RLS 03: The Apple Orchard

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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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About the REAL LIFE SPANKING Series

The RLS Series is a collection of _real-life_ stories retold by the Flogmaster. Names and places have been _changed_ to protect the naughty. All are based on the personal memories of individuals and are written in the first person. Literary license may have been taken for a more dramatic presentation.

Please send me your spanking experiences! I will rewrite and publish the most interesting as part of the RLS series. Your anonymity _will_ be preserved. The Flogmaster

The Apple Orchard

(***, M/f, Intense, n/c strapping)

A tomboy gets caught with her pants down. (Approximately 1,547 words. Originally published 1995-10.)

As a child, I was a tomboy. I hated girly things. Fancy clothes and pink dresses and proper behavior were repulsive. I longed for the freedom and authority of teenage boys.

When I was fourteen I began to hang around with a gang of guys in our neighborhood. They were all my age or younger, but they seemed much older to me. I dressed like them as much as possible, with jeans, heavy shirts to conceal my growing breasts, and a baseball cap. I kept my hair cut short and didn't bother with my nails or keeping my face clean. Most people thought I was a boy like the others.

The guys knew, of course. There was no way I could fool them. But they accepted me on the unmentioned condition that they could taunt me and tease me any time they wanted. At least that's how it was until I had beaten four of them up in various challenges and soon I had a grudging respect from them. They still liked to tease me, but it was a friendly kind of comraderie that I really enjoyed.

As a gang we had great fun. We were mischievious, but not malicious like gangs you hear about today. One day Eric, the leader of our group, dared us to go steal apples from Old Man Pritchard. Most of us were reluctant, knowing how mean the old guy was. "He'll lick us if he catches us," said one of the younger boys.

"Ya scared of a little lickin from an old man?" sneered Eric. "Why even Jamie here's not afraid. And she's a *girl*." He looked at me and I couldn't back down. "I'm not afraid. Old man like that can't run worth squat nohow."

So we set off. Old Man Pritchard's place is out on the edge of town. He has a couple acres of apple trees. He doesn't do anything with them, just lets the apples rippen and fall off. Oh, he picks some but he's too old to eat many, so mostly they just rot. But he's a mean SOB that one. He won't let anyone near his place or his apples. He's got signs up everywhere warning people that trespassers will be shot, that he's got a big vicious dog, and all that.

We ignore the signs and climb over the fence near the back of his property. We begin shaking the tree branches (breaking a few, I'm sorry to say) and collecting bright red apples. It is then that we realize no one brought anything to hold the apples. So we gather them in our arms and pockets and jackets and begin to leave, our clothes and mouths full of stolen goods.

Then there's a shout. It's Old Man Pritchard. He's got a shotgun, probably loaded with buckshot, but you don't want to catch a seat full of that, believe me. One of the boys in our gang had a friend over in Chicksaw County that got some and showed him the scars. His butt was just peppered with the tiny marks!

Anyway, we all started to run. There was the boom of the gun and my heart just about stopped dead. I ran as fast as I could, passing up several of the young boys. But then two things happened. First, I started dropping apples everywhere. Then, like an idiot, I tried to catch them and at them same time look back to see where Old Man Pritchard was. Amazing, he was quite close, perhaps thirty yards behind us and gaining. I turned to run faster when I saw the branch aimed right at my head. I barely managed to duck but in doing so tripped over a root and landed flat on my face, apples squishing under me in awkward places.

Next thing I knew Old Man Pritchard had me by the arm and was chortling and swearing at the others to "be men and not leave me behind to take my lickin alone." The rest of the gang split faster than pair of brand new pants and I was left alone with the old man.

He glared at me and shook me roughly. I was terrified. He yelled and scolded me and began dragging me back to his house. I became even more afraid thinking he was going to call my parents. My dad would tan the living daylights out of me. No mercy for being a girl, either.

But Old Man Pritchard got me up to his porch and took down a piece of leather he had there. I knew what that meant and I began to scream and yell and try to get away. He was a bastard, that old man, gripping me by the scruff of the neck so tightly I could barely breathe, let alone move.

Before I knew what was going on he was unbuckling my pants and tugging them down. In a moment they were around my ankles. The old man had pulled my underwear down with my jeans, however, so he didn't see my feminine panties. Like he would have noticed, anyway. He was probably half blind.

Then he took that wide strip of leather and began to smack my rump. Not too hard, at first, but slowly picking up speed and force. I yelped and squealed and begged for him to stop. I thought about telling him I was a girl but I was in too much pain and I didn't think he'd stop anyway. Probably give him incentive to call my dad. At least if I took the lickin from him maybe I'd get off without one at home.

After a few minutes the whipping was really getting going. It was starting to really hurt. I began to wonder if daddy's belt was any better than the old man's leather. That thing sure stung! It was about four inches wide and very thick, almost like a paddle more than a strap. Each stroke covered a generous portion of my bottom and it wasn't long before my whole backside was hot and burning.

But still the old bastard continued walloping me, ignoring my cries and pleas, lecturing me on stealing and trespassing and other garbage. I wept and wiggled and danced but I couldn't escape the hard blows. Even my thighs were smacked mercilessly and I couldn't stop crying. I no longer felt very tough at all, but just wanted my mommy to huge me.

Oooh, that strap hurt. It's years later, now, of course, but I can still almost feel each bite. I don't know how long it lasted but it seemed like forever. Finally the old man growled at me, "Had enough, boy? Do you want some more?"

"No!" I cried. "Please stop! I'll never steal again, never!"

"What's your name, boy? Speak up or you'll taste more of this leather!"

I cried but I couldn't tell him my name. For one, he'd learn I was a girl. For another, he'd call my parents. But after half-a-dozen more smacks from that thick leather I was begging to tell him. He didn't stop but continued to spank me.

"J-J-Jamie W-Walters!" I screamed. That lash licked me a couple more times and then a final hard smack that made me moan.

"You'd better not be lying to me, boy! I'll calling your daddy right now and if you think you're sore now wait until he gets through with you!"

He dragged me into the house and looked up the number in the book. In a moment I heard him say, "Mr. Walters? This is Ralph Pritchard. Yes, the place on by Route 11. I have your son Jamie, here. Caught the boy stealing apples with a bunch of his friends. Walloped him good, I did, but I thought you'd like to do it properly when he gets home." There was a pause. "Well, he told me his name was Jamie. If he lied to me-- Here, you talk to him."

The phone was shoved in my face. "D-Daddy?" I asked. "It's me, Jamie." I got an earful of fury in response. I gave the phone back to Old Man Pritchard.

"That him? Yes, sir, I'll send him home right now. That's okay, sir. No harm done. I'd just appreciate it if you'd discipline your children better. These kids today have no respect for their elders. Called me a 'bastard' he did."

He let me go then. I pulled my underpants and jeans back on as best I could, the fabric painfully scratchy against the blazing skin of my bottom. Then I ran away as fast as I could. At the outskirts of the field I so was glad I escaped my courage came back. Daring fate I snagged a couple of fresh apples from a tree and wiped the tears off my face. Bravely I left the orchard and made my way back to town, munching my apples. My butt sure hurt but I had this dreadful feeling that it was just the beginning of my discipline for the day.

I was right.

The End

*** Comments on this story or series are appreciated. If you are interested in earlier stories in this series, please e-mail me.
Flogmaster ***

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