Brat Boot Camp

Gracie dragged her duffel bag lazily through the wisps of snow still gently layering the cracked sidewalk. She stared up in disdain at the beautiful gothic-style house in front of her. It was three stories tall with with dark windows and adorned with gas lamps. By all accounts, it was beautiful. Gracie, however, did not want to be here. She had been signed up for a programme against her will in which young girls and boys went to live with a strict same-gender caretaker for the week in order to (ostensibly) learn discipline and respect. Gracie used to watch the World’s Strictest Parents t.v. show and make fun of all of the loser teens on the show and the nerdy families who took them in. This was different. Brat Boot Camp was for older brats– those in college and even beyond. Anyone could nominate you for Brat Boot Camp, including a parent, a boss, a lover, a friend, or even yourself. Gracie was 27 and still living with her older sister, who had nominated her for the program given that Gracie still spent most of her time drinking and mouthing off when she wasn’t working on her journalism degree.

Gracie wrapped her thin cardigan more tightly around her shoulders. It wasn’t quite so cold in her hometown, and she had left in a torrent of curse words when her sister tried to force her to pack a warmer jacket. With a hesitant sigh, Gracie raised her fist and knocked. She listened intently for sound on the other side of the massive door. Eventually, she heard a calm voice announce “coming,” followed by the door opening with a soft swoosh. Standing in front of Gracie was a woman who looked to be about 40 years old. She was only slightly taller than Gracie, but had a wider build with curvy hips and ample breasts. She had long curly hair and deep green eyes. Gracie could’t be more opposite with her stick straight figure, long black hair, and dark almond-shaped eyes.

“You must be Gracie. I’m Sharon,” the woman announced, her tone polite and pleasant.

“Nice to meet you,” Gracie replied, letting her heavy duffel bag fall to the ground and kicking the snow off of her black army-style boots.

“Why don’t you come in and get settled, and then we can talk about the house rules,” Sharon suggested, sizing Gracie up silently as she slipped off her cardigan.

“Uhm. Ok. Guess you don’t waste any time,” Gracie said, suddenly annoyed and uneasy. “I haven’t fucking taken my shoes off but sure, let’s talk about everything I’m not allowed to do this week. Awesome.”

Sharon knew better than to take the bait. She raised her eyes and crossed her arms, casually leaning against the wall in front of Gracie.

“Well first of all,” said Sharon firmly, “You won’t be talking to me like that at all this week. It’s completely unacceptable. You’re a grown woman. I don’t actually care if you curse. But you aren’t going to curse at me, and you aren’t going to give me that sort of attitude again. You can apologize and then express yourself more maturely if you have a concern about what I’m telling you to do.”

Gracie couldn’t argue with the logic. She had sort of gone off for no reason. But, on the other hand, how goddamn annoying that this woman was already talking about rules before Gracie had taken more than one step into the house. Like she already thought Gracie was going to be a fuckup before she had even opened her mouth. Gracie’s stubborn side prevailed again.

“Sorry you’re annoying,” Gracie said dryly.

Sharon’s expression remained unchanged.

“Ok,” Sharon said casually, shrugging her shoulders and giving a slight smirk. “When you’re ready to come into the house, you can apologize. Until then, we can stand here all night. I ate a late lunch. I’ll be fine.” With that, Sharon settled into her comfortable position against the wall.

Gracie bit her lip, unsure of what her next move should be. She crossed her arms as well and simply stared back at Sharon in silence. It felt like they had been staring at each other for 10 minutes, but it had probably barely been one. It was already uncomfortable. Gracie rolled her eyes and tried to find something on the ceiling to stare at. She focused on breathing in and out slowly. Tick, tock, tick tock. Seconds felt like minutes. Time dragged on. Sharon didn’t budge.

“Pick up your duffel bag,” Sharon finally said softly.

Relieved that she had won the standoff, Gracie scooped her duffel bag up and looked at Sharon expectantly, waiting to be shown to her room for the week.

“Oh, you can keep standing there,” Sharon clarified. “I just don’t want your crap all over my floor. Your bag is wet from the snow. You’ll hold it until you apologize, and then we can go to your room and put it down.”

Gracie stared at her incredulously. This was not going to happen. Gracie put the bag on the floor defiantly.

“Oh no,” said Gracie, “I’m not standing here holding my fucking bag. It’s heavy!”

“Two choices,” Sharon stated, still calm as ever. “Hold your bag, or I’ll take it and lock it in my room and you won’t see your belongings for the rest of the week.”

“So I’ll walk around naked all week?” Gracie asked sarcastically.

“We’ll manage,” said Sharon, again refusing to take the brat bait.

Not knowing what else to do, Gracie shifted her bag into a more comfortable position on her shoulder and resumed her silent staring routine. She had spent all day walking around an airport. Her feet were tired and her shoulder was already aching from the strap of her bag. Setting her jaw in a firm line, Gracie vowed to persevere. This lady would have to give up eventually.  Several more minutes ticked by. Gracie was too embarrassed to shift the bag around– she didn’t want to show that she was struggling. But damn, her shoulder was really starting to ache. Another few minutes went by before Gracie felt herself slowly going crazy from the silence and the pain in her shoulder.

Gracie dramatically let the bag fall to the floor and then sat her body on top of it and buried her head in her hands.

“You’re crazy,” Gracie announced, looking up at a somewhat amused Sharon. “You’re literally insane. You can’t have my bag and I’m not fucking standing here holding it all day either.”

Without saying anything, Sharon crouched down next to Gracie. Carefully, she reached around and pinched the skin on Gracie’s side directly under her left ribcage. She didn’t pinch hard, but it was enough to make Gracie yelp in pain and fall backwards off the duffel bag. Sharon then yanked the duffel bag off the ground and retreated silently into the house.

“STOP, WHAT THE FUCK,” Gracie shouted, wondering if she should follow Sharon, but being suddenly unsure of whether she dared to push the boundaries further. It wasn’t going well. Sharon was gone for a few minutes. Gracie could hear footsteps going up the stairs and coming back.

“Now,” said Sharon with a tired sigh as she appeared back in the entryway of the house, “Are you ready to apologize and come sit down inside, or are we going to keep digging a deeper hole?”

“You took my bag,” Gracie stated with a slight pout.

“Like I said I would, yes” Sharon nodded. “You’ll get your things back when you show me that you can behave. Right now, I just want an apology for how you spoke to me almost 45 minutes ago. We can waste all evening with us just standing here for all I care, but I will get an apology.”

Gracie desperately wanted to break, but Sharon’s cockiness was grating on her. She thought she was going to dominate Gracie that easily. She thought wrong.

“Can we compromise and I apologize after dinner?” Gracie asked, hoping to gain any ground she could.

“Uhm… no,” said Sharon with the pretense of thoughtfulness. “You can apologize in the next two minutes or you can go stand on the porch in the cold until you change your mind. I’m counting.”

“You can’t make me stand outside,” Gracie whined, “I’ll get sick. I have no jacket!”

“Not if you apologize you won’t,” Sharon suggested. “You control how long you’ll be out there. Or you can apologize now and stay inside here.”

“Ok, ok,” Gracie relented finally, remembering how the bitter cold felt against her skin through the thin cardigan. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It won’t happen again.”

Gracie still felt annoyed but hoped that her apology was genuine enough. In response, Sharon gave her a smile and stepped aside to let her in.

“It’s going to be a long week if everything is that difficult,” Sharon said simply, retreating into her spacious living room and settling on the couch.

Gracie didn’t reply. She just followed Sharon silently and settled into a recliner across from her.

“I’d like to know a little more about you,” Sharon said softly after a long, silent pause. “The email that I got didn’t say much. Where are you from. What’s going on?” Gracie crossed her arms and looked down at the soft cream-colored carpet. “Uh..,” she mumbled, “I live in Alexandria, Virginia. I live with my older sister, Charity. She’s a veteran and she works for the government doing drug enforcement. I’m going to school to be a journalist. I don’t go to campus that much though. I do fine in school, I guess, but I don’t do very well working within a hierarchy. I want to freelance so that I can be my own boss. But right now I don’t necessarily make money so that’s why I live in my sister’s condo. That’s pretty much it.”

“And why did your sister think you needed to fly halfway across the country and spend a week with me?”

“As you can see, I can be a little stubborn. I don’t do well with authority. I don’t disagree that I’m a bit of a brat. And I supposed I’m old enough to start taking responsibility,” Gracie offered, her voice barely audible on the last few words.

Sharon and Gracie spent time talking and getting to know one another. Gracie actually found Sharon to be pleasant and funny when she wasn’t making her stand in a doorway holding a heavy object. The house rules were simple enough: clean up after yourself, tell the truth, do what you’re told, respond with “yes, ma’am” or “no, ma’am,” don’t talk back, no electronics after midnight, no sleeping in past 10am, and no drugs or cigarettes. This was all doable for Gracie. She wasn’t a smoker, and she wasn’t one to sleep in too late anyway. Maybe the week wouldn’t be as terrible as she thought.

“There’s one more thing,” Sharon added slowly. Gracie’s enthusiastic nodding ceased on a dime.

“Ok… shoot,” Gracie said with suspicious narrowed eyes.

“If you break a rule or you are acting like a disrespectful brat, you’re going to be treated like one,” Sharon explained. “I’m not going to make you stand in the doorway again, but there will be a consequence and you won’t like it. Namely, you’re going to be spanked. You might also be sent to the corner, or made to write lines, or I might soap your mouth out for backtalk. I could take away privileges like your phone or even your right to pick your own clothes. We can have earlier bedtimes. The possibilities are endless, but I do believe in corporal punishment and you should basically know that if you act like a child, you’ll be treated like one.”

Gracie went pale. “Spanking?” she repeated simply, ignoring everything that had come after that dreaded word.

“Yes, spanking,” Sharon echoed calmly. “I’m not going to beat you, but a spanking is going to hurt. We’ll talk about what happened, and then you’ll bend over and I’ll spank your bare bottom with my hand, or possibly something like a hairbrush or belt if that’s necessary to get the point across.”

“Ohmygosh that’s so embarrassing,” Gracie whined with her mouth agape.

“I imagine so, yes.”

Gracie nodded feebly and chose to keep her other questions to herself. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

After having some time to settle in, Gracie met Sharon in the dining room. Sharon had made a vegetarian lasagna and a salad for dinner. Gracie thanked her host for cooking and dug in happily, the two women talking about travel, journalism, pets, and everything in between. They were talking like two old friends and Gracie felt perfectly at ease. As dinner wrapped up, Sharon begin to gather up the plates.

“You are going to help with the dishes,” Sharon announced.

“Ok!” Gracie replied enthusiastically, hoping that she could build goodwill to protect her from the humiliation of a spanking if she slipped up later. “But I’ve never done them before so I don’t know how,” she announced with wide eyes.

Sharon dropped her chin and fixed Gracie with a serious stare.

“So you have never helped your sister clean up at home?” Sharon demanded.

“No,” Gracie mumbled, losing confidence in her newfound chore enthusiasm.

“Ok,” Sharon replied firmly, “We are going to have a lot to learn this week! I’ll help get you started and you can finish the rest. You just have to prewash them before putting them in the dishwasher. Tomorrow maybe we can work on laundry and dusting.”

“What fun Saturday,” Gracie moaned miserably.

With one sudden, sharp swat to Gracie’s behind, Sharon pointed toward the kitchen and Gracie ran off to do her job.

The rest of the evening proceeded normally. Gracie helped with cleanup, and then she and Sharon shared a glass of wine and a bowl of chocolate ice cream over a documentary. The two women did have a lot in common (their love for documentaries, the obsession with sweets at the end of the day, passion for protecting the environment, and they both loved going to hatha yoga). If Sharon wasn’t so bossy, Gracie thought, they could be best friends. It was nearly 11:30pm when Sharon finally turned the t.v. off.

“You have 30 minutes to get all of the texting and web surfing out of your system,” Sharon stated with a yawn, “Then you can either read in your room or get some sleep. But we’re getting up and doing chores tomorrow, so I don’t recommend being up all night. I’m going to my room to read, but bring me your phone by midnight, ok?”

“Why can’t my phone stay in my room overnight. I won’t use it,” Gracie pouted pathetically.

Sharon grabbed Gracie’s chin and looked her directly in the eyes.

“Little girl,” she said firmly, “When I tell you something, it’s an order, not an argument. I think you need to try a “yes, ma’am” and an apology for pouting.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry,” Gracie relented quickly, “But can I please have pajamas and my tooth brush out of my bag?”

“Hmm,” Sharon smiled playfully, “Well hygiene is important so you can definitely have your toothbrush. But it’s pretty warm in here, so I don’t think you need pajamas. Maybe you can earn your pajamas and a couple of outfits back tomorrow by behaving all day.”

“YOU CANNOT MAKE ME WALK AROUND NAKED,” Gracie shrieked. “Oh my gosh, please, at least just a sleep shirt,” she begged.

Sharon raised her eyebrows and said nothing. Gracie bit her lip and stared back in terror. This woman was a brick wall. She was getting nowhere with her.

“Grab your brush and get your phone to me by midnight,” Sharon instructed, patting Gracie’s knee affectionately.

Frowning, Gracie disappeared to Sharon’s bedroom and found her bag in the corner. She whipped out her toothbrush and toothpaste, and then silently listened to see where Sharon was. She could hear her washing the wine glasses and bowls in the kitchen. Slowly unzipping the main compartment of her bag, Gracie snuck out a clean t shirt and tucked it under the shirt she was wearing. She would put it on to sleep in and take it off before heading down to breakfast in the morning. Smiling at how easy it was to sneak one past Sharon, she brushed her teeth and took a long, hot shower. Wrapping herself in a towel, Gracie combed out her long, dark hair and applied some lotion to her face and arms. When it was 11:58, Gracie scooped up her cell phone and padded toward Sharon’s room. She was still wrapped in a towel.

Sharon was sitting on her bed, thin reading glasses balanced gently on her nose. She looked up at Gracie and gave her a small smile. Gracie handed over her cell phone with one hand, the other hand clutching the towel for dear life.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Sharon responded, setting Gracie’s phone on her nightstand. “Do you have everything you need? Is there anything that you want to discuss before bed?”

“No, everything is fine, ma’am” Gracie replied.

“Great. Well then I’ll see you in the morning. Since you don’t have an alarm, I’ll knock on your door at 10 sharp if you aren’t awake before then.”

“Ok, goodnight,” Gracie whispered, backing out of Sharon’s room and retreating down the hall.

She felt a weird emotion creeping up. Was it… guilt? For breaking a rule? Or, perhaps, fear of a consequence? Gracie hated rules and she didn’t know the first thing about guilt or consequences. What was happening? In the safety of her room, Gracie fondled the stolen shirt in her hands. With a shrug, she let the shirt fall to the floor and climbed under the covers stark naked. Before she could even think about what had gotten into her, she was fast asleep…

End of Chapter 1.

Another One Spanks the Butt

Sorry for the delay in writing a new story! I’ve been traveling and working on an anthology story. Here’s a short Melissa / Shae story to tide ya’ll over!

***

“Shae, this is my friend Stacey. We went to high school together. She’s going to be supervising you at your internship next semester.”

I stood by Melissa’s side awkwardly, my hands crammed into my pockets and my eyes staring over Stacey’s shoulder. I didn’t respond.

“It’s nice to meet you, Shae,” Stacey replied gently with a small smile. She held out her hand for me to shake, so I grasped the tips of her fingers with the tips of mine and gave her the world’s most pathetic and disinterested handshake. Stacey’s eye contact never wavered and the smile never left her face.

“Shae is very busy with dance and classes. She wasn’t thrilled about my suggestion that she earn a little income on the side and get some professional experience. Alas, she can’t dance for the rest of her life, and she thinks she’d really enjoy being a lawyer. If not, she’ll enjoy having some money to spend.”

I still don’t respond. I keep my expression as blank as humanly possible. It’s true that I’m always complaining about not having money and Melissa being the one to buy everything. It’s also true that I may have expressed to Melissa that spending all of my time dancing was starting to wear on my body and mental health. I worried that if I didn’t bulk up the professional side of my resume, I wouldn’t have a career exit strategy when dancing became untenable. But I didn’t actually mean for her to set me up an internship RIGHT NOW when I’m in the middle of trying to have a life.

“Why don’t Shae and I have a chit chat about the internship, just the two of us, and we’ll meet you out in the lobby in a few?” Stacey asked Melissa, her voice sweet like honey. Ugh, what a boring goody two shoes lawyer, I thought to myself with disdain.

“Great,” chirped Melissa with a smile. She turned to me and put her hands on my upper arms, looking me intently in the eye. “Be polite and engage. It’s very kind of Stacey to set this up for you. I’ve given her permission to handle your training and discipline in any way she sees fit.” With those final words, Melissa looked at me emphatically, as if challenging me to guess what she was getting at. My face instantly went red and I felt my confidence start to waiver. Had she told Stacey that she could spank me?!

“Do you understand?” prompted Melissa when I still hadn’t responded. I nodded. Satisfied, Melissa waved to Stacey and retreated down the hall. Now I was trapped with another stranger that undoubtedly thinks she can boss me around and control me. What is with these women…

“Why don’t you take a seat and we can talk?” Stacey asked with a slight smirk. “Melissa hadn’t told me that you were this shy. You’ve barely said a word.”

Sitting down gingerly, I folded my hands and looked up at her calmly. “Oh you know the old expression… if you don’t have anything nice to say…” I let myself trail off casually and gave a noncommittal shrug for emphasis. Stacey simply laughed at my baiting tactic, never losing her kind smile and relaxed posture.

“If you don’t want to work here,” Stacey explained softly but with authority, “I won’t force you. But if you come into my office and behave like an insolent brat, your bottom is going to meet the same fate as it would meet at home. I can already see why Melissa has her hands full with you. You need to learn boundaries and respect. Melissa has already told me that she worries about your judgment and your ability to control your emotions. It’s my job to help you gain those skills while you’re learning about being a lawyer. I’ll use corporal punishment as much- or as little- as needed. I want you to succeed. I’d rather have you sore and mad at me than see you go out into the world and get fired.”

My heart sinks to my shoes. Melissa told her all of those things about me? She thinks I’m a handful and that I can’t control myself? I’m embarrassed and feeling hurt. Tears sting the back of my eyes. I dig my thumb nail into the palm of my opposite hand in order to distract myself just long enough for the tears to dry. Sensing my change in demeanor, Stacey shifts forward in her chair and looks at me sympathetically.

“You seem stressed,” she whispers compassionately. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I…” I try to talk but the tears are starting to leak. Dammit. “It’s just…” I try again, “Everyone always wants to just spank me and punish me and make me do things. I’m feeling beat down. But I know it’s upsetting to Melissa, too, because she obviously thinks I’m difficult. I want to be good, I just get so frustrated sometimes. I can’t help my impulses, and then I feel guilty but mad about being punished at the same time.” Tears are falling freely now. I’m humiliated that I’m pouring my heart out to a complete stranger.

“Thank you for communicating that so well. I can understand how frustrating it must be to feel like you’re living under all of these rules that are challenging for you to follow. I know Melissa adores you- she doesn’t see you as a failure or a burden. She just wants you to be the best that you can be, and that takes a lot of work from both of you.” Stacey’s kind smile has returned, and I feel myself relax a little.

“We have had a rough few weeks,” I admit. “Structure and discipline are good for me. I think it’ll be nice if Melissa isn’t always the bad guy, though. Not that you’re bad. Or a guy. You know what I mean.”

“You’re very adorable despite the attitude,” Stacey concedes with a giggle. “I am here to support you. I’m always here to listen to your needs and concerns. But in return, I expect respect and compliance. I think I’m probably more strict than Melissa, even if I don’t look it. Your first impression today was pretty awful, and first impressions matter. I have half a mind to give you an introductory spanking just to ensure that we don’t get off on the wrong foot again.” Stacey doesn’t look angry, but she does look determined.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I guess I do deserve it,” I mumble with a frown, my bottom lip quivering as more tears threaten to come. “Sorry I’m being a baby,” I add earnestly, “I’m feeling unexpectedly emotional.” I look down at my hands in shame try to regulate my breathing.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s going to be ok,” Stacey coos, moving in to the chair next to me and wrapping her arm around me. “I used to hold a lot of frustration in with my partner. I think we have more in common than you think. I hope that I can teach you a lot about lawyering, life, and relationships. And I hope that you can trust me enough to let me in. I know we just met, but I’ve known Melissa forever and I’ve heard so much about you that I feel like I know you, too.”

“Well… I trust you enough to let me into my pants. You know, to spank me.” I smirk at Stacey’s shocked expression and we both let out a laugh.

“Ok, sassy thing,” Stacey announces with a gentle squeeze of my hand, “Let’s get you over my lap and we’ll see how you handle punishment.”

“My bottom is very seasoned,” I groan jokingly as I stand up and lower my jeans.

“Leave your underwear on. And your shirt. I want to make sure you feel comfortable.” I think of some sassy retorts, but decide to thank her- sincerely- for being conscientious of my boundaries.

Stacey lowers me fluidly over her lap and adjusts her knee so that my bottom is in the air.

“This is more of a quick warning spanking,” Stacey explains firmly, “It’s a reminder that first impressions matter and that you cannot go around acting like a brat just because you feel like it. When you’re upset or overwhelmed, communicate like an adult. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I respond nervously.

“Good. And say red if you want me to stop.”

With no further discussion, Stacey lifts her hand and begins smacking my upturned bottom. It doesn’t hurt very badly, especially since I’ve been getting used to spankings due to all of my attitude with Melissa lately. Stacey spanks in a predictable rhythm, right to left, but occasionally drops a spank down onto my ever-sensitive thighs, making me pant and squeal in discomfort.

“You are a little wiggly, my dear,” Stacey announces with regret in her voice, “I don’t usually allow that. Next time you earn a real punishment, you’ll be restrained or you’ll get extra swats with the belt.” She continues her spanking, picking up to a pace that is undeniably painful. My bottom is starting to really burn, but answering for my earlier brattiness is having a calming effect. I feel my tension drain and I stop trying to avoid the swats. Stacey finishes after only a few more minutes of hard swats. When she’s done, she immediately has me stand up with no rubbing whatsoever.

“In the corner with your hands on your head for five minutes,” Stacey instructs with a small smile. She pats my sore bottom affectionately as I retreat to the back of the office. As I stand there with my red bottom on display, I can’t help but think that this is going to be a very interesting internship.

When my five minutes are up, Stacey calls me over and pulls me into a hug.

“That’s my good girl,” Stacey praises, “We’re going to work so wonderfully together. Let’s get your pants on and go find your girlfriend.”

Nodding enthusiastically, I zip up my jeans and practically sprint back to Melissa. She’s sitting on the couch in the lobby reading. I throw myself onto her lap and wrap my arms tightly around her.

“I’m sorry I was difficult today,” I tell her earnestly, “I think the internship will be great. I appreciate you setting it up. And I want to be better at home with you, too. I know it’s been hard lately.”

Melissa hugs me back and kisses my head. “Did you talk about the job with Stacey or have a therapy session?” she asks with surprise.

“Both!” I answer with a big grin.

“Shae, I’ll see you next week for orientation,” Stacey says with a warm smile. I nod back with enthusiasm.

“Thank you!” I call after my new boss.

Melissa takes my hand in hers and we head back down the elevator to her car. “I think it’ll be good for you to have discipline from someone else,” Melissa affirms. “Then hopefully we can do less fighting and spanking at home.”

“I agree,” I tell my dominant girlfriend. “I mean… maybe if everyone in the world bosses me around I’ll actually have a chance at behaving!”

With a loving swat to my bottom, Melissa sticks her tongue out playfully and says, “Somehow I still doubt it.”

In a better mood than we have been in a while, we climb into the Audi with the promise of hot cocoa in our future.

Juliet’s Turn

[this story is told from Juliet’s perspective] 

When I went upstairs, I found that Amy had dumped several handfuls of uncooked white rice in the corner that I usually stand in. Unsure, I knelt down awkwardly on the rice facing the corner. I gasped as my full body weight was transferred onto my knees, allowing the rice to dig in painfully. It was way worse than it looked. I immediately tried to adjust so that less rice was under my knees, but I was already in big trouble, so I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe through the pain. At least I was kneeling on carpet instead of hard wood- it’s the small things in life!

Amy finally came upstairs after what felt like an eternity. My heart started thumping, but I stayed still and waited for instructions. “How are you feeling?” asked Amy’s dryly.

“The rice hurts, Ma’am, but I know I deserve it.” The guilt about the car and the money and the lying is eating me up. My head is racing as I try to figure out how to come clean. I’m in a bit of a predicament already, and she has barely gotten started. \

“Juliet,” says Amy seriously, “Come meet me in the bathroom.” Oh, no. It’s going to be the soap. She knows I lied about something. I stand up gingerly, my knees stinging from the rice. I brush off the pieces that have stuck to my skin and hobble over to the master bathroom where Amy is standing by the shower. Hmm? A shower? She normally only forces me to take a shower before a bedtime spanking. Amy gestures wordlessly to the tub, so I climb in and stare at her expectantly. “Put your hands behind your back,” Amy orders. I comply, wondering what the heck is going on. “Juliet,” she says darkly, “I’m going to turn the water on. You are going to relay to me everything that happened yesterday from the moment you bought the tickets to the moment Melissa showed up this morning. When you answer me completely- and truthfully– we will turn the water off and begin your punishment.”

I’m really confused about why I’m in the shower if she just wants to re-hash the events of the past couple of days, but it becomes clear when she turns the nozzle. Ice cold water hits my skin, and I shriek and jump away. “AHHH, IT’S COLD!” I shriek, trying to get as far away from the icy stream as possible. Amy grabs my arm and yanks me back under the cold stream. I howl in misery and start panting hard. It’s FREEZING.

“The sooner I get the truth, the sooner you can get out. Talk.”

“AHHH OHMY AH, OK, IUSEDYOURCREDITCARDWITHOUTPERMISSIONANDDROVETOTHESHOWDRUNKANDTHENKEPTDRINKINGSOIBROKETHESPENDINGRULEANDTHESAFETYRULE.” My words come out in one breathless string, stopping just short of admitting that the crash happened last night. Amy is still staring at me blankly, so I add, “We also left a mess and I wasn’t diligent about texting you updates. Please let me move it hurts sooooo baddddd.” I hug myself with my arms, trying anything to create warmth.

Amy turns me around and lands five loud swats on my frozen bottom. It’s excruciating. I burst into tears and continue to beg her to let me get out. “I said to leave your hands behind your back,” says Amy unsympathetically, “Stand how I told you to, look me in the eyes, and tell me the rest.”

“The rest,” I sob, realizing that she already knows more than she’s let on, “Is that I crashed the car last night and tried to cover it up by lying to you again. That’s everything, I promise. Please let me get out.” With a sigh, Amy reaches over and turns the water off. I can hardly feel my skin. She hands me a towel, and I immediately envelop myself in the fluffy warmth. “I’m so sorry,” I sob, “And I’m s-so c-cold.” Amy motions for me to join her by the sink. Great, now it’s the soap, I think to myself with an inward groan.

“I soaped Shae’s mouth for lying, so you are going to get the same punishment. While the bar is in your mouth,” Amy explains, “I’m going to let you know the rest of your punishment.” I nod submissively and open my mouth for Amy. She lathers the bar, and sticks it into my mouth, forcing me to jerk and gag due to the invasion of bitter soapiness. “Bite down,” Amy orders when she’s done dragging the bar across my tongue. I comply, tearfully.

“In addition to losing your drinking privileges,” Amy begins, “You’ve lost your car and credit card privileges as well. You can make purchases with your own debit card, and if you want anything else, no matter how small, you will ask me and get permission. You are grounded from TV for a month, and you can use your phone for one hour in the evenings, but that is it. I will drive you to school when possible, and otherwise you can walk or use public transit. I will pay for your car repairs, but you’ll repay me by taking laundry, dish, and shoveling duties until Christmas Eve.” With that, Amy takes the soap out of my mouth and allows me the customary two rinses. “Meet me in the living room,” Amy instructs.

She takes my towel away, and I head downstairs with a pout. This punishment is already terrible. When Amy gets downstairs, she grabs the tv remote, a wooden spoon, and sits on the couch. “Come over my lap,” she instructs. When I get settled over her thighs, she asks me to quickly outline why I’m being punished.

“The mess, the drunk driving, the unauthorized spending, not texting you, and the lying,” I reply concisely.

“That’s quite a list, young lady,” Amy says softly.

“Yes, ma’am. I was bad.”

“You’re not a bad partner,” Amy clarifies, “You just made bad choices. Here’s what those bad choices got you. I’m going to spank you with the wooden spoon for 60 minutes. During those 60 minutes, Melissa pointed me to a great documentary about the dangers of drunk driving. You will watch it on the tv in front of you while I spank. Understood?” This is really unusual. A 60 minute spanking?! Watching tv during it?! Amy clicks on the TV and starts the documentary. When the introduction begins, the wooden spoon cracks down. It stings, but she’s not hitting very hard. The documentary starts, and Amy is hitting me every 5-10 seconds with the spoon. The rhythm isn’t too intense, but a sting is building. The documentary is heart wrenchingly terrible. It’s a compilation of interviews with people who have lost relatives to drunk driving. When I try to bury my head and look away, Amy grabs a handful of my hair and holds me painfully in place, all while continuing to pepper every inch of my bottom with gradual swats.

When I finally glance at the clock, it’s only been 20 minutes. The spoon is driving me crazy. “Amy,” I plead, “An hour is too much with the spoon. Please, please have mercy.” She hits me harder three times in a row with the spoon, then settles into her previous rhythm.

“I have no patience for your complaints,” she retorts. I return to crying and watching the documentary. The pain causes me to dance across Amy’s lap, but she keeps me in place by locking her leg over mine. I start to groan, and it’s getting harder to focus on the documentary. She slows the swats down at the 30 minute mark. She gives me five minutes to watch the documentary in silence before her torture resumes. By the 45 minute mark, every swat of the spoon makes me hiss in misery, and my tears are blurring my vision. Amy takes a few moments to rub my back. In the last five minutes of the documentary, she picks up the pace, causing me to scream and twist as she lands hard swats on my already sore and hot bottom. At long last, the credits roll across the screen and I collapse over her knee, sobbing as she pets my hair and rubs my back.

“That was the longest spanking ever,” I howl in self pity as Amy comforts me.

“Stay over my knee,” says Amy gently. “We have a little more. The drunk driving was dangerous, but the lying and your bad behavior yesterday just made me feel disrespected. I won’t tolerate disrespect. So for that, we have a little more of this punishment to go before the slate is clean.” I feel Amy’s hand circle my sore bottom. Her gentle attention feels good. Gradually, her hand moves to the crevice between my cheeks, and I feel her finger right above the entrance to my back door. I tense in fear. Amy knows that I hate anything being near that entrance. It’s humiliating. Slowly, Amy presses one finger inside of my delicate rosebud, and I gasp in horror.

“Please not this,” I beg, “I hate it. It’s embarrassing. It feels… ughhnnn… not good,” I cry.

“Shhhhh,” Amy soothes, pumping her finger in and out of my ass, making me shudder in discomfort. “You need to relax. At the very least, you owe me your submission,” Amy says gently. I let myself go limp over her lap. I trust her, even if I’m not thrilled about my position. Amy removes her finger and I feel something being pressed against the same entrance. My eyes go wide. She presses an object that feels like a bowling pin into my ass, when in reality it’s probably only an inch long. When it’s in place, an unbearable heat spreads throughout my nether regions.

“What is it?!” I ask urgently.

“Ginger root,” Amy replies, “I found the idea on a blog. It’s perfectly safe. It’s just going to burn quite a bit until I take it out. I’m setting a timer for 5 minutes.” I wince and try to relax, but my bum has taken more than enough punishment for the next several years. When the five minutes is finally up, everything below my waist is stinging. Amy removes the ginger and helps me sit up. “You owe me a shoveled driveway,” Amy insists, “And then you can come back in and write, ‘I will not lie’ 100 times on a piece of paper. After that, the slate will be clean other than the groundings and what not.”

“Ok,” I nod miserably and stand up to get dressed.

“Do you want to snuggle for a little bit before you go shovel?” Amy asks with a kind smile. I let myself smile just a little and crawl into her arms eagerly. She caresses me and let’s me know that I’m forgiven. She reminds me of how loved I am. I cry a little more, and when we both feel a little better, I stand up to go handle the driveway.

“How about I make some cocoa while you’re out there,” Amy offers kindly.

“Uh.. maybe tea? I’ve had enough junk food to last a long time,” I reply with a sheepish grin.

“Tea it is, baby girl,” Amy smiles, kissing me once more on the head.

***

[back to Shae’s perspective]

“OH. MY. GOSH.” I gush, “Your punishment sounds terrible. Amy is a sneaky one. She seems so warm and cuddly, but she’s harsh!”

Juliet laughs in agreement. “No more antics for a while, k? My butt kills and I have no more privileges to lose.”

“Yeah,” I agree, “We’ll be angels. Let’s come up with an amazing Christmas surprise for them to make it up.”

Juliet agrees, but tells me that her phone privileges are suspended until the following evening. I hang up and call to Melissa that I’m ready to go shopping.

 

Double Trouble Pt. II

Amy really means business when she spanks. Her hand alone makes it feel like a million fire ants are biting my rear end.

“You will never look me in the eye and lie to me again,” Amy says matter of factly. She falls silent after that and the room is filled with the sound of sharp smacks and my own labored breathing. When I try to wiggle, she seamlessly adjusts herself in order to keep me in place without once breaking her rhythm. She moves her hand to my upper thighs, and smacks until I screech in pain. I try kicking my legs again, but my butt is so high up in the air that I’m off balance and can’t get any momentum. With a sob, I give up and let Amy’s assault continue. Finally, she gives a few smacks to each of my sit spots and rests her hand gently on my lower back.

“Ok. I think I can safely assume that we’ll have complete honesty from now on.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry,” I sniffle as she helps me sit up. Amy pulls me into a hug and I bury my head against her shoulder. My tears start anew, but I let her hold and comfort me. Melissa, calm as ever, is patiently watching from the other end of the couch. When I look up at her, she stands up and holds out her hand with a smile.

“Let’s get going so that we can let Amy take care of your compadre, yeah?” I nod solemnly and give Amy another hug.

“Can you tell Juliet that I… I’m sorry she’s in trouble. I still feel terrible about ratting her out.”

“Juliet got herself in trouble. There is no need to apologize. I will have her call you later.” Satisfied with that promise, I head out to Melissa’s car. I start crying again before she even has the keys in the ignition.

“What’s wrong, love?” she asks as she carefully backs the car out of Amy’s driveway and onto the snowy roads ahead.

“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” I cry miserably. I had such a good night, and I’m letting myself throw a pity party that I managed to ruin the rest of the weekend. The guilt was bad enough, and Amy’s soaping and spanking both SUCKED. Melissa sighs sympathetically, and I can tell she’s torn between her irritation with me and her desire to soothe me.

“Let’s have our chat in the car, ok? We have a long drive and there’s no need for me to stew in my anger and for you to sit there feeling sorry for yourself. First things first, I brought some fruit and mini bagels. You need to eat breakfast.” She motions to a plastic bag of snacks in the back seat, and I start crying harder.

“You [gasp] brought me [gasp] breakfast [sniffle] but I was so bad and now you’re upset and we won’t have a nice day and I’ve ruined everything.” I drop the breakfast bag onto my lap and continue crying miserably. Melissa’s eyes go wide in confusion.

“Ok. I mean, I didn’t expect you to be thrilled about being punished, but don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” Melissa asks, looking truly puzzled.

“What can I say? I’m a sensitive little thing,” I retort with what has to be an adorable frown. Melissa laughs.

“You are so cute. You are so sensitive sometimes. But you need to eat and you’re still going to be punished. And then we’re going to have an amazing day. In fact, I have plans for us tonight. Right now, I just want to talk to you.”

“Ok,” I sniffle, peeling a clementine and looking at Melissa expectantly while I munch.

“The lying has been addressed, but this is the second time that you’ve put yourself in danger where alcohol has been involved. I’m so disappointed because I know that you know better. I hope taking away your drinking privileges will help, but what you allowed Juliet to do was serious. You two endangered yourselves and everyone else on the road.”

“I know,” I squeak, “And I know that saying sorry is inadequate, but I can promise that it will never happen again.”

“I’m glad to hear that you think so. In addition to the no alcohol rule, I’m going to sign you up to do 20 hours of volunteer work with Students Against Drunk Driving. You also owe me a six page essay on why drinking any amount of alcohol makes driving entirely unsafe. You have one week. If I’m not happy with it, we can move on to a documentary about the devastating effects of drunk driving. When we get home, you’re going to be spanked with the paddle and the belt. I hope that after that, we’ll be in agreement on how I feel about you putting yourself in danger. Remember that I’m punishing you because I care about you.” My brows furrow as I process the punishment. It seems fair under the circumstances.

“Alright. I accept the terms of your punishment.” Melissa laughs again.

“I’m so glad,” she says with mock relief. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“No,” I mumble, “I just got caught up in the moment. It wasn’t peer pressure or anything like that. I don’t have any excuses.”

“Good girl.” Melissa lets me hold her hand until we arrive at home. When we do, her demeanor becomes more businesslike. “Up to my room, clothes completely off, and stand in the corner,” she orders. I have never been entirely naked for a punishment before, but I don’t argue. I take everything but my bra off and fold my clothes neatly. When Melissa comes upstairs, she wordlessly unhooks my bra and slides it off my shoulders. “When I said everything, I meant everything,” she growls.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper back, “It’s super embarrassing to be naked even though you see me naked all the time now.”

“Mhmm,” is her only response. Melissa retreats to the bed and just stares at me in the corner. I feel a blush creeping up on my cheeks. Finally, she calls me over and I stand in front of her. “I’m going to have you lay on the bed with your hips over those pillows,” instructs Melissa seriously. “I’m going to paddle you, and you’re going to stay still. If you move, you’ll move your fanny right back in place before the next smack. If you move too much, I’m adding swats with the belt. Also, see that spray bottle?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I reply, wondering what on earth it could be for.

“It’s cold water. If I spray your bottom with it, the smacks will hurt a lot worse. It’s like magic. Trust me- you don’t want to find out. Answer questions when I ask them, and don’t move, and we won’t have an issue.” My eyes go wide and I nod vigorously. That’s pure evil!

Melissa settles me onto my pillows and stands by the side of the bed. I twitch in anticipation, but remind myself not to move an inch. When the paddle comes down, I realize that my bottom is still slightly sore from the hand spanking this morning.

“AHHHHHHHHH!” I scream miserably, “OHMYGOSH that’s so hard.”

“You can cry as you need to,” says Melissa, “But no more speaking unless you’re spoken too.” I bite my lip miserably. She was so sweet in the car, and now she’s being a monster. The paddle comes down again, and man is she swinging her arm hard. My hips jerk involuntarily as pain rips through my lower half, but I settle immediately back onto the pillow for fear of making the punishment worse. Melissa begins to vary the speed and intensity of the strokes with the paddle. I cross my legs and bunch the sheets up in my fists in order to prevent myself from moving. I hiss and gasp in pain with every stroke, but avoid calling out again. The sting is unreal. Melissa begins to hit the same spot over and over. My crying and panting turns into a screech.

“PLEASEEEEE PLEASE STOP IT’S TOO MUCH, IT HURTS TOO BAD.”

“Shae. That wasn’t your safe word. You were asked not to speak.” With that, Melissa grabs the bottle and sprays each cheek twice. The ice cold mist actually feels amazing on my hot skin. But then the paddle comes down rapidly, twice on each sit spot, and I let out a full on scream. I shove part of the pillow into my mouth to avoid talking. I cry and cry and squeeze my legs and fists tighter still to avoid moving. Finally, the paddle stops and I breathe a sigh of relief. My breathing is ragged and my bottom has never felt so swollen. “We’re going to continue this conversation with the belt,” Melissa says gently, “Same rules apply.”

I nod in response. Melissa shuffles around a little, and then stands beside me again. “Shae. Why did you get into the car with Juliet last night? Answer concisely.”

“My judgment was impaired because I had consumed 4-5 servings of alcohol myself. I didn’t want to miss the show and was having fun. I didn’t think we’d get caught because the roads were so empty. My priorities were way off. My safety is way more important that a fun show at a slumber party.”

My confession is rewarded by a sharp smack of the belt. It burns across my already fiery bottom, but I stay in place wordlessly. “What should you have done instead?” Melissa asks.

“Tell Juliet that we have to wait for a cab, or tell her that we can’t go.” I brace myself for another strike. I get two on my upper thighs, and I cry out in misery.

“When should you have texted me?” Melissa probes.

“I should have let you know when I got to the show that we made a mistake so that someone could have prevented us from driving home drunk.” The belt comes down again and I hiss once more.

“And why did you both continue to drink at the show, making the drive home even more reckless?” Melissa presses on.

“Impaired judgment. Once I get a buzz going, I keep drinking, and I didn’t want to tell Juliet to stop, either.” I’m shaking and dreading the next strike. Instead, I feel Melissa’s hand on my shoulder.

“I have serious concerns about your relationship with alcohol, little one,” she says softly. “I think that, given the eating disorder, you may have… an addictive personality.” Her voice is gentle and worried. “I want to help,” she continues, “So why don’t we bring this up with your counselor. I won’t let you drink again until we have some clarity.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I reply miserably.

“I think we’re all done here,” Melissa says with a sigh, “Stand up.” I stand up slowly and face her. I’m in a lot of pain, and I feel vulnerable standing in front of her naked. Sensing my feelings, she brushes my hair off my tear streaked face and asks one more time if I understand why I was punished.

“Yes, Ma’am. I understand. It was just terrible.”

“I know,” she laughs, “But hey, I planned to take you Christmas shopping today. We can get cocoa, shop till we drop, then come home and, eh, make some love by the fireplace while my son is at his dad’s place. Do you think your sore butt can handle an outing?”

“Oh, yes, that sounds amazing.”

“Ok, princess,” she smiles, “Let’s have you take a nap first.” Melissa tucks me in, and I drift off to sleep before she’s even turned the light off. When I stir over an hour later, I see a text from Juliet on my phone. My heart skips a beat. Is she mad?!

Juliet: I’m sorry about last night. I put you in danger. Thank you for sticking up for me, and then telling the truth. I’m not mad at all. Best friends still, right?

Me: Yes!!! It’s not your fault. We were both irresponsible. But hey, we’re gonna learn to make some KILLER virgin cocktails. 

Juliet: Heck yeah!! Your butt ok? 

Me: Ugh. No. I can’t wait to tell you how terrible my punishment was. Wanna call real quick? 

Juliet: Oh, yes. Wait until you hear about mine. It just ended. 

Me: Shit. I hope she didn’t beat you for 2.5 hours straight. 

My phone rings and I pick up.

“Let me tell you what happened,” Juliet begins, “Here’s a literal play by play….”

 

[to be continued while my brat mind tries to come up with punishments for Juliet]

Double Trouble

Oreos, Cheetos, pizza, red wine, and Schnapps littered Juliet’s apartment floor. It was our first sleepover, and the first time I was able to carelessly eat junk food in what seemed forever. Saturday’s dance rehearsal had been cancelled due to an unexpected snow storm, so my mood was downright giddy. Amy was out of town, and Melissa was busy putting up her insanely detailed holiday decor.

Juliet and I had taken advantage of the freedom by creating a giant fortress of every pillow and blanket in the living room, and buying as much junk food at the grocery store as we could stomach. “I’m so glad I’m here,” I gushed to Juliet, “Thanksgiving with my parents was so miserable. I feel like they barely know me. I’m just so happy to be back in Boston with you.” Juliet flopped down next to me and squeezed my hand.

“I know that family can really suck,” Juliet nodded sympathetically, “I didn’t go home at all because of softball and Amy didn’t invite me to her family dinner. She basically ditched me here because she’s not ready for her parents to know about everything yet.”

“Family does suck,” I agree, “And sometimes, so do our girlfriends.” Juliet and I broke into laughter, and I reached for the bag of Cheetos.

“Hey,” she said, “We’ve both had a rough week or two. Let’s go do something fun. We’ve earned it.”

“Melissa took my fake ID,” I whined, “I can’t do fun things anymore.”

“Dude. You have to get more creative with your definition of fun,” Juliet smirked while pouring us both a shot. “Let’s go see Slutcracker. I bet there’s still tickets. It’s like a strip club version of the Nutcracker. You love dance, and I love me some half naked women.” My eyes went wide in surprise. I love Boston. I can’t believe such a show exists.

“I’m in!” I say immediately.

“I’ll put the tickets on Am’s credit card. She won’t care. She wanted me to show you a good time.”

“Great, I’ll pay for a cab,” I suggest, “We’ve both been drinking.”

Juliet nods, and we immediately high-five. “We have to wear something sexy!” she exclaims, “Let me rummage in my closet.” Within minutes, Juliet has emerged with various leather and mesh tops, and some tight, short skirts. She also offers me some fishnet stockings and a pair of black combat-style boots. Giggling with glee, we both pick out a racy outfit.

“UGH,” I shout, shaking my phone while I get dressed, “It’s super last minute and there are no cabs around. I think it’s because of the snow storm.”

“It’s fine, I’m ok to drive,” Juliet insists. I rack my brain trying to remember how much we’ve both had to drink. 3/4 of a bottle of red wine, and 2-3 shots of Schnapps. But Schnapps is more of a dessert… right? And we did share the wine. I hate being late to anything- it’s the dancer in me- so I throw on a jacket over my skimpy outfit and we race out to the car.

***

“That show was INSANELY amazing,” I exclaim as we hop back into Juliet’s car. My legs are bright red from from walking through the cold air back to our car, but we’d had a little bit more to drink during the show which is keeping me plenty warm. At this point, I know Juliet shouldn’t be driving, but I’m so tired out from the show and the junk food and the alcohol. I blast the heat and lean my head against the window as she pulls out of her space.

Juliet and I chat about our favorite parts of the show while she struggles to maneuver her car through the snow. I keep my eye out for cops, but the roads are pretty clear and Juliet is driving as well as can be expected under the circumstances. All is well until we get back to her street and she tries to park. Juliet’s reflexes have slowed thanks to the alcohol, and she misjudges her distance from a ditch. Her car loses control on the icy shoulder of the road, and the car descends into an unfortunate position in the ditch.

“GOSHDAMMIT. Oh no… It’s ok. I’m just going to tell Amy that it was snowy and the car slipped. It’s not damaged. She can get it out when the snow melts,” Juliet says hopefully.

“I’ll back you up,” I promise, “Let’s just get inside and text her to let her know we’re ok.” We both exit the car and I lead the way up to their front door. “Hey, you left the door unlocked,” I whisper urgently.

“No, I didn’t,” snaps Juliet, a bit defensively. I push the door open cautiously and look around. Suddenly, Amy appears out of nowhere, looking none too pleased. Juliet shoves me into the house and shuts the door behind her before Amy can notice the car in the ditch. “Heyyyyyy, Aim,” says Juliet evenly, trying not to give away that she’s a little tipsy, “Sooo glad you’re home. We weren’t expecting you, or we would have…”

“Not destroyed the entire house?” Amy fills in impatiently.

“I’m so sorry,” I gush, “I got really excited about the junk food and we were definitely going to clean up the food… and the crumbs… and the pillows and blankets and stuff in the morning…” I trail off, suddenly a little nervous and embarrassed.

“Yes,” says Amy evenly, “You’ll definitely both be cleaning this up. But I’d also like to know why you left the house in a blizzard without telling me, and then you both failed to answer multiple texts from me and Melissa when we tried to check on you.”

Juliet and I exchanged panicked looks.

“We went to see a show and we put our phones on silent,” Juliet explained, panic evident in her voice. “I promise I wasn’t ignoring you. I was enjoying being with Shae. I didn’t even glance at my phone when we left the… theater.”

“Take your coats off and sit down. We need to chat,” says Amy flatly. We hang our coats up compliantly, and shuffle over to the couch in shame. I suddenly feel exposed in my skimpy outfit, and my eyes well with tears. I’m a terrible liar, and Amy is so warm and kind. I immediately want to tell her everything, but I don’t want to sell Juliet out.

“Ok,” says Amy with a sigh, “Let’s start with finding out where you were.”

“We went to see Slutcracker. It was a last minute plan. We were both just kind of feeling down, and we were just sitting here eating, so I decided to check to see if they had tickets available. I knew Shae would love it since she’s a dancer,” Juliet explains calmly.

“And you didn’t think to inform me that you were heading out, given that you promised you’d be staying here given the terrible road conditions?” I don’t answer, because Melissa doesn’t expect that I always tell her where I am. We don’t have that kind of rule. Juliet shifts uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” says Juliet, “It was just all such a whirlwind because we decided to go last minute and then we couldn’t find a cab and I just forgot to text.” Amy doesn’t respond, but let’s us all sit in an uncomfortable silence.

“You forgot to mention that you paid for it on my card without asking,” Amy finally replies, “I get alerts when you make a purchase of over $300.” My eyes nearly bulge out of my head.

“I DIDN’T KNOW HOW MUCH THE TICKETS WERE!” I squeal, accidentally throwing Juliet under the bus.

“I was going to pay you back,” Juliet tries lamely. “The house is cold, can we please put on sweaters while we talk about this?”

“No. Sit.” Melissa’s usually friendly expression is growing darker. “I have another minor matter to discuss. I found wine and peppermint Schnapps on the floor when I came home, so I’m trying to understand why either of you would have gotten behind the wheel of a car if you had ANYTHING to drink beforehand.”

“It was only me,” I speak up, my heart pounding as I lie to Amy’s face. “I had a bad Thanksgiving. I brought the wine and the Schnapps with me, but neither was a full bottle when I brought it over. We dipped a couple of Oreos in the Schnapps (this was true) but only I had wine.”

“I was going to have some wine after I finished my pizza, but then we got the show tickets so I didn’t,” Juliet nodded in agreement. I could feel my palms start to sweat anxiously as Amy sized us up.

“Juliet. Come here and let me smell your breath.”

Juliet shuffled over to Amy, looking annoyed but not nervous. They had free popcorn at the show. We’d both had vodka sprites at the show, but there’s no way that Amy would be able to smell any of the vodka over the handfuls of popcorn that we’d polished off.

“I can’t tell if you’re telling the truth, so I’m going to show you that I trust you by giving you the benefit of the doubt,” Amy finally sighed, “But I can tell you that you’re both in trouble anyway. Juliet- you didn’t tell me where you were going, you spent money over our limit without asking, you were unreasonably non-responsive on the phone, and you left this house a complete mess. It’s 11pm and I’m exhausted, so you’ll be punished in the morning. Please have all of this cleaned up before 7:30 in the morning. You’ll get your punishment then.”

Amy turns to me and I bite my lip. “Shae. I know that you don’t know our rules. I’m going to fill Melissa in, but I’m not comfortable punishing you.”

“I didn’t mean to break any rules,” I say as my eyes well with guilty tears, “But I don’t want Juliet to take responsibility alone. I should have known that driving in a blizzard was a bad idea. And I made the mess, too. Can I please stay and help her clean it?”

“Of course,” said Amy gently, “I’m not sending you home this late at night. It wouldn’t be fair. You and Juliet can continue your sleepover in the guest bedroom. I’m going to call Melissa and head up to bed soon.”

Juliet and I changed into pajamas and brushed our teeth in silence. When we both settled into bed, side by side, Juliet turned toward me.

“Thanks for having my back. But she’s going to see the car,” Juliet whispered. “I’ll have to explain that somehow.”

“I feel really guilty about lying to Amy, but we had such a fun night and no one was hurt.”

“Exactly,” said Juliet with a yawn, “Amy’s rules are pretty strict. I’m in enough trouble. I’ll go outside and try to move the car first thing in the morning, and if I can’t, I’ll tell her that it slipped on ice in the morning when I went out to get us Dunkin Donuts.”

“Ok,” I whisper back, my stomach in guilty knots over the web of lies we’re still building. Several moments pass, and I decide that my guilt is unbearable. “Juliet…” I whisper into the darkness. No answer. Her breathing is even, and she’s fallen asleep. I can’t stop myself from crying. I feel terrible. I glance at the clock. It’s 12:35, but I’ve woken Melissa up late at night before. I slip out of the guest room and into Amy’s den. I dial Melissa and cross my fingers.

“Shae. Hi.” I nearly melt when I hear Melissa’s concerned voice on the other end. “Amy just filled me in. I was worried when you didn’t answer my texts earlier, but I’m glad you’re ok.”

“I don’t feel ok,” I whisper, my voice wavering through my silent tears.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Melissa asks urgently.

“No. It’s not that. I just… I uhm. I just wanted to talk to you about tonight.”

“Amy already told me. We literally just hung up with one another. I know you didn’t mean to leave a mess. You thought you’d have time to clean it up. As far as I’m concerned, you didn’t do anything wrong. Amy said it seems like you drank responsibly, and I don’t prohibit you from driving when it’s snowing. Juliet has different rules, and that’s ok.”

“I know all of that. But Melissa, we lied to Amy. Juliet did drink. She drank quite a bit before the show and more during it. I covered for her because she’s a new friend and I didn’t want to get her in trouble. The car is literally in a ditch outside of the house yet, and Juliet is going to try to move it in the morning and lie again. I’m just feeling uncomfortable because I don’t want to let you down, but I don’t want to rat Juliet out.”

“Well, sweetheart,” Melissa beings after a pause, “I’m really disappointed to learn that you got behind the wheel after Juliet had been drinking. That’s extremely dangerous, and a DUI would ruin both of your academic and athletic careers. I’m also disappointed that you lied, but I’m glad that you are taking steps to correct your mistake. I can hear how sorry you are. You’re going to be punished tomorrow- thoroughly- but right now I want you to get some rest and try to calm down. You’ve had a long night.”

“Yes, ma’am. Should I talk to Amy, or should I encourage Juliet to talk to her in the morning?”

“What do you think, baby?”

“I want to apologize to her now so that I can sleep. Is that fair to Juliet?”

“Juliet put you in a bad position tonight,” Melissa emphasizes, “Go ahead and talk to Amy if YOU think that’s the right decision. You need to trust yourself. I’m very unhappy with your behavior, but I’m proud of how you’re handling this. I’ll meet you there around 7:30, ok?”

I agree and tell Melissa that I love her and click off the phone. I find Amy in her room and knock gently on the door frame.

“Yes, darling?” Amy asks with an amused smile, “I thought you were going to bed?”

“Amy. Uhm. I can’t. Well, yet. Because, the thing is, I’m really sorry about everything that happened tonight. I value my friendship with Juliet and I don’t want to tattle, but I need to let you know that… that… I lied to you. About the alcohol. Juliet drank, too, both before the show and during it. She drove home tipsy, and I didn’t stop her. You may not have noticed, but your car is kind of in the ditch, because we made it home but she slipped while we were trying to parallel park. She was going to move it in the morning and not say anything, but I just feel really guilty and wanted to apologize right away. I already spilled the beans to my girlfriend, and she’s going to punish me tomorrow when she picks me up, but I just still feel really awful.” I look down at my hands. I can’t see Amy’s reaction anyway because my tears won’t stop flowing.

“Come here,” Amy motions gently. I comply and stand in front of her, still looking down. Amy takes both of my hands in one of hers, and lifts my chin so that I’m looking her in the eye. “I had a feeling that that was the case about the drinking. Juliet never passes up red wine. I am upset that you lied before, but thank you for telling the truth.” With that, Amy stands up and pulls me into a hug. She rubs my hair while I cry and promises that she will deal with Juliet. “Now,” she says softly, “Why don’t you hop back into bed. It’s late and you have an early morning of cleaning. I’m going to go check out the car, and I’ll see you downstairs tomorrow.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I nod, walking back to the guest bedroom feeling a million times lighter. I know that tomorrow morning won’t be fun, but at least I don’t have to keep acting. I am, after all, a dancer and not a theater expert.

***

The sound of Juliet’s alarm going off at 6:30 is complete torture. I’m a tiny bit hungover, and I still didn’t sleep well. I felt like I betrayed Juliet.

“Hey,” Juliet says, poking my ribs as I refuse to stir, “Will you clean up the living room while I go deal with the car?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I reply flatly, rolling out of bed away from her so that I don’t have to look her in the eye. Amy already knows about the car, so letting her try to move it is futile, but I don’t say anything. I quickly brush my teeth and throw myself into the task of cleaning. I throw away packages, vacuum, stack pillows, fold blankets, and I even find a rag to dust with for good measure. I also clean the entire kitchen even though we barely used it. Juliet finally comes in, snow covered and shivering.

“It’s still so snowy, and I can’t move the car. We have to go with the donut story.”

“Ok,” I reply, not looking up at her and pretending to be focusing intently on finishing the dishes. Juliet brews coffee, and we both sit on the couch sipping caffeine from our mugs like it’s the blood of life. Amy comes down the stairs at 7:30 on the dot.

“Wow. This place looks great. I just wanted you guys to clean up your mess, but you suck ups cleaned the entire first floor.”

“Amy!” Juliet says, standing up confidently, “I know I’m in trouble, and I’m so sorry, but I went out to grab us donuts because it was sooo early, and I know you love the strawberry frosted kind, and crazy thing… it got so icy overnight and I accidentally may have ended up in the ditch out front while trying to get our car out. I already called AAA and they’re sending someone in a couple hours.”

I look down at the carpet. Juliet is a darn good liar, but this situation is so uncomfortable. Before Amy can respond, the doorbell rings. I hop up, happy for a distraction, and throw myself into Melissa’s arms before she can even realize the door has been opened.

“Hi, babe,” she laughs, kissing my head as she steps inside. Melissa guides me back down onto the couch next to Juliet, and she and Amy settle on the couch across from us. You could cut the tension with a knife.

“Ok,” Amy speaks up evenly, “So, Melissa and I chatted a bit this morning about your predicament. Juliet and I have a lot to discuss and Melissa would like to discipline Shae at home, so we’re going to have a group powwow about last night before going our separate ways.”

“Because you have both exhibited issues with alcohol lately,” Melissa announces, “We have decided that neither of you are permitted to drink again for the rest of the semester. We will re-evaluate in January. But there will be no alcohol whatsoever.”

“And we appreciate that you two are becoming friends,” Amy adds, “But from now on, when you’re together, we need updates on where you’re going and what you’re doing every time you leave one destination for another.”

“And Shae,” says Melissa, “You lied to Amy, so I think it’s only fair that she gets to punish you. I know you’re new to being disciplined, so we decided that Amy will start your punishment here and I will finish the majority of it at home.”

“And Juliet,” Amy says darkly, “You’ll head up to my room now, strip, and kneel in the corner on the rice that I left on the carpet.” Juliet winced, but headed upstairs wordlessly. Kneeling on rice in the corner?! That blows. With Juliet gone, all eyes were on me.

“We’re both proud of you for coming clean,” says Melissa, “But obviously it was too late to redeem yourself from the lying and the danger you put yourself in.”

“I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap,” Amy said seriously, “Since that’s the punishment in my house for lying or talking back. And then I’m going to give you a brief hand spanking if you’re comfortable consenting to that. Melissa will handle the rest of your punishment at home. I’m punishing you for lying, and she’s punishing you for the danger you put yourself in.”

I feel nervous, but I agree. I trust Amy, and it’s only fair. I let her guide me upstairs. She lathers a bar of soap wordlessly, and grabs my chin. “Open,” she commands. I do. Holding my head in place, Amy sticks the bar of my soap far into my mouth. It’s worse than I thought, and I instantly gag as the soapy taste assaults every part of my tongue. Amy jerks the bar back and forth across my tongue, causing it to froth and making me try to wiggle away. She holds me firmly in place and instructs me to bite down. “I’m going to set a timer on my phone for two minutes,” Amy says, “Then you get to rinse twice with water.”

Tears run down my eyes and the time creeps by slowly. It’s so much more disgusting- and embarrassing- than I’d imagined. when the timer goes off, Amy takes the soap back and, as promised, gives me two brief rinses. When she leads me back downstairs to Melissa, my mouth still tastes and feels horrible. Without much fanfare, Amy takes down my pajama pants and puts me over her knees as Melissa watches on, unsympathetically. Amy immediately elevates her knee, driving my rear straight up into the air. She smacks HARD from the get-go, without a warm up, causing me to wail and wiggle. And this is only the beginning of my punishment?! Maybe I should have lied for Juliet after all.

To be continued…

 

 

 

Down The Hatch Finale

I wake up dying for a glass of water. My head is pounding and I can barely pry my eyes open. Fortuitously, there is a glass of water that Melissa left near the bed. I gulp it down and listen carefully to see where she is in the house. Prying my tired body out of bed, I shyly tiptoe down the stairs. Melissa is hunched in front of her iPad at the kitchen counter.

“Well good morning,” she says with a smile when she notices my presence, “I was going to let you sleep until 9, but apparently you’re an over achiever even when hungover.” I giggle and blush because it feels like a compliment.

“I’m sorry about last ni-”

“Let’s not keep doing the apology thing. You’re soon going to find out exactly how I feel about your behavior last night, and you’ll be sorry for a couple of days.” She narrows her eyes forebodingly, and I know that I’m up for one heck of a spanking. “Now,” she says more cheerfully, “Let’s have breakfast and talk about the contract first. What do you like in the mornings? Eggs? I can make waffles… Cereal?”

“I usually do plain oatmeal,” I mumble, “Sometimes with almond butter. Scrambled egg whites with pepper, too.” Melissa bites her lip and considers my suggestion.

“Well. You’re not trying to lose weight, so egg whites aren’t necessarily appropriate. Let’s try two whole eggs, and a bowl of oatmeal, and we can do some fruit, too.” I nod. I feel safe with Melissa. I want to be cooperative.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say simply. She smirks as she walks around me to the stove, lifting the Yale hoodie up and smacking my bare bottom as she walks by. I give a small yelp and grab my bottom cheeks.

“HA! That was a pat compared to what you’re getting later. Sit while you still can and have some coffee.” As I sip coffee and she cooks, she hands me her iPad where a copy of our rules have been reproduced. The email got buried in my inbox because of how busy I had been. I skim through it. It’s pretty understandable. Three meals per day, and preferably at least two snacks. I have to attend all of my classes and appointments, and if I am sick or injured, she has to know ASAP. No putting myself in danger in other ways (oops, that ship sailed last night), and no being disrespectful or lying. She confirms that I understand everything, and I confirm that it all makes sense.

I have a hard time getting my breakfast down because I’m nervous about the spanking and not used to people watching me eat. Melissa sits next to me making small talk to distract me and gently rubbing my back and hair. When I finish eating, I ask if I can brush my teeth.

“Go ahead,” she says, “And then put your nose in that corner over there,” she says, gesturing to the far side of the living room. Ugh. The corner? Like a child? I don’t show my distaste. I’m in enough trouble, so I scamper off to get washed up, and then shuffle into the dreaded corner.

“This is embarrassing,” I observe as I settle into my spot in the corner.

“Mhmm,” is her absent response from the living room, “You should focus on why we’re in this position. Corner time can help you calm down and focus, and it gives me time to plan exactly what I’m going to do if I haven’t decided yet. It helps you come to terms with who is in charge. Sure, it’s a bit infantilizing, but a little embarrassment is healthy.”

I don’t respond. I try to stay still. I feel small and uncomfortable, but it does make me feel protected to know that Melissa is watching me from a distance. After what feels like an eternity, she calls me over. I stand quietly in front of her knees.

“I think you know why you’re being punished. For one, you didn’t bother to read our rules, but I’m glad we got up to speed on those today. You had way too much to drink last night, to the point where you were sick and lost. You drank underage, you almost froze to death, and I’m certain that you didn’t eat enough dinner to justify nearly a quarter of what you drank.” I nod miserably. “Were you at a bar?” she asks coldly.

“I used a fake ID.” Her expression is one of pure irritation.

“Thank you for being honest. I’ll be taking that from you today. That is obviously illegal, and I don’t need to tell you how much trouble it could get you in.” I nod again. My words seem to be evading me, as I’m just a mess of guilt and nerves. Melissa grabs my wrist and pulls me over her knees. “You’re getting a hard spanking, and then you’re going to get a taste of both a hairbrush and a belt,” she says simply. “Then, I’ll sit you down at the table and you can write ‘I will not drink past my limits’ 100 times… by hand. If I’m satisfied at that point, we’ll be done. If not, you’ll find out how creative, and relentless, my discipline can be. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I gasp as she lands the first hard swat on my behind. Dang… Melissa means business today. Every smack is super painful. She peppers both cheeks with several swats, and she starts to get my inner thighs, too. It doesn’t take long for a painful heat to build all over my rear end. I feel secure with her hand around my waist and her strong thighs beneath me, but this lady’s hand is made of steel!

SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK. I try my best to stay in place and breathe deep. She keeps going and I imagine my bottom turning bright pink, and then a vibrant red. I hiss in pain as she gives a few more swats to each inner thigh. When I think I can’t take it any more, she pauses. “I’m going to give you 30 with the hairbrush,” she says coldly. The hand spanking is for drinking so much that you put yourself in danger, “The hairbrush is for using a fake ID and jeopardizing your dance and academic careers.” I tense my body as she picks up the brush. “Relax, please,” she says, taking a moment to rub my burning cheeks. I try my best to let go and relax over her knee again. She hikes my bottom up farther into the air and brings the brush down for the first time.

“OWEEEEE, AH, AGHHH, OH MY GOD,” I howl in pain as the brush makes contact with my already tender skin. “Please, oh my, that hurts, Melissa please don’t do it so hard.”

“That was just three,” she says unsympathetically. She continues to bring the brush down with purpose, resulting in a mean CRACK across my bottom. I howl and squirm, but there’s nowhere to go. I start crying. It stings and my bottom feels like it has to be bruised and swollen everywhere. She keeps going, helpfully letting me know when we’re halfway done. “We wouldn’t be here if you would have made better choices last night. It’s ok to have fun with your friends. I remember being in college. It’s NOT okay to take shot after shot when you know you’re already drunk. It’s not okay to wander alone outside, freezing cold and wasted. The fake ID is absolutely never going to happen again. This spanking is better than a criminal penalty, or worse, being unconscious or dead or having someone hurt you while you’re vulnerable.” Her words hurt because she’s absolutely right. The last 15 smacks cause more crying and quivering, but I’m able to relax my body and submit fully to the spanking. When she finishes, she puts the brush down and rubs my lower back, praising how well I did. “I hope we don’t have to repeat this,” she says softly, “I know that you can make better choices and still have fun.” With that, she pulls me up and brushes the tears off of my face. “We still have six with the belt, baby. I hope it will drive home the importance of self care, and standing up to your friends when they’re out of control. I won’t swing it too hard,” she says kindly, seeing the pain and horror on my face.

Melissa gently walks me over to a kitchen chair and bends me over. I stare at the belt with wide, fearful eyes. “You’re perfectly safe,” she says soothingly, rubbing my back while I calm down. She pulls her arm back and lands the belt against my upper thighs with an anti-climactic swish and a small crack. I know she’s making an effort not to hit me hard. It still stings, so I hiss a little bit and let out a cry, but my feet stay firmly planted. “Why don’t you count down from five for me?” she suggests. I oblige.

“FIVE!” I cry urgently when the belt hits the center of my behind. “FOUR. THREE.” She gets two new spots, leaving my entire ass stinging like it was lit on fire. “TWO!” I say, letting out a deep breath. “ONE!” She drops the belt and pulls me into her arms. She hugs me tightly and kisses the top of my head.

“Good job, baby,” she praises, “Let’s have some snuggles before you write your lines.” She leads me to the couch, holding my hand firmly. She sits down and pulls me onto her lap. I wince when my bottom makes contact with her yoga pants, but I’m content to be held while I cry softly and apologize.

“Thank you again for picking me up,” I sniffle, “And going through all of this trouble.”

“Shh, you might be a trouble maker, but taking care of you is no trouble at all,” says Melissa as she continues to rub my back. When I’ve calmed down, she helps me sit up again. “Do you want to talk about what you said last night… about being worried that you might be gay?”

I blush deeply. “Oh, that…” I stutter nervously, “Yeah, I guess I just feel like I don’t like men. I mean, I keep trying because I always thought I did, but I saw this cute girl from my running group last night and I guess maybe I think I could be bisexual or a lesbian.”

Melissa’s face is full of compassion and understanding. She doesn’t say much, but she rubs my legs and asks why I seem so upset about it. We talk it over gently, with her reassuring and supporting me as we work through my thoughts and fears and hopes. When we’re both satisfied, she gently guides me to the dining room table to write my lines. I ask for a pillow, but my request is denied with a sympathetic kiss to the side of my head. Melissa does assorted chores while I write my lines, hand and bottom both burning. I know I’ve found someone that will hold me accountable… painfully… but I can’t be resentful when she also takes care of me and supports me so well.

I quickly text my friends and room mate to let them know I’m ok. It’s 10:30 and they just woke up, and I already have a fried behind! The injustice… As I finish up my lines, I look up at Melissa. She is really pretty. Stop it, I chastise myself, she’s a doctor and a mom and way older than you and probably isn’t attracted to you. Shaking the thought out of my head, I politely turn in my sheet of lines and give her one last hug.

“I can grab a cab so that you’re not inconvenienced,” I offer.

“I have to pick my son up from his sleepover at 11 anyway,” she says, “And please. Stop acting like an inconvenience or you’ll get another spanking.”

“Yes, ma’am! My butt is killing me. In that case, thanks for the ride!”

What. A. Day.

Down the Hatch

It’s a Friday night, and I’m currently being felt up by a banana. Ok, it’s some fratty college bro dressed as a banana for Halloween, so I guess that was misleading 😉 Regardless, banana bro had found me on the dance floor, already drunk on the warm vodka and Pepsi that my friends and I had pregamed with briefly on our rainy walk to another frat party. He grabbed my ass sans permission, and when I turned around to yell at him, my voice was concealed by the pounding music. Probably taking my angry expression as some weird sort of consent, he tried again at grabbing my ass. Disgusted and frustrated, I shoved him away and went to find my friends. Staying together at a frat party is always a challenge, but on Halloween night things are especially packed.

Eventually, I spot a couple of my skinny dance friends vying for more liquor at the makeshift bar in the back of the room, and I quickly make a beeline for them. When they see me, Leah squeals and says, “MORE SHOTS, BABY!” Caroline nods her approval enthusiastically, and I’m handed a small paper cup filled with pineapple juice and more warm vodka. Damn college students and their inability to buy (and chill) liquor appropriately. I’m already feeling the effects of our irresponsible pre-gaming, but I also know that I won’t have any fun with these sleazy college men unless I keep the alcohol coming. I pound another two shots with my girlfriends at the bar, and then we stumble away red-cheeked and giggling to see what trouble we can get into.

The three of us are a “sexy oreo.” I know. It’s dumb. But all I had to do to be a “sexy oreo cookie” was don a tight black spandex skirt and an equally tight black spandex crop top. It was cheap, easy, and group costumes always give you an excuse to ditch the sweaty, gross boy you’re dancing with in favor of gabbing another photo with your companions. “You guysssss,” I drawl, a little drunk for sure, “I think we should just go to a bar. It’s hot and crowded and I don’t know any of these weird guys.”

Carolyn frowns. “My fake ID isn’t that good,” she whines, “So if we don’t all get in you have to promise to leave the bar with me.” We all pinky promise, and we head out into the cool October night. Walking to the bar in the cold helps me sober up at least a tiny bit. When we arrive, we wait our turns in line, shivering and giggling, and then boldly fork over IDs that used to belong to older dancers. They aren’t fake, they just don’t belong to us. Borrowing a fakie from an older dancer is sort of a right of passage. The bouncer is overwhelmed by the Halloween crowds and ushers us in without really comparing us to the pictures of similar looking- but decidedly different- girls on our ID cards. Whooping in glee, we hightail it to the bar and order more drinks. And more drinks. We dance and we chat and we keep ordering. Eventually, Leah wanders off and starts making out with someone seemingly dressed as a dead professor. Charming. Caroline sees some friends from a religious group she’s in, and is suddenly dancing on a table with a couple of them. My friends are still in sight, so I ditch my half-full drink and run off to the bathroom to pee.

The moment that I sit down in a stall, away from the blaring music and loud voices, I realize just how drunk I am. The room is starting to spin a little, and my tongue and lips are completely numb. I try to text Caroline, but my hand-eye coordination has plummeted. Shit. I stand up and make my way over to the sink to wash my hands. I give myself a few minutes to catch my breath and vow to return to the bar for some water. Nearly to the bar, I’m intercepted by a cute girl named Teresa that I know from a running club that I briefly joined during the compulsive exercise phase of my freshman year. “HI!!!!” I say in a voice that’s probably a bit over-excited, and I pull her into an embrace.

“Heyyy, so good to see you, too,” she smiles, “are you a ninja or something?” she asks while assessing my black-on-black spandex and converse situation.

“No, I’m an oreo, well… part of an oreo… it’s whatever.”

“That’s AMAZING,” she says with a big laugh, “c’mon, let me buy you a drink real fast.” I start to say no, but I haven’t seen her in a while and I’m in a good mood. What’s one more shot. She insists on rum, which I grudgingly accept. We take it straight with no chaser and then high-five while giggling. I haven’t giggled this much in ages. It’s both freeing and a little concerning, especially as I feel my legs get more wobbly by the minute. Teresa gives me another hug and disappears to find her running club friends. She vows to text me soon. I nod politely, but am starting to really not feel well. I’m getting dizzier and dizzier and I’m starting to panic.

I look around for my friends, but the Halloween crowds are unreal. I decide to grab some fresh air outside. I stumble out the door and sit down on the cool concrete, leaning against the wall of the bar. I suddenly realize that I’m starving. I had a normal-sized piece of chicken for dinner, and several pieces of broccoli. I guess the meal was barely 300 calories, but protein is supposed to help absorb alcohol. That’s what they say, anyway. I’m certain that there is a greasy by-the-slice pizza place not far from here. Determined, I stand up and walk towards what I think the right intersection is. The problem is, it’s dark, I haven’t ever actually gone to this pizza place, and my legs are not doing a great job getting me down the sidewalk. There are plenty of crowds of partygoers in costume around, so I feel safe, but I’ve never been this drunk and I’m starting to doubt whether I can make it without passing out. My eyes feel heavy even though I wasn’t tired a few minutes ago, and like usual, I’m stuck outside in the cold air with no jacket and no tights. “FUCK,” I exclaim to no one in particular.

I have my phone, ID, fake ID, a few hair ties, and $5. That won’t cut it for a cab ride. I think about returning to the bar, but Caroline and Leah aren’t answering my texts and calls anyway. With my stomach in knots- either from nausea or nervousness- I get out my phone to call Melissa. She said she was always here for me, and I *really* need a lift. I can’t call anyone else in my sorority, because I could get kicked out for an offense like using a fake ID if they found out where I was. None of my other friends have cars. I press the call button by her name, hands shaking, and hope that she’s still awake.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Asking For Help

I left my mandatory meeting with the university dietitian buzzing with anxiety. I wasn’t sure what happened. I walked in confident, but when the kind dietitian started asking questions, the words that tumbled out of my mouth were complete lies. One question after the other was met with a mistruth or prevarication. It’s like a completely different person was speaking on my behalf. When it was over, she told me that it sounded like I was doing great, and she signed the paperwork that I would need to get back to dance. If I got the psychologist to sign off, too, Dr. Doom could end my probation period and I could go back to participating free of conditions. This should have been good news, but it wasn’t sitting right under the circumstances.

As I scuttled out of her office, I shoved her note into the pocket of my purple raincoat and yanked the hood over my head so that no one would see me. When I arrived at home, soaking wet from the rain and mad with myself for the “everything is fine” performance, I collapsed onto my bed and took a deep breath. I still had to see the psychologist, but otherwise no one else knew about what I was going through besides my dance instructor and Dr. Doom. The Doc did offer to talk to me if I ever needed anything, but maybe she just said that to be polite. I slowly wiped the raindrops off of my phone screen and debated whether or not I should reach out to her. My room mate and I had recently been arguing, and my parents would never be any help. I wasn’t quite ready to tell my friends or my classmates yet, so with a shaky breath and a steadily-thumping heart, I dialed Dr. Doom.

I felt a combination of relief and disappointment when it went to voicemail. “Hi… it’s me… Shae. From, you know, I was in your office last week. About the eating di- anyway, you probably remember. I just wanted to let you know that I saw the dietitian, and the thing is, I’m uncomfortable accepting her permission for me to return to dance, because I don’t feel like I managed to be completely truthful and open with her. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. It was really hard. I don’t want anyone to judge me and I’m just so new to talking about this with people. So, ok. Just wanted to let you know, and maybe you can help me schedule a follow-up appointment so that I can actually get some help.” 

When I hung up the phone, I replayed what I had said in my head over and over. Did I sound stupid? Pathetic? Would she be mad at me for lying? Maybe she wouldn’t call back at all. My time to worry was cut short when I realized that I had killed all of my downtime and was running really late to Italian. I didn’t have time to grab a snack, but I figured it was okay since I had eaten breakfast before seeing the dietitian (I didn’t want my stomach rumbling in front of the nutrition expert). After Italian, I took the bus straight to the performing arts center for dance, where I was occupied for 4 hours with classes. Thankfully, my instructor wasn’t treating me any differently in light of the eating disorder news. I left tired and sweaty, like always. While I was swapping my pointe shoes for rain boots, I glanced at my cell phone and noticed a missed call. My heart stopped. It was the doctor. My classmates were chatting but I wasn’t paying attention. I waived and said bye to no one in particular, and then rushed outside into the damp fall air to call her back. Please don’t let us be playing phone tag, I thought. I wasn’t even sure why I wanted to talk to her so desperately, but when I heard her steely voice greet me, my whole body seemed to tense and relax simultaneously. She had an effect on me that no one else in my life did.

“Hi Shae.”

“H-hi, Dr. Doom.”

“You can call me Melissa,” she said, with only the slightest hint of warmth in her voice.

“Oh. Okay, Ma’am. I mean, Melissa.” I heard her stifle a laugh. “Well anyway, thanks for calling back. I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

“It’s not a problem,” she said evenly, “I’m responsible for letting your instructor know when your probationary period is over, so it’s important that I’m fully aware of what’s going on with your appointments. I’m sorry to hear that you weren’t able to make good use of your time with Nancy today. Obviously, you’ll have to go back in order to have an accurate assessment done, and I will see to it that the next assessment isn’t a waste of everyone’s time.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll go back whenever it’s convenient for everyone. I didn’t mean to mess things up,” I whispered.

“I understand that you’re having a hard time,” she said slowly, “And as I said, the psychologist and dietitian are best equipped to help with the bulk of your issues. I would, however, like to help with what I can. I won’t be in the office much this week, but why don’t we have a quick chat tonight if you’re free?”

“Oh,” I said with surprise, “I guess I’m free, I just have to, you know, like shower and eat.”

“I’ll swing by your place to grab you at 7,” she said authoritatively, “Text me your address.”

“Ok, yeah, I’ll be ready.” With a glance at the time on my phone screen, I realized that I would have to rush. I ran to the bus stop, and when it deposited me just outside of my sorority house, I sprinted through the door and up to my room so that I could shower and change before Melissa’s arrival. I was ready to go around 6:50. That gave me ten minutes to eat dinner. I realized that the only thing I’d eaten since breakfast was an apple. Dammit. I scarfed down a modest bowl of pasta and a handful of carrots. At about 7:02, a text let me know that Melissa was outside waiting.

Melissa drove a beautiful white Audi SUV. I gaped at the nice, new interior as she stared over my shoulder at my sorority house. “It’s charming,” she said simply. I blushed.

“I know. I’m a walking stereotype. Dancer and sorority girl. But my sisters are super great and honestly, I’m cool. Like, I’m not spoiled or mean or whatever else you’re thinking.”

“No,” she smiled, “just skinny and bratty.” Without another word, she picked up speed and we glided down the street. “My son has soccer practice, so I figured we could just chat at my house,” she explained.

“Ok,” I nodded. We proceeded to sit in silence for the remainder of the drive. She seemed focused on driving and I was focused on how nervous yet excited I was to spend time with her, especially at her house. It only took about 10 minutes for us to pull up to a beautiful two-story house in a wooded neighborhood that I was wholly unfamiliar with as a campus-dwelling dancer. Still without speaking, she ushered me inside and offered me a glass of water or tea while I removed my shoes.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked, “because then wine might be better.” I said it with a smirk to denote I was joking, but it got me nothing more than a glare. “Ok, jeesh, just trying to lighten the mood. Water is great.”

“Why don’t you join me in the living room,” she said firmly as she handed me a glass. I followed her obediently. When she sat down on her couch, I decided to take a seat on another couch across the room from her. Distance is always a good idea when one’s behind might be on the line.

“Shae. I think that you know that you have a problem. And that you need help. You might need more help than I can give you individually, but what I can offer you is consistent medical advice and accountability. The latter might be more valuable to you. I think you need someone to help you stay on track. I wouldn’t normally offer to take on a bratty dancer, but I happen to think highly of you and I’d like to see you be successful.” She paused for effect and I nodded my understanding. “Great,” she said, folding her hands neatly on her lap, “So I think you understand how I ordinarily handle discipline. I plan to spank you for your stint at the dietitian’s office today, and I plan to spank you every time you fall short of my expectations, which- by the way- are high. But I think you also have high expectations of yourself, and we can be a good team. But to clarify, I’m the captain of the team. I want to spank you not only to punish you, but to show you that you aren’t always in control; you can’t be, and you don’t have to be. Whenever you’re with me, you can count on me. I mean that in many ways. You can count on me to tan your hide when you’re bratty or deceptive, but you can also count on me when you need someone to help.” She slowed down when she saw tears falling from my eyes.

“Thank you,” I said simply, “I’m not mad or sad. Just overwhelmed. And maybe a little anxious about the whole spanking thing,” I added with a small laugh. She smiled again.

“It’s ok,” she said. “Why don’t we start with the punishment and get it out of the way, and then we’ll talk about some ground rules and expectations.” I nodded my acquiescence, but I didn’t move from the couch. “Come sit over here,” she instructed. I shuffled across the room and sat down gingerly next to her. “Now,” she said, “I’m spanking you for lying to the dietitian today. I know you might have a hard time being open with people, but it was really unfair to her and to yourself. In the future, lying to anyone will earn you a trip over my knee, no questions asked. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I sniffled, eyes wide.

“Great. Is there anything else you want to tell me before we begin?”

“I guess not,” I said carefully, “But, I mean, I’m just feeling a little guilty because you’re letting me continue to dance while I work on my recovery, but I know I haven’t made enough effort to fuel my body properly. I only ate two small meals and a small apple today, and I danced for four hours.” I looked down at my hands in shame. Melissa put her hand under my chin and forced me to look at her.

“I understand,” she said, “I’m glad that you know it’s unacceptable. I don’t expect you to get rid of all of your bad habits overnight, but I do expect from now on that you can follow a simple, healthy meal schedule if you want to keep dancing. We can talk about that more after your spanking.” With my admission out in the open, I felt my shoulders relax, and my breathing returned to normal. I was still nervous, but the confession had taken a weight off of me in a way that I didn’t expect. I’m a very private person, but talking to Melissa made me feel better. I was interrupted from my thoughts when Melissa pulled me swiftly over her knee. Apparently the chat was over.

This time, Melissa started spanking me over my leggings. They were too thin to protect me much, but it prevented the heat from building as quickly as it had last time. The pain was more of a dull ache than a sharp sting. Her rhythm was almost relaxing. Before I could even think that it “wasn’t too bad,” she ordered me to stand up. She unceremoniously peeled my leggings down to my kneecaps. Luckily, I didn’t have much time to revel in the embarrassment of the situation, since she quickly pulled me back over her knee and resumed her assault on my upturned bottom. The bare-bottom smacks brought on a searing pain each time they landed. Damn, Melissa was strong.

“I know you know why you’re being punished,” she said, “So we’re going to skip any further lecturing. All I will say is that I don’t give many warnings. The next time you have to resume this position for lying, you are going to be feeling my hairbrush.” With that, Melissa fell silent and I could only hear the sound of her hand striking me over and over. The echo of her smacks filled the room, and the sting in my bottom grew and grew. After what felt like an eternity, she stopped to elevate her knee and raise my bottom further into the air. I was hit with a new wave of humiliation, and she began spanking even faster and harder. I wailed and kicked my legs. I begged her to stop and dug my hands into the carpet and tried to get away from her. She barely reacted to my tantrum- she simply adjusted my bottom again and wrapped her left arm even more tightly around my waist. Her physical strength was overpowering. I ceased my resistance and cried while she continued to smack my already burning bottom. Finally, she slowed down her smacks. The last few were softer, and somehow almost pleasant. I breathed softly and relaxed. She eventually transitioned to rubbing my bottom, and then my back. When I wasn’t crying anymore, she helped me sit up. I didn’t know what to do with myself, but she pulled me into her embrace and gently rubbed my hair, so I closed my eyes and whispered one final apology.

“It’s all fine,” she said, “You did a good job for your first proper spanking. It will certainly be worse in the future if you don’t behave,” she warned. I nodded emphatically and continued to snuggle my head into her collar bone. She was surprisingly warm and comfy for someone with such a cold and commanding personality.

After a few minutes, she encouraged me to drink the rest of my water, and she began to lay out the ground rules. I was tired and having a hard time focusing, so she agreed to send the rules via email instead, and she kindly ushered me to the car and drove me back home. Sitting through the car ride was, erm, not fun to say the least, but I went to bed that night feeling relieved and protected. Just before I drifted off, I sent the doc a quick text message: “Thanks for everything, Dr. Melissa, I really appreciate it :)”

“Sleep :)” was her characteristically short response. Well, I thought, at least I got a smiley face. She might make me behave, but eventually I’ll get her to be more cheerful!

 

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…

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

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! 

Meeting Dr. Doom

As I sit in the waiting room at the tiny University physician’s office, I feel like a walking stereotype. I’m a dance major at a large liberal arts school, and I recently had to confide in one of my instructors about my eating disorder. I’m irritated with myself but I don’t quite know why. Eating disorders persist despite the victims intelligence, confidence, happiness, and desire to be healthy. I keep repeating that it’s not my fault; I’m not making fellow dancers “look bad,” and I’m not a burden for needing to seek help.

My eating disorder had started over a year ago, when I realized that dance in college was a whole ‘nother ball game, so to speak. No matter what I told myself about how talented I was, I couldn’t help but think that I would be as talented as my intimidating classmates if I could just be more thin. More beautiful. More graceful. Lean. What started as a promise to eat healthy spiraled into near-starvation, compulsive exercise, and eventually vomiting. After coming back from a summer dance intensive feeling ill and looking like a string bean, I was forced to have “the talk” with one of my favorite professors. She said that I would have to see one of the university’s physicians to get a letter of approval for my participation that semester. I whined, but there was nothing I could say to change her mind. She was kind but firm about the requirement. “It’ll be fine,” she had promised with a reassuring smile, “Dr. (let’s call her Doom) is fantastic.”

So, there I sat in the doctor’s waiting room, at 9am sharp on a Monday, pretending to study from my Italian textbook while listening to my heart thud in my chest. When my name was called, I shuffled down the narrow hallway into a small exam room. My backpack and rain coat were drowning my small frame, and I kept my eyes down. My palms were sweaty and my heart was thumping ever faster, but I promised myself that the appointment would only take 20 minutes. I’d promise that I was getting better- eating more- and she would let me go. The doctor hadn’t quite greeted me yet. She was sizing me up while applying an inhuman amount of hand sanitizer to both hands. The doctor was tall, with sharp facial features and a cold, demanding stare. I felt about two inches tall when I looked up at her from the exam table. I know that she works for the university’s athletic department. She’s probably used to fixing the broken bones of soccer stars and managing the illnesses of football players four times her size. I imagine that she’d rather be doing anything but talking to little, silly me. Finally, she breaks the awkward silence.

“So… your professor sent you here for an eating disorder?”

I choose not to answer because what she really did was make a statement, and I’m not going to reward the obvious with an answer. Seemingly annoyed by my blank stare, she says, with zero emotion or tenderness, “So what is it that you do? I mean, are you not eating? Are you vomiting?”

My face scrunches up in annoyance. No way in H-E-doublehockeysticks am I going to let this judgmental jerk get an answer out of me.

“Uhm. Yeah I guess.” I’m purposely vague and my nervousness has been replaced with straight irritation. I can feel my eyes narrowing involuntarily, as if my inner defensive brat can’t help but punish the rude question with an evil stare.

The doctor sighs and tells me that she needs to weigh me. I silently acquiesce. She has me sit back on the exam table, and explains in a business-like fashion that she has to check my throat for signs of trauma. We do the tongue depressor thing, she pokes around my throat with her cold fingers, and she stabs at my abdomen to see if anything hurts. I keep my eyes on the ceiling, feigning disinterest in this whole process. On the inside, I’m simmering with embarrassment. She finally backs up again, and returns to her favorite position: arms crossed and face set in a blank, intimidating stare.

“Physically, you look okay right now,” she says slowly, “but I have to warn you that with the vomiting and–”

“I’m not stupid!” I spit, interrupting her impending lecture, “I know that it’s bad for me. I’m working on it.” She looks a little irritated at the interruption, but she shifts tactics smoothly.

“Look. If you want to exercise the way that your schedule demands, it’s really not sustainable for you to not eat.” She continues her lecture, but all I can hear is her patronizing tone and all that I can really focus on is her un-amused stare. I have never felt so ridiculous before.

“FINE!” I interrupt for a second time, “I know I’m an idiot, ok? I know I have to eat. I didn’t need to come to the doctor because there’s nothing really wrong with me. My professor made me schedule this appointment, and I know you don’t want to talk to some dumb skinny dancer about how foolish she’s being. As long as I’m good to return to dance class, I don’t need anything else. I’m sure you have plenty of better things to do with your time and I’m sorry I had to come annoy you about my ineptitude. I’m obviously having a hard time, and you’re kind of being a jerk. You’re talking to me like… like… I’m the scum of the earth or something. So I can just go or whatever. If I’m fine to dance and all.” When I finish my tirade, it dawns on me that perhaps I didn’t need to speak quite so loudly. Dr. Doom’s eyebrows are raised, but she doesn’t look particularly surprised, nor does she necessarily look angry. The silence in the room is deafening.

“Ok,” says Dr. Doom, still eerily calm, “why don’t you stand on the ground and turn around for me?” I look back at her with wide eyes. “Stand up,” she repeats, “and turn around.” I don’t know what else to do at this point, so I stand up and turn around slowly. “Put your hands on the exam table,” she instructs calmly. I do. “I’m going to pull your pants down, and I’m going to spank you,” she says matter-of-factly. “Eating disorders are about control,” she explains, “and in my exam room, I’m in control. I’m sorry that you didn’t get the sympathy that you were hoping for, but I’m trying to do my job. I’m trying to make sure that you’re healthy and capable of performing your usual activities. So now, you are going to stay still and stay silent, and I am going to spank you for how incredibly rude you’ve been.” It is a very good thing that I’m already bent over, because I feel extremely lightheaded. Can doctors spank people?!?! I’m too humiliated to speak, so I wait to see if she is going to say anything. “I need your consent,” she finally says, “and this isn’t medical treatment, it’s a personal offer to give you something that you obviously need.” Her voice is still amazingly businesslike, a little exasperated perhaps. I’m not sure what options I have at this point.

“Oh. Ok. Ye- I mean, sure.” My voice is suddenly quiet and whiny, in stark contrast to my bold proclamations less than two minutes ago. Having gotten the go-ahead from yours truly, Dr. Doom takes a step closer to me. With one hand on the exam table next to me, she raises her right hand and brings it down with an alarmingly painful crack. “AH, OW!” I exclaim automatically.

“You will get precisely one reminder to be quiet,” she says in a low voice, pinching my inner thigh painfully for emphasis.

“Ok, sorry!” I whisper urgently, letting my breath out slowly as she raises her hand again. SMACK! Geez, it’s painful when she hits me. I was never spanked as a child, but good Lord I didn’t think it would hurt so darn much. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. No one else was in the waiting room, but I wonder if the receptionist can hear. SMACK SMACK SMACK. My embarrassment is driven from my mind temporarily as I try to adjust to the pain. Dr. Doom keeps spanking both cheeks- and the tops of my thighs- while I will wiggle and breathe heavily. She moves her second hand to my lower back as she continues to smack my bare bottom. As painful as the spanking is, I feel oddly serene under her control. Like the only thing that I have to focus on is submitting to her authority, and my previously complicated emotions have simplified. SMACK SMACK SMACK.

“Do you know why you’re being spanked?” she asks, not stopping the onslaught of smacks.

“I was rude to you and it was disrespectful,” I squeak out.

“Good girl. I’m spanking you because you were rude, and also because you need to learn a lesson about control. Learning to let go is going to help you. So *SMACK SMACK* will eating.” Her swats have slowed down since I have stopped wiggling. The pain and embarrassment and stress of the whole morning get to me and I start to cry. She delivers a few more swats to the back of each of my thighs.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble into the silence.

“What’s that?” she asks, her voice finally the softest it has been all morning.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Actually, I was apologizing for crying because you don’t seem like the type of person who would appreciate a crybaby, but while I’m at it, I’m also sorry for… you know… snapping at you and stuff. I know you were just doing your job. I shouldn’t have taken my nervousness out on you. I’m just embarrassed and frustrated and scared, ya know…” I start to cry harder after my admission rushes out of my mouth, and she rubs my back gently.

“It’s ok,” she finally whispers, “everything is fine. I sometimes forget to be mindful of sensitive topics. I’m a pretty straightforward person.”

“No… really?” I ask with a sarcastic smile. She smiles for the first time all morning and laughs.

“Stand up,” she says kindly, helping me up into standing position. I feel incredibly awkward standing in front of her with my leggings pulled halfway down, but I look up at her and wait for more instructions rather than adjusting them. “I’m not a psychologist,” she says carefully, “and you need to see the university psychologist. But I do know when a brat needs a spanking, and you were begging for one this morning.”

“Y-yes, Ma’am. Uh… thank you?” I mumble awkwardly, looking between Dr. Doom and the ground.

“Pull your pants up,” she says with a small smile. “I’m going to write a letter to your dance teacher that you’re ok to participate for now, but I’m expecting you to see the psychologist… and the dietitian.”

“Yes, Ma’am, I will,” I nod emphatically.

“And why don’t I give you my business card in case you have any questions,” she offers kindly. “You’re won’t be bothering me,” she emphasizes, briefly putting her hand under my chin. I nod gratefully and she hands me a tissue.

“Do you, like, want a hug or something?” I ask timidly as she moves to open the door and release me back into the world. She laughs and opens her arms slightly, so I take that as a yes. I quickly wrap my arms around her tall frame, pressing my cheek against her chest. She pats me gently on the back and holds me until I am ready to pull away.

“Be good. Take care of yourself,” she says as she walks me back to the reception area.

“Ok. Thank you,” I say with sincerity. And with that, I head back out into the bright September sunshine. My bottom is still stinging, but I hold onto her business card and smile. That was a strange appointment, I think to myself, but I might actually be back to see Dr. Doom. Maybe her doom was just what I needed to get better.