Daddy’s Leather Belt
Comment: This story could be called ‘Part Two’ of ‘The Principal’s Paddle’. The events transcribed here follow immediately in time those depicted in the earlier story. They also attest to an old axiom which promised, ‘Get in trouble at school, Get in (bigger) trouble at home.’ In this tale, Betsy McPherson must face her father’s devotion to that unbendable rule.
It was a long, uncomfortable bus ride home for fifteen-year-old Elizabeth (Betsy) McPherson. Normally, the jostling, bouncing trip was an enjoyable ending to her school day. She usually used the time to catch up with her friends, trade assignment notes or simply visit with the other occupants of the bus.
This afternoon, however, the hard rocking of the large, drafty vehicle only served to provide additional discomfort to Betsy’s well-paddled behind. The cringing teenager tried many creative shifts in position to keep her battered rear from suffering even more. But every bump, every sharp turn, every recoil of the giant transporter sent new waves of agony over the youngster’s sore, tender bottom.
Unfortunately, Betsy had spent the half hour prior to climbing onto the big orange bus in a ‘private meeting’ with the hard, wooden surface of ‘The Principal’s Paddle’, the most deadly implement in the administrator’s collection of dreadful punishment equipment. Her poor sitter had endured eight stinging swats, each and every one of them delivered full force by the Principal’s muscled right arm.
Another warm blush swept over the young girl’s face as she remembered why her chastisement had included eight smacks instead of the usual six; because of the devastating sting left by the biggest, nastiest paddle on the wall, she had not been able to ‘maintain position’ during the paddling and so, had earned two extra swats. By the time Mr. Scott, the Principal, had dismissed her after the horrendous session, the entire surface of her behind was raw, stiff, throbbing and hot.
The meeting with Mr. Scott’s terrible ’behavior enhancer’ was only part of the reason for Betsy’s dismal mood. As uncomfortable as her bottom was at the moment, she knew it was only a matter of a few hours before she would have to face her father’s angry reaction to her most recent trip to The Doom Room. It was an unavoidable rule in the McPherson house; if you got in trouble at school, you could expect to face an even worse sentence when you got home. And, since the punishment procedure at St. Steven’s High School, where Betsy was a sophomore, included returning a signed ‘Parental Notification Form’ after every session in the Principal’s Office, there was no way to avoid her parents’ knowledge of her painful and humiliating ordeal. Betsy swallowed around the huge lump in her throat. She knew exactly what her father’s response would be.
As the bus bumped and jostled along, sending wave after wave of anguish across her tender, aching behind, Betsy revisited those earlier events when she had been forced to present a ‘Parent’s Form’ after suffering a school-day punishment. Tears filled the youngster’s brown eyes as the memory of the rancid, agonizing grief that had captured her already-wounded bottom when her father’s green eyes had turned slate-gray and angry. She knew that, this time, he would be angrier than ever, since this had been the proverbial ‘third time’ with The Paddle. The girl trembled at the anticipated fury she knew her parent would vent across her backside, just as he had every other time she had been punished at school.
The ride from the school to her designated bus stop was long enough to remember each episode.
Betsy’s first experience over ‘The Punishment Chair’ in the Principal’s Office had resulted from the four demerits she’d received from Sister Evangeline for continuing to talk in Study Hall, even after being chastised three times for doing so. Finally, the Study Hall monitor had vented her frustration with the talkative ninth grader and ordered her to Mr. Scott’s office for an ‘attitude adjustment’. Betsy’s mouth had gone completely dry and her knees actually shook as she made her way to the dreaded Doom Room at the beginning of the final class of the day.
During that initial trip into the ‘torture chamber’, as Mr. Scott’s inner office had been nicknamed, Betsy had received four hard smacks from ‘The Warmup’, the Principal’s middle-weight paddle, applied across her linen skirt while bent over the square, wooden Punishment Chair. The swats had really stung, but it was truly more the indignity of the ordeal, rather than the discomfort of the paddling, that had produced the heavy tears which had streamed down Betsy’s flushing cheeks afterward.
When she was allowed to stand up again, Mr. Scott had actually seemed almost sympathetic and regretful. He had handed back the dark, wool blazer she had removed and offered the penitent girl a handful of tissues, even allowing the tearful student a few extra minutes in which to restore her composure.
“Let’s not make this a regular event, Miss McPherson,” the Principal had warned. “Try and control your urge to communicate until your Study Hall hour is over, all right?”
Betsy had sniffled and murmured the perfunctory, “Yes, thank you, Sir”, one hand gently rubbing her tingling backside as she accepted the pass Mr. Scott had written for her and made her way back to her classroom. Later that day, on her way to the after-school bus waiting area, Betsy had stopped back at the Principal’s Office to retrieve the mandatory ‘Parental Notification Note’ she was required to take home and have one of her parents sign for returning the next day.
When her mother had read the note, slightly frustrated as to the reason for the punishment, Doris McPherson had only given her daughter a chastising shake of her head, ‘Tsk, tsk’ing for a moment before she had signed the note and sent her fourteen-year-old child off to her room. Twenty minutes later, an hour before Betsy’s father would have arrived home for supper, Mrs. McPherson had appeared in her daughter’s room, regretfully announcing her obligation to acknowledge the earlier event somehow, since the rules of the house stated that every school punishment was to be answered by a similar chastisement at home.
“Let’s get it over with before Daddy and Jake (Betsy’s older brother) come home, alright? Then perhaps we won’t have to mention it to your dad, after all,” Doris McPherson had offered.
Betsy had tearfully agreed, grateful that her mother was at least understanding enough to not require an additional spanking from her father’s deadly right hand. Even though she knew her mother’s spanking prowess, especially while using the wooden-back hairbrush, could leave a sting every bit as memorable as her spouse’s, Betsy admitted that, if she had a choice, she much preferred to have her bottom addressed by her female parent, rather than her father. When her mother sat down on the side of the bed, Betsy had nervously placed herself over the woman’s lap, whimpering slightly as she felt her mother smooth the seat of her cotton shorts across her bottom.
Mrs. McPherson had applied ten, brisk hand spanks across Betsy’s upturned, already-pulsing bottom with the hairbrush. Five spanks landed in an alternating pattern to each side of the girl’s round behind. With her backside still tender from the meeting with ‘The Warmup’, Betsy’s additional discomfort had been expressed by several loud yelps and some serious squirming during the brisk first part of the spanking.
For the last series of five swats, Doris McPherson had pulled Betsy’s cotton shorts down beyond her knees, then brought the wooden-back implement down at the lower edge of her daughter’s squirming behind, letting each spank address the slim crease along the edge of the bottom where fleshy cheek met slim thigh. Since Mr. Scott had also made a point of laying two, extra hard smacks to the identical area, Betsy’s mournful howls followed the final quintet in precise cadence. Her squirming also became more animated. Doris McPherson was sympathetic to her daughter’s discomfort, but still determined to follow the rules that had been set down by her husband and herself. She brought her hand down swiftly and surely.
After the last swat landed, Mrs. McPherson had allowed her child to stand up, then gathered the sniffling figure in her arms for a warm hug. When they were again face to face, Doris McPherson had deposited a loving kiss on her daughter’s forehead.
“Just try not to talk in Study Hall anymore, Honey,” the older woman offered. “If you get another paddling at school, I’ll have to tell your daddy and I don’t think you want that, do you?”
Betsy’s hands had remained in place across her bottom during her mother’s gentle lecture. Her tears still wet of her face, the fourteen-year-old had murmured, “No, Mommy. I don’t want that.” After another brief hug, Mrs. McPherson smoothed her daughter’s tousled reddish-blond head.
“All right, then,” she said. “Wash your face and come help me with supper. Before you go to bed, I’ll put some cool lotion on your bottom. It’ll help take away the sting.”
The next two meetings between Betsy McPherson’s unfortunate bottom and Mr. Scott’s hard paddle had taken place earlier in the youngster’s sophomore year. The first had been a result of Betsy’s rushing down the hall, her frantic intention to arrive at her next class on time and thus avoid receiving a Tardy Slip. Unfortunately, her attention was on her armful of books and not on Sister Regina, who had been making her way down the hall just as Betsy rounded the corner into the corridor where her classroom was located. The slight, elderly nun was no match for the vigorous teenager’s sturdy form; a split second after their collision, Sister Regina was flat on her back in the middle of the hall and Betsy was inwardly considering how she might correctly word her Last Will and Testament.
The inglorious episode resulted in Betsy’s second encounter with the infamous ‘Punishment Chair’ in Mr. Scott’s inner office. Her tummy had taken a nose dive when her entrance into the Principal’s Office was accompanied by Sister Rose, the Guidance Counselor at St. Steven’s. Betsy knew at once that her punishment would include at least some smacks across her cotton underpants, a chastisement only allowed when a second faculty or staff member was present in Mr. Scott’s Office. Her lower lip had begun trembling the moment she noticed Sister Rose waddling in behind her.
For this punishment, Betsy was subjected to ten, very hard whacks across her presented posterior from Mr. Scott’s favorite weapon, a twelve-inch-long wooden menace with holes drilled in the ‘business end’ to add to the velocity and strength with which the paddle was brought to rest. The Principal always referred to this particular tool of agony as ‘The Enforcer’. Six whistling swats had landed over Betsy’s lightweight linen skirt, followed by four, as suspected, over her cotton panties. The last quartet of more determined swats were administered, as Mr. Scott had announced, “for deliberately ignoring the sacred precept of maintaining proper respect for faculty members at all times.”
All Betsy remembered about those four hard whacks was that they really, really hurt, producing a fiery anguish across her behind that had lasted for the rest of the day and had remained a clear and obvious distress when her father had forcefully added to her agony later that night in her room.
After supper that night, when Brian McPherson had read the required note presented by his sorrowful, fifteen-year-old daughter, he had immediately ordered her to ‘Go to your room and wait for me there.’ Betsy had moved to the site of her impending torment without further comment, her hands massaging her already tender backside. A few minutes later, her father appeared in the doorway, his face livid and his manner unforgiving. More importantly, in his right hand he had held the same wooden-back hairbrush Betsy feared most of all family ‘punishment enhancers’, particularly when carried to her room by her father.
The sight of the hairbrush convinced Betsy to try a heartfelt appeal for mercy.
“Please, Daddy!” the girl whined. “Honest, it was an accident. I’ll never let it happen again.”
Without saying a word, Mr. McPherson had taken hold of the teenager’s arm and propelled her across the room. After sitting down on her bed, he had lowered her trembling form face down onto his lap. It had taken only a moment to secure Betsy in the proper position with his left arm pressing across her shoulders, while his right hand first swept away the lower edge of the long t-shirt she wore, then pulled her cotton shorts and underwear all the way down off her slender legs.
With his target now totally bare and openly accessible, Brian McPherson had retrieved the hairbrush from its resting place next to him and proceeded to administer a thoroughly complete, extremely painful paddling to the squirming, twisting, rapidly reddening bottom captured across his knees.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
More than three dozen hairbrush-induced swats had fallen on his daughter’s small behind that night, accompanied by her shrill, anguished howls and mournful entreaties, the pleas ringing in marked cadence with the forceful, unrelenting whacks. Within minutes, the petite, rounded area had changed from blushing pink to crimson red and finally to dark burgundy.
“OWWW!” Betsy had howled. “DADDY! PLEASE! I’M SORRY! OWW! OWW!!”
Brian had brought the hard wooden-back piece down again and again, each application landing on a new, previously unaffected space of the wiggling rear until the entire fleshy region had been totally and forcefully addressed.
SMACK! SMACK! SWAT! SWAT! SMACK! SMACK! SWAT! SWAT!
“WAAAGH,” Betsy had screamed, while struggling against her father’s iron grip on her waist. “I won’t do it again,” she promised,. “OWWW! OWWW!” Her bottom was now truly on fire, never to return to its normal state. “OH, OWWOWWOWW! PLEEASE, DADDEE!”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
The hairbrush continued to assault the girl’s bare, defenseless behind. She had known her father would be angry; she hadn’t planned on him being as furious as he’d ever been. By the time the hairbrush had fallen for the last time, even the back of Betsy’s wildly kicking legs blazed a deep, sanguine red.
Finally, Brian McPherson had ended the punishment and pulled his sobbing daughter to her feet, holding tight to her arms to prevent her from reaching behind herself and enacting any fashion of soothing massage across her suffering behind. As her feet danced in a pathetic, sorrowful ballet, Brian expressed his ‘extreme disappointment’ with her behavior and informed her of her fate if he should ever
be embarrassed by her conduct again. Despite Betsy’s deafening response to the current condition of her bottom, Brian retained his grip on her arms until he rose from the bed and marched his howling offspring into the corner of her room.
Once there, he had given the standard order, requiring Betsy to kneel down, facing the wall, with her hands clasped behind her head and her well-spanked rear on clear and obvious display below the raised hem of her t-shirt, a result of Brian’s own scowling repositioning of the garment. When he had informed her of her stern sentence, a full forty-five minutes
in the ‘disgrace corner’, he had also reminded her of the absolute certainty of additional swats should she lower her hands to her bottom before the time frame had been fulfilled.
Leaving his very chastised daughter on her knees, and purposefully ignoring her high-pitched wailing and the agonized squirming and twitching of her dark red behind, Brian had left the room, making a point to leave the bedroom door open, increasing not only his daughter’s extreme humiliation, but also lending credence to his threat to return to the room at random intervals to insure her compliance with the ‘hands on your head’ requirement. The sound of the girl’s mournful weeping had followed him down the hall.
It had taken nearly two and a half weeks for Betsy’s bottom to recover from the combined paddlings; a full five days had passed before she could even attempt to sit down without whimpering painfully. However, the deep, rosy cast had remained across her backside for days after the punishments.
By the time she able to use the chair at her computer desk again, instead of laying on her tummy on her bed to do her homework, the aching stiffness -and the purplish bruises - adorning her behind had finally begun to fade.
Betsy’s second visit to the mismatched chairs in The Doom Room this year had occurred as a result of a typical juvenile case of bad judgment. During their Chemistry class, Betsy and her friend, Mary Margaret Leoni, had been somewhat careless in disposing of the precarious mixture they had produced during one of the class projects. Ignoring Sister John Ellen’s instructions to empty the beaker’s contents into the large, metal bin specifically designed for such waste, the girls had opted instead to dump the foul-smelling mixture into the sink drain at their assigned Lab location. To further seal their doom, they had added another act of deliberate disobedience by attempting to flush the concoction from the sink by running warm water over the drain.
Five minutes later, the entire Chemistry Lab was engulfed in a rancid, eye-stinging, throat-tightening, stomach-turning fog, requiring not only the occupants of the class to flee the room, but eventually necessitating vacating the entire Science Wing, as well as part of the Biology Lab next door. Only Sister John Ellen’s quick actions with the fire extinguisher had prevented a formal fire drill from being enacted for the entire school.
Once the stench had been cleared from the room, and it was determined that no real physical damage had been done to either the building or the students in the immediate area, Betsy and Mary Margaret had found themselves on their way to Mr. Scott’s ‘chamber of horrors’, both having been awarded an ominous ‘Red Pass’, the document assuring the same color would soon adorn both their behinds. Mr. Scott was already holding ‘The Enforcer’ in his hand when the two students walked shamefaced into his office.
Each girl received twelve solid, stinging swats while bent over Mr. Scott’s Punishment Chair. Once again, Sister Rose’s presence was required as eight swats were distributed over the girls’ outer clothing and four were applied over their panties. Each had howled appropriately at the scalding ache that had invaded her bottom, blushing furiously at the thought that, by that time, every student in the school was aware of their whereabouts and the precise penalty they had both been required to pay.
Compounding the degradation of the already humiliating event, Mr. Scott had ordered both girls to remain in her inner office while each set of whacks had been administered to the other’s behind. Having your bottom soundly addressed by the menace of a paddle was embarrassing enough, but having your best friend serve as a witness to your shrill cries and shameless squirming and wiggling while bending over The Punishment Chair made the entire ordeal even more miserable.
When Mr. McPherson had read the transcribed details of his daughter’s latest offense, Betsy would later admit she could swear her father seemed be struggling to curtail his own amusement at the absurdity of the event. He had asked several questions concerning the precise mixture and quantity encased in the infamous beaker that Betsy and Mary Margaret had concocted; he had asked even more questions about the quality of the offensive cloud and the unscheduled departure of the students as a result of the episode. Betsy thought he secretly enjoyed the somewhat hilarious effects caused by the girls’ inadvertent misstep, even though his expression had tried to remain serious.
Of course, regardless of the delight her father might have concealed upon learning of her most recent case of rule breaking, he nevertheless had issued the dreaded instruction for her to ‘go to her room’ to await his arrival in order to deal with her latest disgrace. Betsy had followed his directive, waiting nervously in her bedroom, gently stroking her behind, still sore from its meeting with Mr. Scott’s hard paddle. Her lower lip was already quivering in fearful anticipation of the additional discomfort she was sure her father would distribute across her already-suffering sitter.
However, in a true act of parental compassion, Brian McPherson had chosen instead to administer a somewhat less meaningful spanking to his child’s posterior that night than he might have originally intended. Once Betsy was in place across his knees, her bottom bare and obviously showing the effects of her school day punishment, McPherson’s innate sense of justice had overcome his wavering disappointment in her behavior. With Betsy subtly squirming as his hand absorbed the pulsing heat still in residence across the slender mound, Brian altered his previous intentions and applied fifteen, brisk hard hand spanks to the bright red area. His firm, flat palm had distributed six brisk spanks, alternating his delivery from one rounded side of his daughter’s squirming rear to the other, then applied six to the center area. The last three swats had summarily addressed the ‘crease’ or, as Brian preferred to perceive it, ‘the sitter’, an area he knew would cause extended discomfort when his daughter attempted to sit down over the next few days.
Although his daughter’s response verified that the smacks, however restrained, had indeed increased the hearty discomfort in her backside, Brian had actually administered a much less uncomfortable punishment that night. Yet, he decided, his message had been transmitted just as clearly and that was the important thing.
After the ‘subdued’ spanking, McPherson had helped his whimpering daughter to her feet then, in an unusual moment of clemency, had allowed her several minutes of soothing rubbing, letting Betsy’s hands remain in place against her bottom while he quietly delivered an equally reserved lecture about the hazards of not following directions in a scenario as potentially dangerous as a Chemistry Lab experiment. When the gentle reprimand was over, Brian stood up and gave his embarrassed offspring a sturdy hug and a kiss on the cheek, before helping her kneel down in the corner, finally issuing a minimum sentence of twenty minutes of additional chastisement.
Left alone on her knees, Betsy’s tears had ended much sooner than usual. Twenty minutes later, she stood up again, then used a handful of tissues from her nightstand to dry her face and blow her nose. Even with her bottom in continued distress, she warmly considered the theory that her father’s palm had meant to convey his concern regarding her safety, rather than his anger at her misbehavior. But she still slept on her stomach for the entire weekend; between the paddle and her father’s hand, her rear was still feeling a clear reminder of both issues.
Betsy’s sniffling increased as the school bus lumbered to a stop at her regular corner. Gathering her back pack and her purse, the youngster stiffly rose from the lumpy, uncomfortable seat and made her way down the center aisle, miserably contemplating the unavoidable fate her bottom would suffer across her father’s knees later that evening.
Since both Brian and Doris McPherson were alumni of St. Steven’s, and therefore well acquainted with the dreaded ‘three trips and you’re over’, they would, of course, be aware of what the newest ‘Parent’s Form’ Betsy carried would mean; their daughter had been punished a third time in the same school year. Her behavior had been considered ‘totally inappropriate’ on three separate occasions and her punishment had reflected that level of disobedience.
Betsy knew her bottom’s fate was sealed.
Because of her rather quiet behavior during supper, her father had directed a pointed question in her direction. After a split second of considering the idea of replying ,’Nothing’ to his, ‘Something wrong, young lady?’, Betsy took a deep breath and withdrew the dreaded ‘Parent’s Form’ from the pocket of her terrycloth workout pants. She self-consciously handed the slip to her mother who, after glancing quickly at the printed document, handed the fateful notice to her husband. Betsy’s eyes were lowered to her plate, still mostly full with the portions laid out by her mother. When she heard her father’s low growl, she let her gaze skip to his face. However, when she saw his white-lipped glare trained in her direction, she lowered her eyes again.
Absently, she noticed her brother Jake’s choked reaction to the level of annoyance in their father’s steely glance. He sent a sympathetic glance at his younger sister.
“Well, Elizabeth Danielle,” Brian McPherson began, his expression grim and foreboding. Betsy’s stomach performed a nauseating flip flop at his pronouncement of her ‘full, Christian name.’ He never called her ‘Elizabeth’ unless her was really, really angry. She pulled her eyes back to his face. “I see your last spanking did nothing to curb your tendency toward inappropriate behavior. What was is this time? Did you blow up the Chemistry Lab again?”
Betsy swallowed hard as her eyes swept back to her plate. “No, sir. I missed handing in three Trig’ assignments.” Betsy’s voice cracked as her emotions got the best of her. She lifted her chin to meet her father’s angry expression. “Honest, Daddy. I thought I had handed them in. I really did.”
“And obviously, you hadn’t,” Brian commented, his tone firm. “Why not?”
“Like I said, I thought I had. They were in my notebook, I finished them, I swear,” the girl pleaded.
“Then why were they not accepted as ‘finished’?” Brian probed, impatience filtering into his voice. “If you had handed them in, I wouldn’t be looking at THIS,” he barked, shaking the 'Parent's Form' in front of him. “What really happened, Betsy?”
Betsy sniffled, using the back of one hand to wipe her face. “I don’t know. Alyssa (Betsy’s locker mate) decided to clean out her side of our locker last week. I think she might have thrown them away or …something,” the girl finished lamely. “I couldn’t find them when Sister Eugenia told me they were late.” The youngster drew in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I guess I should have made sure…”
“You should have turned them in ON TIME,” Brian McPherson said, his voice now stilted and coarse. “If you had, you wouldn’t have had to search for them in the first place!” The last of the man’s comment rose in noticeable rage. “So don’t blame Alyssa for YOUR laziness and lack of attention to your work. This is because YOU didn’t follow through, as required by your teacher. YOU dropped the ball, Betsy. Not Alyssa. Not anyone else. You.”
Betsy’s head hung low over her plate, her shaking hands clasped between her knees. As if by divine intervention, her bottom began to throb again, pulsing with the ache left there by Mr. Scott’s formidable paddle. She had no answer for her father, no worthwhile excuse. He was right. If she had handed in her assignments on time, when they had been due, both she and her bottom would not be suffering now. A long, stilted silence hung over the supper table. Finally, Brian McPherson let out a long, exasperated breath. He tossed the ‘Parent's Form’ onto the table, followed by his linen napkin.
“Go to your room, Betsy,” he said in a quiet, forbidding tone. “You know what our rules are. You’ll get another spanking because of your lack of taking responsibility in this matter.” With a modicum of regret, Brian watched his daughter’s shoulders slump. “Go on. To your room,” he said again, his gray eyes hard and serious. He sent a quick glance at his wife’s face. He could see the disappointment in her expression; he also noticed the subtle regret at his decision in her dark, blue eyes.
Betsy slowly rose from her chair, dropping her napkin on the table beside her plate. Without looking at the group at the supper table, she turned and began to make her way down the hall to her bedroom. After taking only a few steps, the girl’s heavy tears washed over her face. And without her realizing her actions, her hands crept backward until they covered her tender bottom. The worse had happened; she was going to be punished again. Her father’s discipline was sure to leave her behind even more miserable than it was at that moment. Betsy opened the door to her room and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She gingerly sat down on the edge of her bed, to wait.
She knew it wouldn’t be long.
Supper ended on a very quiet note. After Betsy’s departure, Jake had asked to be excused, saying he had to make a trip to the garage. He offered the explanation that he had to find a particular textbook, one he was sure was hiding out in his car. Brian and his wife exchanged knowing looks; they knew Jake’s request had been a ruse. The youngster didn’t want to be anywhere within earshot of his sister’s inevitable punishment. Once only the two of them remained at the table, the McPherson parents engaged in a quiet discussion. Neither wanted to confirm the necessity of their daughter’s additional chastisement, but neither could they ignore that her behavior warranted just that. Once they had, albeit reluctantly, agreed, Doris McPherson pushed back her chair and began clearing the table.
After another long moment, Brian exhaled loudly as he stood up and began rolling up the sleeves of his long-sleeved business shirt. Once he had accomplished that task, he removed the wide, leather belt that usually adorned his waist, pulling the heavy, leather accessory free of the belt loops on his slacks. When he folded the belt in half, Doris let out a mournful sigh.
“Oh, Brian. Your belt? Do you really think she …?”
“Yes,” the man announced. “I think she’s earned this.” His bold manner quickly dissipated when he caught sight of his wife’s reluctant gaze. “This is the third time this year, Dorie. Rules are rules, after all.”
Doris McPherson let her eyes rest on the large bowl in her hands. After closing her eyes for a moment, she again met her husband’s clear gray eyes.
“Yes, that’s true,” she admitted. The woman took a shaky breath. “Well, not too many licks, OK?” she petitioned.
Brian cupped his wife’s cheek with his hand. “It’s a punishment, Dorie,” he told her quietly. “I have to give her what she deserves. She expects nothing less from us.” He let his eyes settle on his wife’s dark, blue gaze. “Hold tight,” he told her. “It’ll be over before you know it.” He patted the woman’s shoulder comfortingly. “Remember, it’s for her own good.”
“I’ll try and keep that in mind,” Doris whispered, as she watched her husband leave the kitchen and make his way to the hallway. “I’m sorry, Betsy,” the woman told her absent child. “I hope this makes you stop and think from now on.” Doris turned and walked to the kitchen sink. She leaned heavily on the Formica countertop, closing her eyes again to stem her own tears.
Twenty nerve-wracking minutes after she’d nervously sat down on her bed, Betsy’s head snapped up when her father entered her bedroom. The first thing she noticed was the item he carried in his right hand. It was the wide, leather belt that was usually present around his waist. The girl gulped hard against the fluttering in her chest. Her hands began to shake as her heart began to pound. She watched as her father crossed the room, coming to a stop a little to her right.
“Stand up, Betsy,” he instructed quietly. “Move over there for a second.” Brian gestured toward the dresser across from the bed. Betsy slowly stood up and moved to the spot her father had directed. She watched with dreaded anticipation as he scooped up the two foam pillows from the head of the bed and placed them, one atop the other, in the center of the mattress at the foot of the twin-size structure. When he was satisfied with their position, he turned again to his daughter.
“Come over here and lay over these pillows.” Brian indicated the stacked accessories. Betsy felt as though her feet were pinned to the floor. She forced herself to move, following her father’s directions. Just as she was about to lay down on her stomach on the pillows, she heard another instruction. This one made her heart drop to her toes.
“Take down your slacks and your panties. I want your bottom bare and high.”
Betsy’s vision was clouded by the wash of tears now cascading over her face. Sniffling softly, she complied with her father’s orders. With her back to him, the teenager lowered her terrycloth pants until they were pooled around her feet. Then, with trembling fingers, she looped her thumbs in the waistband of her cotton panties, drawing them down until the elastic rested just below her bottom. After wiping her wet face with one hand, Betsy leaned forward, placing her stomach in the middle of the stacked pillows. Her placement did indeed leave her bottom high above the pillows and her feet dangling off the edge of the bed. The prone youngster reached out in front of herself, gathering two handfuls of the colorful bedspread. She dropped her head on the coverlet, bit down on her lower lip and waited for the worst she knew was coming.
Brian stepped closer to the bed to examine the slim, youthful bottom perched high on the foam platform. His eyes easily captured the still-obvious effects of Betsy’s session with The Principal’s Paddle. The center area of her petite behind still blazed a bright red, with discernibly darker patches along the lower edge of the round bundle. As he studied the crimson globes, Brian addressed his shaking offspring.
“How many swats did you get this afternoon?”
“Eight,” came the muffled answer.
“Eight?” Brian questioned. “Why eight?”
Betsy drew in a shaky breath. She turned her head away from the quilted bedspread.
“At first, Mr. Scott told me six. Then...I moved…when I wasn’t supposed to,” she confessed. “So he gave me two extra.” A muted whimper sounded in the room.
McPherson let out another exasperated breath. “Can’t seem to follow directions, can you?” he chastised. “Well,” the man warned, stepping closer to his daughter’s upturned bottom. With a forceful tug, he pulled the roll of cotton panties further down on the young woman’s legs. “If you move this time, you’ll get an extra five
. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Betsy murmured, turning her face back to the bedspread.
“You will get twelve tonight, Betsy,” Brian announced, pausing only momentarily to allow his daughter’s frightened gasp to end. “Hold still. Keep your hands where they are and keep your feet out of the way. Understand?”
A muffled, “Yes, sir,” sputtered out against the coverlet. Betsy held her breath as her father laid the heavy, leather belt across her bottom. She squeezed hard with her hands.
The first stroke from the belt landed full and square across the center of Betsy’s tender bottom, spreading rancid, scorching pain in every direction across the soft flesh. The terrible severity of the blow caused the girl to let out a mournful wail.
“AAAAGGHH!” Betsy gasped, clutching even tighter to the handfuls of material.
The second stoke slashed across the round behind, landing just a bit below the attack of the first. Betsy’s head jerked back as she sent out another agonizing screech.
“OWWWW! DADDEE, PLLEEASE!”
A third horrible strike ignited the lower ridge of Betsy’s bottom, bringing unbridled agony to the area already suffering from Mr. Scott’s determined swats. Betsy’s breath caught in her throat. Before she could draw a full breath, the fourth stroke assaulted the full, fleshy region across the center of her behind.
“WAAAAGH!” the girl screamed, her hips squirming subtly. After a moment, Betsy dropped her head back onto the bedspread. Without her intention, her feet rose from their position, kicked slightly, since her legs were hampered by the bundle of clothing still gathered around her ankles. After a moment, her feet fell to their original position as burning, excruciating anguish completely engulfed her upturned bottom.
Brian stepped back from the side of the bed, taking a moment to calm his own senses. He spent a moment examining the soft flesh of his daughter’s behind. Four wide, dark red swaths clearly marked the slim bundle, attesting to the directness with which he had delivered the strokes. Swallowing his momentary remorse, McPherson walked around to the other side of the twin bed, very aware of the heavy sobbing emanating from his daughter’s quaking form.
He laid the leather strap across his child’s quivering bottom, steeling against the sound of her woeful moan at the belt’s reappearance.
Betsy’s entire body jerked in a sorrowful response to the strap’s newest assault. A loud, pitiful wail filled the bedroom as the girl responded to the blazing misery that assailed her tormented behind. She shrieked in agony, her hips bouncing on their pillowed tower.
“OOOHHHOWWW!” the girl howled, her breath coming in labored sobs. “OWWW! OWWW! DADDEE PLLEAASE NOMORE!!” Betsy’s hips rocked back and forth, a vain attempt to relieve the vicious, burning distress that incinerated her bottom. “Ohh, Ohhhhh,” the girl chanted pitifully.
The strap fell again, this time curling around the sides of the slender bottom, bringing more mind-splitting pain to the teenager stretched over the pillows. Betsy’s cries rose to a high-pitched scream. Her legs straightened in unbearable suffering.
Another insufferable strike addressed the lower ridge of Betsy’s exposed rear, distributing terrible, stinging points of fire across the tops of Betsy’s thighs, as well. Her legs flailed pathetically as the girl tried to escape the despicable strap.
“EEEEEAOWWOWW!” Betsy’s wails changed to tortured squeals. She pulled at the clumps of bedspread, her head straining backward, her hips swaying in torment. Betsy’s feet executed several jolting kicks. After a long, hoarse shriek, the youthful body again fell limply onto the pillows under it. Loud, mournful sobs filled the bedroom.
“OOWWWW! OHHOHHOWWW!” the young woman shrieked, her body fairly vibrating against the pillows. “DADDEE!” Betsy pleaded. “PLEEASE!” The teenager’s hips swayed from side to side, her entreaty muffled by the crumpled coverlet beneath her face.
McPherson stood quietly, allowing his daughter to regain a modicum of control. When he was sure she was again at least aware, he moved back to his original position beside the bed, standing to Betsy’s left. Reluctantly, he laid the belt on his daughter’s dark red bottom, slowly sliding the strap back and forth to warn his child of the last quartet of strokes.
“Hold still, Betsy,” Brian warned, only halfheartedly threatening his daughter. “Four more. Then you’ll be done.”
“OHH, NOO!” Betsy squealed, her sobs again reducing her to a quivering mass. “Daddy, I promise I won’t ever…” The penitent offering was silenced by her father.
“Four more!” Brian announced, this time allowing his tone to emerge stern and forceful. “The longer you complain, the longer this will take. Now, hold still.”
Muffled sobs tumbled from the suffering teenager. Brian saw his daughter clench her anguished buttocks. He decided not to prolong her misery any longer. He raised the strap and brought it down, delivering the first of four licks in a rapid, determined pattern.
“WAAAGH!” Betsy screamed, her hips bouncing stiffly on the pillows. Her father raised the strap again.
“OWWWWW!” Betsy’s cries rose in pitch.
McPherson brought the belt down firmly for another deadly swipe across the fleshy middle area.
“OHHOWWWW!” A shrill, keening screech followed.
The last and final stroke brought the belt down squarely across ‘the sitter’, the most abused area of Betsy’s fully punished backside. Due to Brian’s unfortunately accurate aim, the latest swipe of the leather piece had landed fully across the slim crease, assaulting the back of Betsy’s legs, as well. The slender limbs kicked wildly.
“WAAAAAAGAHHAHH!” The girl pulled in a desperate gasp. “OWWWWW!”
A long, anguished yowl followed the sharp crackling sound of the belt’s delivery until Betsy collapsed bonelessly over the pillowed platform. Huge, heavy sobs poured from the youngster on the bed, drowning out her father’s breathless panting.
McPherson watched his daughter’s bottom tremble and shudder, the wide purpling stripes that covered the soft flesh giving obvious testament to the completeness of his delivered punishment. Betsy’s hips rolled back and forth, her unbridled misery obvious in the desolate contortions. McPherson dropped the belt on a nearby armchair and trained a sympathetic gaze on his sobbing offspring.
The weary father stepped closer to his child’s prone form, laying a loving, soothing hand on Betsy’s heaving back. For a long series of minutes, Brian McPherson rubbed gentle circles over the perspiring area, murmuring soft, comforting phrases as his daughter’s frenzied lament eventually calmed and quieted. The appeasing circles continued after Betsy’s hitching sobs became simple weeping. Finally, Betsy’s body relaxed against the pillows, responding to her father’s placating ministrations. The girl’s breathing slowed; her manner softened.
McPherson continued the tender massage between Betsy’s shoulders. “It’s OK, Sweetheart,” the father kindly intoned. “I know your bottom is sore, but it’ll be better by the weekend.” Betsy’s hic-cupping cries began to run down. “I’m sorry, Baby, but from now on, stay out of Mr. Scott’s office, OK?”
McPherson ended his compassionate rubbing. With a gentle, but firm hand on her arm, he helped Betsy stand up again, watching benignly as her hands went immediately to her grief-stricken bottom. Brian helped her keep her balance as the young woman stepped out of her rumpled slacks, leaving her standing only in her stocking feet, her t-shirt and her lowered panties.
McPherson laid a loving arm around his daughter’s shoulders and began walking them both to the ‘designated corner’ of her room. Once there, he placed a warm kiss on the sweaty temple. Betsy’s hands remained against her bottom, her feeble cries certifying that even her own fingers touching the dark red area produced immeasurable agony.
Brian released his daughter and crossed his arms over his chest. Betsy recognized the unspoken signal. She sniffled loudly and stiffly knelt down, placing her face close to the junction of the walls. Finally, she locked her fingers behind her head and shifted her hips until her bottom was jutting out in a prominent position. Warbling, sorrowful weeping accompanied her movements.
Her father watched silently, his own heart heavy in his chest. After a moment, he leaned down and adjusted the roll of underwear, leaving the crumpled garment just above Betsy’s knees. He stood up again.
“Half an hour, Elizabeth,” Brian murmured quietly. “After that, I’ll send your mom in and she can tend to your bottom, OK?”
Betsy’s garbled answer was covered by her continued whimpers. After smoothing the tousled, dark locks away from his daughter’s flushed face, McPherson turned and retrieved his belt, purposely hiding the threatening strip from his daughter’s tearful gaze.
“We love you, Betsy, you know that, don’t you?”
“Y-yes, Daddy,” the girl whimpered. “I’m sorry I m-messed up a-again.”
“Stay in position,” McPherson directly quietly. “Your mom will be in shortly.” He turned and left the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself, running one hand through his wavy, sandy-brown hair. “Am I glad that’s over.” He strode down the hall, meeting his anxious wife on the way.
“Do your stuff, Mom,” the man joked tiredly. “She really needs you tonight.”
Doris McPherson leaned forward and planted a soft, understanding kiss on her husband’s cheek. After giving him a gentle smile, she walked down the hallway to her daughter’s bedroom. Brian McPherson let out an exhausted sigh and turned his steps toward the bar in the den.