textfiles/sex/EROTICA/G/garden.txt

"Garden Party Punishment"
by The Strict Professor
at The Chateau BBS; 714-455-2790

     It's funny how memory works. You can be anywhere, doing any
little thing, and something will happen which triggers a totally
random string of memories. Usually you can't even figure out what
it was that set the whole thing off; it just comes, and there's
no stopping it. You're handing over a ten for some groceries and
then suddenly you're remembering the way the sun used to glint
off the water at your friend's beach house, throwing patterns on
the wall. 
     I was doing just that on a Sunday afternoon. Buying
groceries, that is, when, instead of trying to remember whether
plastic or paper was more environmentally friendly, I found
myself remembering a similar Sunday afternoon, 17 years ago, when
I was 13.
     I had been over at Susan's house, doing all the normal
Sunday afternoon things that teenage girls do at their friends'
houses: talking about guys (still, at that age, alternating
between how cute and how disgusting they were as a species),
griping about school, wondering if that skirt *really* matched
the blouse or if it looked silly, and so on. And making prank
calls. Mind you, we had advanced far beyond "Prince-Albert-in-a-
Can" and "Is-Your-Refrigerator-Running?" at this point. Oh no, we
were pros. We were into the heavy stuff: "We found your dog on
our tennis court. Oh...you don't have a dog?...Well, WE DON'T
HAVE A TENNIS COURT!!!" And of course, what better opportunity to
experiment with our just-then developing sexuality? We called
boys from school, guys at the market, doctors and lawyers. Anyone
who would stick around long enough for us to ask gross questions
(God! if they had ever answered!!) and fake a few orgasms (which
must have sounded somewhat funny, since our knowledge of the big
'O' was quite limited to the fact that one screamed and moaned
while having one). And, in an error of tragic proportions, we
dialed, randomly, my father, the accountant. My father, a very
astute man, recognized my voice instantly and (I thought I could
hear a grin) said "Jackie? Is that you? It IS you!! Why..."
     I had of course hung up. At first we couldn't stop laughing.
I had actually screwed up and asked my dad if he liked getting
blow jobs! We were rolling on the floor for quite some time.
Then, in between gasps for air, it sank in. I had really blown
it. My parents are quite nice folk, but rather old-fashioned, and
discipline has never been one of their weak points. While my
mother couldn't bake a cherry pie to save her life, and my father
has to call a tow truck if he gets a flat, they did know one
thing: I was going to grow up as a "good girl." Not like one of
those "tramps," to use my mother's favorite term, that paraded by
the living room window every day on their way home from school.
     As a means to this end of producing a "good girl," there
were many rules I had to abide by as a child, only half of which
had ever been clearly stated in advance. The other 50 percent
were to be discovered after the fact, and drilled in to me (for
future reference) through a wickedly effective strategy which
combined repeated lecturing and some heavyweight physical
punishment.    
     My folks, though dull in many ways, seemed blessed with
endless creativity when it came to meting out punishment. Never
the same thing twice, one could say. One month it was over the
kitchen counter, tennis skirt up, tennis panties down for 5 swats
with the metal spatula. Next month an ice cold shower supervised
by mother (to "cool my temper") followed by 30 swats with dad's
leather slipper. I of course experienced the more mundane
spankings: over dad's lap, down with the jammies, for a warming
session from his smooth, uncalloused hands, or what I always
thought of as the "spur-of-the-moment" spank -- used with
humiliating frequency by my mother in public places -- which
involved a quick flip up of my skirt with one hand and three or
four quick smacks with the other before I realized what was
going on and managed to dance away far enough to make my mother
let the skirt drop. 
     Such were my adolescent years, from as far back as I can
remember to the day I turned 16, the magic day when, it had been
declared in advance, I would thereafter be spared the pain of 
spankings in exchange for the boredom of groundings (a technique
I found, in those days when "popularity" ruled and socializing
was the reason for living, to be almost worse in its own way.)
     But I digress. I had just realized, lying there on Susan's
pink carpet, what a screw-up I had just committed. No way was I
going to get off lightly. I was just beginning to formulate some
of the possible consequences of my rash behavior when Susan's
mother came in, a grim look on her face.
     "Jackie, your mother just called. She heard from your father
what you girls have been up to and would like you home right
away. And Susan," she addressed her daughter, who cowered in the
corner like a scared animal, "you can just forget about going to
Disneyland next week. You're grounded, and you probably wouldn't
be able to sit on the rides anyway after the hiding you're going
to receive."
     I scurried around her room gathering my belongings and slunk
out of their house, already beginning to shake as I walked down
the sidewalk to my house, a block and a half away. On the way I
passed a few friends, but shook off their greetings like water,
unable to focus clearly on anything. I imagined I could already
feel the sting of my father's belt on my bare behind, or the
wicked cut of a branch from the yard.
     It was only as I turned up the drive to my house that I
remembered it was my Mother's turn to entertain the garden club.
Three or four cars were parked by the curb, and two in the
driveway. This realization produced mixed emotions. On the one
hand, I might have my punishment delayed, since my mother would
be busy acting as hostess. On the other hand, past experience
suggested that the punishment might be carried out nonetheless,
only in the presence of the assembled group. It could go either
way, and I had no way of laying odds. I remember thinking, as I
stepped up to the front door, that I hoped I had chosen plain
jane underwear that morning. Unconsciously I reached down to
smooth out my skirt, my hand running across the narrow strip of
fabric which cut across my hip. Shit, I thought. I would be
wearing the string ones today! But it had little bearing, I
realized, since for a crime as heinous as the one I had just
committed, the panties were sure to come down pretty quickly
anyway. Still, it would have been nice not to be wearing what
were, for me, at that age, my raciest pair, if it came to
displaying them to the guests.
     I was just about to knock when the door was flung open by my
mother. Characteristically for such situations she was obviously
in a rage, but she was controlling it admirably. This restraint
lent an even more intimidating air to her. She spoke in an icy
cold, steely voice. "Well, good afternoon, my little phone
tramp." She paused to glare for a second, her stare piercing me
and turning my already queasy insides to Jello. "Go out back to
the patio and wait for me, young lady. You are in some serious
trouble."
     I started to stammer a response but her swiftly raised open
palm silenced me, and I dropped my stuff just inside the door and
made my way to the back. Pausing on the steps to the patio I took
in the scene. Six middle-aged women and one boy about my age were
staring at me, tea cups and biscuits held in varying stages of
arrested motion. Apparently they had the situation explained
to them before my arrival. I blushed beet red and fidgeted
nervously with the hem of my skirt. The boy was unexpected.
Sometimes these women brought their children, but this was the
first I had seen that was over five. 
     Mrs. Connors spoke first. "Jackie, this is my son, Edward.
Edward is 15 and home from boarding school for his break. Edward,
Jackie." He nodded. He too knew of my plight, I could see, since
his eyes were gleaming with excitement. This caused me to turn an
even deeper shade and I felt my eyes grow damp with the first
tears. "I understand you're in a bit of trouble, Jackie," Mrs.
Connors continued. "I'm sorry to hear that." But I could tell she
wasn't in the least bit sorry, nor were any of the others. They
fixed me with stares of disapproval, ranging from mildly
condescending to outright contempt. A nice bunch of friends my
mother hung out with, I thought.
     As if reading my mind, she appeared behind me. I went down
the steps and turned. The first thing I noticed was the yardstick
in her hand. A thick, heavy oak yardstick that I had grown to
hate over the years. It was solid enough to gain some serious
momentum when swung and long enough to afford my mother good
leverage. I shuddered involuntarily and wished I had had the good
sense to go the bathroom before leaving Susan's. My bladder
suddenly seemed ready to burst.
     Mother motioned me to stand in the center of the patio, in
the middle of the rough circle formed by the guests. Edward, I
noticed, was about at 5 o'clock to me as I stood facing my
mother. 
     "Your father explained what happened, young lady. Now, I do
not hold such a low opinion of your intelligence that I would
imagine you had targeted him intentionally. Therefore I am
assuming that was not the first such call you made. As I have
said, you are in serious trouble. You upset your father, you
abused Susan's mother's hospitality, you acted like a tramp in
front of, essentially, Lord only knows how many citizens of this
town, and now you have forced me to interrupt an otherwise
pleasant gathering of friends. Do not think you will get off
lightly, missie." 
     I was in a twilight zone of shame and humiliation. I found
myself thinking of nothing, staring straight ahead, bright stars
floating in and out of my eyes occasionally. My heart pounded and
my skin was clammy. In the middle of her lecture tears began to
trickle down my face, and I was helpless to hold them back. 
     "Now. We will try to deal with this as quickly as possible,
so that we may all resume our conversations and enjoy what's left
of this fine afternoon." My mother still stood at the top of the
stairs, and appeared as a giant silhouette to my tear-clouded
eyes. "First of all, let's have that skirt off, Jackie."
     I rocked in place. Before I could think to restrain myself I
exclaimed, "No, Mommy! Please, no! Not with that boy here.
Please!!" 
     "Nonsense, young lady. I find it incredibly nervy of you,
given the amount of trouble you are already in, to suggest that I
inconvenience one of my guests simply to accommodate your
modesty. Modesty which, I hasten to add, you seem to have had no
problem overcoming an hour ago while you called people all over
the city and offered them sexual services. Now not one more word.
Get that skirt off immediately!" She punctuated her command by
slapping the yardstick against her palm.
     I literally jumped, and began fumbling for the zipper on my
skirt. It took me some seconds to calm my shaking hands enough to
undo the zipper. Then, trying my best to block out everything
around me, I slid it down to my ankles, crouching as I did so to
avoid presenting Edward with a nice view of my panty-clad behind,
and stepped out. Standing, I held the skirt in front of my crotch
and looked at my mother beseechingly, hoping for a last-minute
reprieve. It of course did not come. In its place my mother
ordered me to put the skirt on the table before me and return to
my place. In turning, after setting it down, I couldn't help
glancing at Edward, who was sitting crouched over, both hands
folded in his lap, obviously concealing his erection. He made no
attempt to show sympathy, but instead made it quite clear that he
was going to thoroughly enjoy the impending spectacle, whatever
it might entail.
     I stood there before them all, hands at my side. To Edward,
and to the others for that matter, I presented the following
picture: a 13 year old girl, blonde, slim, and with just the hint
of developing breasts concealed under her cotton tank top. My
shirt stopped at my waist, allowing a clear view of my pink satin
panties, which I just knew had ridden up in a very un-ladylike
fashion behind. 
     By this point my tears were flowing freely, though I had
managed to remain silent. My mother descended slowly and came to
stand in front of me. "Needless to say, Jackie, this will only be
a part of your punishment. I'm sure your father will want some
time with you when he returns from work." Her words threw me into
a mental panic. Rarely was I punished by both of my parents for
the same offense. When I was, you could be sure I would be
feeling the after-effects for weeks to come. 
     "Now, let's proceed. Mary, could you bring that over here?"
she asked one of her friends, pointing towards the garden stool
against the wall. Mary complied, placing it in front of me and
then glancing at me with a look that spoke volumes : "Whatever is
coming to you, you deserve." Amazing the faith my mother's
companions had in her parenting abilities. I of course knew what
the next step was, but I didn't want to propel events any faster
than their natural course, so I stood motionless until my mother
issued the command to kneel over the stool. With the same feeling
that I imagine astronauts experience when the final air-lock is
sealed, I dropped to my knees (noting briefly how hard and cold
the concrete was) and then extended me arms in front me, lowering
my torso until I was laying across the stool. Throughout this
maneuver I did my best to keep my legs as close together as
possible, well aware that Edward was now almost directly behind
me, sitting comfortably with a Pepsi as he waited for this wet-
dream come true to continue.
     My mother moved so that she stood directly behind me. I
wasn't going to risk looking back to see if she had blocked
Edward's view, but I fervently hoped that this was the case. I
flinched as I felt my mother's cold hands on my waist, grasping
me firmly and guiding me into the precise position she desired. I
noticed a puddle of tears forming on the pavement beneath me. 
Nothing could have prepared me for the next command. "All right,
I suppose that position will do. I would prefer your behind to be
a bit higher, but we won't waste time looking for pillows. Now
reach back and slide your panties down, Jackie." If my mother
hadn't had the good sense to place a forceful hand on the small
of the back as she uttered those words I would have sprung to a
standing position immediately. As it was, my outrage and
disbelief was clear to all. "NO!!!" I shrieked. "Mommy, I refuse!
You can't make me do that in front of everyone! You can't do it
in front of a BOY!!! I won't!! PLEEAASSEE!" The rest of my appeal
was washed out in sobs and tears.  
     But Mother was not to be deterred. "Shut up, young lady.
That simpering is disgusting. Very unbecoming. Reach your little
hands back this instant and pull those trampish panties down or I
will have our guest Edward do it for you!" She knew what buttons
to push, you have to give her that. In two seconds flat my hands
were at the waistband of my panties. I pulled them down, feeling
my stomach wrench as the fabric caught in my rear cleft for a
second and left them at my knees. It's really quite impressive
how tightly a young girl can clench her buttocks and keep her
knees together when she has the proper motivation. I concentrated
on nothing else, doing all I could to minimize my exposure. No
boy had ever seen any part of me naked before, let alone been
presented with a head-on view of my asshole and pussy from
behind, and I intended to aid Edward as little as possible.
     My efforts were short-lived however, as my mother used her
high-heeled shoe to spread my knees about six inches apart. I let
out the first true sob of the afternoon, which turned into
something more like a wail as it trailed off. There was little
doubt now that everyone could see everything. A couple of times
I had "explored" the region now on display, using a hand-held
mirror while in a position quite similar to the one I was now in.
I knew quite well what it looked like and I was dying of shame.
Even looking in the mirror I had felt a bit self-conscious,
feeling that such a view was perhaps so private that even I
shouldn't be looking too closely. 
     My mother was speaking, but I had a hard time focusing on
her words. I knew the lecture was continuing, but the specific
phrases were running together in an indecipherable mush. One
sentence stood out, however: "so, you will get 25 with the
yardstick."
     The second wail leaped out of my mouth unbidden. I had never
had more than 10 before, and I was always a wreck after the first
five. At first I thought I had misunderstood, until one of the
ladies, (what dear, sweet ladies) said she agreed with the
judgement; it was what she would have chosen for her daughter.
Thanks for the second opinion, hag. I took a deep breath and
stared straight down, honing in on an ant which was crossing the
ground beneath me, lugging a piece of biscuit which must have
been at least ten times its weight. I tried to draw strength from
this, but when the first stroke landed, I forgot all about it and
let out a hair-curdling cry. The first one is always bad,
landing, as it does, on virgin skin, with none of the residual
pain from previous blows to lessen its impact.
     My mother was indeed trying to make this quick. Habitually
she went about her punishments as if there were all the time in
the world, pausing now and then to continue the ongoing lecture
or to suggest a readjustment of position. I had even known her to
switch instruments midway through, unhappy with the effects of
the one she had originally selected. On this occasion, however,
she administered each blow in a steady rhythm, allowing about
four seconds between each blow. She worked over my entire butt,
cutting all the way from the top of my crack down to the upper
portion of my thighs. She was skilled (she should have been, with
as much practice as she had had) and I was grateful that each
blow landed flat. Nothing hurts more than the edge of the
yardstick, a fact I discovered during a session with my father --
while remarkably skilled with the belt, he never did master the
art of keeping the yardstick flat.
     By the fifth stroke I was, as I had predicted, a mess. Tears
streamed down my cheeks and I knew snot was joining the flow as
well. My sobs were practically continuous, with only a brief
reprieve when I had to breath. I was bouncing around on the
stool, scraping my knees on the concrete and furthering my
exposure to Edward. Hands clenched tightly in fists, I thought of
nothing but the end. Finally it came. It took me some time to
realize, in fact, that the rain of blows had ceased and gradually
it came to my attention that my mother was speaking once again.
     "What, Jackie. Are you waiting for more? You heard me. Get
to your feet!"
      I obeyed as quickly as possible, though I had to move
slowly: the skin on my ass and thighs felt like they were
tremendously sunburned, and felt as tight as cured leather. I
somehow remembered to cross my hands in front of my crotch as I
stood. Hoping for a little sympathy after all I had been through,
I remained facing away from my mother. Wishful thinking. She told
me to turn -- was I going to tack insolence and disrespect on top
of everything else by turning my back? So I turned. Though I had
my eyes focused on the ground before me, I could see Edward in my
peripheral vision, and felt so weak I could hardly stand as it
sank into me how I must look to him. "Hands at your side,
Missie. I want you to apologize to our guests for causing this
interruption." 
     I pretended not to have heard the first part of her command,
and Mother reached out with the yardstick and slapped at my
hands. So, hands clenched at my sides, my practically bald pussy
shining forth for all to see, I stated that I was very sorry and
that it would never happen again. Mrs. Cooper chimed in that she
should hope not. Edward merely smirked.
     "Ma'am?? Hello. It's $7.03. Do you have the pennies?"
     With a start I realized that I had been standing there with
my hand in my change purse for some time, lost in my own private
world of memories. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and said
I did. I still don't know what it was that got me thinking about
that afternoon, but I'd prefer it doesn't happen again. Some
things are better forgotten.