Previously on “Spanking Samantha”:
Mother Wallace casually reveals that she has been punishing Samantha with a hefty wooden hairbrush every few months since Sam graduated Vassar. Samantha, mortified that the secret is out, disappears into the bedroom and cries herself to sleep. Mom accepts the “Ginger’s house, Ginger’s rules” notion. After tea and cookies, Ginger peels back Sam’s pajama bottoms.
“It has to be a real spanking.”
“I know, Mommy.”
“I love you, Sammie.”
Ginger raised her palm for the first slap. (“It’s for her own good.”) Here it comes!
Like swatting a mosquito on the back of your neck. Popping the bubble wrap in her latest mail order from The Crystal Shoppe had made more noise.
It was kind of embarrassing. Smick?
Here she’d gone to all this trouble! (“First I get whacked with the spoon, then I get dragged half-naked in front of the cheerleaders, then it’s over Heather’s lap, then Kim wants to look at my ass, then it’s Samantha, then it’s Mother, then I have to deal with Samantha again. I don’t even like those cookies; they were for her. Now it’s ‘smick’. What a fucking day! And my butt still hurts. Shit!”)
Imagine, dear reader, that you were of the good fortune to be entertaining the raven-haired Ms. Parker. Perhaps you said “Come on over”, and she thought you meant your lap. And now, for your spanking pleasure, Lady or Gentleman, our star attraction: Samantha’s Bare Bottom!
Not quite what it had been back when people knew the value of a dollar, but you would find not a speck of cellulite, nary a blemish. Even moderately fixated aficionados would remark at its milky gentle slope blah blah blah. Like well-defined bikini tans? You got it! Nice ass!
And here you’ve taken care, as Ginger had, to position the peak of this delectable cholesterol-laden double-yolk treat just so – just to the left of your belly-button – so that her legs, supported by your right thigh, stick straight out, parallel to the floor, draped in teddy-bear jammies bunched above the ankles. Her only other support is at the hips. The torso drips off the edge of the chair, the head bobs inches from the floor, the slight static buildup in the shiny modified Jennifer cut attracts carpet lint. She props herself up on her forearms to release the diaphragm. She can forget trying to reach back for protection when the time comes.
This awkward position lets Samantha know that she is temporarily unspecial. Like a buzz-cut army recruit shorn of his individuality on the first day of boot camp, her appearance and station in life no longer matter. Her face has been banished; all you need to know about her at the moment is up here on your lap.
That’s right, miss. Around here, we don’t care who you are. It’s performance that matters. Except here, you don’t do pushups or peel potatoes. Around here, naughty girls get spanked.
Maybe this will improve your behavior.
And then you ‘smick’ her? Come on!
In Ginger’s defense, she’d never given anyone a real spanking before. Never!
Just a quick swat on a ten-year-old’s soccer shorts for swearing, back when she’d been a summer camp counselor. Then two more when he kicked her for the first one.
Okay. Rookie mistake. Shake it off. (“She’s got it coming. Do it like Heather!”)
Ginger took a deep breath and reared back.
(“There. That’s it!”)
WHACK! SMACK! WHACK! SPANK! SMACK!
Samantha tensed and exhaled a long whispered “A-a-a-a-a-h!”
“Snack time’s over, Sam.”
WHACK! WHACK! SPLAT! “A-a-a-a-a-h!” Samantha winced. “Ouch.”
SMACK! WHACK! SPANK!
A meek descending “o-w-w-w-w” escaped near ground level.
“Don’t think I don’t know about the little comments you make when people ask how I’m doing.”
SMACK SMACK SMACK SPANK SMACK SPANK. Six in the same spot. Samantha lurched. Her right foot pointed to the ceiling and wobbled at attention. “Ow! That hurt!”
Ginger waited for a suitable response. The ankle relaxed. The toes unfurled. The leg sank slowly toward horizontal. Samantha caught her breath.
WHAP! SMACK! “That’s not an answer! SMACK! SPANK! “What do you tell your friends?” SMACK! WHACK!
The pinned hips rocked from side to side. “Ow-w-w!”
“Well?” SPANK WHACK SPANK SPANK “It’s not ‘Ginger’s fine, thank you.” Is it? SPANK SMACK WHACK SPLAT “Is it?”
“No-o-o-o-o.” Samantha bucked harder now. Her calves wiggled stiffly at 30 degrees. “It’s not.”
SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK
“O-w-w-w-w! NO, it’s NOT.”
Another six-pack delivered with resolve to the left bulls-eye brought water to Samantha’s eyes. SMACK WHACK SPANK “Ow!” WHACK WHACK SMACK. “O-w-w-w-w!
She pressed hard against Ginger’s hold and broke the grasp, launching her splotched bottom into brief test-flight. “Stop! Aah!” Ginger leaned an elbow into the base of Sam’s spine and resumed the interrogation.
SMACK SMACK “I want” WHACK SMACK “an answer from you.” SPANK WHACK “What do you tell your friends about me?” SPANK SPANK. (For those who like to keep track, that’s fifty-two.)
“STOP! OW! Ouch! Ow! All right! I…” Samantha’s breathing was hard and labored. WHACK WHACK. (And the jokers.) “I tell them that you’re just an office worker. A secretary. Someone’s go-fer. Ow!”
Clear snot ran into her mouth. She turned to wipe her lip on the pajama sleeve and sniffed up the mess in her nose.
“You’re better than I am.”
“Yes. That’s what I tell them. That’s what they hear. I tell them you’re not married. You’re still alone ’cause you can’t keep a boyfriend. Who’d want to marry a loser? Ow. Ow.”
An ill-advised attempt to reach back and rub some sting out of her tush dropped Sam’s face to the floor. The carpet scorched a mashed cheek, leaving a burn to match her elbows. She propped herself back up.
“Go on. What else?”
“Ow.” She sniffed twice to clear the mucus, coughed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, sniffed again. “Ow. O-w-w-w.”
WHACK SMACK “Ow!” SMACK WHAP “Stop! Okay!” SPANK SPANK
“Ow! Stop! Ow! Okay! I tell them… O-w-w-w…. I tell them I don’t know how I got such a nothing for a sister. How you drive around in your dinged-up used Corolla… o-w-w-w… How you buy yourself Amstel Lights with your dopey friends and then go home to your microwave dinner… ow… and your Simpsons reruns so you can get up in the morning and put on another secretary outfit from TJ Maxx and putt-putt back to work and hope that noise isn’t the transmission and hope the traffic’s not too bad and hope you can finish all that important filing before your boss strolls in.”
She was sobbing.
That bad, huh? Ginger had thought her panting bitch sister would just call her a quitter or maybe say “She’s going to the mall tonight. No, the SEARS mall. But she’s fine; she’s having fun. Mom says she’s going to some stock car race or NASCAR race or – Do you know what they’re called? It’s not the Indy cars.”
“Don’t spank me any more. Please. It hurts … I don’t want to get spanked any more.”
“Well, thank you for telling me, Sam. And I think you’re a social-climbing tightass shrieking psycho bitch with a smile pulled back so far it looks like a discount face-lift.”
“I’ve been thinking about a face-lift…”
“Oh, FUCK you.”
SMACK WHACK “Ow!” WHACK SPLAT “No!” SMACK SMACK “Ow! Ow! That’s a joke! Stop! Joke! Ow! Ow!”
Ginger shook the wrist of her spanking hand. “So! Are you ready to treat me like a sister?”
“If I let you up, will you stop acting like a child?”
“Can we talk to each other like mature adu
“Fucked-up adults.” Samantha searched for a dry patch of pajama sleeve.
“Like mother, like daughter.”
“Ow. That really hurt, Ginger. Jeez.”
“Can you stand?”
“I think so. Oh! Ow ow ow! Help!” Sam tumbled to the
floor, her legs tangled in teddy-bear jammies. “Ow. Can I pull these up now?”
“I guess. But they’re coming right back down if I don’t like what I hear.”
“Okay.” Sam rolled onto her back, did a tummy crunch, and grabbed the waistband of the pajamas.
“No! No, wait. Don’t spank me! I mean I’m gonna be like you said and tell the truth! Don’t spank me again, please.”
“Are you posing for Hustler? Nice puss!”
“Oh, shit!” She yanked the pajamas up to her crotch. Ginger pulled her upright.
Samantha peered over her shoulder. “Eww. Look at it. How’d you get it so red?”
Ginger held up an imaginary magnifying glass and pipe. “Elementary, my dear Watson.”
“I mean – I’m used to getting it with a hairbrush.” She pulled the pajamas up the rest of the way. “Ow. Do I have permission to tell you to fuck off now, ma’am?”
“Cut it out. My ass hurts!”
“So I see.”
“I called you Mommy, didn’t I?”
“Welcome to the family.”
“We have a lot to go over, don’t we?”
“Yup. Go clean up. You want the guest bed? Or would you rather sit?”
“Oh, let’s lie on the bed, please.” Sam took a step and pulled up lame. “Ow. Get me some cream?”
“One tube of Dr. Wallace’s Red Caboose Ointment coming up.”
“And some tea?”
Which brings us to two of Ginger’s “dopey friends” and a spanking of a different sort.
Dopey Ellie is quite the seductress. “I’m proud of you.”
Dopey Kim doesn’t quite get what’s coming. “You are?”
Dopey Ellie doesn’t want to shake someone to her senses. “Yes, dear. You were very brave.”
Dopey Ellie doesn’t care whether Kim watches her nickels. “For trying something new.”
Dopey Ellie isn’t at all concerned about Kim’s self-awareness. “Something scary.”
“It won’t hurt too much, right?”
“Just enough, dear.” She rubbed one of the stunning round butt-cheeks the way one might tousle the hair of a darling toddler who wants to show Uncle Mike his new toy dinosaur. “Just enough. Ready?”
“Just a sec.” Kim pushed her elbows into the padded earth-tone stripe and tucked her coffee ice cream breasts back into their unpadded lace cups. She laid her face back onto the soft ottoman and gazed sideways into the fireplace. “Okey-doke, Ellie. Now or never, right?”
The ottoman itself was four feet square. Ellie had sat toward the right-hand edge so that Kim would fall comfortably across the cushion without dangling over the left side. Kim’s arms were tucked into her ribs, elbows against Ellie’s left thigh. Her bottom had been perched so that the spanks could dance around mid-cheek targets a few inches above each thigh. Like a surgeon marking an incision point, Ellie mentally marked the spots.
Kim’s shoulder-width knees dangled just above the carpet in slack pastel panties.
Dopey Ellie has only one item on her agenda: a good hard you-won’t-be-sitting-down-for-a-while spanking.
“Okey-doke, then. Here we go.”
WHACK! WHAP! Kim’s head snapped up from the cushion. WHACK SMACK. Her eyes popped wide. SPANK WHACK. Her mouth formed a startled “Look! It’s Santy Claus!” expression.
Back and forth. “Ouch! Ow!”
Here and there. Kim tensed.
“Not the same as spanking yourself at home, is it, Kim?”
Right and left. “No!”
Kim didn’t like this at all. “N-n-no. It hurts! Ow! Ow! Stop! Ellie! Ow! Stop! Please!”
Her poor butt was wiggling uncontrollably. “Ow! It hurts!” Her toes drilled the carpet.
“We discussed this already, Kim. You knew that spankings hurt.”
“Not like this! Ow!”
Up and down and here and there and now here’s six, eight, ten right on the bullseyes. Kim twisted and bucked, but Ellie held firm. “Stop!”
Pop! It sounded like gunfire. Pop! Pop!
“O-w-w-w-w! Ow! Please! That’s… ow!… that’s a couple of minutes. Stop!”
“We discussed that, too, Kim. We agreed that a FEW minutes would be more appropriate.
“No! I can’t take this. It hurts so much.” Tears ran freely down her face. Mucus gushed and bubbled at her nostrils.
“It’s not as though you frittered away a couple of dollars on ONE little Beanie Baby. (spank spank) It’s the pattern of behavior. (smack smack) Every two weeks you get paid, (spank spank) and every two weeks you hit the mall. (ow ow) I don’t think we’re nearly done, do you?”
“Plea-ea-ease! What do you want? Let me up! Stop.”
Ellie’s response was twelve in a row on the special spot in the middle of the right cheek. Kim kicked and jerked in futile desperation. “No-o-o!”
“I’m glad you asked, though. I’ll tell you what I want.” And then twelve in a row on the left.
When Ellie paused, Kim caved in. Gasping sobs filled the room.
“Here’s what I want. I want to know whether you’re planning to keep that cute new blouse.”
Between gulps and sobs and snot-wipes, Kim managed an answer. “That’s … not …. just … a few … minutes.”
Ellie put her hand between Kim’s legs and grabbed some pubic hair. “Come with me.” She scootched in five little hops about a foot to her left. Kim’s upper body slid over the end of the ottoman. “No! I’m sorry!”
“Oh look. I missed some spots!” Ellie marked two targets right at the crease between the buttocks and the thighs.
WHACK! WHACK! She alternated between the two spots without straying. WHACK! WHACK!
“Remember how Ginger said that every spanking is different, Kim?”
“Ow! Yes. Ouch! No more. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll take it back. Ow! I’ll get my money back.”
“Well, this is what YOUR spanking is like.”
Eight. Ten. Twelve.
“This … is how … naughty … selfish … young ladies … sometimes … have to learn … to keep … their credit cards … in their purses.”
Kim tumbled immediately to the floor when Ellie released her grip. She rolled around, crying crying crying, spitting mucus, holding her screaming buttocks. “You promised… You promised…”
Ellie took the dishes and glasses and empty bottles out to the kitchen, then stood arms akimbo over her punished playmate.
“Tell me again what you’re going to do with that blouse, please.”
Kim sobbed, still trying to rub out the sting.
“That bottom of yours is still bare. Would you like me to take out my belt?”
“What are you going to do with that blouse?”
“I’ll take it back.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to manage your spending a little better now?”
“Yes. I promise. Leave me.”
“All right then.” She kneeled next to Kim, took the chin with her thumb and forefinger, and turned the sniffly face menacingly to her own.
“THAT’S what a spanking is, Kim. And you’ll get another if I find out you’ve lied. No new clothes, no new beanie babies, you bring your lunch to work.”
“Okay? Do you agree? Or are you just yessing me?”
“I won’t spend money. I agree. I promise.”
“For how long? ‘Til Christmas?”
“We can work out a sensible budget if you want to buy a few presents for people. Now why don’t you get dressed…”
As she stood, Ellie tapped one of the really sore spank spots. “…before I change my mind. Well! I need to use the bathroom.”
Kim watched the muscled calves in the Ferragamo pumps disappear down the hallway.
She wriggled out of her twisted panties. She limped barefoot to the kitchen for a drink of water.
And when Ellie stepped out of the bathroom, Kim broke her nose with an enameled cas
t-iron chef’s pan.
She sprayed a spitting stream of urine over Ellie’s crumpled body, then took the bridge of Ellie’s shattered nose with her thumb and forefinger and turned the bloody face to her own.
She stuffed the satiny slip and the pale blue panties into her purse, then tucked the wrinkled blouse into t
he waistband of her skirt.
She washed the blood and fingerprints from the Le Creuset pan while Ellie moaned in filth.
On her way out, she called across the living room. “Hey, Ellie? Let me know if you need a ride to work in the morning, okay?”
Next on “Spanking Samantha”:
“Hello? I’d like to place an ad. In the personals. How does that ‘leave a message’ thing work? Is it just like voice-mail?”