RLS 04: African Customs

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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 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.

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African Customs: Whipping My Sister

(***, m/f, Intense, n/c punishment)

A transplanted African tells about the discipline customs in his own country, particularly those involving his sister. (Approximately 2,843 words. Originally published 1995-10.)

Though I am an American citizen today, I was born in North Africa. Over there discipline is handled in a considerably different manner than here in the States. In my country, for instance, it is perfectly acceptable for a stranger to discipline another's child if that child is misbehaving.

Not long after having moved to America I was quite shocked to see two elementary school kids teasing a little girl. There were several adults around, parents of other children, but no one made a move to interfere. In my country the two misbehaving children would have been given a strong whipping right there by any one of those adults, and the parents of those two kids, if they had even found out about it, would have thanked the parents and probably given the kids another whipping for good measure (which explains why few kids ever tell their parents they got whipped by a stranger).

As an attorney I can understand why Americans hesitate to discipline someone else's children, but I am still surprised that older brothers and sisters are not encouraged or even allowed to discipline their siblings. In my family this was a common occurrence.

I can remember receiving dozens of lickings from my older brothers and sister, and I was disappointed that, being the youngest, I'd never get a chance to give someone a spanking. When I was about fourteen, however, several things happened that changed everything.

For one, I grew about six inches in one summer, filling out into tall adulthood. I shot up until I was taller than my father. For another, I became more mature, studying hard in school and becoming well-respected by my parents. I was given more responsibilities than any of my siblings. When my two older brothers left home it was just me and my sister, and boy, was she going through a phase! It fell upon me to help maintain discipline in the house, and suddenly I found myself in the desirable position of having to punish my older sister who just a few years earlier had routinely spanked me, once right in front of my friends.

She was seventeen at the time, and a total slut. Completely irresponsible, she was forever shirking her household duties and skipping classes at school. Her marks were terrible and she spent the majority of her time flirting with disreputable boys. Even worse, she developed an absolutely insufferable attitude, smarting off to me and my mother and even to my father.

Many times that winter I heard father whipping her, the loud sound of the leather strap smacking bare skin echoing through the thin walls of our tiny home. But it seemed to do no good, which puzzled me greatly. Did my sister not care about getting whipped? I remembered the whippings my father had given me and they still filled me with dread and terror. But they didn't seem to bother Suzanne. One morning after a particularly long and brutal whipping I saw her at breakfast and she was smiling and as chipper and cocky as always. Nothing like the subdued and cautious girl I expected her to be.

Less than a week later I discovered the reasons for this, and I came up with my own solution. It was a Friday evening and Suzanne left the house with a boyfriend. I tried to tell her not go--father had forbidden her to go out as she was being punished, but she just laughed. "I am too old to be treated like a child!" she said to me.

Late that night I awoke to sounds of shouting and heard the familiar stroke of the lash. She was being beaten again. Would she never learn? This time, however, was different. There was a quiet knock on my door and my father entered. Even in the darkness I thought he looked old. I had never seen him so tired-looking.

"Pierre," he whispered, his voice weak. "Could you please assist me?" I followed obediently, wondering what could be the trouble.

It was my sister, of course. She was destroying her room, breaking things and throwing them to the ground. She was furious. I was surprised how beautiful she looked when she was angry. Her eyes blazed and she stood up proudly when we entered, even though she was almost naked. Her dress, a simple white frock, was ripped down the front and sides, exposing her left breast and her long slim legs. She was not wearing any undergarments at all, which I'm sure enraged my father.

"Look at the whore!" he growled to me. "Come, hold her down while I punish her."

Suzanne glared at me but I too was angry. She was behaving abominably and deserved everything she was going to get. I felt sorry for my father to have to go through this and resolved to help him as best as I could. Grabbing my sister's arms I guided her to the bed and pushed her onto it face down. She struggled a little but my grip was like iron I was so mad. She could not escape.

I knelt beside my sister on bed and held her while my father fetched his strap from the floor. Apparently his first attempt to punish her had failed when she refused to cooperate. This time, however, Suzanne was helpless and could do nothing but wait for my father's lash.

He flipped her dress up to expose her naked rump and proceeded to flog her buttocks. Instantly I understood the problem. The lash was the one our father had used on us as children, and though it certainly changed the color of Suzanne light brown skin it did nothing to cause her any real pain. There were no welts or angry red weals. In fact, it almost seemed as though Suzanne was more amused by the attempt to punish her than chastised. I swore I almost heard her giggle.

My father whipped her for a long time, but he was old and tired and it did no good. Even he could see that he wasn't hurting her. Finally I spoke up.

"Let me try, father. You take a rest and hold her down." He nodded, eagerly, scarcely pausing to think about it though I had never disciplined my sister before. I felt like a real adult being given this responsibility.

"I'll be right back," I said, leaving my father to hold down Suzanne and catch his breath. I was back in a moment, carrying a large branch I had torn off a tree from near our house. I stripped the branch of its leaves so that I had a nice meter-long switch of about a centimeter in thickness. I broke off the thin end and I swished my makeshift cane through the air and I saw Suzanne tense.

Approaching her, I saw her bottom was already a nice pink. "Good," I thought. "It will make the switch sting even more." Pulling back I gave her a sharp cut diagonally across her rump. She squealed and began to struggle but my father held her down eagerly, nodding at me. He was pleased to see her reacting in the proper fashion to a whipping. No more quiet Suzanne taking her strokes without a sound! No, she squealed and grunted and began to cry as I laid stripe after red-hot stripe across her perky little bottom. "Let's see how you like those boys squeezing your butt now," I thought with a grin.

Keeping an eye on my father I whipped Suzanne for a long time. I paused a few times and looked at him, uncertain of whether I should continue, but he nodded at me. He really wanted to punish her. When he finally signaled me she'd had enough her buttocks and legs were covered with red stripes and my switch was completely frazzled. Suzanne was sobbing and begging and pleading me to stop, crying out that she'd learned her lesson, she'd had enough, she'd be good girl. She told her father she was sorry, she'd never disobey him again. But it wasn't until a good while after that that I stopped. By that time she'd fallen silent, sobbing and moaning, her whole body trembling under the lash.

We left her there, and father told my mother to bathe Suzanne and put ointment on her wounds. I had not broken the skin--I was careful to spread the blows around, but she was certainly blistered. She'd be feeling that whipping for at least a week.

The next morning Suzanne moped around the house, quiet and meek as a lamb. She scurried to obey her mother's every instruction, and even apologized to father before he left for work. She did not go to school that day, but worked at home. I noticed she was wearing only a light, billowy dress that barely touched her skin. She seemed to walk rather stiffly, too. She did not look me in the eye.

After that it was understood that one of my new responsibilities would be to handle Suzanne. She did not like it, of course, but she had no real choice. I kept an eye on her and whenever I felt she needed it, I was quick to cut a new switch.

The change in her was remarkable, though it did not come all at once, and not without a great deal of pain on her part. She made it almost a week after that first licking before she needed another, the welts of her first almost completely faded. For a while I had to discipline her at least once or twice a week, perhaps more, but within a couple of months it had gone down to two or three times a month. By summer it was down to a couple of times every few months, and in the fall she got her last one. By that time she was a completely different person, mild and polite, eager to assist others, and her attitude had gone from arrogance to humbleness.

During those few months when her punishments were frequent, however, I learned a great deal about inflicting pain. I saw almost immediately that the psychological effect of a whipping was almost as painful as the whipping itself. So I devised all sorts of diabolical tortures for my sister. Once I gave her a light thrashing in the morning and told her that she was to come straight home from school to receive another. Her face went white with the appropriate terror and I knew she'd have a miserable day in school, squirming on that sore bottom of hers and knowing that in a few hours she would be feeling the stroke of the switch across her thighs.

My masterpiece, however, was forcing her to select her own switch from the tree. She had to go down the street to the tree where everyone could watch her and know what she was doing, select the fiercest and most sturdy switch she could find, and bring it back to me. Then she would lift her skirt and bend over for her punishment. Most of the time I'd let her keep her underpants on, but not always.

She was a quick learner--when once she brought me a mediocre switch I kept my promise and fetched one of my own. But then I used both on her and the whipping wasn't finished until both thrashes were broken. After that she always picked the best switches, sometimes studier ones than I would have selected.

I also experimented with various implements. At a leather shop I found a much heavier leather strap, very wide and thick. I loved the smacking sound it made and she abhorred it--all the neighbor kids could hear her getting her whipping and it was humiliating for her.

When she was really disobedient I'd use the cane. It was a bamboo cane, about a meter long, and if I swung it too hard it cut right into her skin. But used appropriately it left huge red weals across her buttocks and thighs that took days to stop throbbing and a week to fade away. Just a few strokes would have her begging me to stop. Often just the threat of the cane was enough to change her behavior. One month when she was having trouble controlling her mouth I told her I'd give her a stroke with cane for every naughty word she said. By the end of the first week I had to give her thirteen strokes, but the second week it was down to four, an amazing improvement. By the third week her foul mouth was cured. To this day I think she cringes every time she hears someone utter a profanity!

Well, that's pretty much my story. There are dozens of little stories I could tell you about individual whippings I gave Suzanne, but I don't want to bore you. Really, most were pretty much the same, though at the time they were anything but boring, let me tell you. Suzanne grew to become terrified of my whippings, and she would beg and plead with those large brown eyes to be spared. She'd do anything--anything!--to escape her punishment. I never took her up on any of her offers, but it was most entertaining to watch her beg.

There was one particular time that I must confess I let my emotions rule my judgement. We were returning from the market when Suzanne began to walk along a short cement wall that was about thirty centimeters off the ground. I warned her twice to get down, that she might fall or damage the groceries, but she ignored me. Then I saw there was a group of boys across the street admiring her. She was showing off for them and did not care what I told her!

With anger I approached her. She saw me coming and tried to gracefully leap off the wall but stumbled, spilling her bag. Of course she was carrying the eggs and they were crushed. I slapped her face in anger and shouted at her. Normally this would have turned her into a meek little lamb, practically kissing my feet to beg my forgiveness. But with the audience she was more brazen and shouted back at me and pushing my hand away.

I don't even know what she shouted but something inside me snapped. I had a vision of her taking me across her knee and spanking me when I was ten years old, pulling down my pants so all my friends could see my bare bottom get spanked. The thought enraged me. "Turnabout is fair play," I thought, and sitting on the wall I threw her across my lap.

She began to scream in fear that I could do such a thing--after all she was a seventeen-year-old girl, not a child--but I ignored her. Her back was to the boys who were now standing up and approaching. Lifting her skirt I hesitated just for a second and then pulled down Suzanne's panties to just below the curve of her bottom. This protected her crotch somewhat from the eyes of the boys, but it still exposed her buttocks. I gave her a good spanking, thirty or forty hard slaps, and then released her. The spanking hadn't hurt her a bit, I knew--she was used to much more pain. But her face was red all the way down to her chest she was so mortified. One of the boys--the whole group was now just a few feet away--whispered something to another who laughed. All I caught was the phrase "Suzanne" and I realized that these boys knew her from school! No wonder she was so ashamed.

She silently picked up the fallen bag of foodstuff and headed home. Neither of us said a word to one another. In fact, neither of us ever mentioned the incident again. But I did notice remarkable progress in Suzanne's character that month. She was much more docile and much less proud.

Watching Suzanne change over the course of those months was something truly beautiful to me. To watch her arrogance and smart mouth fade away and a genuinely kind and appreciative woman emerge was astonishing. My parents were thrilled and I felt proud of my sister. Today she is happily married and has many children of her own. Though she is a beautiful woman, my brother-in-law has often told me that it was her mild character that most appealed to him.

"She shows more concern over others than of herself," he said to me. "I cannot believe she was ever the selfish bitch you claim she was as a child."

My parents and I just smile and wink at each other. If he only knew!

The End

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

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