Fiction by Matt, July 2007
I was never comfortable spanking Caroline, even when she asked. Not the first time, an ill-advised swing at her jeans-clad bottom; not the second time, by request, my belt on her bare skin, not a sound from her. She was young enough to be my daughter and way too pretty to be posed like that so close to me. But I had a car with two flat tires in the shop from her club escapade that ended with her driving – or trying to - the wrong way over a parking-lot exit with "teeth." A 2 AM phone call let me know she'd borrowed my car.
"You're going home," I told the sulking, defiant nineteen-year-old, watching me from behind long blonde bangs. It was gratifying to see that I could shock her, or even get a reaction.
"Noooooo!!!!!" she wailed, true terror in her eyes.
"Yes. Bus. Utah. Pack."
"You can't! You wouldn't!"
"Pack it or leave it." After listening to her bitch for half an hour about all the stupid things that made this anyone's fault but hers, and having worked all day on half a night's sleep, I wasn't in the mood to "discuss."
The flash of fear turned to anger. "You f-ing bastard," she called me. "Okay, I go home, I'll tell my mom you hit me." That would be the ill-advised swat.
"Your mom would congratulate me," I snarled, at the moment equally mad at both of them. "She knows what you're like." Her mom couldn't handle her in St. George, Utah, for God's sake, so she asks me, an LA bachelor, to put her up for "a few months till she gets on her feet." She knows I'm a soft touch. "You'll be on that bus, suitcase or no suitcase," I warn. "It leaves at 7:45, we leave in an hour." I had no idea when the next bus was but I figured I'd worry about that at the station.
"No, please," she tried, her vocabulary evidently growing – I hadn't her that word before, not from her. "Matt, please. Mr. Anglen." She stood up straight, another first. Pushed her hair back. "Sir." Raised Mormon, she had manners when she chose to use them.
I just stared at her. It wouldn't matter what she called me when she was gone. Her mom would understand. She'd have to.
"I... can't... go back... there," she stammered out, her face quivering. "You don't know. I'll... die – or something." Just when I think she's being overly dramatic she pulls herself together. "Why don't you spank me, like you wanted to," she says with insight frightening for her years.
"Oh right," I tell her, "that worked so well. One half-assed swat and you griped for a week. Then you took my car and threatened to tell your mother!" I was not getting any happier with her.
"I wouldn't. Honest. That just came out," she explained. "Okay," she announced as if to say 'this is my final offer,' "I took your car."
"Without asking." I could see her start to say "you were asleep" and think better of it.
"I wrecked two of your tires," she continued, and I was marginally impressed with her mentioning it. "It won't ever happen again. You can make sure of that." Now it was her turn to watch me not say "by sending you home."
"You could use your belt," she offered quietly.
"I had to call someone – a woman I work with – in the middle of the night to go get you," I reminded her. "You were in a club."
"I wasn't drunk," she protested, knowing she'd just admitted to drinking.
"You need to go home," I reiterated.
"IT'S NOT HOME," she screamed at me, then looked horrified at herself. I thought she'd sink to her knees and beg. "Can't you just," trying to sound like the height of reason, "Whip my butt?"
This is why her mom chose me – because I'm a soft touch. I don't like to see a woman, not even a teenaged drama queen, on the edge of hysteria. "Okay," I conceded, "Rules." Her look of relief was heartbreaking, ready to lap up any offer that came out of my mouth. "No complaining," I started with, referring to last week, and she knew what I meant. "One complaint, one word, and you're on the bus, understand?"
"Yes, sir." Not a hint of sarcasm.
"Fake ID, you hand it over," I continued, and with a look stopped her claim that she didn't have one. She nodded.
"Bad language – butt whipping. Yelling at me – butt whipping. Drinking – even a little – major butt-whipping."
"I am sorry," she insisted.
"Cutting class." She was enrolled but I don't know that she'd actually attended any. She nodded. "Late for work." Her mouth fell open to protest. "Yes?" I asked.
"I'm not going to be perfect. I mean, I'll try, but... "
"Then?"
"I'll get my butt whipped, I guess."
"And try harder?"
"Yessir." After a pause she said shakily, "Do you want me... " and with a vague gesture indicated the arm of the sofa.
"First, fake ID," I reminded her.
"Oh yeah." Like she'd forgotten where she'd put it, maybe.
"Empty your wallet," I demanded, as she handed me a Utah driver's license. Her hands began to shake. I confiscated someone's California driver's license, passed over a condom. She was no longer looking me in the face. Without retrieving her wallet she walked to the end of the couch and unfastened her jeans.
I gave her twelve with my belt, folded, three times, getting harder each time. She seemed to be soaking them up like water on sand. So I gave her twelve with the tail. Even the first ten made her shift a bit. I made the last two hard.
"Yeouwch! Ow!" she cried out just as I finished. She looked over at me, her mouth still open. Now she really was on her knees. "I didn't... mean to... I tried not to... please don't... I'm sorry... I really tried hard not to say anything! Please don't send me home! I'll do better next time!"
I knelt down next to her, put my arms around her. I probably should have sent her home, I remember thinking.
***
I also remember one time when she swore at the dinner table. I came in from the kitchen, my belt already half out of the loops.
"Oh come on!" she protests, "It's been weeks!"
"You know our deal," I remind her and she stands up, grudgingly. Her skirt is almost too short to flip up, though her newer ones are longer. She reaches back and pushes her panties down to mid-thigh and I strap her twelve times.
"Step back."
"Do I have to?" she whines, getting a steady stare in reply. She takes three tiny steps back, bending until her chin nearly touches the table. I give her twelve more, low, as she purses her lips and closes her eyes.
"Sorry."
"Yeah, me too." I mean it.
***
Now, 23, wearing a business suit, and a nice one at that, pink linen, maybe, starched, over a white blouse, she tells me "There just isn't anyone else."
Some guy. A jerk. She knew that going in. But fun, a wild ride, a life she missed. Balance, maybe? Against all the responsibility, always trying to be so perfect, perfect like her suit. Three months later it's over and she's beyond miserable, she feels so stupid. How could she? And why, why does it hurt this much?
She thinks it would help, she tells me. She knows I'm a soft touch.
I was never comfortable spanking Caroline, even when she asked. Not the first time, an ill-advised swing at her jeans-clad bottom; not the second time, by request, my belt on her bare skin, not a sound from her. She was young enough to be my daughter and way too pretty to be posed like that so close to me. But I had a car with two flat tires in the shop from her club escapade that ended with her driving – or trying to - the wrong way over a parking-lot exit with "teeth." A 2 AM phone call let me know she'd borrowed my car.
"You're going home," I told the sulking, defiant nineteen-year-old, watching me from behind long blonde bangs. It was gratifying to see that I could shock her, or even get a reaction.
"Noooooo!!!!!" she wailed, true terror in her eyes.
"Yes. Bus. Utah. Pack."
"You can't! You wouldn't!"
"Pack it or leave it." After listening to her bitch for half an hour about all the stupid things that made this anyone's fault but hers, and having worked all day on half a night's sleep, I wasn't in the mood to "discuss."
The flash of fear turned to anger. "You f-ing bastard," she called me. "Okay, I go home, I'll tell my mom you hit me." That would be the ill-advised swat.
"Your mom would congratulate me," I snarled, at the moment equally mad at both of them. "She knows what you're like." Her mom couldn't handle her in St. George, Utah, for God's sake, so she asks me, an LA bachelor, to put her up for "a few months till she gets on her feet." She knows I'm a soft touch. "You'll be on that bus, suitcase or no suitcase," I warn. "It leaves at 7:45, we leave in an hour." I had no idea when the next bus was but I figured I'd worry about that at the station.
"No, please," she tried, her vocabulary evidently growing – I hadn't her that word before, not from her. "Matt, please. Mr. Anglen." She stood up straight, another first. Pushed her hair back. "Sir." Raised Mormon, she had manners when she chose to use them.
I just stared at her. It wouldn't matter what she called me when she was gone. Her mom would understand. She'd have to.
"I... can't... go back... there," she stammered out, her face quivering. "You don't know. I'll... die – or something." Just when I think she's being overly dramatic she pulls herself together. "Why don't you spank me, like you wanted to," she says with insight frightening for her years.
"Oh right," I tell her, "that worked so well. One half-assed swat and you griped for a week. Then you took my car and threatened to tell your mother!" I was not getting any happier with her.
"I wouldn't. Honest. That just came out," she explained. "Okay," she announced as if to say 'this is my final offer,' "I took your car."
"Without asking." I could see her start to say "you were asleep" and think better of it.
"I wrecked two of your tires," she continued, and I was marginally impressed with her mentioning it. "It won't ever happen again. You can make sure of that." Now it was her turn to watch me not say "by sending you home."
"You could use your belt," she offered quietly.
"I had to call someone – a woman I work with – in the middle of the night to go get you," I reminded her. "You were in a club."
"I wasn't drunk," she protested, knowing she'd just admitted to drinking.
"You need to go home," I reiterated.
"IT'S NOT HOME," she screamed at me, then looked horrified at herself. I thought she'd sink to her knees and beg. "Can't you just," trying to sound like the height of reason, "Whip my butt?"
This is why her mom chose me – because I'm a soft touch. I don't like to see a woman, not even a teenaged drama queen, on the edge of hysteria. "Okay," I conceded, "Rules." Her look of relief was heartbreaking, ready to lap up any offer that came out of my mouth. "No complaining," I started with, referring to last week, and she knew what I meant. "One complaint, one word, and you're on the bus, understand?"
"Yes, sir." Not a hint of sarcasm.
"Fake ID, you hand it over," I continued, and with a look stopped her claim that she didn't have one. She nodded.
"Bad language – butt whipping. Yelling at me – butt whipping. Drinking – even a little – major butt-whipping."
"I am sorry," she insisted.
"Cutting class." She was enrolled but I don't know that she'd actually attended any. She nodded. "Late for work." Her mouth fell open to protest. "Yes?" I asked.
"I'm not going to be perfect. I mean, I'll try, but... "
"Then?"
"I'll get my butt whipped, I guess."
"And try harder?"
"Yessir." After a pause she said shakily, "Do you want me... " and with a vague gesture indicated the arm of the sofa.
"First, fake ID," I reminded her.
"Oh yeah." Like she'd forgotten where she'd put it, maybe.
"Empty your wallet," I demanded, as she handed me a Utah driver's license. Her hands began to shake. I confiscated someone's California driver's license, passed over a condom. She was no longer looking me in the face. Without retrieving her wallet she walked to the end of the couch and unfastened her jeans.
I gave her twelve with my belt, folded, three times, getting harder each time. She seemed to be soaking them up like water on sand. So I gave her twelve with the tail. Even the first ten made her shift a bit. I made the last two hard.
"Yeouwch! Ow!" she cried out just as I finished. She looked over at me, her mouth still open. Now she really was on her knees. "I didn't... mean to... I tried not to... please don't... I'm sorry... I really tried hard not to say anything! Please don't send me home! I'll do better next time!"
I knelt down next to her, put my arms around her. I probably should have sent her home, I remember thinking.
***
I also remember one time when she swore at the dinner table. I came in from the kitchen, my belt already half out of the loops.
"Oh come on!" she protests, "It's been weeks!"
"You know our deal," I remind her and she stands up, grudgingly. Her skirt is almost too short to flip up, though her newer ones are longer. She reaches back and pushes her panties down to mid-thigh and I strap her twelve times.
"Step back."
"Do I have to?" she whines, getting a steady stare in reply. She takes three tiny steps back, bending until her chin nearly touches the table. I give her twelve more, low, as she purses her lips and closes her eyes.
"Sorry."
"Yeah, me too." I mean it.
***
Now, 23, wearing a business suit, and a nice one at that, pink linen, maybe, starched, over a white blouse, she tells me "There just isn't anyone else."
Some guy. A jerk. She knew that going in. But fun, a wild ride, a life she missed. Balance, maybe? Against all the responsibility, always trying to be so perfect, perfect like her suit. Three months later it's over and she's beyond miserable, she feels so stupid. How could she? And why, why does it hurt this much?
She thinks it would help, she tells me. She knows I'm a soft touch.
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