From: sbatten@icg.stwing.upenn.edu (S Batten) Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking Subject: Fiction: She Never Counts (F/f, nc, teen) Date: 28 Aug 1995 23:36:42 GMT Organization: UPenn does not necessarily agree with me or even know I exist Message-ID: <41tjua$rsu@netnews.upenn.edu> [with apologies to L. Sexton] I breeze through the door a half hour past curfew, surprised to find her still home. That afternoon, when she had told me I could use her car, she had said Jimmy was going to pick her up for their usual Friday night on the town -- dinner, a movie, drinks, dancing, more drinks, then they'd go to someone's house for a while and make out or whatever it is that thirty-four-year-olds do. Whatever it was, it was sure to keep her out past midnight, and sometimes all night long. So I didn't figure I was risking much by coming in at 11:30. Busted. Oh, well -- she'll probably give me a dressing down and then never let me forget about it. My sister has always been so anal. Half an hour late, and suddenly I'm not trustworthy. To be honest, though, I don't think she's trusted me since I moved in nine years ago. From that day on, she ceased to be my sweet big sister and turned into an uptight surrogate mother. Or surrogate father is more like it, grimly doling out judgments, scoldings and punishments as if it were her Solemn Duty to Bring the Girl Up Right. It's as if when our parents died a little bit of her died, too, and she tried to replace it with alcohol and tough love. She was twenty-five at the time, so I can understand if she felt like the world as she knew it had been turned on its head. I was seven, and you'd think it'd be harder on a seven-year-old, but it wasn't. I got over it pretty quickly -- I mean, when you're seven, what else can you do? Your life is pretty much taken care of. I went from my parents' house to my sister's condo, but other than that, things were pretty much the same. Deep down under that uptight grown-up's facade, I know she loves me as much as Mom and Dad did. Maybe more, even, because she never married, and Jimmy is kind of a jerk. I think she needs me because I'm the only person in the world who needs her. She's drinking gin when I come in. Almost all the lights are out. I know she's upset with me for breaking curfew because she says nothing when I walk into the gloomy room where she's drinking. I say "hi" as if there's nothing wrong, drop the spare car key back in her purse, and back out of there before the lecture. I am surprised when I make it all the way to my bedroom. Sometimes, when she's drunk, she forgets to yell at me. Or she starts to lecture me and forgets why she's angry. I have escaped tonight, but I know she'll yell at me tomorrow. She has a keen memory for broken rules. God, I hope I'm not like her when I'm grown up. * * * She mopes upstairs and goes into her bedroom, but doesn't close the door. I am in the hallway looking into her room, starting to wonder why she's been drinking, why she's home so early, and where Jimmy is. She unzips her dress and starts to pull off the top part when she catches me staring at her. She tells me to come into her room -- orders me, actually, putting on the stern parent's face. With the top of her dress hanging off of her front and her alcohol-slurred speech, she looks ridiculous. But I can see as I come into the room that it's no laughing matter. She's pissed at me. She's about to give me the how-can-I -trust-you-if-you-break-curfew lecture, another in the howcan-I-trust-you-if lecture series. But instead, she starts talking about her car. Who gave me permission to use her car tonight? You did, Sis. No, she says, she most certainly did _not_ say I could borrow her car. But no, you've forgotten: you said I could use it because Jimmy was picking you up tonight. She winces and tells me not to say _that name_. And not to lie, either. I should be ashamed, she says, taking her car and then trying to cover up about it. Her chest is heaving in righteous anger. She is working herself up for a ritual scolding, but instead says the words that make my knees go weak: "You've behaved like a spoiled little girl." She's such a bitch. I hate it when she gets this way. It always happens when she drinks too much. It's as if she's willed herself to lose control. She gets drunk, and then gets mean. She forgets things and makes up stories to explain what she can't remember. It's no wonder Jimmy stood her up tonight, or had a fight with her, or whatever -- my sister can turn into a monster sometimes. And she is about to do so now: her smug "spoiled little girl" pronouncement is a signal that she is going to give me the "punishment" I "deserve." "You've behaved like a spoiled little girl, and now I'm going to punish you like one." She hasn't said exactly what that is, but we both know what she's talking about. She goes on with her rant, comparing my actions to car theft, asking how she can trust me if I deliberately deceive her and then make up a lie to explain it. But I don't hear her. I am standing in her bedroom, in her house, as stunned as if I had just been punched in the temple. My stomach is slowly turning over, and her angry face is coming in and out of focus. She means to teach me a well-deserved lesson. She is going to show me that there are limits to the behavior that she will tolerate. She is through putting up with my childishness, and she means to get through to me by treating me like a child. I can't believe I'm hearing this. I am sixteen years old, but I am getting the same preparatory speech she gave when I was six nine twelve fifteen. I've heard it dozens of times before, but the punchline is no less shocking now: "You've been a bad, bad girl. You may think you've grown up, but you haven't. This just proves it. You're still a child, and you're going to get a child's punishment. Come over here. I'm going to give you the spanking you deserve." She says the word as if it is a triumph, a new innovation in childraising. She tells me not to argue with her, that no girl who behaves like me is too old to be spanked. But I am not arguing. I am speechless. Besides, arguing with her would be pointless now. She's made up her mind to do the deed, and won't be talked out of it no matter what I say or do. I learned that a year ago, the last time she beat me: when I was fifteen, I told her once and for all that I was too old for this. I had argued with her about it before -- it was inappropriate for me when I was ten, for God's sake -- but at fifteen I realized that there was something terribly wrong that she was still spanking me. I told her, but she wouldn't listen. I even fought with her, but at that age the difference in strength was still too great, and she overpowered me. For my troubles she made the thrashing an unforgettable one. And I had hoped it would be my last. Tonight I suppose I could overpower her, or at least outrun her, but I won't. For one thing, what would I do if I got away? I'm living here under her good graces, and I suppose she could kick me out if I couldn't live by her system of discipline. For another, it would make her the real winner, humiliating me into lashing out or taking flight. It would vindicate her claim that I am a bad girl. I am disgusted that this is happening to me, but I will not play the coward. She's still involved in her one-way argument, telling me that I'm not too old and that this is what I should expect for misbehaving. But I am not talking back. I'm just staring at her. My face does not show fear, nor contrition or shame. I am not even angry. Just bewildered. I am a sixteen-year-old girl who is about to be spanked for something she didn't do, by her drunken, lovelorn sister. My insides have grown cold. My stomach has settled and my thighs, which were wobbling involuntarily a minute ago, are solid. She is casting about for something to hit me with, and finally seizes on her wide-backed wooden hairbrush. She plops herself down on the edge of her bed, her satiny dress top still hanging before her like an apron. I don't think she knows how silly she looks. For my part, I am receding into my own world. I will not resist, but I will not cooperate, either. In my submission I will show myself to be the superior one. The only way she can win is if she makes me fight back, or by breaking my spirit. I won't let it hurt, because I won't let love come through. * * * She glares at me from the edge of her bed. She is still breathing heavily, as if the speech she just gave has only stoked her passions, rather than releasing them. I can smell the gin on her breath. She grips her hairbrush menacingly and tells me to come by her. I shuffle across the bedroom, meeting her glare with an indifferent gaze. Her breasts, thinly protected by her exposed undergarments, continue to heave in anger, and I think from looking at her that she wishes I were terrified, like when I was younger. She wants me to argue, to flail out like I did last year, to justify her fury. But I will not play her game. Though she holds the weapon, she is the child here. If she were my child, I would not beat her. I would show her the love that she craves from me, from Jimmy, and from the world. But she is not my child. And I don't love her. When she realizes that I intend to submit quietly, she reaches out and grabs my wrist, using it to pull me clumsily across her knees. I am not helpful with this. It takes her several tries to arrange me properly, during which she grunts and hisses bitterly. I resolve to lie there like a rag doll, since she refuses to treat me like a human being. My face is partially hidden by the fanned pleats of her lush dress. My legs stretch out behind me like dead logs. I can smell her perfume, a sweet, vaguely comforting odor. * * * With my upturned bottom finally in her lap, she reaches down an grabs a handful of my cotton skirt. Jerking it up roughly, she manages to hike it over my waist while I lie still. My stomach turns over again as the cool air caresses my thighs. It is the most demeaning and disappointing moment of the punishment: she's going to lay me bare. I always hope to myself that she'll forget this step -- she forgets so many other things -- but she always remembers. Spankings at eight, at ten, at thirteen, last year -- all included this undignified and unnecessary action. It made no difference to her when hair started to appear between my legs; she went on about her grim business as if I were still a naughty seven-year-old. Besides, with the thin skirts I wear during the summer, my bottom is as good as exposed anyway when it comes to spanking. Or, at the very least, she could leave my flimsy panties up, and save me the embarrassment. But no, she will see me naked tonight, just as she always has in the past. The yanking up of my skirt and the sickening surprise of the cool air tells me to prepare for the worst. Since I am not showing the least resistance, she takes her time to get me ready. She grabs one wrist and carefully pins my arm behind my back. We both know this is unnecessary -- my position on her thighs is so precarious that I could easily push off, whether or not she's pinned one arm. Ever since I was ten these over-the-knee punishments have been a matter of my voluntary submission, anyway. Except for last year, it has always been a point of pride for me (and her, too, I wonder) to bear the spanking bravely. Finally, with her right hand she thrusts a thumb into the cleft between my cheeks and peels down my panties. I am disgusted, but try not to shudder. She has to reach under my belly briefly to pull the front part of the panties to my thighs, and then she returns to the back side to carefully expose the entire rear end. I exhale suddenly -- I realize I've been holding my breath waiting for this to happen. * * * Other than a few grunts of exertion, she has been notably quiet during the arrangements. Lying there horsed over her knee, I won't give her the satisfaction of showing any apprehension for what is about to happen. She will beat me, but she won't break me. I won't let her. I won't let it hurt. She sighs. I feel the wooden back of the hairbrush resting a moment on one cheek. Then she inhales loudly and the hairbrush is gone. I feel her weight shift, and I know that she has lifted her arm up, ready to begin smacking me. I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter, my one concession to fear. And I wait. Nothing happens. I hear her sniffle. I am still waiting. A few seconds later I open my eyes and look back at her. She is looking down at my rear end, holding her hairbrush high above her head. There are tears on her cheeks, and she looks as if she can't figure out how she got here and doesn't know what to do next. I wait quietly, hoping she'll come to her senses and let me go. Or, failing that, I hope she'll forget I'm here. I wonder how long she's been crying. All night? Since she started lecturing me? Or did she start just now? Her arm is starting to sway over her head -- she can't hold it up much longer. Finally, she speaks: "I spank you. . ." and her voice catches in her throat. I know what she's going to say. Spare me, Sis. "I spank you. . . because I love you." And then she brings her hand down. I try to close my eyes and block it out, but I still catch part of the terrifying blur. * * * The wide-backed brush makes a surprisingly loud sound when it crashes onto my bottom. Until I was twelve or so, my sister always used her open hand to spank me. This was never pleasant -- one smack was enough to leave a neat red palm print with four streaks from the fingers. But at least it was predictable. At least I knew how much it would hurt. More recently, though, she has taken to grabbing whatever instrument is handy and flailing me with it. Usually it was her shoe, a pump with a soft leather sole. This hurt not as much as her hand, but she could give me more strokes because it didn't take as much out of her. Last year's fiasco was with a wooden spoon. When she spanks me with the hairbrush, the sting is worse than I expected, and it doesn't go away in time for the next blow to fall. She is vicious; she is cruel; she is trying to hurt me but I will not let her hear me cry. I squeeze my eyes shut to hold back the tears, but they come anyway. My face is wet, but I am silent, gritting my teeth. She will not hear me. * * * She never counts. She just hits until she is no longer angry. After ten, I can no longer lie still, and I am sucking in air after at each slap. At fifteen I break the silence. She has me grunting. Then crying out loud, jerking my legs high into the air, flailing my hair, nearly lifting my whole midsection off her thighs. I tell myself over and over again: It doesn't really hurt because I don't love her. It doesn't hurt. Because I don't love her. Doesn't hurt. Don't love her. Hurt. Love. Her. * * * At what must be around twenty-five, she stops, lets go of my wrist. She rests. I rest. It is not over yet, I know. I have long since learned to gauge the breathing of my sister, the hiss of her voice, and I know that she is still angry. She wants to keep beating me but needs a minute to catch her breath. I am silently crying into the folds of her dress. I smell her perfume again, and also the gin. But a faint musty scent starts to take hold: our sweat. She is still angry, but she isn't really paying attention to me. She is absently playing with my hair with one hand, while resting the other on my bottom. She wants to toy with me. She wants to shame me. She says my bottom is bright pink. She says it's burning to the touch. She says I should be sorry for what I've done. Am I? she asks. Am I sorry for what I've done? I say nothing. I'm not sorry. * * * She needs to hear me say something. She grabs my wrist again and lifts her hairbrush high into the air. I close my eyes. "Are you sorry, you bad girl?" She wants me to say I'm sorry, but I am not sorry. I am silent. I am not sorry because I didn't do anything wrong. I am not a bad girl. She starts spanking me again, with furious, mighty blows that surprise me afresh. But I will not apologize. I will cry out in agony and shed more tears for my tender bottom, but I will not say I'm sorry. I am the one in control, not she. Though my stubbornness is costing me, it is she who is reduced to pleading. "Apologize, you little bitch! Tell me you're sorry! I'm not going to stop spanking you until you say you're sorry." I wonder if she remembers what it is I'm supposed to apologize for. She just needs to hear the words. But I won't give in. She roars and tries to hit me harder, faster. I bawl at every stroke. She's going to win, and this why I am crying so bitterly. She is going to beat me until I say I'm sorry, and I can't take many more of these. But she soon stops of her own accord, when her arm tires and her drunken aim starts to fail. She is the one who is crying. We lie together, me with my red bottom stretched across her thighs, her chest crumpled over my back. My tears have soaked the folds of her dress; her tears are soaking my upturned skirt; our sweat covers us both. As my bottom cools down I can feel the wetness of perspiration. It is over, but neither of us has the strength to move. We are both panting as if we have just completed a race. I hate her for doing this to me, but at this moment I feel oddly close to her in her moment of weakness, sandwiched between her legs and bosom, my naked thighs pushed up against her satin-covered lap, my arm still linked with her free one, our bodies intertwined and heaving in unison. I pity her, though, for being so frustrated with love that she has to take it out on me for an imagined crime. But I will not forgive her. She spanks me because she loves me, she says. But it doesn't really hurt because I don't love her. - This was fiction. The lines "She never counts... no longer angry" are stolen from a brief spanking reminiscence from Linda Grey Sexton's memoir of mama Anne Sexton, "Searching for Mercy Street." Everything else was written by me in November 1994. Mea culpa if this presses anyone's domestic abuse buttons. It presses all of my hot buttons. Thinking about this image provided many minutes of, uhm, satisfaction while driving to my parents' house for Thanksgiving last year. Scott