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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(****, M/f, Severe, daughter caning)
A thirteen-year-old discovers the high cost of growing up. (Approximately 2,124 words. Originally published 2004-01.)
You would not believe what's been happening here. Remember how last month I wrote you about how excited I was to turn 13, to have my breasts really starting to fill in, and feeling like I was finally turning into a woman (a miniature woman, yes, but still a woman)? Well, I take it all back!
Okay, not all of it, there certainly are some nice things about being a teenager, but there's one thing that's happened that I hadn't expected at all and it's just horrible!
As you know, Mummy and Daddy are very strict and don't let me get away with anything. I'm usually a pretty good girl, or at least I try not to let them catch me doing something wrong. If I'm caught, it's always been a guarantee that I'll be spanked. I know you and I experienced a few together, and I think you saw me getting it a few times as well. Remember how I told you to fuss a lot and kick your legs and scream like you're being killed? It's always been my secret weapon. I'd still avoid a spanking if I could (it's so humiliating being draped over Mom's lap and having your bottom bared), but it really doesn't hurt that much.
Since you moved away I've gotten spanked several times. Okay, more than several: I'd have to guess about a dozen. I know you and I got into all sorts of trouble together, but for some reason it's worse without having you here. I'm always getting caught now. I don't have another best friend who can check my lie for holes. I've also been going through a little bit of a rebellious streak: I'm upset and depressed that you had to move away, of course, and I guess I've angry at the world. And since my spankings don't really hurt, the threat of a spanking hasn't been very effective.
Anyway, last weekend it all ended. I had told my parents I was at Marla's house, but in reality I was down at the arcade with Brad. (Okay, I wasn't _with_ Brad, just hanging out and watching him -- he's _so_ dreamy! -- but I did get to talk to him and he told me I was cute!) Well, my curfew was seven o'clock, but Brad was talking to me, so I ignored it. I didn't even take the time to call home.
When Brad left the arcade it was almost eight. I followed him out, hanging on the street corner until his big brother drove up in his convertible and picked him and his friends up. Anyway, I guess Daddy saw me! He was picking up Chinese for dinner and saw me, but figured Mom knew where I was so he didn't stop. When he found out I was supposed to be at Marla's (and after Mom called Marla's mom and found out I'd never been there at all), I was up shit creek.
Daddy came out and picked me up. He lectured me the whole way home, and though he didn't specifically say "spanking," I knew without a doubt that's what I was going to get. I was rather sour about it, too, since I'd gotten one just last weekend, and I was getting tired of such childish treatment.
That's when I put my foot in it! I told Daddy I was too old to be spanked, that spankings were for children, and it was time he started treating me like a teenager. Daddy was shocked, but seemed to be actually listening to me, so I continued, lecturing _him_ on what a woman I was becoming.
To my surprise, Daddy seemed to agree. He nodded his head a lot, and even said, "Yes, you're right, spankings are for children, and I keep forgetting that you're not my little girl any more."
I started thinking that this was great, but when we pulled into the driveway, Daddy said, in a stern voice, "But don't think this means you're getting away scot-free, young lady! You go right upstairs to your room until your mother and I decide your punishment."
So I went to my room. It felt good to not have to worry about getting a spanking. I figured I'd lose my TV privileges for a week or two, something like that. But at least it wouldn't be a childish spanking!
I changed into my pajamas as my Mom had ordered, and I waited and waited. Finally, after an hour or so, my parents called me downstairs. They were waiting in the living room, somber expressions. I put on a serious face and tried to look apologetic. That's when Daddy pulled out something I'd only read about in books: a cane!
That's right, Daddy was holding a long brown cane with a curved handle. It was thin, maybe a quarter-inch or so in diameter, and between two and three feet long. (For obvious reasons, I didn't take time to measure it.)
"Listen honey," Daddy said, "your mother and I have discussed the issue and we feel you're absolutely correct. You are much too old for spankings. We should have promoted you to the cane years ago. My own father gave me my first caning when I was ten, and your mother was caned when she turned eleven."
By this time my face had gone pale and I was stuttering. My cool was gone and I was terrified. I'd come down thinking I wouldn't have to worry about a spanking and suddenly I was about to be _caned_. It felt unreal. I couldn't even protest or argue clearly. I was so taken by surprise I just went along with it. I didn't know what else to do (except to try to run away, but that didn't seem like a very good option).
Mummy placed one of the kitchen chairs in the middle of the living room and I was instructed to bend over the back and place my hands on the seat. The back of the chair was quite high, leaving my feet dangling. My pajamas suddenly seemed very thin and flimsy, almost transparent. My bottom -- I told you it's bigger and rounder, becoming sexy? Well, now it felt huge, a monstrous target that couldn't be missed. I felt so vulnerable in that position that for a bit I longed to be across Mummy's warm lap.
Then Mummy explained the rules. I was to take my caning bravely, like a big girl. I wasn't to whine and fuss and kick and fall off the chair. I was keep my hands on the chair seat the whole time. I was to count each stroke off by saying, "One, thank you, sir," etc. I wasn't to shout and scream -- if I wanted to make noise, I had to keep my mouth shut.
And then came the kicker: if I violated any of these rules, I'd be given extra strokes.
By this point I was whining and crying a bit, begging not to be caned. I promised them perfect behavior for the rest of my life if only they wouldn't do this, but of course they didn't buy it. Instead Daddy began swishing the cane through the air, practicing. The sound of that rod whistling sent chills down my spine. I stammered in terror and began to cry for real.
Then it got worse. How? Simple. Mummy came up behind me and yanked my pajama bottoms and underwear down to mid-thigh. That's right! I was bent over the chair naked from the waist down! Now my bottom _really_ felt vulnerable.
Then it began. I can't even describe it. How does one describe pain? Words like hot, searing pain, agony, burning, and so on, just don't begin to reveal the sheer horror of it. It felt like I was being cut in two. Every stroke hurt so much. It was a biting pain. At first you just heard it, the awful crack of the rod across your flesh. Then you sensed the pressure of something striking you. Then there was a fierce stinging as though someone stuck a needle into your ass. Except this needle was huge, and there were a dozen of them, all in a long line across your butt, and the stuff they injected made the inside of your butt ache something awful.
It was a strange experience. The first couple of strokes were horrible, yet I don't think I really felt them. I was too out of it. It was like I was so scared I couldn't bear to experience it. I felt it from a distance. It was like I was a doctor or scientist studying some experiment and monitoring the results. It wasn't me, it was just this naughty blond teenager, getting the thrashing she deserved.
As the caning went on, however, the pain brought me back to reality. Soon I was sobbing, writhing on the back of that chair. I clung to my position as though my life depended on it. As far as I was concerned, it did: after experiencing the searing pain of a single cane stroke I knew I didn't want even a single extra one. I howled and clenched my teeth and growled out some sort of agonized moan. Tears just flooded down my face. Somehow I held on. Somehow I managed to say, "Two, thank you sir, three thank you sir, fourthankyousir," and so on. My words weren't very clear and sometimes Daddy had to ask me to repeat them, but he was patient about it, never rushing me.
When I wasn't being caned, my bottom just throbbed something awful. I could feel every welt left by the wooden rod, the weals swelling even as I writhed in misery. Daddy gave me eight strokes, eight extremely hard strokes. The first four or five were the worst, then the pain sort of settled down and the other strokes just prolonged the process. I just wanted it to stop and it wouldn't, the rod kept coming down across my ass, cutting me in two.
After the sixth stroke, the pain reached a sort of peak and I felt a kind of peace overtake me. It's kinda strange and kinda hard to describe. It wasn't that it didn't hurt any more or that I didn't want it to stop (I would have done _anything_ to make it stop), but it was more like I grew less afraid. It was like I somehow knew I'd survived the worst of it. With my terror gone, I could just lie there and allow my Daddy to thrash me. It was awful, but somehow bearable, and I got through it.
I swear, Kimberly, I'm _NEVER_ going to be caned again. I don't care if the whole school thinks of me as a goody-goody, that's okay. As long as I never have to go through that again.
Daddy and Mummy promised me that since I'm now a teenager, I'll be caned for misbehavior from now on. So I guess my teenage rebellious streak is over. I'm going to be the best daughter on the planet. I'm going to get perfect grades, do exactly what Mummy tells me about boys, and I'll never disobey them or lie again.
Oh, my poor bottom. I'm writing this lying on my stomach, of course, and I'm completely naked. There's no way I could bear to have clothes against my whipped ass. I've got an icepack on my bum. Mummy put cream on the marks (which are horrible purple stripes!) and that felt good but hurt terribly, if that makes any sense.
Lying here with the weight of the icepack on my backside makes me feel so strange. My butt's sort of numb now, but it's like the rest of me is extra-awake. Especially "down there," if you know what I mean! I put a pillow down there so I could rub myself against it, but it wasn't hard enough, so I'm now using my hairbrush. Those bristles are terrible... terribly wonderful!
Oh God, I just thought: if Mummy comes in and sees me, she'll be furious. I'll probably earn another caning. But I can't stop! It just feels so good. Well, maybe it'll be worth it. Actually, the soreness of my butt feels kinda good right now, painful, but in a good sort of achy way. I suppose it's just my body being glad the caning is over, but I rather like this feeling. I feel so warm inside. Just thinking about the caning, picturing how I must have looked dangling over that chair, gets me so hot: I think I'm going to wear out my hairbrush!
Gotta go now. Love ya. Come visit soon.