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