“Not good,” I thought. Definitely not good. I recognized Aunt Suzanne’s handwriting immediately and somehow the words – Meet me in the parlor right after dinner – filled me with gloom. We NEVER used the parlor except for special occasions, and today was definitely not a special occasion. And considering what had been happening around here recently, her presence and her summons no doubt meant trouble for me.
Aunt Suzanne was Daddy’s younger sister, a strong personality and (if my cousins’ stories were to be even half-believed) an avid disciplinarian. She had arrived last night, much to my and my sister’s surprise, but apparently with Daddy’s blessing. Somehow I knew that my easygoing-parents-life had taken a definite turn, and probably not for the better. Momma was never much of an authority figure, though recently she had been pretty stern at carrying out what she claimed were Daddy’s instructions. I have always been able to pretty-much wrap Daddy around my finger, which was why I had skated past any serious repercussions from my recent college peccadilloes. But after he discovered my emails on my Yahoo Groups and photo collection, both with the help of that bratty sister of mine, I figured that I might be in for some restrictions. But the look on Daddy’s face when he read about my interest in spanking (in place of the boring lectures or brow-beatings that he and Momma always hand out) and about my less-than-virginal interactions with boys, told me I had probably gone too far. Why, oh why had I kept all that stuff on my computer?
Anyway, I was a little surprised when supper turned out to be just me, since my parents and sister had gone out for the evening and Aunt Suzanne had not joined me. Needless to say, I didn’t have much of an appetite, sitting there in the big room alone, with just the maid serving the food, and clucking about my not eating. My expectations of what was to happen fluctuated between hope of a mild scolding and the deep fear of Aunt Suzanne and a bullwhip. The fact that neither extreme was likely didn’t really prepare me for the eventual outcome.
After playing with my dessert for several minutes, I looked up as Aunt Suzanne stepped into the room. Without saying a word, just crooking a finger to show me I needed to follow her, she led me to the parlor. She was dressed a little sternly, yet somehow managed to exude a provocative air. He skirt, though slightly below the knee, was slit rather high on her thigh, and I glimpsed a bit of the top of her stockings (rather than pantyhose, as she walked briskly. Her white blouse wasn’t cur low, but I could easily see the curves of her ample bosom. I had always admired the way she combined a voluptuous figure with a curious mix of softness and strength. I always hoped I could look as good as she does, even though is approaching middle- age. While I could admire the look of her walking ahead of me, I began to feel a sense of oncoming doom.
She opened the sliding doors to the parlor and stood by them as she motioned me into the room. I noticed that one of the straight-backed chairs had been pulled away from the table and was now facing out into the center of the room. I cautiously moved forward and could hear her close and lock the doors behind me. The solid oak, I knew, effectively muffled most of the sound in this room. I flinched at the noise made by the closing doors and surprising loud click of the key. Her silence (which I didn’t dare disturb) heightened my rising tension. She sat down in the chair.
“Come over here young lady,” she called out, her voice an even tone and surprisingly low volume. I stepped in front of her and stood there, head down, hands folded in front of me. I figured a humble posture couldn’t do anything but help my situation. I avoided looking her in the face, not wanting to see what look she might be giving me. “I understand,” she went on, “that you have not only embarrassed yourself by virtually flunking out of college, and worried your parents through your slutty behavior with your friends, but are even now fighting against your parents attempts to help you learn the discipline you need to ...”
At that point I again showed my lack of wisdom by interrupting her. “I didn’t really FLUNK OUT, I just didn’t do as well as I could have. And I haven’t really done anything slutty, I just ...” Fortunately I looked up at that point and saw the scowl that told me I had definitely committed a faux pas. I shut up instantly, too late, of course.
“As I was saying ... and I see that, just as your parents had reported, you seem to have no respect at all for your elders – you are fighting your parents’ best efforts to help you learn self- discipline. Since they are too sweet to take the steps necessary to teach you proper discipline, your father asked if I might step in and try to help. Since you refuse to develop self-discipline, I shall have to bring the discipline TO you. I assure you that it would have been much, MUCH easier if you had taken their help, but I assure you, also, that you WILL get the discipline that you need.”
“Now,” she uttered in a voice that I didn’t recognize as being able to come from a woman as pretty as she, “take off that dress; step out of those shoes, and get over here.” I paused, not sure I had heard what I clearly heard, until she gave me a look that went through me like an icicle in a hurricane. There was such venom in that look that for a minute I wondered who it was in the room there with me. But I did as instructed and was soon standing there in my bikini underwear and demi-bra. I felt myself beginning to shiver, though it wasn’t from the cold. She stared at me for what seemed like and hour but was no doubt only a minute or so. I think I noticed her chest moving (heaving?) from a couple of deep breaths and the shivering sort of stopped and an unrecognizable feeling began to arise deep within me. “Take the bra off, also,” she more breathed than said, her voice slightly husky. She again crooked a finger at me, reminding me that I had not completely obeyed her.
When I was right in front (though slightly to the side) she reached up and quickly grabbed a wrist and jerked downward. I found myself across her lap, then, and squirmed quickly, trying to regain my footing. Much to my surprise, her left hand on my shoulders was strong enough to keep me from lifting myself upward, and I felt her pulling my panties downward. I let out a squeal, “Aunt Suzanne, what are you ...” She shushed me and began to whack my backside with what was obviously her hand but which felt, right then, like some sort of leather belt. (Not that I had ever had a leather belt slapping my butt, but I IMAGINED that it felt like that.) I had not had a spanking since I was a little girl (and couldn’t really remember having been spanked even then, but was sure I had been). I then made the mistake of reaching back with my right hand, which did nothing but cause me to lose balance when she grabbed THAT wrist and held it firmly down against my lower back. I sort of stopped squirming, then, since it felt like I would fall down onto the floor if I moved like I had been.
My fanny was beginning to really sting, then, and I was biting my lower lip, softly, to avoid calling out. I felt like crying, but somehow held onto enough pride that I didn’t want to be seen to be acting like a little girl. And then, my head began to swim as I felt the stinging in my butt beginning to turn into a strange tingling deep in my groin. Actually, the feeling wasn’t all that strange, since it was very much like the feelings I would get when boys would play with me down-there (particularly when they would try – and often succeed in – going down on me). What made it strange was that this was not a sexual setting. Was it?
As the spanking continued, my mind swirled with that curious mix of pain and pleasure and I was beginning to grow ashamed that I was feeling vaguely turned on by the whole thing. I may have been mistaken, but it seemed that she had softened and slowed her slaps. Suddenly, she stopped the whipping and paused before suddenly saying:
“And what is that odor I smell, you little tart? You’re supposed to be being punished. Maybe what you father discovered on your computer was right. Have you acquired a perverse interest in pain? Here, let me check.” With that, she put a finger down between my butt checks and moved it forward. Since I felt it slide forward, I knew that I had, indeed, begun to lubricate. Had I truly become a slutty pervert, what they call a masochist? Did I enjoy being spanked? Could that even be POPSSIBLE? “Just as I thought, you little minx. You’re positively WET down there.” Not content to just confirm her suspicion, she began to probe my vagina with that finger, and then with a second. I felt myself respond to the penetration and it was almost like I was masturbating myself. My juices began to really flow and my butt began to squirm, again, this time with a guilty pleasure as I responded to her manipulations. Suddenly a wild thought sprang to my mind – Aunt Suzanne was actually diddling my twat. I could feel her chest rising and falling, her luscious breasts plopping down onto my back as he hand began to move in and out of my vagina, in a quickening pace.
As I began to squirm more strenuously, my excitement building toward what I somehow knew was going to be a powerful orgasm, Aunt Suzanne pulled one leg out from under me and placed it on top of my legs, holding me tighter down onto her lap. And then I thought I could detect HER fragrance, musky and tart. Her hand was moving quickly, now, my legs spread as much as I was able, to allow her free movement and clear access to my innermost regions. I could hear myself moaning and gasping as my climax approached. My knees quivered and I am certain I would have fallen to the floor had she not been holding me tight. And I sort-of thought that I could feel HER knees quivering also, though all sensation soon faded as wave after wave of good feelings swept over me. She stopped frigging me, then and I managed to regain a normal heartbeat as I floated downward from the heights of my thrill-ride. I didn’t know whether to feel ashamed that somehow my own aunt had brought me to that point, or to pray that this could be the start of something wonderful between us.
So it came as a huge surprise when she apparently picked up some kind of paddle (or belt, since it seemed flexible) and began to whack the living daylights out of my already-beaten fanny. I tried my damnedest to get free, but he grip on my wrist and her leg across mine guaranteed that I wasn’t going anywhere. Ad the pain quickly became indescribable. I cried. I begged her to stop. I screamed. All to no avail. The strap rained down on my poor blistered butt, again and again, moving all over, preventing me from even guessing where the next one might land. I was bawling my eyes out; sobbing so hard it became difficult to even take a breath. I literally though I might die. I didn’t know anyone could do such a thing to another human being.
And then it stopped, mercifully, though I was still finding it hard to get my breath. She then let me go and I fell to the floor. When my punished fanny touched the carpet, I screeched and jumped up; it hurt so bad. My face must have looked horrible, tear (and snot) - covered and probably red and blotchy. I looked at her, my face no doubt reflecting my total confusion at what-all had just happened. She looked up at me, her face not betraying even one little emotion:
“Now, you wanton bitch. You will begin to understand and cooperate, or this will become a regular part of each of your days. Do you understand”? I nodded, slightly, not really understanding but certain that I needed to agree with whatever she was telling me.
“And you WILL agree to wear that chastity belt ...”