Brat Boot Camp pt. 5

“I have so many questions to ask you before I go home,” Gracie announced as Sharon stood over a pot of home-made chicken soup in the kitchen.

“Like what?” Sharon asked with a smirk.

“Like, first of all, how did you afford this big of a house? I don’t even know what you do for a living.”

Sharon laughed.

“That’s what you have on your mind, huh?”

“Yes,” said Gracie defensively. “I’m probably going to spend the rest of my life freelancing and couch surfing, so I’d most certainly like to know.”

“I have a degree in botany,” Sharon replied with a smirk. “My parents thought it was the most ridiculous field of study known to humankind, but it turns out that plant research is lucrative enough.”

“Oh,” said Gracie, mulling that information over, “You don’t strike me as much of a tree hugger.” Sharon raised an eyebrow.

“I kind of feel like I’m being insulted,” she replied.

“No, no, just taking it in,” Gracie teased. “Next, do you have kids?”

“They’re in college,” said Sharon flatly. She clearly didn’t plan to divulge too much.

“What about a husband?” Gracie pressed.

“We split up when I came out as a lesbian,” Sharon replied.

“Oh,” said Gracie again.

“Are you done with your tirade of questions, and if so, can we eat in peace? The soup is ready.”

Obediently, Gracie dropped her questions and headed to the kitchen to fill up a bowl for herself. Frankly, Gracie was in a sour mood. She was supposed to go home the next day: home to her sister who had sent her to this boot camp in the first place. But she found herself not wanting to go at all. She wasn’t mad at her sister, she just didn’t want to leave Sharon. She was starting to get attached.

Over the past few days, after Gracie realized how much she liked and needed to be spanked, she had joined an online chat room filled with other spankos. After lunch, while Sharon was doing the dishes, Gracie logged in to the chat room and sent a message to the group under her new alias and typed a message to her new friends.

NEWSPANKO: Ugh. I’m leaving my top today. Well, she’s not my top, just the top who I was staying with for the week. I don’t want to go home though. I like it here with my top. There’s no way my sister and I are going to have the same connection.

HOLLYBRAT: Your boot camp was only a week?! Oh no! I know how hard long-distance can be, but maybe your new top will stay in touch?

NEWSPANKO: Maybe. Unless she takes on a new brat and forgets about me…

WILDCHILD12: Well, I don’t think it would be a good idea for her to send a brat back home to an unsuspecting sister, right?

NEWSPANKO: What do you mean?

WILDCHILD12: I mean… if you were not well behaved, then maybe your top would have to keep you an extra week to make sure the lessons stuck 😉

NEWSPANKO: You mean act out on purpose?

HOLLYBRAT: NO. That is a bad idea. As a friend, I am begging you not to bring the wrath on yourself at the last minute.

WILDCHILD12: I wouldn’t lead you astray.

NEWSPANKO: Let me think about it. I need a plan.

Gracie closed the chat room and considered her options. She could be honest and tell Sharon that she wanted to stay. And yet… she kind of needed an authentic send off spanking, even if the plot to stay another week ultimately failed. Mulling the options over and over, Gracie came to a decision.

She tried to act normal for the rest of the day. She and Sharon went shopping together and bought steaming cups of hot cocoa with a huge dollop of whipped cream. It was a lovely day and Gracie almost scrapped her bratty plan, but she had an itch that she couldn’t scratch unless she gave it a shot.

“I’ll cook dinner tonight since it’s our last meal together,” Gracie offered as they walked back into the cozy warmth of Sharon’s house.

“Are you sure?” Sharon asked skeptically, “I appreciate you doing your share of chores this week, but usually I cook.”

“I can do it,” Gracie grinned mischievously. Not wanting to ruin a perfectly good offer, Sharon agreed and decided to use the extra time to write a letter to Gracie’s sister about her progress over the week. Gracie had done well and Sharon was please and excited to share.

Gracie gathered up some ingredients for dinner. Fresh pasta that Sharon had picked up at an Italian market, a large gleaming ball of mozzarella, even a bottle of red wine. As she cooked, she made sure to leave more of a mess than usual. She took several unnecessarily large gulps of red wine to fortify her confidence.

Brat mode: engaged, Gracie thought to herself with a giggle.

Gracie’s dinner was so delicious that Sharon didn’t even think to mention the mess in the kitchen. She figured they would tackle that together after their meal.

“Thank you for cooking dinner,” Sharon smiled, “You are quite the chef.”

“Thank you,” Gracie replied earnestly.

“Do you think you’ll cook like this for your sister now and then?” Sharon asked.

“She’s gluten free,” Gracie replied flatly.

“That’s not what I meant,” Sharon sighed, “Not pasta specifically, just… anything.”

“My sister doesn’t need me to feed her,” Gracie snarled, “She’s not a dog.”

“Excuse me?” Sharon asked harshly, “I’m not sure I like the attitude you’re giving me right now, especially since your sister is coming to pick you up tomorrow and I told her she’d be meeting a very polite, mature young lady.”

“What, were you going to introduce her to the woman who brings the mail?” Gracie asked sarcastically.

“You are pushing it,” Sharon said firmly. “Is there something you’d like to tell me? Is there something you’re upset about? Are you mad at your sister for sending you here?”

“No!” Gracie shouted quickly, suddenly feeling guilty about the prospect that Sharon would think that she hadn’t enjoyed the week, “No, I like it here.”

“Mhmm,” Sharon replied, her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Ok. Then what has you in such a sour mood?”

“Maybe your little detective act,” Gracie replied, recovering her brat-act quickly, “I heard you were a botanist so no need to interrogate me. Stick to the plants, Shar.”

“We’ll continue this conversation after dinner,” Sharon said evenly. She was not going to be baited by Gracie’s tactics. They finished their last meal together in relative silence, and then Sharon gestured to the kitchen so that Gracie would know it was time to clean up.

“What?” Gracie asked stubbornly.

“It’s time to clean up,” Sharon told her.

“Ok, well good luck in there, captain,” Gracie replied with a mock salute.

“I’ll give you three seconds to get your butt into the kitchen and start cleaning before I lose my cool,” Sharon hissed with a menacing look. “One….. Two…”

“Didn’t know botanists could count so high,” Gracie interjected, throwing her napkin onto the table and walking toward her room.

She hadn’t planned much beyond this. She didn’t know what she was going to do if Sharon just let her walk away. She was equal parts relieved and horrified when she heard Sharon’s swift footsteps following her down the hall. Heart pounding, Gracie picked up the pace and tried to high-tail it into her room before Sharon could reach her. Gracie’s heart wasn’t in it, though, so Sharon quickly caught up and grabbed her firmly by the upper arm, swinging Gracie around and pinning her firmly, but carefully, to the wall. Gracie gave a pathetic, terrified squeak.

“THIS. ACT. ENDS. NOW.” Sharon was staring Gracie dead in the eyes, using her hips to keep Gracie trapped agains the wall and using her hands to pin Gracie’s thin wrists, as well. “You have less than ten seconds to explain why you’re acting like a royal brat. Go.”

“I’m…. I’m not?” Gracie offered pathetically.

“The hell you’re not,” Sharon snapped back. “Your mood darkened out of nowhere right before you’re supposed to head home. If you’re having negative feelings about returning to your sister, by all means, share them. But mouthing off to me and refusing to clean up the mess you made are one-way tickets to pain city.”

“I… I don’t want to go home,” Gracie admitted, a tear escaping her eyes, “And actually I don’t want to go to pain city either,” she added, giving Sharon a pathetic, tearful puppy dog look. Sharon sighed and released her hold on Gracie, pulling her into a hug instead.

“I figured as much,” Sharon whispered into Gracie’s hair as she patted Gracie’s head with surprising gentleness. “Your act was on the obvious side, my dear.”

“Oh,” Gracie mumbled to the floor.

“If you wanted to stay longer, you could have just asked,” Sharon pointed out gently. She placed her hand under Gracie’s chin and lifted Gracie’s head so that their eyes met. “You are a lovely person and I would have said yes in a heartbeat.”

“Really?” Gracie asked, her spirits lifting immediately.

“Yes,” said Sharon earnestly, “But now we have a problem, don’t we? Now I have a little girl who wants to stay with me but who acted very, very poorly in order to prove her point.’

“Right,” Gracie squeaked, shifting from foot to foot. She had thought she wanted one last spanking, but now that it was imminent, she had second thoughts. Sharon had offered to let her stay. That’s all she needed, really. Maybe they could just put on a movie and forget this whole ordeal.

“We’re not just going to put this behind us without a conversation,” Sharon said suddenly, as if she’d read Gracie’s thoughts. “I’m going to call your sister and explain that you’d like to stay. For now, we’ll plan on extending your stay for a week, during which your communication WILL improve, or your bottom will pay a steep price.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie replied instantly.

“And while I’m on the phone with your sister,” Sharon instructed, “You are going to march your behind to your bedroom, undress, and wait for me lying face down on the bed.” Gracie cringed but knew better than to disobey at this point.

“Yes, ma’am,” she repeated.

“Fine. Good girl,” Sharon said, giving her a sharp slap to the buttocks as she scampered off.

Gracie was so excited that she would get to stay that she barely registered how nervous she was for the punishment. She took off her clothes and folded them carefully, and then flopped onto her stomach on the bed. She felt humiliated by her nudity. She squeezed her legs together to avoid putting her most private parts on display, but she had a feeling that her modesty wouldn’t be preserved for long.

When Sharon quietly entered the room to stand at the foot of the bed, Gracie buried her face in the sheets and focused on breathing in and out.

“Have you had enough time to think about why you’re in this… position,” Sharon asked. Her presence was commanding but her tone wasn’t cruel. She sounded businesslike.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie said, “I was disrespectful to you on purpose because I was too chicken to tell you that I didn’t want to leave, which was immature of me and not acceptable.”

“Correct,” Sharon agreed. “All you had to do was have a simple conversation, and instead you insulted me and threw a fit like a child.”

“It won’t happen again,” Gracie promised, lifting her head just enough for her words to be audible.

“No, it won’t,” Sharon said, a hardened edge to her voice. “Are you going to stay very still or should I tie you up a bit?”

“Tie me?!” Gracie exclaimed, “No! No! I’ll stay in place.”

“Very well,” said Sharon skeptically, “We’ll find out.”

The room was silent. Her own breathing was all that Gracie could hear. She heard a soft rattle and the sound of clothing shifting. Was that… Gracie looked nervously over her shoulder. Her fears were confirmed: Sharon had a belt. It came off of Sharon’s belt loops with a barely audible swoosh. Gracie’s face crumpled in horror.

“NOOOO,” Gracie whined, starting to roll over and covering her bottom with her hand, “No, please, don’t hit me with that!”

“You don’t have a choice,” Sharon said with finality. Her face was resolute. Gracie squealed yet again, but she turned back over and waited obediently in position.

“You’re not getting a warm up with my hand,” Sharon explained, “I think you like that a bit too much, and this punishment is for your discipline. You need to learn your lesson. Stay in place or I’ll have to tie you down.” With that, Sharon lifted the end of the belt and brought it down rather softly on Gracie’s rear end. Gracie gave a reactive gasp, but was relieved that it hadn’t hurt as much as she’d feared. Was Sharon going easy on her?

“It’s just a warm up,” Sharon clarified, as if reading Gracie’s mind again. “When I think you’re ready, the punishment will start in earnest.” Gracie groaned internally. It wasn’t bad so far, but she knew it would get there. Surely enough, the soft swipes with the belt picked up in intensity. Her bottom went from slightly tingly to warm to burning in a matter of minutes. After about 15 soft strokes and 15 medium strokes, Sharon knew that it was time to pick up the intensity.

“It burns,” Gracie gasped, staying as still as possible but starting to breathe more heavily.

“You’ll get 15 proper strokes with the belt,” Sharon explained evenly, “Do not reach back or I will start over.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie replied, balling her hands up into fists and praying for it to go by quickly.

“I’m going to put a pillow under your hips so that I can aim better,” Sharon announced. She grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed and used her hands to lift Gracie’s hips. Sharon’s long hair tickled Gracie’s naked back as she leaned over her to position her. Her soft, warm hands on Gracie’s bare hips felt surprisingly erotic. Gracie gave a gasp of surprise.

“Did that hurt,” Sharon asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

“No, sorry,” Gracie said quickly, “I just… I’m fine.”

“Ok,” said Sharon softly, giving Gracie an affectionate pat on her lower back. Gracie’s bottom was still burning, but she couldn’t deny the arousal that shot through her at Sharon’s intimate touch.

“Fifteen strokes,” Sharon repeated firmly, snapping Gracie back into reality. “Count and say thank you after each.”

Gracie nodded her understanding and took a breath. The first stroke felt like fire across her already-sore rear.

“YEEOW!” she yelped, her legs jerking involuntarily. “Fifteen, thank you,” she gasped, “Oh my god that hurts.”

“Fourteen to go, stay in position,” said Sharon mercilessly. The next lash rained down in a different spot on Gracie’s rear but was equally painful.

“Fourteen, thank you,” Gracie hissed. Sharon hadn’t told Gracie to count backwards, but she didn’t argue. There was no need. On the spanking went, each stroke burning across Gracie’s upturned cheeks and lighting a painful fire on her rear.

“Eight, thank you,” Gracie shouted as Sharon continued methodically, giving her hardly any time to recover between strokes.

“Seven, thank you” Gracie shrieked, her breathing growing frantic.

By four, Gracie had started to cry.

“Four, it hurts so bad,” Gracie moaned pathetically. Sharon didn’t say anything about the missing “thank you.” She simply raised the belt and delivered two hard consecutive strokes.

“Three, two, thank youuuu,” Gracie cried.

“Good girl,” Sharon encouraged her, “Last one.”

“ONE,” Gracie shouted, squirming and thrashing but staying in place, “THANK YOU.” She breathed a sigh of relief and cried into the sheets. Sharon put the belt aside and gently rubbed Gracie’s back for a moment. Gracie could tell by her demeanor that they weren’t done.

“Stand up,” Sharon commanded, firmly but kindly. Gracie obeyed. Sharon stood Gracie directly in front of her and looked her in the eyes. Gracie immediately remembered that she was naked and collapsed her body language to try and cover up.

“Stop that,” Sharon ordered. Gracie’s cheeks were starting to become as red as her bottom, but she stayed still.

“Is it over?” Gracie asked.

“No,” Sharon explained, “You’re going to go stand in the corner for a few minutes, and then you’re going to come back over here and resume your position on the bed.” Gracie’s jaw dropped open.

“Your bottom is safe for now,” Sharon promised.

“Then what–” Gracie began to ask.

“Corner,” Sharon repeated, turning Gracie around and landing three sharp, painful smacks on her battered rear end. Desperate to get away, Gracie scampered off to the corner naked and stuck her nose into the crease in the wall. It was nice to have a break for her bum to cool off, no matter what came next. Sharon sat calmly on the bed, admiring Gracie’s figure from behind. Gracie vacillated between feeling embarrassed and feeling curious about what would come next.

“Come back,” Sharon commanded finally. Gracie shuffled back out of the corner and climbed onto the bed as Sharon stood up with the belt in her hand. Gracie didn’t know if she could handle more with the belt, but she knew better than to complain.

“I’m ready,” Gracie announced bravely.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do,” Sharon smiled in amusement.

“The belt again,” Gracie replied, feeling a little confused about what else could be on the horizon.

“Yes, the belt,” Sharon agreed tentatively, “But first, what did you do when I told you it was time to clean up the kitchen?”

“I gave you attitude and said no?” Gracie asked slowly. They had already covered that. Where was this going?

“Mhm,” Sharon drawled, “And then what…”

“I don’t, oh, uhm, I walked away from you,” Gracie said.

“And you won’t be doing that again,” Sharon announced. “I don’t tolerate brats walking away in the middle of a conversation. The first think you need to learn about communication is that you don’t unilaterally decide when a conversation is over. To help you remember, I’m going to give you ten lashes on each foot with the belt. Don’t worry- I won’t swing it as hard as I did with your bottom. I don’t want to injure you. It will be a nice stingy reminder of why you don’t walk away from me. It will feel like a sunburn,” Sharon explained rather clinically.

“Er…” Gracie didn’t know how to react, but she didn’t argue.

“It’s hard to fight your reflexes, so I’m going to put my leg on yours,” Sharon explained. She draped her left leg across Gracie’s calves, her right leg still planted on the ground so that she could balance when swinging the belt. “No need to count this time.”

With that, Sharon grabbed Gracie’s right ankle firmly with her left hand and lifted the end of the belt with her right. She brought the end of the belt down in a short, snappy CRACK. It stung a bit, but wasn’t terribly painful. The pain built gradually as the strikes went on, but it was more of a firm reminder than all-out torture. When she finished with the right foot, she switched to the left.

“You ok?” Sharon asked when she finished.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie replied.

“Great,” Sharon said, “Stand up and get over my lap. We’re going to finish with a hand spanking. I don’t think you’ll like it given that you’re already red and sore, but it will really drive in the message.”

“This is diabolical,” Gracie groaned, but she stood up and draped her naked body over Sharon’s lap anyway. As much as she dreaded more swats, it was nice to be touching Sharon again. The belt allowed for more distance than Gracie liked.

Sharon’s hand spanking was firm, but not as hard as it would be if she hadn’t just taken the belt. Gracie was quite sore and it didn’t take long for her to cry, more from guilt than pain, but the pain was there.

“You will communicate next time,” Sharon announced as she aimed several swat’s at poor Gracie’s sit spots. “If you’re going to stay here, we are not going to have any childish bratting in lieu of adult conversation.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie said, “The message has been duly received.”

“Good,” said Sharon, returning to the backs of Gracie’s thighs for another round of swats. Gracie whimpered and shifted on Sharon’s lap as the fire in her rear built to a peak.

“Please,” she whimpered, “It hurts.”

“Ten more,” said Sharon gently. They weren’t even that hard. Gracie had been good, so Sharon didn’t want to go overboard. She wrapped up the final swats and transitioned fluidly into rubbing Gracie’s bottom, back, and thighs. Her long fingernails ran gently along Gracie’s burning skin, giving her goosebumps as her tears dried and her breathing regulated. As Sharon continued to rub, Gracie’s sense of arousal returned. She let out a barely audible moan and her legs involuntarily parted.

“Miss Sharon?” she gasped.

“Huh?” Sharon asked, “Miss… Sharon? You don’t have to call me that, sweetheart.”

“Ugg, ok, Sharon?” Gracie asked again.

“What is it baby?” Sharon asked patiently.

“I feel…”

“Yes… are you ok?” Sharon asked, pausing her hand on Gracie’s lower back.

“Aroused,” Gracie mumbled, embarrassed at her admission. There was a long silent pause. Sharon finally let out a nervous laugh.

“Oh,” she said uncertainly, “Well, then.”

“I’m sorry,” Gracie replied, closing her legs and trying to curl up into a humiliated ball, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” Sharon kept her hand pressed firmly into Gracie’s lower back so that Gracie couldn’t get up.

“No, sweetheart, you’re fine,” Sharon cooed. “I just hadn’t really planned on, you know, being intimate with you that way. I don’t ever want to abuse my authority that way. Would you like some time to… calm down?”

“No,” Gracie admitted, “I would prefer to… not calm down if you know what I mean.”

“If that’s what you want,” Sharon said slowly and softly, letting her hand drift from Gracie’s bottom to her inner thigh. She continued to rub sensually as Gracie’s thighs spread open again, revealing her wetness and desire.

“I want it,” Gracie assured her, parting her legs further and arching her back, “Please.”

“Mm,” Sharon mumbled softly, letting her finger rise higher on Gracie’s thigh and toward her center.

“Please,” Gracie repeated.

“This isn’t a reward for being a brat,” Sharon whispered as she took Gracie suddenly and possessively with two of her fingers, “We’ll consider it a welcome home present.”

Gracie groaned in ecstasy. It was going to be a good night, after all.

“I like being home with you,” Gracie breathed. And with that, she and Sharon rolled onto Gracie’s small bed just as the sun fell below the horizon. Sometimes, bratting pays off in the end.

Xmas Exchange Story — A Red Christmas

I always dread Christmas, not because I’m a bona fide grinch, but because it involves having to spend time with six older sisters. I often wonder why my parents bothered to pop out a seventh baby when they already had six strong-willed girls. Maybe they were hoping I’d be a boy. Who knows. Although many of my sisters are now married, it’s a tradition to spend Christmas together at our parents’ large home in Eastern Connecticut, just us girls. People find it unusual that my sisters ditch their spouses and children on Christmas. I find it odd, too, and would love for them to be anywhere but home. Seeing as I’m in grad school and have nowhere else to go on Christmas, I’m stuck baking and cleaning with my mom either way. What fun!

Being the youngest sibling does come with a few perks, one of them being that no one grills me about my job prospects or romantic partners (or, ahem, lack of them). With six successful older siblings with kids of their own, the expectations of me are low. Don’t take this to mean that I’m a slouch. I’m certainly not. I’m an excellent student and a frequent volunteer at the hospital. I’ve run multiple marathons and have had a few steady relationships. It’s just nice not to have everyone poking around the details of my life all the time.

The downside is that my siblings have always considered me to be a little wayward; a little spoiled. They like to be, uhm, hands on with disciplining me. They all consider themselves my backup parents or something. Growing up, my prim and proper mother never so much as raised her voice. She wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on me. Her idea of punishment was no shopping for one weekend. My sisters stepped right in with their scolding and, yes, even spanking. Their firmness knows no bounds. I’m not necessarily afraid of them, but being around them as adults makes me feel humiliated. It doesn’t matter how old I get—they will always turn me over their knee if they think I deserve it. Spending time with one or even two of them can be a headache. Spending time with all six is bound to be a butt-ache, if you know what I mean.

On the 24th of December, I take the train from NYC to Connecticut and then take an Uber to my parents’ house. I always show up on Christmas Eve to minimize the amount of time that my sisters have to torture me. Less can be more with family. By the time I roll up, all of my siblings have already arrived. There is a gentle dusting of snow on the ground. I pull my faux-Burberry scarf tightly around my neck and take a deep, cleansing breath before I head inside with my yellow suitcase in tow.

“Ana!!!!” my favorite sister Joy chirps enthusiastically. She dashes to the front door and wraps me in a hug. I love Joy. Her name is appropriate. She is always happy. She is always beautiful. She has wavy blonde hair, big green eyes, and wide hips. Joy always treats me with warmth and kindness, but when you cross her, she’s frightening. Joy gives the best hugs, though. I hug her back and brush some of the rogue snowflakes out of my short brown hair. 

“Hey, did you have a good trip?” my sister Lauren asks, appearing in the foyer to meet me. Lauren is quiet and sweet. She is my second-favorite sibling. That doesn’t mean that she can’t take me to task, but she does it in a sad “I’m very disappointed” kind of what that cuts right to the core. I tell her that my trip was quick and painless and make to enter the house.

There are more hugs and greetings exchanged. My mom makes a show of kissing me and telling me I’m too thin. My dad gives me a shoulder clap.

Besides Joy and Lauren, who are married but don’t have kids of their own, there are my sisters Abigail and Charity. They’re twins with curly hair and wicked laughs. They can be extremely strict and delightfully sarcastic. They both love me, and I love them back, but they do not mess around. They both have kids, which explains why they take no shit. Then there’s Raya. She can either be calm and sweet or stern and intimidating. You never know what you’re going to get. She’s proudly single and very independent. Finally, there’s Gwen. She’s just a couple years older than me, but is often distant and seems wholly unimpressed with me. She’s my least favorite by a mile. It’s a full house. Full of angst, anyway.

After the greetings are done, I head to my childhood bedroom to drop off my things. My bed has a fluffy pink comforter and is against the wall the way it was when I was growing up. I have a rickety old dresser, and my own bathroom where I used to hide by taking a scorching shower when my siblings were irritating me. Kicking off my tall boots and unwinding my scarf, I drop my suitcase and head back into the kitchen where my sisters are chatting and sipping martinis.

“What are you having?” I ask.

“Cranberry orange martinis,” Joy responds with a smirk, “You want one?”

“Maybe she should eat first,” Charity suggest evenly.

“I’m not hungry,” I smile back passive aggressively, “But I’m very thirsty. I’d love one, Joy.”

“Why don’t you have a glass of water?” asks Abigail.

“Girls! Your sister is an adult,” my mom chastises them before I can say anything. I nod in approval and take the martini glass from Joy. I lied when I said I wasn’t hungry, though, so I take a piece of Swiss cheese from my mom’s holiday platter and munch on it while we all catch up.

“We should watch a movie this afternoon,” Joy suggests.

“Home Alone,” Gwen says immediately.

“I don’t want to watch that nasally little kid again,” I groan. “Can we watch an actual comedy?”

“Watching the same thing every year is called a tradition,” Raya snaps.

“You’re a nasally little kid,” Abigail chimes in.

“The only tradition around here is you all being annoying as hell,” I retort.

“Excuse me?” Abigail asks.

“GIRLS!” my mom exclaims. I relent and we watch Home Alone for what feels like the thousandth time. Blissfully, the rest of the afternoon passes without incident. I volunteer to help my mom make our big Christmas Eve dinner so that I can have some peace in the kitchen. I help her whip up deviled eggs, her famous wine-soaked brisket, green bean casserole, and twice baked potatoes. I even do the dishes while my mom and I talk about my grad school program. I’m not the spoiled brat that my sisters seem to think I am, I think to myself with an internal eye roll.

After dinner, we sip on my mom’s famous dark drinking chocolate and make conversation around the fireplace. It almost feels fun, like we’re all normal adult siblings enjoying a conflict-free holiday.  When everyone retires to bed, I pretend to head to my room and then loop back around to the living room. I make my way over to the tree and poke around a bit at the pile of gifts beneath it. I’m not snooping, exactly, but I want to see what I’m up against. I often make my siblings gifts because of the financial constraints imposed by grad school, or I buy them something lame like local honey from a Brooklyn farmer’s market. (Honey isn’t lame, it’s just a lame gift). I start looking at labels on the gifts and shaking them to assess who bought what for who.

“What are you doing?” a voice asks from the darkness behind me. I jump in surprise.

“What the hell! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“I asked what you were doing.” It was Abigail. Fuck. She’s not one to show mercy. “Shaking gifts like you’re a child?” she continued, “What is wrong with you? Mom works so hard to host a beautiful Christmas for all of us and you’re acting like an entitled brat.”

“It’s not like that,” I try to explain.

“Then what’s it like? Tell me,” she crosses her arms and fixes me with a stony stare.

“I… just… I wanted to see… ok, actually it’s sort of what it looks like, but I don’t care about my gifts, I just care about what everyone is getting in comparison to each other.”

Abigail’s face looks even angrier. Oops. That explanation sounded worse. I open my mouth to backtrack but it’s too late.

“Come here,” Abigail commands, beckoning me with a finger. I rise and shuffle over to her, holding my hands up lamely in an act of self-protection. Ignoring that, she grabs my upper arm and spins me around, landing several sharp smacks to my behind.

“Please don’t,” I whine, “Please stop treating me like a baby,” I beg.

“Are you acting like a baby?” she asks incredulously.

“Well…” I trail off. She sort of has a point.

“Go to bed,” Abigail commands.

“Yes… ma’am,” I say softly. At that, she relaxes her grip on my arm and kisses me on the side of the forehead.

“You don’t have to call me ma’am,” she says with an eye roll. She smiles, though, so I know she kind of liked it. I nod and head off for my room.

Idiot, I think, what a dumb idea to shake up the gifts.

I’m still not tired, so I turn on the small tv in my room and watch a movie that is actually good: Christmas With the Kranks. I rest my slipper-sock clad feet on my dresser and try to relax. I am granted five minutes of reprieve before I hear a knock on my door. I sigh and get up from my comfortable position to see who it is. Ugh. Gwen.

“What?” I ask.

“Is that any way to answer your door?” Gwen asks.

“The f*** do you want?” I ask in exasperation.

“I can’t sleep with you listening to that movie on full volume,” she says with a raised eyebrow, indicating her displeasure with my curse word. “Turn it down.”

“K,” I say, swinging the door shut in her face. She immediately pushes it back open.

“Do you need an attitude adjustment?” she growls threateningly.

“No, go to bed, please,” I say, my voice softer this time.

“Ok,” she says, her voice softer, too, “Good night.”

Gwen retreats down the hall and I go back to watching my movie. After another thirty or so minutes, I decide to go grab myself another drink to enjoy while I watch. It’s the holidays, after all. I head to the kitchen and take out my mom’s cocktail shaker, then I poke around the liquor cabinet to see what I can mix up.

“Are you making a drink?” The voice makes me jump… again.

“CHARITY! What is up with all of you sneaking up on me. GO AWAY.”

“I wanted a glass of water,” she explains defensively, “I don’t think you need to be drinking by yourself at 10:30 pm.”

“Sorry the rest of you go to bed at grandma hours,” I say. “Some of us aren’t ancient and have lives.”

Charity doesn’t take the bait. She simply walks over to me and stands directly in front of me, her face inches from mine.

“Want to try that again?” she asks menacingly.

“I’m going to bed,” I sigh, abandoning the cocktail shaker and trying to walk around her. She grabs my arm and stops me.

“If you need a spanking to remind you how to behave in this house, I’m happy to oblige.”

“I don’t need a spanking and none of you need a power trip,” I tell her. She gives me five sharp smacks to my rear end.

“Don’t test me,” she says evenly, “You won’t like the result. Go.”

Seething, I head for my room. I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours and I’m ready to blow a gasket. I think about slamming my door but stop myself at the last minute. Not worth the trouble.

In the morning, I wake up with a new strategy. It’s Christmas. I’m going to cling to my mother, or my father, in the hopes that my siblings won’t try to dominate me in front of them. They never do. They know better. Emerging from my room in a puffy vest, I make a beeline for the coffee pot. My granny sisters are already up. I look around for my mother as I grab a ceramic mug.

“Where’s mom?!” I ask.

“They want to church,” Joy replies, “We’re going to open gifts when they get home.” I seethe at not having been invited to church. I don’t like to go, but I do like to get away from my sisters, who typically don’t go. I don’t show my annoyance. I take my coffee cup calmly to the table and sit down to drink.

“Are you going to eat breakfast?” Abigail asks.

“Are you the calorie police these days?” I ask back.

“It’s not good to drink coffee on an empty stomach,” Lauren smiles, always one to be kind.

“I’ll eat breakfast in a few minutes, officer. Let me wake up.” I give Abigail a mock solute and she sets her jaw with a deadly stare.

“Someone’s brave,” Gwen chimes in.  

“Let me guess—is it me? Because six-on-one makes all of you useless cowards.”

There are some raised eyebrows, but luckily they don’t respond.

“I’m going to make another pot of coffee,” suggests Joy to break the tension.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” I said, suddenly getting a devious idea. “I’m sorry I was so rude.” I offer a fake smile and retreat to the kitchen. Giggling to myself, I brew a pot of coffee and add copious amounts of salt. I grab my mother’s serving tray and pile it up with cups. I fill my own mug with water to avoid arousing suspicion. I then return to the dining room, thinking that they’re lucky it wasn’t full of laxatives. The thought almost makes me burst out laughing again, but I contain myself.

“Here you go, princesses,” I say, setting down one mug in front of each person. “Let’s do a toast!” We don’t normally do coffee toasts, but it’s the only way I can get them to sip at the same time.

“Someone’s trying to make up for her bad behavior this morning,” Gwen jabs.

“Anyway,” I say, raising my own mug of water up, “To my lovely older sisters, who are always here to guide me. Merry Christmas.” With that, everyone raises their mugs and then takes a swig of coffee. As I watch their faces contort in horror, I can’t stop the laughter exploding from within.

Joy and Charity spit the coffee out immediately. Lauren gags and retches. I hope she doesn’t vomit on mom’s table. Everyone starts panicking, scrubbing their tongues and running to the kitchen for water. I roll off of my chair and laugh until I’m aching.

“ANA WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Abigail screams.

“I almost threw up,” says Lauren, looking almost angry.

Charity doesn’t say anything. She marches over to me and grabs me by the ear.

“OWWWW,” I protest, “Charity stoooop.”

“You pushed too far,” she tells me sternly, “I think you need that reminder we talked about last night. Good thing your mom isn’t home. We need a little sister time, if you know what I mean.” I try to get away from her, but her evil twin Abigail has jumped in to help. Between the two of them, they wrestle me down onto the couch and start pulling my leggings off. I kick and trash, but Joy jumps in and helps them, too.

“E tu, Brutus?” I ask.

“Funny girl,” says Joy, her usual friendly demeanor turned stern. I’m screwed.

After my pants are removed, Charity wrestles me onto her lap. Abigail grabs a fist full of my hair to pull me into place. Joy sits down next to Charity and holds my legs so that I can’t move. I’m completely immobilized. Wasting no time, Charity starts to spank me over my underwear. I try to wiggle, but I can’t get away. She is spanking hard and fast with no warm up.

“Please, it was a joke,” I try begging, “Please I’m too old for this.”

“But apparently not too old for stupid pranks,” Abigail hisses into my ear. “Hold still.” I suddenly feel a bit afraid. There are six of them and I’m all alone. This is not going to go well. Charity is still spanking my bottom, and starts adding in smacks to the tops of my thighs. My breathing quickens and I feel myself starting to sweat under my vest. Charity takes a pause, but not to give me any relief. She’s only paused so that she can pull off my underwear. I grunt in humiliation and feel myself start to cry. She doesn’t respond.

My bottom is on fire but Charity resumes her spanking vigorously on the bare. Abigail mercifully loosens her grip on my hair. She leaves her hand on the back of my head, but it’s almost gentle now, reassuring. I reach out and rest my left hand on Abigail’s knee. I’m distressed now and desperate for connection. She places one of her hands over mine. In this moment, I love this evil twin.

“Can you go get the hairbrush?” she asks Lauren. Her voice is soft, though, less angry than before.

I hear Lauren’s footsteps recede and then return. I tense in anticipating as Charity thanks her and takes the brush. There is no lecture. Charity simple pulls me closer and brings the brush down on my already-tender sit spots. I yowl in pain.

“Please, I get your point, please stop,” I beg.

“You’re getting 100 with the brush,” she says, still sounding annoyed with me. My face burns with embarrassment. Three of my sisters are holding me down and the other three are watching like it’s some sort of sick show. As the brush falls again and again, I forget my embarrassment and focus on the pain. I’m openly sobbing now, limp over Charity’s lap. When she finishes with the brush, the entire room is silent other than my ragged breathing and sobbing.

“You’re going to stand up and go to the corner,” Charity explains very calmly, her voice finally losing its edge. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I sob back instantly.

“Good girl,” she says affectionately, helping me to stand up on wobbly legs. She takes my hands and looks at me. “We’re not quite done,” she says, wiping up my tears, “But it’s going to be okay.” I nod submissively and head over to the dreaded corner, opposite my mom’s large Christmas tree.

In the corner with my bottom on display, my breathing slows down. My rear is on fire, but I feel oddly calm. It feels almost like balance has been restored to our family unit. I feel childlike in a welcoming way now. The bitterness and tension has abated. I can hear my sisters talking quietly behind me, milling about, probably enjoying the view victoriously.

 I’m still crying a bit when Gwen and Joy come to collect me from the corner.

“You’re lucky that we’re not going to pour salt down your throat,” says Joy with a pointed look, “But you are going to get a mouth soaping.”

“I suggested hot sauce,” Gwen points out with a dirty look, “But luckily for you, mom has none in the kitchen.”

“I’m sure I can pick it up if we have any more problems,” Charity promises.

Joy gives my hand a squeeze and pulls me toward the nearest bathroom. She sits me down on the toilet seat and I wince when my sore bottom touches it. Gwen lathers up a bar of soap and then grabs my chin and commands me to open. I oblige. The bitterness of the soap is always a shock. I gag immediately as a rogue drop of soapy water slides down my throat. In fact, I can’t stop gagging. It’s awful. Gwen sets an iphone timer for 4 minutes. I try to breath. Tears start anew. I don’t move a muscle in the hopes that I can zone out and survive until the timer chimes.

“Spit but don’t rinse,” Joy commands when the timer goes off. I spit as hard as I can but I can’t get enough of the soap out of my mouth to make a difference. I keep gagging.

“Please,” I beg pathetically, “Please… water.” I start sobbing again. My cheeks are raw from all of the tears falling. Joy wraps me into a hug but doesn’t change her mind.

“After we chat, sweetie,” she promises. I nod into her chest to let her know that I accept. She leads me back out to the living room and sits me down on the couch. She sits on my left side, and Lauren takes the spot to my right. They both stroke my hair and rub my arms, whispering into my ear to calm me down. Charity crouches down in front of me and places her hand gently on my right knee.

“I know you didn’t like that,” she says softly. She offers me her first smile of the day. “Just breathe,” she instructs patiently. She takes a few deep breaths and I match my breathing to hers. She rubs my knees and waits until I’m calm.

“We don’t do this to torture you,” Abigail says as the three sisters closest to me try to calm me down. “Mom never gave you the slightest bit of discipline growing up. We know you’re an amazing woman. Smart, spunky, nice, hard working. It’s not about that. We think that you can use some structure and physical discipline in spite of how amazing you already are. We can see how much it centers you, even when you pretend to hate it.” I nod, agreeing with her in spite of how sore I am and the icky taste in my mouth.

“Do you agree?” asks Lauren softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Yes—yes, ma’am,” I reply quietly.

“Good girl,” says Gwen.

“The salt thing is going to be funny in like three years,” Raya points out good-naturedly. “But we’re not going to let you subvert the power dynamic here. You need us to keep you in your place. And we love you, so we’re going to give you what you need.” I keep nodding, suddenly too tired to talk even though we just got up.

“You know we love you?” Charity asks.

“Of course,” I assure her, “I love you, too.”

“Let’s get you some water,” says Joy, guiding me to the kitchen and allowing me to rinse at last. I shudder in relief. Joy hands me my leggings and I pull them up. The fabric hurts my bottom a little bit, but I’m glad to have some semblance of modesty back.

“Mom should be home in twenty minutes,” Charity points out, glancing at the clock. “Why don’t you take a quick nap and then we can celebrate Christmas.” She opens her arms and lets me come in for a hug. I do so gladly.

Lauren comes to my room with me and snuggles me while I rest my eyes. I remember suddenly how much my sisters really do love me, much more than they want to dominate me.

I wake up when my parents are home and we huddle around the tree to open gifts. My sisters love my artisanal honey, after all. I love their gifts, too. It was a Merry Christmas after all.  

A Sobering Experience

Let’s just say that ballerinas don’t typically know how to “cut loose.” Most of my friends in high school spent most of their free time in the studio, and no one gave a second thought to going to a party. Needless to say, college was eye opening for me. I was dazzled by the way that crowds thumped to blaring rap and electronica, the way that drinks were poured generously among strangers, and the sexually charged energy and desperation of sleepless and overworked college students ready to let loose. I loved the way that alcohol made my skin prickle, and the warm, giggly feeling that filled my body when I’d had just enough.

Everyone in college drinks, age aside, so I never really worried about getting caught. Of course, I’m pretty risk averse, but I had only heard of a couple people getting the dreaded “MIP” on campus, so it wasn’t a justified fear. One night, though, I was invited to an off-campus party hosted by some guys from my university’s music department. They lived in a fairly small house, and it was absolutely packed wall-to-wall with theater, dance, and music, and art students. I’d had a rough week with dance and my other academic courses, so I was definitely ready to drink the night away. Three cups of spiked punch later, I was flirting with a hot dark-haired art student, playfully asking if I could borrow his beanie. Truth be told, I was still a virgin and was increasingly worried that I wasn’t attracted to men at all. But when I was just drunk enough, I could almost convince myself that I wanted to…


I was interrupted from my flirting when I heard the unmistakable cry of, “Police! Open up!” The eyes of one of the hosts went wide, and suddenly the previously buzzing room fell into silence. I could still feel the music pumping downstairs, but upstairs the boys were frantically turning off lights and hiding jugs of punch. As the officers knocked, a full-blown party tried to disappear on itself. The scene struck me as a little silly. I mean, there were already two officers at the door and they had now been waiting for an uncomfortably long time. The knocking was getting louder still, and I wondered when the music bros would lose their front door by having it kicked in. Not a pretty thought in January.

“Go into the bedroom!” one of the music students shouted, clearly agitated, “turn the lights off and be quiet.” Growing nervous, I followed along. They shoved the sweaty male guests and now-sniffling females into bedrooms. I curled up on the hardwood floor and hugged my knees into my chest. Beanie dude had disappeared. A girl from the theater department was sitting next to me and she looked like she was about to cry. Predictably, it only took a few minutes for one of the stern looking female officers to appear at the bedroom window. Even though it was January, the window was open because it was so damn hot in the packed house. The officer’s face was narrowed into a threatening stare, and her flashlight was pointed directly at us.

“They’re hiding in the bedroom!” she called to the other officer, “come out right now or you’re all getting MIPs” she shouted. Fck. I couldn’t get an MIP. The dance program would be furious. My parents would be furious. Hands shaking, I tried to think fast. The boys were intent on leaving the door locked. They were frantically milling about the living room mumbling about their rights and which of them should call their lawyer parent. Slowly, I arose and walked toward the front door. They had locked it and put a chair in front of it. Idiots.

“I’m going home,” I announced, and I walked out into the night before they could stop me. I left the door open and slowly approached the two angry-looking female officers. I was suddenly very skeptical about my plan, mostly because I didn’t have one. “I opened the door!” I squeaked, gesturing to the obviously opening door and then waiting for one of them to speak. The officer who had been at the window spoke first.

“What is this? Who is hosting this party?” she demanded to know. I didn’t know if I should sell the music boys down the river, so I prevaricated.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, “I don’t actually know because the thing is, I was invited by a friend of a friend.” She stared back in silence. I was telling the truth, technically ish. I knew the names of the boys who rented the house, but I didn’t know them personally, and had been invited by a mutual friend.

“Do you have an ID?” she asked. My heart dropped. I didn’t want to get punished with an MIP just because I opened the door.

“No,” I lied. I had my student ID, but I wasn’t about to fork it over just like that.

“You don’t have ANY type of ID on you?” she snapped incredulously, “what if something happened to you?”

“I have my dorm key,” I offered strategically, “that has my picture on it. I just don’t bring a wallet with a formal ID, so to speak, because I don’t want it to get stolen or whatever.” That part was true. Actually, I didn’t know if I had an ID. I was drunk, and quite frankly, I was getting really cold since I had taken a cab and not bothered to bring a coat. The other officer seemed to feel bad for me.

“Let’s let her go home,” she suggested, approaching the house to deal with the real issue. There were already a few students trying to sneak out windows or the front door, so the nice officer turned their attention away from me.

“Fine. Go home. Get out of here,” the less-nice officer nodded curtly. I nodded with tears in my eyes and turned to scuttle away. “Wait!” she said, and my heartbeat picked back up. “You don’t have a coat or proper ID. How are you going to get back to your dorm?”

“I don’t know, Ma’am.”

“Can you please wait? You’re not in trouble. I’ll drive you home once we address the situation here.” She seemed calm and sincere enough, so I nodded. It was starting to snow again, and honestly, I didn’t know my way home anyway. We were deep in a residential neighborhood, and it would take nearly an hour to get a cab at this point. After 30 minutes or so, the officers emerged from the house and my new friend gestured to her car. I followed her, pausing slightly when I got to the front doors.

“I’ve never, you know, uh, been in a cop car before,”  I said lamely, “should I sit in front?”

“Unless you’d rather sit in the back with cuffs on.” She hopped into the driver’s seat and buckled up. I slipped in and sat silently beside her, my hands in my lap and my eyes wide.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, “about them locking the door. That was lame. Thanks for, you know, all you do and thanks for the ride and stuff and I’m sorry if you’re mad at me.” My pitiful word vomit seemed to soften her.

“It’s ok, kid,” she said finally, “Just be careful when you go to parties. You had no idea whose house you were at. You don’t have an ID. I’ve seen a lot of bad things happen to kids when alcohol is involved, and I can say that getting an MIP is the least of your concerns.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed demurely.

“If you were my daughter,” she emphasized, “I would be livid about that behavior. I would spank the living daylights out of my daughter, even if she was in college.” I gulped.

“My parents never spanked me,” I offered, “When they’re disappointed, I just get the silent treatment for a while. That’s why I didn’t want to get in trouble tonight. It’s awful when they’re upset with me.” I looked down at my hands. “But if it makes you feel better, like technically just to clarify, I did sort of know whose house it was, and I had my student ID.” I held my breath after letting my confession out.

“I’m sorry to hear about your parents,” the officer said, “It can really hurt to not be forgiven. I believe in dishing out a stern spanking, but then accepting the apology and moving forward with a clean slate. I think it allows everyone to feel better moving forward. But given the fact that you were drinking underage AND you lied, let’s just say that your punishment would leave no doubt about how much trouble you were in.” We were already pulling up near my dorm, so the officer slowed the car down and threw it into park. She placed her hand on my arm and said gently, “You know, you’re really lucky that you didn’t get in trouble or get hurt tonight.” I nodded solemnly. “You seem like you feel pretty guilty and crappy,” she pointed out, “so if you want, I can give you the same type of spanking that I’d give my own daughter, and then you can wake up tomorrow and start fresh.” My eyes went wide at the proposition. I was incredibly nervous, but I also thought about how nice it would feel to have someone actually care enough to mete out discipline. Ever since college, I felt like I didn’t have a lot of direction. My dance professors were tough but not necessarily personable, and my parents barely had time to talk to me.

“Ok,” I said slowly, “I’ll let you spank me.” My hands were shaking a little bit, but I knew that I needed something to make the guilt go away. The officer moved the car to a dark, empty parking lot across from the dorm and relocated to the back seat. I followed compliantly and waited for instructions.

“Ok honey,” she said softly, “I’m going to lay you across my knees and pull your skirt up, ok?” I nodded shyly and let her grab my hand and lead me across her lap. As promised, she pushed my tight black mini skirt up to reveal my bare bottom. My black thong provided no protection, but at least it left me with a little modesty. The officer rubbed my cheeks with her hand for a moment. “I never got your name,” she pointed out.

“Shae,” I answered.

“Ok, Shae. I’m going to give you, say, ten swats for each offense. Ten for drinking underage, ten for not bringing a real ID, ten for barely knowing whose party it was, and ten each for lying about the ID and who owned the house. Oh, and ten for skimping on a jacket. That’s only sixty, ok? That should be a good first spanking.”

“Well… ok… but do I get a reward for being the person to open the door? And I feel like that’s double dipping, punishing me for lying about the ID but also for the ID, right?” I asked hopefully.

“You don’t get an award for doing the right thing,” she said carefully, “but you can know that I’m proud of you, ok? And as for the lying, that’s intolerable. You still didn’t have proper ID and I’m not convinced that you were aware of your surroundings. So no, not double dipping.”

“Ok, Ma’am.”

With that, the officer got to work on my bottom. It may have only been 60 swats, but she had significant arm strength and made them count. Plus, my poor bottom was cold and sensitive from the winter air! The first ten made me hiss and wiggle in pain, the next ten had me audibly crying out. “I’ll add on if you don’t stop wiggling,” the officer said flatly. I took a deep breath and pleaded with my legs and hips to stop thrashing about. She applied ten swats in a row to my sensitive right sit-spot, then moved on to the left. The final twenty swats were peppered along my lower bottom and upper thighs. When the officer finished, I let out a sigh of relief. I was sniffling a little, so she helped me sit up and pulled me into a hug. “Good girl,” she praised, “you took that well.”

“I won’t let this all happen again,” I promised solemnly.

“Good. I’ll be looking for your name at the station, and you won’t like what a repeat offense punishment feels like,” she said with a smile and a wink, “Now go inside, have a large glass of water, and get some sleep.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said dutifully, pulling away from her hug and wiping off the last of my tears. Before I exited the vehicle, I turned around and asked for her name.

“Officer Black,” she said, pointing to her badge, “which is the color your bottom might be if you don’t take it inside in the next five seconds.” With a mock salute, I dashed out of the vehicle and into my dorm. By the time I had poured myself a cup of water, I realized that I wasn’t feeling buzzed in the slightest anymore. Man, I thought, nothing like a bare bottom spanking to sober you right up!