Sunday Meeting

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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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Sunday Meeting

(****, F/f, Severe, severe daughter strapping)

A man learns about mid-western punishment traditions. (Approximately 2,480 words. Originally published 2004-01.)

I knew that living in the mid-west was different than California, but after seven months I figured I'd experienced almost everything and nothing else would surprise me. How wrong I was.

I'd become active in a small local fellowship, joining the choir and participating in the Christmas pageant. I enjoyed the church. The people were honest and friendly. I liked their frank nature: there was little of the politics associated with the big church I'd attended in California. When Pastor Warren asked if I'd sit on an auxiliary committee, I agreed.

The committee met once a month at a member's house. It was only after I'd joined that I discovered I was the only male, as well as one of the youngest. Most of the women were in their thirties and forties, married with families. That didn't bother me as I get along well with people. After a few meetings, I was accepted as "one of the gals." That was interesting, for I often was in the presence of conversations of a personal nature I wouldn't normally have heard. Our committee business was minor and rarely took more than a few minutes to resolve, so most the meetings mostly seemed an excuse to gab and eat cake.

One Sunday afternoon we met at Esther Margaret's house (Margaret is her last name, and yes, her husband was often ridiculed about it). After a quarter of an hour discussing the "crisis" situation with the church nursery, we moved on to the serious business of snacking. Esther's daughter Laurel served us.

I'd never been privileged to meet Laurel before and I couldn't figure out how I'd never seen her: she was an astonishing beauty. Tall and shapely, with porcelain skin and flawless teeth, she took my breath away. I had to resist the urge to stare at her as she moved around the room.

Another attraction: she was obviously a young woman of spirit and intelligence, for despite the occasional raised eyebrow from her mother, she didn't hesitate to insert her opinion into the conversation (which happened to be regarding the discipline of children).

Upon given the opportunity to introduce myself, I immediately put my foot in my mouth by asking which college she attended. She gave me a funny look and laughed. "College! I'm in high school," she giggled. "I'm fifteen. I don't even get my driver's license until April."

I didn't know what to say, so I mumbled something and buried myself in the cookie on my plate. She moved on and I stared discretely after her, eying her impressive mammary glands, the sway of her hips, and the tight round ball of her behind. I shook my head in disbelief: fifteen? Unbelievable. They just didn't make girls like that back when I was a teen.

My attention was drawn back to reality when I suddenly realized that Laurel was the focus of the conversation.

"Come on, Laurel, tell them," Esther was saying to her daughter. Laurel was standing holding a plate of cookies of looking extremely embarrassed. Esther laughed. "She's too shy to admit it, but she still gets spanked. Like I said, I believe in spanking children as long as they live under my roof. I just spanked Laurel yesterday. In fact, she's got a strapping coming this evening!"

There were murmurs throughout the audience and Mabel Stukey prompted, "What did she do?"

Esther frowned at her daughter. "She told me report cards hadn't come in from school yet, but when I was in her room yesterday putting away her laundry, I found hers in her book-bag. She'd gotten a D in math! But that wasn't the worst. There was also a letter for me to sign, and let me tell you, I was mighty surprised to discovered I'd already signed it!"

There were oohs and ahs at this statement, and several of the women shot Laurel disapproving looks.

"I spanked Laurel yesterday for her bad grade and for lying to me about the report card, and I promised her a good strapping tonight for forging my signature. That's why she's here helping us this afternoon: it's part of her punishment."

Laurel was looking mournfully at the floor as though praying it would swallow her whole. Though it seemed she deserved punishment, I felt a pang of sympathy for the poor girl. How horrible to have your mother telling a group of people about your being spanked! Especially for a big girl like Laurel.

But that was nothing: the situation soon got even worse.

Suzy K. wanted more details. "Esther, you said you spanked Laurel yesterday. Do you mean you slapped her behind with your hand? Or did you use a hairbrush or something?"

Esther smiled. "Both. I took her across my lap and started with my hand. After about fifteen minutes I finished her spanking with five minutes with the hairbrush. On the bare bottom, I might add. Like my momma always said, 'A spanking doesn't count if it's not on the bare.'"

Laurel's cheeks were flushed bright red and she wouldn't make eye contact with anyone in the room. She kept staring at the floor.

"Ouch," muttered Jana Danforth. "And she's up for a strapping tonight? Can her butt take it?"

"Oh of course," laughed Esther. "Let me show you." Before anyone -- including Laurel -- knew what she was doing, Esther pulled her daughter in front of her and unbuttoned her pants.

"No!" cried Laurel, horrified, but her mother was not to be dissuaded. Laurel's pants and then her white panties dropped, leaving her bare ass exposed for everyone to see.

The plump cheeks were pink in color, with a few rudy patches. Laurel had obviously been recently spanked, but her bottom was already healing. She looked impossibly cute standing there, blushing furiously, naked from the waist down, the curves of her buttocks bright pink. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. It couldn't possibly get any better.

And then it did.

As everyone was admiring the teen's punished posterior, the women jabbering to each other about the effectiveness of various corporal punishment techniques, suddenly Esther snapped her fingers and said, "Say, as long as we're talking about it, why don't I just go ahead and give Laurel her strapping right now?"

The suggestion was met with universal acclaim, except for one sole dissenting voice -- and Esther ignored her daughter's vote.

Then began the strangest and most exciting minutes of my life. Esther stood up, and right in front of me, bent her half-naked daughter over the chair she'd been using.

"Now stay there while I fetch the strap," she ordered, and the humiliated and terrified Laurel stood there trembling and crying softly while a dozen onlookers surrounded her.

Several of the women scolded the teen gently, saying things like "See what naughtiness gets you?" and "I hope she brands your bottom well -- you look like you deserve it!" My heart ached for the poor girl and I wanted to comfort her, but I also desperately wanted to see her lovely bottom strapped.

I sat frozen, with a pasted-on neutral smile, trying not to look too interested, nor too bored, and hoping no one would notice me. If the women remembered I was there, that I was a man, surely they'd ask me to leave the room?

Suddenly Esther was back, and the piece of leather she held in her hand made me weak in the knees. It was long and black, perhaps twice as wide as a typical pants belt, and it was heavy and thick. I know that because Esther passed it around so everyone could get a feel of it.

"That's been passed down three generations," she said as everyone admired it. "My grandpappy used that on my daddy, and he used it on me, and now I'm using it on my daughter."

I could tell that she was correct, for the leather was old and worn. Though thick and heavy, it bent easily, probably from so much use. It looked like it'd recently been oiled, so probably Esther took excellent care of it, too.

Laurel, meanwhile, was shaking with fear. Being from such a pro-whipping family I doubt the prospect of a mere strapping had her so frightened: it was the presence of an audience that was new for her. She was already crying, silent tears trickling down her face, and I noticed she kept her face focused straight ahead, looking at the chair seat, not glancing left or right, even when people spoke to her.

Her pink bottom wobbled as she waited for her punishment. I was at a slight angle to her, so I couldn't see between her legs, but the angle gave me the most spectacular view of the curve of her buns as well as a glimpse of the side of her face. I could see every pore of the skin of her bottom, the sleek skin pink and slightly abraised from her previous discipline, and I longed to see what would happen when that strap connected with those cheeks.

My wait was brief, for as soon as the women were finished studying the strap, it was returned to Esther and she got into position at Laurel's left side and began the punishment.

She wrapped several loops of the strap around her right hand, leaving the bulk dangling, and then she placed her other hand on Laurel's back. With her right arm she pulled back way over her shoulder and brought that leather right across the bared teenage buttocks in front of me.

There was an explosion of fire. The buttocks leaped and danced, wobbling frantically, almost as though they had a mind of their own to escape their fate. Laurel gave a combination gasp/grunt which turned into a moan, but she did not change her position. As the strap was pulled back, everyone leaned forward: what had looked like pink flesh before now seemed pale and chalky. A huge red swash decorated the rounded buns, crossing both cheeks, higher on the left and lower on the right. On the right side, the stripe of color went right around Laurel's hip almost to the front of her thigh, though it faded in intensity considerably as it did so.

Seeing the furious force of that first strike, the weal glowing brightly afterward, I honestly don't know why Laurel took the slightest risk of a strapping. How could any naughty behavior be worth that much pain? Just the _threat_ of such a punishment would have kept me in line. But apparently Laurel was of heartier stock: according to her mother, this was not an uncommon event in the Margaret household.

Of course the strapping was not over after one stroke. Hardly. The strap flew through the air. The surprisingly loud sound of leather on flesh echoed throughout the room, followed by the low moans and grunts of a tormented teen. She took a dozen before she began to cry out loud, and then she merely gasped "Ahhh!" or "Ohhhh!" at each stinging stroke. After about ten more, she began to sob, her body shuddering and convulsing as she wept.

But her mother did not stop. Laurel's bottom and upper thighs were crisscrossed with crimson swashes, most of the angry scarlet variety, and the entirety of her backside was beginning to take on the coloration of raw ground beef. Still the leather rose and fell, and Laurel began to howl in agony, her woeful cries wordlessly pleading for mercy.

After the third dozen I saw that the marks on Laurel's bottom were raised, each weal swelling, the skin angry and becoming blistered, especially in places where strokes overlapped. It was fascinating. Laurel herself was becoming a mess. She stayed in position, bent over the chair, but she was no longer still. She writhed and wiggled, her bottom dancing wildly, out of control. I caught tantalizing glimpses of the secrets between her legs as she'd rotate her bottom toward me. She flung her head from side to side in a furious, frantic gesture against helplessness. Her hair had fallen over her face but several times I briefly saw that her face was drenched with tears, her hair wet and matted, and her eyes puffy and red. She looked miserable.

Finally, after four dozen hearty strokes of that heavy strap, Esther stopped. She stood panting, exhausted herself, and while Laurel continued to howl and moan and writhe helplessly.

"All right, Laurel," Esther said after a bit, "that's enough caterwauling for now. You know you deserved a good strapping, and if having an audience made it a little worse for you, well, so much the better."

She helped her daughter up. Laurel was shaky and trembling. Her hands went straight to her bottom, tenderly touching the scorched flesh.

"Right to the corner with you," said Esther. She turned Laurel and headed her in the proper direction with a gentle slap to the girl's tush. Laurel let out a cry of anguish and scurried forward without the slightest thought to modesty: I saw everything as she passed by me.

She went straight to the far corner where she stood, hands on her head, sobbing quietly, while the rest of us finished our desserts and coffee and chatted. The general consensus was that Laurel had been well whipped indeed, and a number of the mothers congratulated Esther on her effectiveness and two asked if they could bring their own children over the next time they misbehaved!

The whole afternoon was like a dream to me, surreal and unnatural, and I constantly was having to glance over my shoulder to take a peak at poor, suffering Laurel, still beautiful in her misery, her raw and blistered bottom exposed to my scrutiny, just to make sure that what I thought had happened had really happened.

"I doubt she'll forge another note," said one of the older women near me, when she saw me glancing at Laurel.

"I should hope not!" I exclaimed, perhaps a bit too forcefully, so I softened it with a smile. "You don't think that was, uh, a little, er, excessive?"

The woman laughed. "That little strapping? Of course not! Oh, she's miserable now, I don't doubt, but she'll have forgotten it in a week, I assure you. These girls today." She shook her head sadly. "Back in my day, we knew how to take a strapping. None of that blubbering and carrying on. You'd have thought she was being roasted alive. She never took a trip to my father's woodshed, that much is obvious. Now he knew how to sting a girl's bottom!"

I didn't dare ask for details about her father's woodshed, though I was dying to know. Instead I smiled politely and finished my cake. Obviously, I still had a lot to learn about living in the mid-west!

The End

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