Fiction: The Catch – Part 4 Fini

“Is this the correct position your mother put you in?”

Rosa’s answer was a silent dejection as she stretched over and down, head low, legs straight and stiff, ten helpless toes denied the carpet behind her. Sealed inside an envelope of her own shame, her bottom bare, upturned and high, she surrendered, tummy and thighs warm on the stout platform of Mrs. Broxton’s pillowy lap.

She imagined Bonnie gawking, Jill trying not to see.

“I’m sorry to have to do this,” the woman announced to the room, “but our Miss Campbell needs a lesson today.”

The talk was making it more difficult for Rosa to breathe. She felt the cool back of the brush placed alternately on two spots behind her as if to assure her of Mrs. Broxton’s intentions, then the mere light tap of wood producing a prophetic tingle on the surface of her skin.

“Do you understand why you’re being punished, young lady?”

“Yes, Ma’am, but I’ll never do it again, I promise!” she chanted to the immaculate carpet under her nose.

“Tell me what you wlll never do again.”

“I’ll never borrow without asking,” said a tiny voice. “I’ll never lie to you all again.”

“Give me your hand.”

Right arm secured behind her back, her buttocks tensed and clenched in a panic that nothing was touching her back there, and then just as she relaxed, Rosa was aware of the sound like an echo of thunder heard far off in the distance, yet somehow a bolt of lightning had struck her where she lay. Before she could process what had happened to her, she was struck again, and the sting on her bottom screamed for her undivided attention. Just like that she was being spanked, and how quickly nothing else in the universe mattered. Mrs. Broxton had already found a comfortable rhythm for herself and an unbearable one for Rosa, each sharp scolding crack of the brush imprinted on barest flesh, two surfaces ignited, scalding heat penetrating and spreading. In stark contrast to the upheaval occurring at the corner of the king-sized bed, Rosa’s housemates on the couch sat in a silent state of awe. She would live forever with what they saw. The college freshman, unable to straighten her thinking, was a little girl again, a little girl who had misbehaved and was paying her dire consequences. It was frightfully apparent that Mrs. Broxton’s intent was to mimic the technique with which her mother had raised her — discipline, deliberate and determined, and with that terrible knowledge the poor girl began to cry out in protest of what was going to be her genuine and long overdue punishment.

A spanking such as this is measured in time by beats of the brush. The stern woman spanked alternate cheeks, wrist snapping as if she were playing a taut-skinned drum, the marionette across her lap forced to march in martial rhythm. As intense blazes raged on the crowns of her behind, the wood snapped, cracked and popped, the hard property of its composition a harsh message for refined flesh, and Rosa’s reply was the answer of a girl whose bottom was on fire. She squirmed, wagged her tail side-to-side, desperate that within those few inches she was allowed she might find enough space to escape the discipline side of the spanking brush, but there was no escape for this mechanical doll, whose parts had been put in mindless motion, neck twisting, hair flying, pink mouth hollering, yelling, one foot up, down, the other up, both up, willow legs to wave and then to kick back as if something monstrous was chasing and catching her from behind. Through a glaring red haze, Rosa’s mind screamed relief when the spanking stopped as abruptly as it had started. She opened her eyes enough to see through water that her nemesis was kneeling at her side.

“Would you like to tell Bonnie now how sorry you are?”

“I’m sorry, I really am!” Rosa whimpered through gasps of rare air. Why had she taken the jewelry? Did she even need it? She had been thinking of no one but herself—the strands of jade framing her graceful neck, set off against peaches and cream. The ornate ring that could start a conversation. That and every jewel in the house not worth even one hairbrush spanking.

“Aunt Margaret, do you think Princess Rose has learned her lesson?”

“I expect she will before I’m finished.”

She was frozen, only vaguely aware of Bonnie moving away, hope crushed that she had gotten off easier than her mother would have allowed. To her horror, she was again under the heartless spell of the hairbrush, rendered helpless, face down, bottom up, her surrogate mother’s cushy lap her only support until she received every last lick of her comeuppance …and how very controlled and efficient the delivery. Mrs. Broxton’s wielding of the brush was a seemingly effortless exercise, inspiring in Rosa a sincere hatred of the method in which the woman disciplined on two spots repeatedly, knowing just how hard to spank so as to keep a naughty girl from any state of numb, the lesson made to sting and burn for a timeless time far longer than tolerable. Her mother favored this technique, arm raised not quite shoulder high and with a stiff forearm to deliver quick snaps of wrist, the weight of the hardwood allowed to impart the urgent message, each spank to penetrate a layer deeper where the fire would long linger. There was no relief for Rosa as she bucked and kicked in wild abandon, a tantrum performed, no different than under a Michigan mother’s hairbrush, for all in the room to see.

In the moments before the spanking was finished, the sounds coming out of poor Rosa’s mouth were mostly unintelligible. To the crisp and insistent crack-smack of flat wood to rounded flesh, words conveyed far less than her weeping, though one word spoke volumes when she was heard calling to her Momma. When the brush had completed its task and her arm released, a sorry girl, sobbing uncontrollably, jumped up and off Mrs. Broxton’s lap caring for nothing but for where she burned stubborn under her palms, was obliged to perform a little hop from one foot to the other, and then as if it might help, a combination of moves, bending at the waist, up, down, stretching her back, walking on tip-toes and hopping again. Only when she remembered her audience could she manage some control over herself. But what to do? Mrs. Broxton was on her feet, and having reached into the pocket of her apron for a tissue, wiped the wet face and runny nose of her punished child. Rosa was made to stand utterly defeated, to fuss with fingers at where the hairbrush had left two blazing impressions of its shape on her once alabaster bare behind.

“Come with me.” Mrs. Broxton had a hold of Rosa’s arm, was ushering her to the master bath at a pace that had the girl almost stumbling over her own bare feet. At their host’s urging, Bonnie and Jill followed behind to see their punished housemate standing at the sink counter, directed to examine her punishment in the long high mirror reflecting the spacious bathroom.

Having begun to calm, Rosa wanted to know why her humiliation was being prolonged but said nothing. She twisted to look behind. There was need to see but not the desire. She had not forgotten what a hairbrush spanking looks like. The sight was still a confirmation of why the bottom of her bottom felt it must belong to another girl and twice her size, two ripe apples on peaches and cream nothing short of startling, and she could see Bonnie and Jill reflected in the mirror, their eyes wide, emotion etched into their faces. Dark Jill chewed at a nail. In Bonnie’s eyes, Rosa recognized compassion.

“I bet when we were all searching the house for the jewelry you took,” her new guardian said, “you did not expect to be in this position today, did you, young lady?”

“No, Mrs. Broxton,” she sniffled.

“No, I bet you didn’t. Is this all making sense to you now?”

Rosa nodded her head. Her face was still wet and red, her hair a golden mess.

“Do we need any more spanking today?”
“No!” Rosa shook her head violently. “I was wrong. I see that now, I swear!”

“Bend over the sink; let me see.”

Placing her palms flat on the counter, an obedient girl moved her feet back and stuck her backside out. She winced as the first fingers not her own explored the centers of her punishment, though the spots were appraised with a light and caring touch.

“Our spoiled princess looks punished to me,” Bonnie remarked, then amended: “I’m sorry, Rose. I think you deserved what you got, but I’m sorry you had to get it.”

“I’m sorry, too” added Jill, her face somehow more pale.

“Okay, that’s enough girls.” The show was over. Mrs. Broxton asked the two victims of Rosa’s crime to leave. “Young lady, I think you could use a little time-out for thinking. Cross your arms behind your back … Come with me.”

In a corner of the master bedroom, a lone figure stood, exhausted from her ordeal. Scarlet Rose dug her toes into the thick carpet to keep still, flexed fingers at her sides begging to go to her bottom. In the spacious room, she felt isolation, aware of herself as a small body in relation to that space, a tiny tragic figure in the larger scheme of things. The tears under her eyes, dried cold, had been fought and defeated. She needed no mirror to see that on her face had settled the demeanor of a most sober and chastened young lady. She could only wonder again how it could have happened and so quickly. Not more than two hours before she had been sitting in class at break, chatting with a friend about probability theory, never in a million years expecting what might be in store for her when she got home that afternoon. What change of fortune was possible if a college freshman could find herself in a position such as this, standing red-bottomed and pantsless with her nose in the corner?

She must have been standing for fifteen minutes when the monotony of the exercise began to wear on her. Her glowing bottom still tingled, but that was another constant as numbing as the blank space in front of her. She had filtered passing emotions of anger, incredulity, lament, even revenge before settling on thoughts about what she had done to get her to this place on which she stood. Alone with her thoughts, she was forced to a personal critique as she had not managed in a long time. She had to admit that, despite being a reasonably intelligent person, she was not immune to acting on impulses that would be unacceptable even for one half her age. She had never really been able to reconcile her failure to take responsibility for the missing jewelry. It was wrong, plain and simple, but she had buried her guilt under the more urgent need to spare herself the consequences. She had only made things a thousand times worse, and she was being reminded of that as she spent a time-out like she had never endured before. This was Mrs. Broxton’s clever method, something even Rosa’s strict mother had not thought to do. Old-fashioned corner-time was the last place she wanted to be but, where Rosa stood, she breathed easier, her body became lighter on her feet, the tautness in her legs relaxed as if a weight had truly been lifted.

When Rosa was allowed to go to her room, she flopped face down on her bed to wait for dinner. So much for an afternoon lounging by the pool. She fell into a deep slumber. When she opened her eyes hours later, it took several moments before the enormity of the day came back into focus. How was she going to be able to face everyone at dinner after what had happened? Her attendance at the meal was not optional. As she lay on her bed, she considered the item under her cheek and decided to bring it with her to the dinner table where she picked at her food with a tender pajamaed seat on that soft pillow. Mrs. Broxton, Bonnie, and Jill ate quietly, and not without sympathy for the now humble girl perched restless and uncomfortable. Rosa passed on dessert but got hugs from everyone before making a stiff walk back to her bedroom. The next morning everyone rose to a brand new day, and in the beautiful home nestled in the hills above the city, a settled sense of resolution. There would be no further recriminations, nor would anyone hold a grudge. Rosa had been spanked, and four brought together by fate were a family.

5 thoughts on “Fiction: The Catch – Part 4 Fini

  1. A naughty girl receives her comeuppance….and the world is set right again! Well done, my friend. I LOVE your writing style and how you describe what the spankee is thinking. I can’t wait to see more from you 🙂

    1. Thank you, nora. I like to see things from different perspectives, and this story was to reveal the experience of the one in dire trouble. I take great pleasure in your enjoyment of it so, again, thank you for reading. 🙂

      1. Well, you told it well, my friend! I could feel her anxiety. And, that precise moment when she realized that a spanking was not avoidable….

  2. A well deserved spanking given and to top it of ( a favorite of mine) corner time. Quite the enjoyable tale, wonder if we will see more of these roomies and their strict house mom. Glad I followed over from nora’s blog. Look forward to more of your stories.

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