“Yes, Monica, it’s a beautiful outfit.”
“Thank you. The sweater picks up my skin tone, don’t you think? And see? Look, the neckline picks up the shape of the hairdo, and the colors really punch up the slacks! And the other ones, too.”
“What other ones?”
“Oh!” she smiled sheepishly. “There’s two more pairs getting tailored, a black one and a green one – olive, I guess.”
“I see.” He drew his fingers back through his graying hair.
His own kids were out on their own, now – one with kids of her own, two with apartments and girlfriends and careers of their own.
“I need them for work.”
“You’re an administrative assistant. You work part-time.”
“I know. But I need to look nice…”
He hadn’t been excited at the prospect of taking in his goddaughter – it was time to start enjoying life – but after the divorce, he thought maybe the company would do him good. Maybe someone younger would be a good influence, help him adjust to getting back in the dating scene.
“You’re an environmental studies major. They know that. You’re supposed to be working to help pay for school.”
“I can pay it off in three or four months. That’s what credit cards are for.”
“What’s your interest rate?”
Her parents hadn’t been too good with credit either. That’s why she’d asked if she could live him. After all the debts were discharged, she’d gotten only $5,000 from the estate – and her room and board bills had chewed through that in a hurry.
“Over twenty per cent, right?”
“More like twenty-five. I think. But I can pay it off.”
“Hmph.” Not how he’d raised his own kids. He pulled a tall-backed chair away from the coffee table, spun it around, and took a seat.
“I can take some of it back.”
“That’s not really the point, now, is it?”
He motioned to a spot three feet in front of where he sat.
“But – I don’t like getting spanked.”
He had chosen the same chair a few weeks earlier, motioned her forward in just the same way, calmly dissected the poor judgment she had used.
“Does that make sense?” he’d asked.
Yes. Yes, of course it made sense.
“Not the first time, either.”
“What do you mean?”
And after an irrefutable explanation of how three seemingly different behaviors were really all just examples of the same sort of carelessness – carelessness that would eventually would eventually cause more trouble than he cared to see her get into, carelessness that showed she wasn’t so mature as she perhaps thought she was, carelessness that needs to be dealt with now – she had stepped to his side and quizzically followed his lead as he guided her forward across his lap.
Only when he had pulled her waist close did she ask.
“Are… are you gonna spank me?”
“Yes, Monica. I’m going to give you a spanking.”
She had tried to rise – to no avail.
And she hadn’t liked it at all – a crisp, efficient spanking to the base of her chino-clad backside, again and again to the same two spots ’til she was waving her calves about to the insistent CLAP CLAP back-and-forth CLAP CLAP left-and-right CLAP CLAP.
And with that, it was over.
An anticipatory wince, then four full breaths without a slap.
“You may get up now, Monica.”
She had stood rubbing the sting from her tingly cheeks, snuffling a bit but mostly scared as he told her matter-of-factly that he would expect much better of her in the future.
“Yes. Yes, sir.”
“You’ll be held accountable. And I don’t much believe in half-hearted responses to poor behavior.”
“I understand. I promise. I don’t want another spanking.”
So no, she didn’t like getting spanked.
But he was in the same chair, spun around the same way, motioning her forward to the very same spot just three feet before him.
“But – I don’t like getting spanked.”
“Well, that’s not the point either, is it, Monica? Come here.”
“I have the receipt.”
“You remember our last discussion? About using good judgment?”
“You remember you promised I could expect a lot better from you?”
“Please, Uncle Bill…”
“Yes, but it’s different…”
“It’s not different at all, Monica. Please come here.”
She stepped forward, nervously nibbling the knuckles that diddled a lock of her shoulder-length hair.
“I’m almost 21… Unn-nnh!”
She stumbled toward him, yanked off balance by a sudden tug at the gold-plated buckle of her Ann Taylor belt.
“Old enough to know better, then.”
Before she could push herself back from the top of the chair, he had the buckle open, the flimsy clasp unhooked, the zipper down, his hands on her hips.
She tumbled awkwardly over his lap, the taupe gabardine twill down to her knees, her legs hanging hanging straight from the edge of his thigh.
“People shouldn’t break promises, Monica.”
“Let me up!”
“You promised me you’d show good judgment.”
“I don’t want another spanking!”
His fingers were at the waistband of the high-cut French bikinis – the stretchy ones that didn’t show through the half-poly slacks at the office, that had the thin band of phony lace that made her feel alluring when she tugged them over her thrust-out butt in the morning, that resisted now four inches down the crack of her swaying bottom.
She thrashed harder now.
“Spending this much money when you have a closetful of perfectly good clothing shows very poor judgment, Monica.” He was as calm – self-assured – as she was desperate.
“Don’t!” But her bucking about released the elastic, and the fabric slipped readily past the pliant crest of her straining cheeks.
“Poor judgment, I’m afraid, that must be dealt with now.” The panties hung loosely at mid-thigh for a moment, then slid to the knees as she brought her calves to rest.
“Poor judgment that must improve immediately, Monica.”
“I won’t do it again. I promise. This time I won’t.”
“Please shift forward. Just a bit. NOW, please.”
“That’s it. Thank you.”
“I’m really afraid.”
“Poor judgment that merits a good hard spanking.”