half the stuff I did wasn't because I particularly wanted it (that wine was foul), but just because it was forbidden and I wanted to show off how bad I could be.
Then one day it all came to a screeching halt.
I was in my room blasting the stereo and suddenly Mom burst in and grabbed my wrist with her good hand and dragged me downstairs. She'd caught me by such surprise we were halfway before I began to struggle, and then a few more steps and I saw we weren't alone. We came into the living room where two ladies were waiting.
I recognized them immediately. They lived down the street and were sort of weird. Ms. Chasten was the big woman. She was nearly six feet tall and probably 250 pounds. Ms. Marks was smaller and spindly. She was older, or at least looked older. At the time I'd have guessed 70, but I later calculated she was 52. The two shared an old house with a big garden they worked in and they sometimes hired neighbor kids to mow their lawn or do odd projects for them.
I hadn't had much interaction with them, except for one incident the previous summer where I stole apples from their back yard and was never caught. They only saw me running away and thought I was a boy. This made me grin when I thought about it.
Mom introduced me. "This is my daughter, Amber. She's been insufferable lately, and as you can see, I'm not in a position to do much about it." She held up her right hand showing the cast.
"Don't worry, Margaret. We got this," said Ms. Chasten. She spoke in a commanding voice like a general. It was not a tone I liked. I should have bolted right then, but I was slightly intimidated by strangers in my living room and a little curious what was going on.
What followed was a nightmare. My Mom pushed me forward, sort of throwing me to the wolves, and I was grabbed by the two women. Immediately I knew I was in trouble. Their grips on my arms were like steel. I was tough and strong, but not nearly as tall as the Amazonian Ms. Chasten; and even Ms. Marks was an inch or two taller than me and fiercely powerful. With Ms. Chasten, I had no chance at all.
The two worked in concert, pulling me to the couch, yanking down my shorts and panties, and draping me across the bigger woman's lap. I started to scream and struggle, furious as a wasp in a jar, but there was nothing I could do. Ms. Chasten wrapped one leg around mine, pinning my feet, while Ms. Marks held my hands so I couldn't hit. I was trapped with my bare butt sticking up.
Ms. Chasten started to slap my ass-cheeks. She didn't mess around. She spanked hard from the first smack. I didn't let on that it hurt, telling the two to fuck off and let me go. They didn't. I was spanked but good.
At first I wasn't too worried. After all, it was just her hand. Mom used a hairbrush and that stung, but a hand was nothing. Except that Ms. Chasten's hand was more like a paddle. It was big and made of stone. Every wallop burned worse than it should. I was shocked and dismayed, but I was helpless to resist.
As the pain mounted, I struggled, cursed, and threatened. I promised lawsuits, begged for mercy, and even apologized for my behavior. Nothing made any difference. That damnable woman just kept spanking me!
I thought that was bad, but we hadn't even started yet. A few minutes later, about the time a Mom spanking would have been long done, Ms. Chasten picked up a hairbrush from somewhere and started using that. Immediately I began to howl. I could tell from the first lick it wasn't my mom's little brush. No, this was some behemoth as big as a hand. It was thick and heavy and produced utter agony.
Though I'd been determined not to cry, the tears were flowing within a minute. A swat from that brush hurt more than a whole spanking from my mom!
"Please," I begged, totally ashamed of my cowardice. "I'll be good. I promise!"
Ms. Chasten just laughed and told me that of course I'd be good. "After a spanking from us, you'll be an angel!"
Then she settled into a rhythm and spent the next ten minutes burning my tail. I'd never felt anything like it. Remember how I said I thought my mom spanked hard? This was where I learned she didn't. An average spanking from her was three minutes of moderate spanks. This was more than triple that with every blow coming in at top speed. I thought I was dying.
By the time Ms. Chasten stopped spanking me, I was a limp doll unable to do anything but gasp for breath. I didn't have any tears left and I certainly had no energy to fight. That's how they managed the switch without me realizing until it was too late.
Suddenly I was across Ms. Marks' lap, still pinned, with Ms. Chasten holding my hands. I was dazed and just relieved my spanking was over, when the new spanker began to show me her skills. Unlike the raw power of Ms. Chasten, the smaller woman used guile and technique to make my ass catch fire.
She concentrated on working the brush across every inch of my rump, paying particular attention to the neglected areas. This meant the outer curves of my hips, the upper slopes of my butt, the backs of my thighs, my inner thighs, and worst of all, my inner cheeks. She actually used one hand to pull my ass open and smacked the brush down at an angle so that my tender crack burned with fiery sting.
I couldn't believe this was happening. I begged my mom to make them stop, but she was so fed up with my behavior she just stood there watching with a big grin on her face, mocking me and shaking her head.
"You made your bed, Amber, so enjoy it!"
I did not. I'd thought Ms. Chasten's paddling bad, but Ms. Marks' hairbrushing, though different, was every bit as awful. It lasted just as long, too: another ten minutes of blistering ass torture.
When the punishment was finally done, I ended up in the corner, my clothes completely off. I stood there weeping, my ass cherry-red and swollen like it was about to burst. I wasn't allowed to rub or comfort my poor rear end. With the penalty being another round over the laps of both women, I obeyed.
My mom was absolutely delighted. Arrangements were made, as though I wasn't even in the room, that when I required chastisement I'd visit the women in their home. They'd have carte blanche to spank me as they saw fit. When I squawked at this, Ms. Marks was on me in a flash, delivering 20 searing spanks on my hot butt with that big brush. After just five I was regretting my stupidity.
So began the new era of Amber. The bitch was dead and I was forced to be a good girl. Every time I got out of line - which was often, in those first days - I had to pay a visit to the old ladies. What followed there was quite similar to what happened that first day in my living room: spankings, spankings, and more spankings.
Usually I'd get a warm-up with a hand from one or both. Some corner time would be followed by hairbrush spankings from each of them, and then I'd be back in the corner for an extended time. Before I was allowed to leave I'd get a "refresher" - a hand spanking or a few whacks with that brush.
You might wonder why I cooperated. That was easy. I went the first time out of curiosity and stupidity and arrogance, discovered it was hell, and on my next required visit I snuck out to the ball field instead. That really cost me.
For the next three evenings I was at the home of the women. They and my mom dragged me there by force. I got three spankings instead of one and even I knew that math was not in my favor. I didn't like it, I had to cooperate.
While at first it felt like I was getting spanked every few days, I was not that stupid and changed my behavior and was soon down to one or two spankings a week. I had developed too many bad habits to get less than that!
My spankings from the two ladies didn't decrease in severity, but my ability to endure them got better. I was tough and stubborn, with a plump, sturdy, and resilient bottom, and though every spanking was harsh enough to make me break down and cry, I got so it didn't bother me as much. I wouldn't say I was indifferent, but it did become more routine.
My main thinking was that this was temporary. My mom would get her cast off soon and everything would go back to normal. I hadn't reckoned with my behavior change, however. Mom was so pleased with my improved behavior that even when she could spank me herself again, she continued to have the ladies punish me!
She also picked up technique from the ladies and her own spankings, once her wrist was healed, were much harder.
One thing I particularly hated was that Mom began using the ladies as babysitters. I hadn't had a sitter for a couple of years, so I resented this at my age - none of my other friends had babysitters at almost eighteen, and it was worse because I was guaranteed several spankings. I didn't even need to do anything wrong.
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