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Friday, 9 February 2018

Even Big Girls Lose Their Knickers

From Roué 23
Cheryl sat at her bedroom window and stared gloomily out at the garden below. How could she be so inconsiderate?, she thought; what makes her think she’s got the right to treat me in this way?
Downstairs her mother poured herself a generous helping of brandy and sank back into an armchair. At last she had done it — at last she had refused to give into her daughter’s demands. She took a sip of the beverage and purred as it warmed her insides. She was a contented woman.
It had been almost a year since Brenda Willis lost her husband to a slip of a thing from the typing pool and the most problematical aspect of life without hubby had proved to be her daughter’s behaviour. Slowly but surely Cheryl had wound her mother round her little finger; she had her exactly where she wanted her. If one of Cheryl’s requests didn’t meet with her mother’s approval — as was often the case — the point would be argued over but, without exception, the request was granted. A note of excuse for school, an extension of the already liberal curfew, the purchasing of an over-priced item of clothing — anything that Cheryl wanted Cheryl got — until now, that is.
Dinner that evening was a quiet affair; Brenda didn’t have anything further to say on the subject and although her daughter felt like raising it again the quietly confident look that her mother wore throughout the meal told her that such an effort would be fruitless. Nothing that Cheryl could say would move her mother from the stubborn standpoint that she had adopted and it was on realising this that the girl decided upon the only course of action that would stand any chance of causing an about-turn in her parent’s obstinacy. She would employ the sulk tactic. It had worked before — so why not now?
Three days had passed and Brenda was showing distinct signs of cracking under the pressure that her daughter’s vow of silence was causing. Cheryl wasn’t being disobedient — far from it; everything her mother asked her to do was obeyed to the letter. A request would be made and the girl would stop whatever she was doing and meekly carry-out the chore she had been set. At first Brenda welcomed this change in her daughter; she hadn’t known such passive co-operation from the girl since her husband left the scene and even if Cheryl’s acquiescence was coupled with her virtually being sent to Coventry in her own house this too could be said to have its advantages — there existed a peace —an awkward, uneasy peace — but, nevertheless, a peace.
Brenda decided that the best way to bring about an end to the, by now, somewhat irritating situation would be to set Cheryl so many tasks about the house that she would eventually call it a day and admit defeat. The girl had just completed the tidying of her room — never a favourite chore or hers — when her mother stopped her on the landing and informed her that after dinner she wanted the yard swept out. It was simply an attempt to see just how far Cheryl would go with her now maddening compliance. The request was met with a shrug of the shoulders and, when the evening meal had been taken, was duly obeyed. Brenda couldn’t believe it; clearing out the yard was something she would never have envisaged her daughter doing —at any price. Cheryl had an intense dislike for creepy-crawlies and the yard that ran down the side of the house was home to a veritable plethora of such creatures. The task, though, was undertaken without a word of protest and much to her mother’s chagrin. When Cheryl returned to the living room — her chore completed — her mother rose from her seat in front of the television and, looking at daughter squarely in the eyes, said: ‘This has gone far enough, Cheryl. I don’t know how much more of it you can stand but I’m at the end of my tether. It’s got to stop — do you hear?!’
‘What’s got to stop, mum?’ the girl asked sounding totally unaware of anything unusual occurring. The question, though, was a good one, her mother thought. What is it that I’m asking her to stop? Everything I ask her to do she does — what do I want from her? The answer to her self-interrogation was obvious. She wanted Cheryl to return to her normal cheeky, naughty, wilful self and if that could only be achieved by her getting her own way with regard to her latest request then, she thought, so be it; anything had to be better than the cold war situation that had prevailed for three days.
‘Okay,’ Brenda announced. ‘You win — you can have your party.’
Cheryl’s eyes lit up. ‘What? Just as I said? No interference?’
‘No interference,’ her mother dolefully consented. ‘I’ll make sure I’m out of the house as you asked. But if there’s any bother…’
‘Don’t worry, mum — there won’t be,’ Cheryl interjected and her mother felt pleased that she did, as how could she have finished off the sentence she honestly didn’t know. A year ago she could have threatened a good hiding from her husband but now… well, there didn’t seem much point in the commination of such punishment. Her husband wasn’t available to hand-out the chastisement any longer and, as both Brenda and her daughter were fully aware, a spanking from her mother simply wasn’t on the cards. Apart from Brenda’s lack of experience in such matters — all chastisements were carried-out by the girl’s father — there was the physical impracticability factor; Cheryl was a couple of inches taller than her mother and her frame was altogether larger and, very possibly, more powerful. Brenda was left with the hope that there wouldn’t be any bother at Cheryl’s birthday party. It was a hope, however, that she didn’t feel too confident about. A dozen or more teenagers left to their own devices carried with it plenty of reasons for concern and as these teenagers would doubtless be imbibing something stronger than Cherryade Brenda held grave misgivings about the wisdom of her decision to give-in yet again to her daughter’s request
The day of the party arrived and while Cheryl was at the shops buying her party dress — the present from her mother — an unexpected visitor came to the house.
‘What the…?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack Willis began to explain. ‘I know I should have phoned but you’d only told me to piss-off and… well, I couldn’t miss Cheryl’s birthday now could I?’
‘I suppose not,’ Brenda grudgingly agreed with her husband.
‘How is the little rascal, anyway?’
‘Just that,’ Brenda replied leading him into the living room.
‘How d’you mean?’
‘What you said — a little rascal,’ Brenda went on to explain. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s been like trying to cope with that girl? No — of course you don’t. Well I’ll tell you: it’s been bloody murder. Playing truant from school, swearing, staying out late, mixing with the wrong sort of company — you name it she’s done it.’ The frustrations of the last ten months were now being given full vent. Brenda told her errant husband all the details and, bit by bit, the full extent of the problems that his walking out on his family had caused got through to him.
‘What have you done about it, love?’ he asked.
‘What the bloody hell do you think I can do about it? Smack her backside perhaps?!’
Jack Willis realised straightaway the absurdities that that situation would involve. ‘See what you mean, Bren,’ he said. ‘Sounds to me that a smacking is just what she has been asking for, though.’
The couple sat down and chatted over drinks. They conversed about the weather, the political climate, the price of fish and, eventually, about themselves. It turned out that Jack was hopeful of a reconciliation — his twenty-year-old typist had cut short their relationship — and it was decided that they would talk the situation over that evening at the local. Although she was careful not to show it, Brenda was keen on getting her husband back and the more she thought about it the more advantageous his moving back with her seemed. One definitely propitious aspect of a possible re-uniting of the family, Brenda felt, would be the much needed return to proper behaviour of her daughter that would, without doubt, result from the girl having once more the firm guiding hand of her father. She said as much to Jack and, realising that this could just be the key to open the lock to his wife’s affections, he informed her that if she had no objections he would set about giving Cheryl a taste of what she could expect ‘if you should choose to take me back.’
‘If I have no objections?’ Brenda said incredulously, ‘Are you kidding?’
The front door opened. ‘Got her own key, has she?’ Jack asked his wife. The reply came in the form of an embarrassed nod.
‘Hi, dad! How great to see you. How have you been? Come to see me on my birthday have you? Is that my present over there?’
Jack Willis rose majestically from his chair. ‘Hello, Cheryl. Yes that is your present, but before you open it I’ve got something else for you — something that you haven’t had for a long time.’
Cheryl looked straight over at her mother. The cryptic words of her father hadn’t fooled her at all; she knew exactly what he had meant and the look on her mother’s face confirmed her worst fears. Jack Willis was never one to flinch from his duty of chastising his wayward daughter and Cheryl could tell from the atmosphere of the living room that all her misconduct of the past ten months had been reported to her father.
‘W-what do you mean, dad,’ she feigned innocence.
‘What I mean,’ her father explained, ‘is your making your mother’s life a misery since I… er… since I went away.’
‘Oh, that,’ she said bowing her head.
‘Yes ; that! Well, Cheryl, it’s time to atone for your bad behaviour.’
‘Oh no, dad — not now; not today of all days.’
‘No time like the present,’ he announced taking hold of the girl’s hand and leading her over to the sofa where he sat.
‘Jesus Christ, dad — can’t it wait?’
‘No it most definitely can’t!’ her mother boomed.
In an instant she was hauled over her father’s knee amid protests, most of them referring to the fact that she had reached the age of sixteen and that she was too old to be punished in the way she was about to be.
‘While you continue to behave like a spoilt kid you’ll be treated like one. Six or sixteen — misbehave and you’ll get a good hiding,’ he said as his hand pulled her jeans up tightly around her young bottom.
‘But, dad…’
All further pleas and protests were ignored as her father set about the task of righting the wrong that his daughter had done his wife.
‘You will stop your moaning, girl,’ he ordered, ‘and you will take your punishment.’
Slap! — His hand came down onto the tight seat of the girl’s jeans. ‘Ow!’
Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! — Precisely what her bottom had been missing during her father’s absence was coming home to Cheryl in no uncertain fashion.
Slap! Slap! Slap! — The smacks rained down mercilessly and the girl writhed about on the parental lap. The jeans had been pulled up so tightly that the cheeks of her behind were clearly defined and it was on the lower portion of these cheeks that her father was aiming his punishing hand.
Slap! Slap! — ‘Ow! Owww!!’
It was a full three minutes before Cheryl was allowed to rise from her father’s lap and go scurrying off to her room. Both her parents realised that the punishment she had just endured had hurt her pride more than her bottom — the protection of her jeans would have seen to that — but both were united in their pleasure that she had got what had been coming to her.
The time for the party arrived and Cheryl’s parents dutifully left the house to her and her friends. Her father gave her a few words of warning as he left for the local with his wife. ‘Take heed,’ he urged, ‘this party had better go off without any trouble. You know what to expect if it doesn’t, young lady.’
‘It’ll be okay, dad,’ Cheryl assured him but, as Jack and Brenda Willis learned on their return at the appointed hour of eleven, all was far from ‘okay’.
Through the smoky haze in the living room they spotted their beloved daughter, cigarette in hand, engaging in what someone once described as a vertical expression of a horizontal desire. The position that her and her partner were adopting suggested to her parents that the desire had they not interrupted events, would not have been long in being achieved. The girl’s make-up was smudged and her hair was a tousled mess.
Jack Willis turned off the blaring delights of Adam and the Ants and addressed the drunken, randy throng.
‘I want every one of you out of this house within a minute!’
Cheryl looked over at her irate parents and the full implications of the situation were brought home to her by her mother’s steely, piercing glower.
The guests departed easily within the minute — Cheryl’s ‘dancing’ partner, for obvious reasons, being the first out of the door. Brenda Willis turned on the main light and surveyed the transformation that her daughter and her friends had brought about in the living room. Cigarettes stubbed out on the carpet, drinks spilt on the coffee table — the room was an utter mess.
‘Just what has been going on here?’ she boomed. ‘I’ve seen tidier jumble sales. And how many have you had to drink, young lady?!’
It was decided that Cheryl’s inevitable punishment would be left for the morning of the next day when her parent’s anger could be controlled and the girl would be sober enough to fully appreciate her chastisement.
At nine o’clock the following day a hung-over Cheryl was awakened by her mother. ‘Your father and I are waiting, young lady. We want you up and dressed as soon as possible.’ She was gone, leaving a bleary-eyed girl recalling the events of the previous evening. Christ! she thought, bet I’m for it.
Within ten minutes Cheryl appeared at the doorway of the living room. Her unbrushed hair cascaded down onto her shoulders. The tight white dress she had decided to don gave a lie to her age; well-formed breasts filled the material and her father guessed that his daughter’s choice of clothing was an attempt on her part to show that she was a grown-up young woman and, therefore, well past the age of someone who should be spanked.
‘Dad,’ she began.
‘You keep quiet, Cheryl!’ he thundered. ‘You knew what to expect and now you’re going to get it.’
Brenda unzipped the garment and within seconds it was removed. Cheryl stood, her head bowed in abject disgrace, her arms at her sides, wearing just her matching set of pink cotton bra and pants.
‘Could you fetch the strap please, mother?’ Jack asked his wife and she left the room.
‘Oh, please, dad,’ Cheryl said through the tears that were by now beginning to course down her fresh young cheeks. ‘Please, dad — not the strap.’
Cheryl’s hidings had in the past usually consisted of her father’s hand or a hairbrush. The strap, acquired by her father when he visited London some years before, had often been threatened but never used. It was the ultimate deterrent — hanging from a nail in the cupboard under the stairs; to be used in cases of extreme naughtiness. Jack Willis felt, as indeed did his wife, that such a case had arrived. The strap — the dreaded strap — was to be taken down from its nail and used to good effect on Cheryl’s teenage bottom.
Brenda returned holding the implement. She gave her daughter a vicious glare as she passed the girl on the way to her husband and handed over the thick leather tawse. Cheryl eyed it with a fear building up within her. This, she realised, was not to be any normal smacking; it was to be the real thing: a fully-fledged leathering.
The instrument of Cheryl’s impending torture was about a foot in length, a quarter-of-an-inch thick and was split into three tails at one end.
‘Over the sofa!’ Jack Willis ordered, taking the tawse from his wife.
‘Let’s have none of your nonsense, Cheryl,’ her mother said. ‘You’ve asked for this and what’s more you know you have!’
After some hesitation Cheryl meekly bent over the back of the sofa. Her thinly covered bottom was raised high positively begging for attention. Jack Willis approached the girl and pulled the brief knickers down to her knees.
‘Dad… p-please…’
Her plea was cut short as the tawse whistled through the air and landed fully across the twin white cheeks of her young curves.
Crack! — ‘Owww!!’ Crack! — ‘Owww! Ohh!!’
The leather lashed across her cheeks a dozen times and the girl cried as she had never cried before. When it was over she stood up straight and put her cool hands to her burning behind. Her mother dragged the girl’s pants down her legs and after she stepped out of them instructed her to stand in the corner facing the wall.
For a full hour Cheryl stood in that position, her hands on her head, her well-punished bottom on full view of her parents and Mr Giles the next door neighbour who called round to borrow something but who, on seeing the chubby scarlet bottom, forgot what it was he had wanted to borrow.
The hour over, Cheryl was sent to her room and after an hour-and-a-half laying on her tummy her parents entered the room.
‘We have something to say, Cheryl,’ her mother announced. ‘Your father and I are going to give it another go.’
‘So you’ll know what to expect if there’s any further trouble, won’t you?’ her father chipped-in.
‘Dad,’ Cheryl said as she approached her father in the garden the next day.
‘What is it, love?’
‘I’m glad you’re back.’
He curtailed his digging and planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Thank you, Cheryl,’ he smiled. ‘I had my doubts as to whether you would be.’
‘Why’s that, dad?’
‘Well — it was hardly the friendliest of home-comings, was it?’
‘Oh, you mean the hidings you gave me. I don’t mind, dad — honestly. I have made mum’s life miserable — it’s true. And I do deserve to be spanked every now and then. It hurts like hell — I know — but at least it shows that you care about me.’
‘That’s a very grown-up way of looking at it, Cheryl,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’re right after all; maybe you are a little too old to have your bum smacked.’
Brenda Willis’s voice called across the lawn. ‘Cheryl! Where did you get hold of this type of magazine?!’
‘Then again,’ Jack Willis said, taking hold of his daughter’s arm and leading her back to the house. ‘What I’ve always thought is that you’re never too old to be spanked. Get up to your room — your mother and I will be up in five minutes,’ came the order as he eyed the publication that his wife was holding in her hand. ‘Face-down on your bed, young lady — and we’ll have those jeans off and your knickers down. Mother?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Fetch the strap, would you?’ 

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