Final Straw

     Tears roll down my cheeks as I tell myself not to move. Unfortunately, being still is not easy, with ivory soap coating my tongue and its bitter remnants making their way down the back of my throat. My teeth are clamped down on the nasty bar, digging in as it foams. I can’t let it fall, and in my desperation, my jaw is locked in place. I feel my saliva get slimy as it mixes with the soap and seeps out at the corners of my mouth. To make matters worse, if that’s even possible, tears and the messy soap drippings are landing on my stocking feet. I badly want to rinse my mouth, but I know the rancid taste won’t go away.

     I knew better than to speak you that way, but of course, the words kept tumbling out. One snippy remark and swear word right after the other, even after seeing your expression, I couldn’t stop. Then added to everything that has gone wrong today, your request, although innocent, was the final straw. I don’t even remember your exact words; I do know, with my mood, you could’ve said anything, and I would have reacted poorly. And now I wish I could turn back time. Then I could ask for the spanking I desperately needed instead of being a brat and getting myself into trouble.

     But here I stand, waiting, hoping to hear your voice call me over, yet still dreading the moment at the same time. I don’t even know if you’re here in the room watching me or in the other room waiting to return? It’s impossible to hear anything over my sniffles. But, of course, that’s assuming you’d even make noise. In the corner, my tears begin to dry up, but my guilt seems to amplify. Now that I’ve been standing here for a while, I have soap, tears, and snot mingling all together on my face; I know I look a hot mess. So I add that to the list of my worries.

     I startle when your hand touches my shoulder. I’ve been too wrapped up in my thoughts to hear you calling my name. Instead, I see the concern on your face as you hold out your hand palm up and indicate for me to spit out the soap. Right away, I try, but my teeth clenched, so you reach up to dislodge the now slimy rancid bar. Luckily you’re able to pry it loose, and although I try not to swallow, a little of the bitterness makes its way down my throat. I cough, and my eyes begin watering again as you take my hand and lead me to the hall bathroom.

     To my astonishment, you allow me two whole minutes to brush my teeth instead of the usual quick rinse. I don’t question but immediately get to work as you stand in the doorway watching. I realize my mouth is a frothy mess, and I don’t slow my process as I’m trying to scrape the clumps from behind my teeth. I almost laugh, thinking about your expression at seeing my rabid-looking face as the foam bubbles from my mouth. Then, all too quickly, my two minutes are up; you walk over and turn the faucet off and hand me a towel. I hurry to dry my hands and face before you lead me back down the hall.

     I didn’t notice earlier, but I now see you’ve placed the straight-back chair right in the center of the room. Then I shiver when I see you’ve also added a small folding table beside the chair. It’s not the table that gives me pause but the variety of implements you’ve placed on it. If you use them all, I won’t be sitting comfortably for a very long time.

     Reaching the chair, you sit and instruct me to stand at your right side; I do as requested. I now have an unobstructed view of the table, and as you speak, I can barely focus on your words. The implements have me Mesmerized. Suddenly, the feel of your open palm landing on my bare thigh has me gasping but gets my full attention. My head flys up, and I’m looking into your steely grey-blue eyes. You’re mad now and start to unfasten the button of my shorts. Once that’s done, they come down, along with my panties.

     Immediately, your hand grips my elbow and guides me over your lap. I wiggle but not a lot, just enough to get myself to a place I won’t topple over. Your left-hand reaches around my waist, essentially holding me in place. I’m secure right before your right palm lands on my bare bottom. I know I’m in trouble when a flurry of sharp swats follows, and I’m gasping once again.

     My bottom now warmed from the back of my legs to my upper buttocks. You pause but only long enough to reach for one of the many implements on the table. Your first choice is a paddle, and it is slightly heavier than a ruler and much stingier when it lands first on one cheek then the next—this action’s repeated maybe thirty times before you stop and exchange it for a ping pong paddle. Using the same rhythm, you have me squirming, trying to avoid each swat. Many swats later, you repeat the exchange to a belt-like leather strap that lands with a loud splat and has me screaming.

     My legs are now kicking wildly. You pause this time to scold me and swat the backs of my thighs with the strap. I try to hold them still, but at this point, I hurt too much, and I can’t even think straight. Then, luckily or maybe not so, you exchange implements once again. But before you begin, you help me up and walk my stiff, sore body over to the couch. I panic as I get a glimpse of the cane in your right hand.

     Hushing me, you guide me over the side, and I grip the seat cushion with both hands. I can’t help the pitiful whimpers that escape, but I’m already so sore. Although I want to beg you not to use the cane, I don’t. Whenever I plead while in this position, it never ends well for my backside, I wait with tears once again running down my face, all the while trying to keep my whimpers quiet.

     Once I’m where you want, you explain, “Young lady, you will learn not to speak so disrespectful. I will not tolerate such behavior from you. Do you understand?”

     I answer as fast as I can, “Yes ma’am.” I can’t help sniffling before finishing. “I understand.”

     “Ok, six with the cane then we’re done,” you say, but I worry. How am I going to stay still? My butt is on fire. I don’t have to wait long because I hear the swish then feel a strip of heat before realizing it. I’m pretty sure I’m never going to be able to sit again. Swish, splat, my foot stomps, hoping to ease the fire. Nope, it’s not helping, swish, splat. Oh my, three more, my hands are white-knuckling the cushion, swish, splat. The last two land and you make sure they hit one right above the other along my sit spots.

     I don’t move as you inspect your work, tracing your fingertips lightly across each of the lines you’ve just created. Finally, when you’re satisfied, you help me to stand. My hands almost reach back to rub, but I stop myself and drop them to my sides. Your eyes raise slightly in warning, and I worry that maybe you’re not done. Luckily, you reach to hand me a tissue before sitting on the couch, gently pulling me along to sit on your lap. I cry out at the contact, trying to ignore the throbbing and cuddle into your embrace. Your soft voice lulls me, and eventually, I understand your words and hear you say you forgive me.

     The way you hold on to me, I know everything’s going to be ok. Then once I can find my voice, I say, “I’m sorry.”

3 replies on “Final Straw”

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