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 SeriesThe 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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Real Life Spanking Series #26--The Den
(*****, M/f, Intense, Father/daughter, tender)
A woman has flashbacks to her father's unique use of the den. (Approximately 997 words. Originally published 1998-07.)
A few years ago my husband came up with the brilliant idea to remodel our home. He wanted to update the kitchen, add a deck out back, and cut the basement laundry room into several rooms, including a small study for himself. I didn't oppose any of those changes. The basement was large, drafty, and unpleasant, so the new laundry room would be wonderful. But Eduardo also wanted a den.
It would be perfect he told me. A place to relax, watch TV, play games. He'd get a ping-pong table, or maybe a pool table, put up a dart board, etc. He was overly enthusiastic. Nothing I said disuaded him. Finally I had to tell him my secret.
I grew up in a pretty strict home. My parents were Catholic and tolerated little nonsense from the seven of us kids. We were all spanked regularly through high school. Spankings were always administered in the den.
I shall never shake the tremor of fear that passes through me when I think of my father, a tall, lumbering, dark-skinned man, glaring at me and saying, "Go to the den, little one." Even today such a thought makes me tremble and I feel tiny goose pimples rise across my bottom.
When told to go to the den, you didn't argue. You went immediately. If anyone was using the den, you asked them to leave. If they didn't, father would spank them, so usually you were immediately given privacy. You would quickly undress completely. In our home, spankings were always on the bare skin. Naked, you'd go to a corner and wait, hands on your head. Sometimes father would be down in a couple minutes. Sometimes he'd make you wait for an hour or longer. You never knew. But if you weren't naked and in the corner when he came downstairs, not only would your spanking be worse, but you'd be scheduled to receive another one the next day. Believe me, you did not want to receive spankings from my father two days in a row!
When father finally came downstairs, he'd cluck his tongue. You'd immediately go to the billiards table and stretch yourself across it. You put your arms as wide as you could and gripped the side rails. Your bottom was supposed to be right at the end of the table, with your legs dangling downward. As I grew older, I was able to stand on tiptoe, which made me feel slightly less helpless. But of course, as an older girl, that benefit was more than offset by the humiliation of being naked and draped across a table, my breasts squashed against the green felt.
How old you were or what sex you were didn't make any difference to my father. He treated my brothers just as he did me and my sisters. Spankings were always administered with his thick leather belt. You got the same number of strokes as your age. If you'd committed something extremely grevious you didn't receive extra strokes -- you just got several spankings, one per day until he was satisfied you'd paid your due. In retrospect, that seems pretty fair to me. I don't remember my father's punishments as being cruel, just painful. Even as he spanked me I knew he loved me -- I just wished I was anywhere but in that den!
As the belt came down, full across both bared cheeks of your bottom, you wanted more than anything to reach back and grab your ass. Early in our childhood we learned not to do that. Getting up during punishment was considered dissent, which earned you another spanking the next night. When I was seven or eight my older sister Marie -- she was eleven or twelve at the time -- apparently got up twice during her spanking. The next two nights she was spanked again. The third spanking was the worst, and she couldn't take it lying still -- which earned her a fourth.
I only got up once during a spanking. Usually I was too terrified to move no matter how bad the pain. But when I was fifteen I was in a rebellious phase. For some reason I imagined I didn't deserve the spanking and when, on the thirteenth stroke, the pain _really_ sunk in, I got up off the table, grabbed my ass, and defiantly told my father: "No more!"
I'll never forget my father's face. He didn't become angry as I had expected. His face fell and he became incredibly sad. "That's another spanking tomorrow night, honey," he said. "Why did you do that?"
I had been planning on defiance, but something in me broke. I realized he didn't want to spank me, but rules were rules, and I had foolishly earned myself another dose of the belt. Furious at myself, I tried to get him to give me the second spanking immediately, but he would not. He insisted I wait until the next evening, by which time, of course, I was a nervous wreck. When he finally ordered me down to the den it was almost with relief I rushed down there, grateful to get the thing over with.
My last strapping came when I was seventeen. I had borrowed the car without permission, simply leaving a note. When I got home, there was a note from my father: "Go to the den."
I still get the shivers when anyone mentions the word den. Billiard tables make me queasy. (Though I must admit, rubbing felt or velvet across my nipples arouses me. I don't remember ever being aroused during one of my father's spankings, though I often was while I waited, naked, in the corner. The feel of my breasts against the table while I lie naked, waiting that first stroke... wow!)
Eduardo didn't build a den; he made his study larger instead. There are some childhood memories that are too powerful, and too precious, to deny.