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Pamela's Weekend Punishment

Part 2, by Belmont Stephen

...."Shall I count to three?" her mother demanded.

She vividly recalled Mom's methods of enforcing submission under punishment. The first time (not the last): Mom had come to her as she lay in bed, pretending to be asleep, hoping that her naughtiness would be overlooked at such a late hour. Mom had ordered: "Pamela, please turn over for your spanking and slide down your pajama pants." When Pamela did not immediately respond, Mom started to count: "One!" "Two!", pausing a second or two between each number. When she reached "Ten!" and Pamela still lay on her back, Mom left the room, and returned with a truly lethal hairbrush. Pamela quickly found herself turned and bared. Mom proceeded to apply the hairbrush to her daughter's bare buttocks until Pamela promised never, ever, to resist punishment again. And then Mom proceeded to administer - on a very sore bare bottom - the spanking she had started out to give.

Very reluctantly Pamela held out her hand, palm upwards.

Immediately Mom placed the ruler across the quivering outstretched fingers, at a slight diagonal, so it covered most of the palm and the end of the instrument touched the pad of her thumb.

"Fingers together! Raise that hand higher!"

It was horrible having to watch the careful preparation, knowing she would not only feel but also see the stroke in all its biting pain. At least with a bottom punishment Pamela's face was turned away. Now she would see everything!

Her eyes widened as the ruler was raised a full three feet above the trembling waiting palm.

"Don't you dare move that hand!"

CRACK! The ruler exploded against the soft tender flesh. Pamela squeaked in pain. Her eyes watered. Instinctively her reddened fingers bounded and curled so that her hand, though still raised, was now half cupped.

"Open up your palm!"

Again the ruler was raised and this time brought down more swiftly, bringing a louder protest from Pamela and leaving her with two red ruler prints slightly displaced from one another.

"Mom, please, it hurts!" Pamela pleaded as Mom lifted the ruler again.

After six scorching strokes, Pamela's fingers and palm were tingling. Though each stroke covered ample overlapping territory, each one had left a distinct sting and burn behind it, so she could still feel each individual bite of the ruler.

"Now your left hand, young lady," said her mother, and Pamela managed to get it out and up and watched through tear-blurred eyes as the ruler was raised again - and again - till she had received six scorchers on that hand as well.

But still Mom was not finished. "Hold out your right hand again," her mother said. "Hold it up and keep it up, or we'll start all over from the beginning," she warned her daughter.

Pamela's flaming right hand, that had received a brief respite while her left hand was punished, did not feel ready for what it was about to get. It quivered as she raised it into position. She clutched her right wrist with her smarting left fingers to try to hold it steady. Mom waited patiently, with the ruler at her side, until the proffered palm was ready. Then she raised the ruler high and opened fire. Pamela received twelve strokes. Unlike the first six, these were delivered in a nonstop volley. Pamela squealed and cried throughout the relentless barrage.

As Pamela sulked and weeped, her mother turned to her desk, arranging the paper and pencils, and adjusting the hardwood chair.

Pamela's rump still tingled from yesterday. Sitting in that chair would be a punishment itself, as mother and daughter both well knew.

"Take off your jeans," Mom said. Obediently and gingerly, Pamela reached for the fastenings. With the burn in her fingers, she had to be careful how she touched things.

"And your panties," said her mother. Then she turned her daughter round, lifted her blouse behind, and observed with satisfaction that the soft full cheeks were still pale pink from yesterday's ordeal.

"You will sit at this desk. You will not get up except to go to the bathroom. When you have finished the writing, you can get dressed and go downstairs." her mother instructed her. "If I come in and find any kind of padding or cushion between your fanny and this chair, I promise that you will be a very sorry young lady."

At first Pamela could barely hold a pencil in her hand. Somehow she managed to start writing. Her hand shook and the pencil moved unevenly. Her bare bottom squirmed in the hard wooden seat. She hoped the words were legible enough to satisfy her demanding parent.

It was seven o'clock, and she was tediously proceeding to line number 150 when she heard the doorbell ring downstairs. It was Joe, come for his date with Susan. She wondered if Joe would find reason to spank Susan tonight, and if she would be called upon again to soothe her sister's rumpled ego and rear. She wondered what it would be like to be spanked by a man - any man, but especially one as loving and handsome as Joe.

At seven-thirty (line number 163), mom brought her a simple but wholesome meal, which she attempted to eat at the same time she was writing.

At eight o'clock, she was at line number 170. The end was in sight - but she would barely be finished before bedtime. Her hindcheeks longed for a softer surface to press against and her hand felt cramped and strained. Downstairs the telephone rang, and she could her Mom answer it.

Mrs. Sprague was not surprised to hear Miss Skillings' voice on the other end of the line. Back when Susan had started in Miss Skillings' school - almost ten years ago - they had agreed that Miss Skillings would report any punishments that either of her daughter's received. They had also agreed that such reports would be about twenty-four hours after the fact, to give Susan and Pamela ample opportunity to confess.

"I paddled your daughter yesterday," Miss Skillings began, unconcealed satisfaction in her voice.

"I know," said the girl's mother.

"She admitted it?" inquired the school principal.

"Only after I saw the evidence. I had to spank her last night. And she's going to get a real thrashing tomorrow for not telling me sooner."

"So she got it bare?" the principal inquired. That was all she needed to launch into her standard campaign speech, with which Mrs. Sprague was already familiar, in favor of bare-bottom punishments at school.

Mrs. Sprague regarded this campaign with slightly mixed emotions. On the one hand, the girls needed discipline, and the harsher the better. But when it actually came to removing that last line of defence, and administering punishment to a backside that was not only squirming in anticipation but also naked, she sometimes felt that that was her own exclusive prerogative as a mother. She knew, for instance that Susan's boyfriend Joe often spanked, and she heartily approved. But if she ever discovered that he spanked bare, .. she shuddered at the thought - it would call for drastic measures - aimed both at Susan's love life and Susan's bottom.

Yet - Miss Skillings was very persuasive. She had almost enough parents' signatures to put her policy into practice. Mrs. Sprague hated to have the woman think she was soft and lenient.

She would have to think it over some more. For now, she needed to get back to the subject of Pamela. So she turned the conversation back to Pamela, and why she had been paddled. Mrs. Sprague fumed at the description of Pamela, caught in the locker room naked, belaboring the naked body of another student with a towel. And the other girl was being held down! How could Pamela do that? This required a severe punishment, one that would fit the crime!

That night as she lay in bed, sleeping on her stomach (although her rear had pretty much recovered), Pamela wondered to herself just how Mom would manage, without that paddle, to punish her "twice as hard" as at school. It was a subject that she tried very hard - and not very successfully - not to dwell on.

Breakfast was not as pleasant as it had been on the previous day. When she first got up, Mom told her she should shower but was not to change out of her pyjamas until after "our little session".

Her mother gave no hint of what was to come.

Susan sat down at the table very gingerly. She must have done something to displease Joe. Pamela wondered how Mom could fail to notice. Perhaps, she worried, her mother was preoccupied with how to make her own punishment severe enough.

Hardly a word was spoken at the breakfast table. Tension hung in the air. From time to time Pamela looked across at Susan, and her sister returned a quiet glance of sympathy. Mom kept moving back and forth between the table and the stove. Pamela was too embarrassed at the thought of what was coming to say anything to her, or even to look her in the face.

After breakfast, in the shower, Pamela tried to enjoy the feel of the warm water, set to needle jet flow, gently tingling her body. She felt soft and clean all over. When she glanced in the mirror afterwards, she saw that her buttocks were the color of ivory - not a hint of paddle or palm remained. She could think of nothing but the ordeal that lay ahead. She could not stop dreading how her backside would look and feel when her mother finished with it.

After breakfast, she waited - and waited.

"Mom, when are you going to..?" Pamela's voice trailed off. It was ten-thirty. She had been biting her nails, not daring to leave her room, anxiously awaiting the inevitable. Finally she couldn't stand the wait. She was at her mother's door, actually asking to be punished.

"Come in," said her mother. "I thought I'd let you anticipate for a while, but I guess it's been long enough." Pamela nervously entered.

"Take off your robe."

The girl obediently removed it and folded it over a chair. Then her eyes widened fearfully as she saw what was on her mother's bureau: two towels, of medium weight, that she might dry her face with. They were each intermediate in size between a bath towel and a hand towel. One was dry. The other was partially immersed in a bowl of steaming water.

Mom had decided to make the punishment fit the crime.

Pamela thought back to the towel fight she had been in just two days before.

Her mother observed her surprise and apprehension.

"Well, we are about to have our own version of the episode that brought on your school punishment the other day - except that this time I will be using the towel and you will be presenting your bottom to me."

Her mother picked up the dry towel. "And, unlike pretty Eleanor, you will - if you know what's good for you - stay in one place and not try to dart away." She motioned with her fingers for her daughter to turn around. "Bend over the bed, young lady, and lower your pyjama bottoms."

The girl hesitated, and thought of trying to plead. That towel, she knew, could raise a painful welt with a single snap if it was used effectively. But if it was not, she would only feel a gentle swipe. Her mother had never used a towel on her. Pamela wondered if she knew how to make it really hurt.

"I promise you that when I am through with you today, you will not be so eager to get into towel fights in the future," her mother said calmly.

In fearful resignation, Pamela turned toward the bed and fumbled with the drawstring of her pyjama pants. Slowly she lowered the single cotton covering. Her full cheeks bulged back nakedly.

"Mid thigh is low enough," said her mother.

She bent forward and placed her hands on the bed. The mattress gave an inch or so with her weight. She could see stress lines in the quilt. Behind, her pyjama top hung down so that it hid the dainty dimples at the top of her hips. Her mother stepped toward her and folded it up so that the small of her back was bare. "We'll have to remove this if it gets in the way," she remarked.

Then Mom stood back, grasped the towel firmly with her right hand, and aimed carefully. It had been years since the time - in her own adolescence - that she had used the towel on a cowering sneak of a classmate. She wondered if she would remember how to do it. With her left hand she gently clasped the business end - the end that, with luck, was about to nip her daughter's bottom.

Pamela's buttocks wobbled as the trembling girl shifted from foot to foot.

With a strong snap of her right wrist, the older woman made the towel bound forward in the air, as if it was a living thing seeking tender prey. An alternate jerk of the same wrist made the heavy cloth snap in upon itself, with an angry sound like the flap of a sail in a storm.

Pamela jumped in dismay, but the blow was short - spending its fury in the air, an inch or so short of her quivering left cheek.

Just a little closer, her mother thought to herself, as she watched her daughter's false-alarm trembles subside. But not too much closer, or it won't have any bite.

She drew the towel back again.

SNAP! This time the cloth exploded not in air, but on bare and vulnerable female flesh. Pamela shrieked. Both hands flew back and desperately tried to soothe the punished spot, in the center of her left buttock.

Mom watched in satisfaction - Pamela had really felt that one! She glanced at her watch and decided that her daughter could have one minute to recover before continuing.

"Uncover!" she ordered when the minute was over. Pamela's hands hesitantly returned to the bedspread. A small purple welt throbbed angrily on her white buttock.

"Turn the other cheek," her mother ordered with a faint trace of sarcasm, and Pamela submissively shifted her weight so her right bottom-cheek bulged out slightly more than the left.

SNAP! This time the towel punished the right cheek. Again Pamela's hands flew back in distress. "Please, Mom, ..." she said in a tone of desperation, never finishing the sentence.

"Uncover!" was the only response, and the girl's hands hesitated for only a second or so, and then gave up their desperate attempts to soothe the intolerably throbbing smart.

SNAP! "OUCH!" The left cheek got it again, and Pamela lurched forward and then upwards, as if she had been shot. Her hands whipped around, as they had on both previous strokes, but her fingers touched the punished spot more gingerly this time.

Her mother stood back for a moment. Pamela glanced back nervously to see what she was doing. Her eyes were brimming full. A few tears - only a few - ran down her cheeks.

"Reach for the ceiling. Keep your legs together," ordered her mother.

Nervously Pamela obeyed. She did not dare do otherwise. Her mother was making her cooperate and participate in this punishment, to an extent that she seldom had been required to before. And this was a punishment in itself, in addition to the pain.

Pamela's body was stretched and taut. She could smell the nervous perspiration coating her wide-open underarms. She knew that her buttocks were obediently presented at their softest and fullest. Except for the three angry swelling places, the skin was still white and delicate.

Anticipating what was to come, the cheeks stayed in constant, bobbing motion, as if aware of how much tender surface there still was left to scorch.

The girl's stretch lifted not only her arms and hands but also kept the pyjama top well clear of the target area. Her dimples were exposed now, just beneath her hidden small of back.

Mom regarded her handiwork proudly. As this continued - and she was determined to prolong this punishment well past the point of desperation - she knew that she would have to strike ever more carefully. A blow on top of a weal might draw blood - something she promised herself to avoid at all costs.

She aimed for the center. Two birds with one stone, she thought to herself, as she watched the inner cheek-slopes rub each other nervously. She'll feel it in there, she thought.

She was standing too close. The towel never snapped at all, but instead thudded harmlessly against the waiting rump, provoking only a gentle moan of relief from the delinquent daughter.

But Mom was a fast learner, who seldom repeated a mistake.

SNAP! "No! OW!" The towel, almost as if it was alive, burrowed into Pamela's crevice at its fullest pout. For an instant the cheeks bounded open in a mad dash to escape, and then the girls hands rushed rearward in such haste that they clapped noisily against the frantically squirming fanny and it looked as if Pamela was trying to spank herself.

"Get back in position!" came her mother's order, "and remain there for the next two blows!"

Pamela, sniffling loudly, her cheeks (the ones on her face) now soaked with tears, was not sure she could obey. Why did her mother delight so in making her cooperate with this painful procedure?

"If you move between the next two, we'll have a hairbrush intermission," her mother promised, and Pamela shuddered.

Fortunately for her, the next two were delivered in quick succession, one on each side, on the exposed inner slopes, close to the site of the unforgettable inner-cheek smack.

But Oh-my-God they stung. Pamela started to wish that her mother was using the Senior Paddle. After the second one her hands went back again more slowly to rub - she really had slapped herself that last time.

"Uncover and hands up," her mother ordered again. "I'm going to give you another pair. Same hairbrush penalty if you don't stay in place.

SNAP! "Ooh! Ow!" The towel attacked hitherto unpunished flesh - on the quivering right outer flank-slope - so forcefully that the girl twisted with the blow, keeping her hands obediently raised but thrusting her left cheek aft in a gesture that - had it been to a boyfriend - would have been a punishable obscene invitation.

Which was precisely how her mother took it. SNAP! "Ow!" Against the lewdly outstretched summit. Why did it hurt so much there? rushed through her mind as her hands again returned to their rudely interrupted vain attempts to comfort her throbbing rear. Her mother was moving behind her again.

"All right," she said. "You don't have to keep stretching up." Pamela tried to relax, but she had a feeling that she would not appreciate this change.

"Pants off!" She was right. It sounded bad!

She let her pyjama pants slide down her legs and sloughed them off.

But why did they have to come off? Surely her mother wasn't going to use the towel in there?

Sometimes it seemed her mother could read her mind. "I want them off so that the target area will be prepared and ready in case you don't cooperate and I need to give you a penalty," she explained. "You see, you are now about to absorb four towel snaps without covering up."

"No!" Pamela protested. She glanced nervously behind her. Her mother had exchanged towels. The one she had in her hands now as wet and warm. Pamela had no idea how much this might hurt. And she had no idea if she could control her hands.

"You bottom has taken quite a bit, and it's going to get a lot more!" her mother continued, "So I won't use the hairbrush if you don't obey my instructions."

Pamela felt momentarily relieved at that.

"Instead I will give you another thigh-fry!"

Pamela's fleshy thighs reacted noticeably to the threat, rubbing against each other in anticipatory dismay. Vividly she remembered how - if the promised penalty was delivered - they would be wide-opened, as her mother's stinging palm crackled up and down, inside and front and back, till they burned as crimson as a hairbrushed bottom.

"Now crouch down, your chest flat on the mattress, and hold on to the far side of the bed," her mother ordered.

Fearfully Pamela obeyed this new instruction. She could feel the texture of the quilt with her nipples through the thin pyjama top, which was all that she now was wearing. Her face pressed against it too, and she knew that soon it would be soaked with her tears, just as it had been on Friday with her sister's. In this position, her legs were spread, thighs frightfully vulnerable, but worst of all her buttocks yawned open. Fortunately they were hefty enough that her mother could not see all the way to her dainty rear sphincter.

For a moment, her mother stood over her, the towel in her left hand as her right hand ran over the soft burning flesh, testing, appraising, deciding which places could best absorb more punishment without lasting harm. Pamela could feel the wet towel close, moistening her far left bare hip. Then her mother stood back.

SPLAT! "No! OW!" The towel stung her deep between her cheeks, low toward the base of her rear. She sobbed and cried, and her bottom squirmed desperately, as if it had a will of its own, trying to clench, but in that posture it could not hold itself shut for long.

SPLAT! "No! Please!" The towel struck the same place! While the rest of her body stayed immobile, her fatty-muscley yawning-clenching cheeks reacted with energy that she hardly knew she had.

SPLAT! "Please! Please!" She swore that this blow could not have been more than a millimeter higher than the last. She hands flew to her face, wiping at the streaming tears. Somehow she found the strength to thrust them forward again, instead of to her desperate derriere.

SPLAT! She was too weak to protest. Mercifully the last blow fell on "fresh ground," high on the right cheek. But it still hurt like hell. "Let's try for six this time," was her mother's order.

"Please, Mom, I can't" Pamela protested.

"Oh yes, you can! I promised you a real thrashing and that is what you are going to get!"

Unfortunately for Pamela, she couldn't! She made a valiant try, Her mother even helped - a bit - by letting her lie flat on the bed. In this position, her rear pouted temptingly upwards. The towel-blows, aimed from above, did not attempt to open the tightly clenched posterior, but instead were carefully distributed over the few places that were still pale and unblemished.

But blow number 5 was a scorcher! Pamela simply watched uncomprehendingly as her hands, with a will of their own, through no volition of hers, found their way in less than a second to her incredibly chastised rear.

But they did not stay there long!

"Turn over! On your back! Which thigh wants it first?"

"Neither one," Pamela groaned. As she obediently turned her body, even the soft quilt felt like fire on her rump. Soft goosebumps adorned the fatty flesh of her tender full thighs.

For her snotty response, she was rewarded with a double thigh fry - perhaps also because her mother decided, mercifully, that her bottom had had all that it could take.

Her mother had kept her promise to punish - twice as hard as the paddling at school. She was pleased with herself. She had been as strict as she had wanted to be. Pamela might not think so now, but in days to come she would be thankful for this discipline.

Two weeks later, unfortunate Pamela again had an audience with Miss Skillings. This time she had not been rough housing, but had accumulated an awesome count of demerits for a week of sloppy schoolwork.

Again Pamela was held down over the sturdy bench, this time with fashionable flair slacks lowered, as the paddle appraisingly patted her seat.

But now there was a difference! One that Pamela did not appreciate, though Miss Skillings and her assistant certainly did.

Pamela's full white cotton panties were not left to embrace her nervously trembling rear. They were drawn down to her thighs. Pamela's vulnerable soft bare buttocks shuddered, like a delicate white flower made of flesh, fluttering in a breeze. But they would not be pale white for long.

And even before the first paddle stroke fell, Pamela was thinking about her mother....

The End