("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: (FF, inc, spanking) Authors name: S Batten (sbatten@icg.stwing.upenn.edu) Story title : She Never Counts -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2001. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- She Never Counts by S Batten (sbatten@icg.stwing.upenn.edu) (defunt) Edited by MarciaR26@aol.com *** [With apologies to L. Sexton] I breezed through the door half an hour late, surprised to find Leanne home. That afternoon, when she told me I could use her car, Leanne said Jimmy was picking her up after work. This was for their usual Friday night on the town -- dinner, a movie, and drinks. Dancing might ensue, followed by more drinks, then maybe to someone's house to make out or whatever it is that thirty-four-year-olds do. Whatever she did, it was sure to keep Leanne out past midnight. (Often it was all night, in which case I had the opportunity to entertain myself.) I figured I didn't risk much staying out till 11:30. I was wrong. * * * Leanne has always been anal. Half an hour late, and suddenly I'm not trustworthy anymore. She hasn't trusted me since the day I moved in, nine years ago. That day Leanne ceased being my sweet--if somewhat overbearing-- older sister, transforming overnight into an uptight, surrogate mother. Surrogate father is closer. Beneath that uptight facade, I know Leanne loves me as much as Mom and Dad. Perhaps even more, because Leanne never married. She needs me because I'm the only person in the world who needs her. But grimly doling out judgments, delivering scolds at the slightest provocation, and punishments as if it were her solemn duty to Bring the Girl Up Right. Leanne did worse than make my life miserable. Our parent's deaths left a part of her dead. A part she tried to replace with alcohol and tough love. Twenty-five years old at the time, and me seven, I understand why she felt the world had turned on its head. But she should have gotten over it. For me it was easier. When you're seven, life is pretty much taken care of for you; I simply moved from my parent's house to my sister's condo; other than that, things were the same. Until the spankings. * * * She's downing gin when I come in. Most of the lights are out, save for one in the living room where she's tucked into the sofa's corner. She's obviously upset with me for breaking curfew, but says nothing when I walk into the room. I say "hi," as if there's nothing wrong, drop the spare key to her Honda back in her purse, then back out before the lecture. I make it all the way to my room. I am amazed. When she's drunk, Leanne sometimes forgets to lecture. Or she starts to lecture and forgets why she's angry. I have escaped tonight, but she'll do her lecturing in the morning. Her long-term memory is perfect, even when alcohol dazed. God, I hope I'm not like her when I grow up. * * * At midnight, Leanne staggers upstairs and goes into her bedroom. She doesn't close her door. I slip into the hallway and peek into her room, wondering what's brought her to this. It's Jimmy of course: why she's drinking, why she's home so early--if she left at all. Setting down her half-full glass on the night table, Leanne unzips her dress and begins to lower the top. She catches me staring in. "What are you doing?" she says. "Get in here." It is an order, and I push back the door and walk in. Already my stomach has antsy little knots. Subconsciously, I know what's coming. The top of her dress is caught her crooked elbows, exposing her brassiere. Leanne has much bigger breasts than I; it always makes me uncomfortable seeing us compared. I also see as I come into the room that Leanne is pissed at me. I'm about to get the how-can-I-trust- you-if-you-break-the rules lecture after all. Instead, she starts in about her car. "Who gave you permission to use my car?" "You did, Sis." No, she counters, she most certainly did not. "You've forgotten," I say. "Jimmy was picking you up after work." She winces and says that's a lie. She tells me not to say that son-of-a-bitch's name. I should be ashamed, she says, taking her car and then trying to cover it up. Her chest heaves in righteous indignation. The knots in my tummy grow bigger. Then Leanne says those words that always weaken my knees. "You've behaved like a spoiled little girl, Sandra." She goes on with her rant; repeating herself, comparing my actions to car theft, asking how can I deliberately deceive her, then lie about it. I don't listen. I can't believe I'm hearing this. I stand there in her bedroom, stunned as though I have been punched in the face. I'm sixteen years old, and she's giving me the same shit she laid on me when I was six, nine, twelve, and fourteen: "You've been a bad girl." "You may think you're grown up, young lady, but you not." "You're still a child, Sandra, and you're going to get a child's punishment." My stomach turns slowly over; her angry face moves in and out of focus. "Come over here!" she exclaims. "I'm going to punish you." I shake my head, though in disbelief rather that disobedience. Arguing with her is useless. The last time Leanne spanked me I was fourteen years old. I argued with her then it as I had argued before: it was inappropriate when I was ten years old, I told her, even twelve--at fourteen I was already developed and being spanked was terribly wrong. Even by her. I told her this, but she wouldn't listen. We even struggled, but Leanne's advantage in strength was too great. Powered by alcohol, she quickly overpowered me, and for my troubles I got an unforgettable thrashing. I hoped it would be my last. Now this. Either ignoring my headshake or missing it completely, Leanne continues her rant. I do not talk back. I say nothing at all. I just stare. No fear, no contrition, no shame. I am not even angry. Just bewildered. I suppose I could overpower Leanne, now, or at least outrun her, but what's the point? Where would I go, what would I do? I'm here under her good graces. If I don't abide by her rules, she'd send me to live with my Aunt Jean. I hate Aunt Jean. And attractive as thought is, overpowering Leanne would only make her the victor, validating her claim that I'm a bad girl. I'm screwed whatever I do. Leanne casts about for something to use, finally seizes on a wide-backed wooden hairbrush. She flops down on the edge of her bed, the top of her dress now around her waist. It looks like an apron. If only she knew how ridiculous she looks. My stomach has settled and my knees, uncontrollably only a minute before, are solid. I will not resist, but I will not cooperate, either. Leanne can win only if I fight back, or by breaking my spirit. I won't let it hurt. I won't give her the satisfaction. "Well?" She glares at me. Her breathing is heavily; the just finished rant inflaming her passions. I smell the gin. She waves her hairbrush menacingly, tells me to come here. I walk slowly across the room, meeting her glare with an indifferent gaze. Her chest, thinly protected by the exposed white brassiere, continues to heave. From her angry expression, I know Leanne wishes me terrified as when I was younger, wants me to argue and to flail about the way I did last. My indifference infuriates her more. I will certainly pay the price. * * * If Leanne were my child, I would not beat her. I would give her the love she craves; from me, from Jimmy, and from the world. But she is not my child. And though I love Leanne, I cannot show her love. * * * When she realizes I intend to submit quietly, Leanne snatches out and grabs my wrist, pulling me clumsily over her knee. I am not helpful. It takes several tries to arrange me properly, through which she grunts and hisses angrily. I lie there like a rag doll, face partially hidden in the fanned pleats of her red dress. My legs are stretched out behind me, arms hanging limp. I smell her perfume, cloyingly sweet, almost nauseating. "This isn't helping your case," Leanne huffs. Her voice cracks from effort. I say nothing. With my upended bottom finally in her lap, Leanne yanks up my cotton skirt and lays it over my back. Cool air touches my thighs; my stomach rolls. She intends to lay me bare. Since I refuse to cooperate, Leanne takes her time preparing me. She appropriates my right wrist and pins it to the small of my back. We both know this is unnecessary because, although my position on her lap is so precarious I could easily fall off, I am going nowhere. I will bear this spanking bravely. With her right hand, she thrusts a thumb into the cleft between my cheeks and peels down my panties. I am disgusted, but fight off a shudder. Reaching beneath me, she pulls the front of the panties down, then drags them to my knees. I exhale softly. I have been holding my breath. For a time, nothing happens. The back of the hairbrush rests gently on my right cheek, but nothing more. Then she inhales loudly and the hairbrush is gone; Leanne's weight shifts. I squeeze my eyes in anticipation, my one concession to fear. And I wait. Leanne sniffles. After a time, I open my eyes and look back. Leanne holds the hairbrush high above her head, hand orbiting in a small ellipse, strain showing in every muscle. Tears cover her cheeks. She seems terribly confused, as though unsure how she got here, unsure what to do next. I wait quietly, wondering myself. Finally, she speaks. "I spank you--" she says, and her voice catches in her throat. I know what she's going to say, and I think, Spare me, Sis; I've heard it before. Then she gets it out. "I spank you, Sandra, because I love you." And then she brings down her hand. I close my eyes and try to block it out, but the wide-backed brush makes a horrendously loud noise. The pain is horrendous also. * * * Leanne never counts. She just hits me until she is no longer angry. Until I was twelve, she used her open hand on me, and though never pleasant, at least I knew the score. It hurt her nearly as much as me. Then suddenly I was a young adult and Leanne resented this and I graduated to the hairbrush or any other instrument close at hand, as long as it inflicted pain. She paddled me to her heart's content and worried about the consequences later. The last time it was a wooden spoon. * * * I squeeze shut my eyes to block the tears, but out they spring anyway. I remain silent, grinding my teeth. She will not hear me sob. After ten, I can no longer lie still; I suck air after every blow and begin to moan. At fifteen I break the silence completely. "Noooo," I begin to softly wail. My wailing becomes louder. I begin to squirm. I squirm quite a lot. Then I squirm uncontrollably. I hate this. I hate my weakness. I hate Leanne. Soon my feet jerk high with each spank, my toes curling tight. My head flails and with it my hair. I nearly lift off her thighs with each swing. I sob openly. I tell myself over and over again: It doesn't hurt. I don't love her. It doesn't hurt. I don't love her. Doesn't hurt. Don't love her. Hurt. Love. Her. Almost viscously, Leanne continues my spanking. She never counts. She just hits until she is no longer angry. * * * Finally Leanne stops, lets go of my wrist. She rests. I rest. It is not over. I long ago learned to gauge my sister's breathing. She is tiring, but not exhausted. Far from it. The break is for me. I need a chance to catch my breath, consider my plight. I cry silently into the folds of her dress, smell her awful perfume again, and the gin. Also the faint, musty scent of perspiration. Though she is still angry, Leanne pretends inattention. She plays absently with my hair; the other hand rests on my bottom. She toys with me, shames me. She says my bottom is bright red, welted. It's hot to the touch. I should be sorry for what I've done, she says. Am I? I say nothing. All right then... She takes my wrist again and lifts her hairbrush high in the air. I close my eyes. "Are you sorry, you bad little girl?" I am not sorry. I did nothing wrong. I am silent. She spanks me again, furiously, mighty blows that astound me afresh. I cry out in agony and kick my feet and leap on her thighs and shed tears for my seared bottom. I do not apologize. I will not be sorry. Through my stubbornness, it is she who is reduced to pleading. "Apologize! Tell me you're sorry! I'll keep spanking until you do!" Does she remember what I'm supposed to apologize for? Just need to hear the words? She roars and hits me harder and faster and I bawl at every stroke. But I won't give in. Yet. Soon, but not yet. Because this has gone beyond all reason and I am too weak now to fight, too traumatized to take any more. She has won and I cry over it with bitter tears. I have to say I'm sorry. I just can't. I won't. I am unable. Hurt. Love. Her. * * * Leanne stops on her own. Her arm gives out. She wails, a horrible, tortured sound, something I've never heard before. Still on the edge of her mattress, we wail together, my tortured bottom on her thighs, her chest clutched to my back. I have soaked the folds of her dress; her tears soak my skirt. Sweat covers us both. It is over, but neither of us has the strength to move. We weep horribly. I hate Leanne; hate her for showing her weakness, for forcing me to show mine. Because at this moment I feel closer to Leanne than I ever have before. Sandwiched between her thighs and her bosom, wrist captured in her grasp, I heave with her in unison, pity her frustrations. She has no love and knows no way other than this to show it. She spanks me because she loves me, she says. It doesn't hurt because I don't love her, I say. I turn on her lap and though shocked, she is in my arms and I in hers. I show Leanne how to accept love. I show her with my own. THE END This is a work of fiction. The original draft was written by S Batten at the address shown above, in November 1994. I liked the story so much I downloaded it from "Old Joe's Collection" at www.asstr.org, and rewrote it. I didn't want to plagiarize someone else's work but this story is just too GOOD not to be read. I tried unsuccessfully to contact "S" for two months. The address she gave is no longer valid and no one I contacted through AOL claimed credit. I'm hoping "S" or someone who knows her will read the story and have her contact me. My editing consisted mainly of naming the two characters, which "S" did not do, and cleaning up the text. Very little was changed. My apologies to "S" for this insult to her work. ***** These are "S's" original comments: The lines "She never counts... no longer angry" are borrowed from a brief spanking reminiscence from Linda Grey Sexton's memoir of mama Anne Sexton, "Searching for Mercy Street." 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. ***** Any comments or complaints, please contact me at: MarciaR26@aol.com ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of the hands of children. They should be outside playing in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 14