Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.
Jen stood at his door, nervous. Very nervous. This could be the last straw, she thought. Oh please, oh please don’t let it be the last straw. Then he opened the door.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, as soon as she entered. He knew her so well, though he wouldn’t have to know her at all to see that she was upset.
“I had a fight with my mom,” she snarled. The thought of it still made her angry. But she wasn’t angry at him, only at her mom - and herself. “I was disrespectful, raised my voice, and said some things, um, I shouldn’t have” she admitted carefully.
She had expected him to be disappointed in her and he was. His silence spoke louder than any lecture could have. She shifted uneasily as she waited there in the echoing silence of his disapproval.
“Let’s get started,” he said at last, with a mixture of resignation and annoyance. She felt momentary panic shoot through her nervousness as they began the process, a process that ultimately always led to the same place. Her stomach knotted and her knees shook slightly as they moved into the other room.
She waited in the doorway as he arranged two straight-backed, armless chairs - his ominously nearer the center of the room, hers near the table, as always. She felt a bolt of anger and rebelliousness - how she hated that table! But as they took their respective seats, she did her very best to relax and accept, trying to be grateful for all that she had.
“Go on,” he prompted, “tell me your side of it.”
It had taken some getting used to, even telling her own side. She had expected him to correct her, to judge, to point out examples of her selfishness. He did none of that. Nor did he ever use anything she said against her. He listened, he asked questions for clarification, he asked about her feelings. She got it out, had a chance to say it, but then it was gone. At one time she had felt stupid telling him how she was still bothered by some incident from the distant past, but then he had asked what had happened recently to remind her of it. It is hard to forgive things that continue to occur, she now saw.
He took his time, and he seemed to sympathize with her. In one way her heart grew lighter. And at the same time, she recognized that she was so much closer. The source of her fear shifted and sharpened. With each step closer her mind focused more, she was aware of less. Little outside of this room existed; soon her consciousness would shrink even more.
It was time for the notebooks. She retrieved them dutifully, two of them. Though she knew the ritual, he guided her through it. The first notebook was opened so that a page was blank on either side. On the left she was to write the things in her favor, what she was right about, what her mother needed to change. On the right, she wrote her mother’s valid points, what she, Jen, needed to change about herself, what she needed to accept. The left could be no longer than the right, not at any time.
Slowly, slowly her thoughts changed to herself. Even though she was being forced, she saw that she should accept it. Often, it was easy - neglecting a phone call when she wasn’t coming home, changing dinner plans without saying so - these were easy to see, easy to regret. An argument is different, it has two sides. No matter what, she wasn’t, couldn’t be, completely in the wrong.
She read each side to him as she made the entries, and then again when she was finished - first the left, then the right. It was time for the ritual.
The two pages were removed from the notebook. She handed the left to him.
“This is for your mother,” he said. “If she ever asks me for it, I will give it to her.” A flare of annoyance raced through her mind - her mother would never ask, didn’t even know of its existence - but she tried to cast it away.
“Now, as to what you can control.” She looked down at the sheet that she held. Why must she do all the work, she asked herself, but she knew the answer. If it was she who wanted peace, she who wanted to improve their relationship, she who was to become a better person, then it was she who would need to try harder, accept, make changes.
She read the list again, aloud, before putting it in her notebook. She tried to relax and accept, even as her fear rose. Much of what she had written was right, things she should do better, even though it was hard. And her mother made it harder. She would have to just accept that.
“Jen,” he said solemnly, “You are going to apologize to your mother.”
“I know,” she acknowledged in a small voice.
“You will tell her that you are sorry, and you will say that you were wrong,” he demanded. She looked steadily at him, but she knew he wouldn’t budge. “Whether she was wrong is not for you to judge, not for you to mention. You will talk about you, not about her. You will not explain. You will tell her the ways in which you will try to be better.” He paused. Softly, he asked, “Do you think you’ll be able to do that?”
“Yes,” she replied. It was grudging, she’d admit it. But she would do it. For herself, for her mom, for them.
“Now, we do have one more thing.” The distaste in his voice almost brought tears to Jen’s eyes, but she wanted to be brave. She didn’t have to be told - she had known ever since she had left her mother’s house. She approached him where he sat, knees wobbling. He rose and left. Without a word he returned with the hairbrush. She waited, trying not to look at that dreaded instrument, trying to wish it away, but it was no use.
He sat and she leaned over him almost at once. His long thighs gave her plenty of room, and he twisted in his seat, wrapping his arm around her securely. Jen had unfastened her pants and now he pushed them down, along with her panties - not roughly, but without emotion. They reached her thighs and bunched - that would be plenty.
As he held her he tipped her forward and raised the hairbrush. Jen knew she needed this, she didn’t want it but knew she wanted the life it promised. She promised herself she’d be brave, show him that she knew she deserved it. The brush descended brutally and her resolve lasted though the first four swats.
The pain, of course, was intense. But it was more than that. It was the disapproval he conveyed every time he brought the brush down. There was no erotic rhythm to it, no sweet burning sting, no spreading warmth and tingle. These were strokes to teach, to encourage, to force behavior. By holding her tongue, she need never feel them. By counting to ten, as she was doing at this moment, over and over. By accepting, she need never lie under these merciless, accusing strokes.
The flat face of the brush pushed its way into her soft bottom, displacing fat, flattening the muscles underneath. There was no humiliation over how she moved, how she might appear - her shame was entirely in what she had been too weak to resist.
Her pride could not stand up to this - she broke down almost immediately. She tried to kick and flail to little effect, she was nearly fully clothed. Here was a woman who had withstood - not withstood, enjoyed - long, exquisitely painful sessions. And now she could barely allow this to continue.
For allow it she did. With a word she could end it, acknowledge that she was weaker than her faults, that her desire to be better was not strong enough. She would not do so. She was sorry. She had been sorry before she had knocked on his door. Not sorry that she would be, was being spanked; sorry she had isolated herself from his comfort, oh yes, she was sorry of that.
The brutal strokes twisted her stomach, sickening her with her failure. Dimly she recognized that what felt like anger was only determination. Four times he stopped, addressing her, making her respond, keeping her from retreating into her mind. He used no precision, no aim. His blows fell randomly, but every one of them hurt like a curse. She wanted to hide, cover, disappear - anywhere she would be safe from his unspoken reprimand.
At last he was done, finishing as abruptly as he started. Her legs slumped to the floor and he released her. As she slid off of him he rose. Naturally, he was upset. He left for the kitchen, giving both of them some space. Even in her self-centered pity, she thought, briefly, that he must grow tired of always being the one who does what needs to be done.
She laid her head on the chair and stayed there a long time. She had pulled up her panties and later her pants. Finally, she stood and fastened them. She looked around her, lost.
He emerged from the kitchen and came to her, held her by the arms, looked into her face. “Jen, this is not a solution,” he reminded her with firm determination. “It does not make things even, it does not make things okay. You must stop this behavior all together. I don’t want you to just apologize, I want you to change your behavior. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I’m trying,” Jen protested.
“As long as you are really, truly trying. But if you’re trying hard enough, you’ll be stopping, won’t you?”
She knew that he was right. Anyone who could stay calm, look at it objectively, and care enough to take part could know and say these things. Anyone could, but only he did.
“May I come back?”
“If you can tell me you’re trying, you may always come back,” he promised her.
“Now get yourself home to your mother, you have work to do.” He did not playfully swat her bottom as she left.
Jen stood at his door, nervous. Very nervous. This could be the last straw, she thought. Oh please, oh please don’t let it be the last straw. Then he opened the door.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, as soon as she entered. He knew her so well, though he wouldn’t have to know her at all to see that she was upset.
“I had a fight with my mom,” she snarled. The thought of it still made her angry. But she wasn’t angry at him, only at her mom - and herself. “I was disrespectful, raised my voice, and said some things, um, I shouldn’t have” she admitted carefully.
She had expected him to be disappointed in her and he was. His silence spoke louder than any lecture could have. She shifted uneasily as she waited there in the echoing silence of his disapproval.
“Let’s get started,” he said at last, with a mixture of resignation and annoyance. She felt momentary panic shoot through her nervousness as they began the process, a process that ultimately always led to the same place. Her stomach knotted and her knees shook slightly as they moved into the other room.
She waited in the doorway as he arranged two straight-backed, armless chairs - his ominously nearer the center of the room, hers near the table, as always. She felt a bolt of anger and rebelliousness - how she hated that table! But as they took their respective seats, she did her very best to relax and accept, trying to be grateful for all that she had.
“Go on,” he prompted, “tell me your side of it.”
It had taken some getting used to, even telling her own side. She had expected him to correct her, to judge, to point out examples of her selfishness. He did none of that. Nor did he ever use anything she said against her. He listened, he asked questions for clarification, he asked about her feelings. She got it out, had a chance to say it, but then it was gone. At one time she had felt stupid telling him how she was still bothered by some incident from the distant past, but then he had asked what had happened recently to remind her of it. It is hard to forgive things that continue to occur, she now saw.
He took his time, and he seemed to sympathize with her. In one way her heart grew lighter. And at the same time, she recognized that she was so much closer. The source of her fear shifted and sharpened. With each step closer her mind focused more, she was aware of less. Little outside of this room existed; soon her consciousness would shrink even more.
It was time for the notebooks. She retrieved them dutifully, two of them. Though she knew the ritual, he guided her through it. The first notebook was opened so that a page was blank on either side. On the left she was to write the things in her favor, what she was right about, what her mother needed to change. On the right, she wrote her mother’s valid points, what she, Jen, needed to change about herself, what she needed to accept. The left could be no longer than the right, not at any time.
Slowly, slowly her thoughts changed to herself. Even though she was being forced, she saw that she should accept it. Often, it was easy - neglecting a phone call when she wasn’t coming home, changing dinner plans without saying so - these were easy to see, easy to regret. An argument is different, it has two sides. No matter what, she wasn’t, couldn’t be, completely in the wrong.
She read each side to him as she made the entries, and then again when she was finished - first the left, then the right. It was time for the ritual.
The two pages were removed from the notebook. She handed the left to him.
“This is for your mother,” he said. “If she ever asks me for it, I will give it to her.” A flare of annoyance raced through her mind - her mother would never ask, didn’t even know of its existence - but she tried to cast it away.
“Now, as to what you can control.” She looked down at the sheet that she held. Why must she do all the work, she asked herself, but she knew the answer. If it was she who wanted peace, she who wanted to improve their relationship, she who was to become a better person, then it was she who would need to try harder, accept, make changes.
She read the list again, aloud, before putting it in her notebook. She tried to relax and accept, even as her fear rose. Much of what she had written was right, things she should do better, even though it was hard. And her mother made it harder. She would have to just accept that.
“Jen,” he said solemnly, “You are going to apologize to your mother.”
“I know,” she acknowledged in a small voice.
“You will tell her that you are sorry, and you will say that you were wrong,” he demanded. She looked steadily at him, but she knew he wouldn’t budge. “Whether she was wrong is not for you to judge, not for you to mention. You will talk about you, not about her. You will not explain. You will tell her the ways in which you will try to be better.” He paused. Softly, he asked, “Do you think you’ll be able to do that?”
“Yes,” she replied. It was grudging, she’d admit it. But she would do it. For herself, for her mom, for them.
“Now, we do have one more thing.” The distaste in his voice almost brought tears to Jen’s eyes, but she wanted to be brave. She didn’t have to be told - she had known ever since she had left her mother’s house. She approached him where he sat, knees wobbling. He rose and left. Without a word he returned with the hairbrush. She waited, trying not to look at that dreaded instrument, trying to wish it away, but it was no use.
He sat and she leaned over him almost at once. His long thighs gave her plenty of room, and he twisted in his seat, wrapping his arm around her securely. Jen had unfastened her pants and now he pushed them down, along with her panties - not roughly, but without emotion. They reached her thighs and bunched - that would be plenty.
As he held her he tipped her forward and raised the hairbrush. Jen knew she needed this, she didn’t want it but knew she wanted the life it promised. She promised herself she’d be brave, show him that she knew she deserved it. The brush descended brutally and her resolve lasted though the first four swats.
The pain, of course, was intense. But it was more than that. It was the disapproval he conveyed every time he brought the brush down. There was no erotic rhythm to it, no sweet burning sting, no spreading warmth and tingle. These were strokes to teach, to encourage, to force behavior. By holding her tongue, she need never feel them. By counting to ten, as she was doing at this moment, over and over. By accepting, she need never lie under these merciless, accusing strokes.
The flat face of the brush pushed its way into her soft bottom, displacing fat, flattening the muscles underneath. There was no humiliation over how she moved, how she might appear - her shame was entirely in what she had been too weak to resist.
Her pride could not stand up to this - she broke down almost immediately. She tried to kick and flail to little effect, she was nearly fully clothed. Here was a woman who had withstood - not withstood, enjoyed - long, exquisitely painful sessions. And now she could barely allow this to continue.
For allow it she did. With a word she could end it, acknowledge that she was weaker than her faults, that her desire to be better was not strong enough. She would not do so. She was sorry. She had been sorry before she had knocked on his door. Not sorry that she would be, was being spanked; sorry she had isolated herself from his comfort, oh yes, she was sorry of that.
The brutal strokes twisted her stomach, sickening her with her failure. Dimly she recognized that what felt like anger was only determination. Four times he stopped, addressing her, making her respond, keeping her from retreating into her mind. He used no precision, no aim. His blows fell randomly, but every one of them hurt like a curse. She wanted to hide, cover, disappear - anywhere she would be safe from his unspoken reprimand.
At last he was done, finishing as abruptly as he started. Her legs slumped to the floor and he released her. As she slid off of him he rose. Naturally, he was upset. He left for the kitchen, giving both of them some space. Even in her self-centered pity, she thought, briefly, that he must grow tired of always being the one who does what needs to be done.
She laid her head on the chair and stayed there a long time. She had pulled up her panties and later her pants. Finally, she stood and fastened them. She looked around her, lost.
He emerged from the kitchen and came to her, held her by the arms, looked into her face. “Jen, this is not a solution,” he reminded her with firm determination. “It does not make things even, it does not make things okay. You must stop this behavior all together. I don’t want you to just apologize, I want you to change your behavior. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I’m trying,” Jen protested.
“As long as you are really, truly trying. But if you’re trying hard enough, you’ll be stopping, won’t you?”
She knew that he was right. Anyone who could stay calm, look at it objectively, and care enough to take part could know and say these things. Anyone could, but only he did.
“May I come back?”
“If you can tell me you’re trying, you may always come back,” he promised her.
“Now get yourself home to your mother, you have work to do.” He did not playfully swat her bottom as she left.
No comments:
Post a Comment