The Funeral

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

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The Funeral

(****, M/f, Intense, spanking, memories)

A woman remembers the lessons taught by her late father. (Approximately 2,690 words. Originally published 1995-10.)

I stared at the procession carrying the coffin and began to cry again. I still couldn't believe it. My father, the man who was my whole life until I met my husband, was gone. It didn't seem real, didn't seem possible.

My husband Will squeezed my hand and I looked up at him. His face was serious but he smiled at me encouragingly. "It's all for the best," he whispered, and I knew he was right. It didn't make it any easier, though.

My father had cancer. They'd found it almost a year ago. The last ten months had been marked by attempts at surgery, radiation treatments, and chemotherapy. Nothing had worked. The cancer had spread and my father had only suffered more at the hands of the doctor's "cures." Finally, he had passed away one Sunday, quietly in his sleep. It was for the best.

The coffin was placed over the hole and the minister began to speak. I wasn't paying attention. It didn't matter what was said, nothing could bring my father back or justify his memory. No one knew him the way I did.

I thought back to all the years we'd spent together. So many memories. As a child, bouncing on his knee as he read me stories; trips to the zoo when I got older, which led to my becoming a vet; that time in the junior high school play when I did an absolutely horrible job, forgetting my lines and muffing everything, and yet I still heard him proudly telling other parents, "That's my daughter! Wasn't she great? She's so brave!" That's when I knew he really loved beyond what I did or didn't do; he loved me for *me*, not for my accomplishments (or lack thereof).

Then there was that awful/wonderful experiece of my mother's death in the car accident. It was a horrible experience in many ways, but my father and I pulled together, drew strength from each other, and out of it came the most wonderful relationship. After that there was nothing we could not talk about, nothing we could not share. Many things did not have to be verbalized because we understood each other so well.

There was a sound that distracted me from my thoughts and I saw the coffin was being lowered into the hole. My emotions were so intense and yet at the same time so mild, so distant, I didn't know what to make of it. I felt a tremendous loss, but it didn't seem real. The people standing around me, staring at this hole didn't seem real either. My thoughts drifted back to my father, the real man few knew.

What I remember most of my father is the spankings. No image of him would be complete without me draped across his lap, skirt up as he spanked me soundly.

I loved my father's spankings. They didn't really hurt that much, but they were long and embarrassing. He would spread me across his lap and lift my skirt and then talk to me for a long time. He would tell me how much he loved me, how naughty I'd been, why whatever I'd done was inappropriate, how disappointed he was in me, why I deserved a spanking, and how much it was going to hurt. It wasn't a lecture, more like storytelling. But my face would be so red and embarrassed by the time he was done I'd be begging him to spank me.

"Please, Daddy, get it over with. Spank me now! I can't stand it any longer. Please!"

But my father wouldn't rush. He'd slowly finish his little tale of the naughty, disobedient girl who needed a sound spanking. Only then would the spanking actually start, rough slaps of his palm against my bottom. At first it wasn't bad at all, but as it went on and on it drove me crazy. It stung, to be sure, and of course some of the spanks really hurt and brought tears to my eyes, but mostly the whole thing was shameful to me. It made me feel so naughty and spoiled and I longed for him to really whale on my ass and thrash me good, but he never would. Just a long, slow, utterly thorough spanking that lasted for as much as an hour.

When it was over and I'd pretty much cried myself out, I felt exhausted and drained. It was a good feeling. I'd hug my daddy and sit in his lap for a while, crying a little. He'd pat me on the head or shoulder and hug me, kissing my forehead and telling me how proud he was of me.

"I'll always love you, Nancy," he'd say. "No matter what. You remember that. I want you to be a good girl but even if you are naughty I'll still love you. I might take you across my lap and hurt your bottom but I do it because I love you. You understand, right?"

And I would nod and cuddle closer to him, loving the feel of his strong embrace. I always felt safe in his arms. Even at the beginning of a spanking, when I knew that soon I'd be crying across his lap, I loved to hug him and feel his strength.

As I grew older the spankings grew less and less frequent, and I discovered that in some strange way I missed them. They made me feel close to my daddy, and I wanted to feel how much he loved me. So I'd do naughty things so he'd have to spank me. Sometimes the spankings really hurt and I wished I hadn't done whatever it was I had done, but even then I knew I deserved it and it felt good to me.

After mom died it was a while before I was spanked. For one, both of us were grieving, and I wasn't up for much disobedience. I really felt my father's pain. He loved my mother so much. I could feel a tremendous tension in him and though I had seen him cry a few times I realized he had never really broken down and sobbed like I had done. The relief from such an emotional outpouring is fantastic and wonderfully healing. But I could not get my father to cry.

A few months after Christmas that year I went through a minor rebellious period. I grew angry at life, at my father, at God for taking my mother away. I began to hang out with the wrong sort of crowd at school, changed my mode of dress, and even started smoking.

One day my father caught me smoking in the garage. He was furious. It had taken him twelve years to quit and he was now an avid anti-smoker, which was probably why I had started in the first place. He slapped the cigarette out of my hand and dragged me into the living room. I was actually smart with him, asking if he thought I was a twelve-year-old he could just take over his knee and spank.

This seemed to inspire him. He ran to the bedroom and came out a moment later with Mom's large wooden hairbrush. It had a wide, smooth back to it. My eyes went wide. He'd never spanked me with anything but his hand, but of course I was now almost sixteen.

In a moment I was across his lap, staring at the carpet, my jeans down around my ankles, bottom up. Then he began to talk to me. I had hoped he'd just spank me and get it over with, but he didn't. It was horrible. Here I was, practically an adult (in my mind), being scolded and spanked like a child. Daddy told me stories of his own teenage smoking days and how hard it had been to quit. He tearfully told me it was Mom that had given him the strength to quit. "I couldn't have done it without her," he said. "By smoking you are abusing her memory," he added, the words stinging me horribly. I felt tears well up in my eyes and I felt absolutely horrible. What had I been thinking? I really wished my dad would smack that hairbrush into me hard and really make me cry. I didn't like this feeling of guilt at all.

Finally it began. The hairbrush stung amazingly and soon I was crying and doing my best not to scream. It seemed to pound into me, the real hurt about an inch below the surface of my skin. My skin grew hot and stung ferociously, but it quickly faded. It was that deep hurt that overwhelmed me, that really made me feel like I'd been spanked.

I was hurting so much I began to beg my father to stop, but he just kept pounding away. I wiggled frantically, bawling and sobbing and promising to never, never, *never* touch another cigarette again in my whole life. (A promise I have kept, by the way.)

My bottom felt black and blue and my thighs stung horribly when I felt a wetness. There was moisture on my bottom, I could feel it! I was confused and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from, but of course I was too busy screaming and flailing to be in much of an analytical mood. Suddenly I realized it was my father: he was crying! Sobbing is more accurate. Though I was in tears myself I felt a tremendous gladness in my heart because I could feel the release of tension from his body. He was shaking all over, sobs shuddering through his body. His spanks were barely hitting the target with any force at all now, as he just broke down and wept. He cried and cried and I cried with him, both because of the pain and in the supreme happiness that he was finally releasing some of those pent-up emotions. I didn't know why spanking me flipped the switch that opened those floodgates, but I didn't really care as long as he felt better.

Eventually we both became quiet and I stood and hugged him, kicking off my jeans and sitting on his lap. We cried some more and hugged and cried and I kissed his face and told him how sorry I was and how much I loved him. He told me the same thing and I felt incredibly close to him. We stayed that way for a long time before he told me I probably should get to bed, as it was late. I nodded and kissed him and went to bed. The next day I wore more normal clothes, the rebel in me forgotten.

After that I was a pretty good kid. Every now and then I'd do something very naughty to get myself in trouble. I skipped school a couple of times, and once I let Daddy catch me with a beer. Ouch! I even disobeyed him a few times. Each time my father would take me across his lap for a long session with the hairbrush. It really hurt, I must say, but it was a good hurt, kind of like how your muscles ache after a workout. I knew I deserved it and needed it, and I knew Daddy needed it too. He would often cry while he spanked me, sobbing, and I knew he really missed Mom.

In a way I sacrificed myself for those thereputical sessions with my father. I knew he needed the release and when I saw he was tense I'd get in trouble and end up over his knee. I don't think he ever suspected what I was doing, but I don't know. If he did he sure didn't let up on that hairbrush. That thing really hurt! For days afterward sitting would be uncomfortable.

It wasn't until my third year in college that my father opened up to me and told me what had happened during that first spanking. You see, he and Mom had a special relationship. That was her hairbrush, but it was never used on her hair. Daddy used it on another part of her anatomy whenever he felt she needed it. Both of them found the sessions thereputic and relaxing. "It's better than an hour in a hot tub," my father told me with a soft smile.

He then told me that seeing my shapely bottom across his lap, looking so similar to Mom's, and smacking me with her hairbrush, had been too much for him. He missed that part of their relationship more than any other, because they were never closer than during those sessions.

"We were of one mind," he said. "When she was gone it was like half of me was gone, and the better half, too. When I was spanking you that day it all came to me in a flash, and I just broke down and wept. I couldn't help myself. And when it was over I felt so much relief, so much healing, I cried some more out of shear joy."

When my father told me this I was shocked at first. Then I felt a tingling between my legs. The thought of a loving husband to take me across his lap and spank my bottom when I needed it was like a dream. I couldn't think of anything more beautiful, more invigorating. I told my father I understood perfectly, and I hugged him for a long time.

There was a sudden tug on my arm and looked up to see Will staring at me, his eyes worried. "Are you okay? It's over, dear, it's all over." I looked down and saw the coffin was buried, the minister and guests walking away, only Will and I still standing near the grave. "There's people who want to talk to you," he said gently.

I shook my head. "Not now, Will, I can't take it. I need some space. I'll people later."

"That's rude, Nancy. These people just want to express their sympathy. Some came a long way. They need that out, that release, of taking to you."

My expression was solemn as I looked at Will. "I know, dear. I'm sorry. But I think I have a more important release at home that I need. A meeting with a certain hairbrush."

Will's mouth dropped open in shock. "Today? Now?"

"Yes. Especially today, especially now. He was my father, Will. He's gone now. I need to feel loved. I need to feel your strength and love pouring through me. I need to cry. I feel like I'm going to explode. Let's get out of here, Will, and go home right now."

"But--" Will started to speak and then fell silent. He understood, just like I had known he would. He glanced at all the people waiting at the far end of the field near the cars and looked deep in my eyes. "Think you can make to the car on your own?" I nodded. "Good. You go and I'll catch up with you in a minute. I'll go tell the others we're sorry but we need to be by ourselves. I think they'll understand."

"I'm sure they will."

Will glared at me. "But it *is* rude, dear, and don't think your bottom won't pay for it!"

Chills went down my spine at those words and my heart pounded wildly. He was so much like my father, so strong and so just. Everything was absolutes to him, black and white, wrong or right. Tears came to my eyes. I loved him so much it hurt.

As I sat in the car and waited, my bottom already tingling at the thought of what was to come, I felt good. My father was gone but he had left me a part of himself. I would never forget him. He and Mom were a part of that hairbrush, a part of every tear I would shed today. The thought made me smile.

"I love you Daddy," I whispered softly. "And thank you."

The End

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