Brattitudes Page 2

  He gives me light butterfly kisses, teasing my clit with soft taps of his tongue that make me arch my back and buck my hips, and I have to hang on to the edge of the table or I’ll slide off and break my ass, it feels so good. And I believe such awesomeness should be rewarded, so I call his name out loud.

  “Oh, Chuck.”

  With that, he gets up and wraps his arms around me, and then he carries me as-is to the bedroom and lays me down gently on the bed.

  Maybe it’s just the way he’s working his tongue and fingering both my holes at once that does it, but whatever.

  I come about three different glorious times, and even while I’m in the throes of the third one, he stands up and starts undressing. He yanks my panties off and throws them over his shoulder for good luck, then he gets down on the bed with me.

  “Fuck me,” I say. “Come inside me,” and I take him between my legs for a wild ride.

  He grabs my wrists and holds me pinned to the mattress as he digs in, applying just the right amount of pressure to do the trick. And I come again, my body jerking with each spasm, my pussy contracting around him. And when I finally shudder to a halt, I have to rest for a couple of minutes before I can properly thank him.

  “Oh, my God, Chuck, how’d you get so good?”

  “Years of practice.”

  I lay there in his arms, my back pressed against him.

  “Do you know how hard I used to crush on you?” I ask.

  “Used to?”

  “Okay, still do. Does my dad talk about me?”

  “Yes. He tells me he has to put you over his knee all the time.”

  “He does,” I giggle, even though it’s not really that funny. “I’m such a naughty girl, Chuck.”

  He sighs and squeezes me tighter and we lay there a while, both basking in that post-coital glow, or whatever it’s called. It’s nice being here with him, and I wish I could spend the night, but of course I can’t.

  Later on, he sneaks me back to my house. We hide in the shadows, but we’re both giggling like little kids and totally blowing our cover.

  Luckily, no one’s about.

  “Well, kiddo,” he says, giving me a quick kiss and pointing me toward the back door. “You’d better get in there before they notice you’re missing.”

  He pats my fanny and sends me on my way, but when I get inside the party’s over, in more ways than one. My father’s sitting in the kitchen waiting for me, looking just about as pissed off as I’ve ever seen him.

  “I thought I told you to go to bed,” he says.

  “Uhm, I kind of did?”

  “Well, uhm, you’re kind of going to be punished.”

  And don’t say I’m nineteen, ’cause I already know it. My dad’s point of view is, as long as I’m living under his roof and he’s footing the bills, he’ll do as he sees fit. And what he sees to fit to do right now is push away from the table and grab me by the wrist.

  He drags me to his study and hauls me over his lap, gathering up the taffeta and leaving it all bunched up around my waist.

  “What in the hell is this?” he asks, snapping the elastic on my panties.

  “Uhm, a thong?”

  That makes him mad, too, and he spanks me hard and fast for a minute.

  “Tomorrow we’re getting rid of them,” he tells me. “And yes, they’re still coming down.”

  He yanks them to my knees, which means he wants to get at my upper thighs, too, and then he rests his forearms on my back while he questions me, like I’m some kind of goddamned table or something.

  “First of all, how dare you?”

  “Which? Chuck, or sneaking out?”

  “Both.”

  “I don’t know. I was bored.”

  “But why him, of all people? Don’t you know how awkward this makes everything?”

  I sag over his lap.

  “I guess I didn’t think of that.”

  “That’s your problem, right there. You don’t think.”

  So yeah, he goes all Joe Spanking-Machine for like, the next ten minutes, asking me again why it had to be Chuck and telling me he’s old enough to be my father, for Christ’s sake, and I’ll damn well finish college without screwing myself in the process, et cetera, et cetera, on and on. I lay there listening to it all, since I have no choice, but what I really have on my mind is Chuck, and how awesome he is in bed.

  “Why can’t you settle down and find yourself a nice boy at college?”

  And I think about Chuck and how no guy my age has ever gone down on me the way he did. I mean, he might be an old and crusty geezer like my dad, but he knows a few things about pleasing a woman.

  So I go, “Uhm, why should waste my time on a bunch of dumb boys?”

  He jerks me up to sit beside him and grabs my chin to make me look at him.

  “Uhm, because I said so?”

  “When are you going to let me run my own life?”

  He laughs shortly.

  “When you’re capable of it. Now go get me the hairbrush.”

  My eyes go wide, but I refuse to show him I’m scared, so I make a joke out of it.

  “Rut-row, Raggy.”

  “Don’t be cute. Just go and do as you’re told.”

  “Aw, come on, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

  “Go get me the hairbrush right now, or I shall get it for you. And I know you don’t want that.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m going.”

  I smooth down my skirt and try to look cool, all the while rubbing the sting out of my bottom. I know once I get the brush he’ll beat me ’til I cry, but the thing is, I can’t even fake it because he’ll know and he’ll only spank me harder.

  And longer.

  So I go upstairs to get the stinking hairbrush so we can get it over with, careful not to dawdle too long and make him even madder. When I get back, he orders me over his lap again to listen to him lecture me about how he works his fingers to the bone making sure I have a roof over my head. He starts telling me a bunch of junk about kids in third-world countries and how lucky I am to have a nice, strict father to beat the everlasting dog shit out of me every chance he gets.

  Well, it’s killing me anyway, so I figure I might as well get a few zingers in.

  And plus, I never learn.

  “Yeah, I know,” I smart off. “I’m like, totally ungrateful and shit.”

  If you ever want your ass beat really good, try saying something like that to the man who’s wielding the hairbrush.

  He stops suddenly.

  “I can see you need some preventive maintenance on your little attitude there,” he tells me. “I believe I’ve heard it called a preemptory ass-whipping.”

  This really does make me start to cry, because I’ve had those maintenance spankings before and I really hate them. Just getting spanked for something real is bad enough, and now I’ll have to report to his study every day after school for God knows how long, ’til he thinks my attitude’s good again.

  Bummer.

  It’s too bad I like sex so much. And mouthing off. If I didn’t like them as much as I do, I bet I wouldn’t get half the spankings I get now. But, oh well. He’s going to do it anyway, so I might as well say my piece.

  “Whatever. I’ll still see Chuck if I want to.”

  “Will you?”

  “You don’t have to sound so enlightened,” I tell him. “You know I will.”

  “You know, my dear, I do believe you would,” he tells me. “But the question is, will he see you?”

  “Of course he will. Why shouldn’t he?”

  “Don’t put any money on that bet, will you, my darling? Because as soon as I finish here, I’m going to pay a call on Chuck, and I’m pretty sure I can persuade him not to have any further contact with y
ou.”

  “Why don’t you persuade yourself not to have any further contact with my butt?”

  He laughs, but not in a good way, and I feel him tense back up. He places the cool, smooth wood of the hairbrush against my ass so I can feel it, and any normal girl would’ve taken that as a warning to shut the hell up, but like I said, I never learn.

  I never, ever learn.

  Time Travel

  Tonight we’re travelling back in time, and tonight I’m a teenager.

  Usually, if we dress up and do role-play, my husband has me doll myself up like some 1950s-era housewife, but sometimes, like tonight, I’m a teenaged girl instead.

  Personally, I like portraying the housewife best, since all I get then is a nice, intimate hand-spanking over his lap, but when I’m a teen, which isn’t too often, I have to wear these stupid saddle shoes and bobby socks and bend over the bed for a good sound strapping, because teenagers from every era need strict discipline and a little dose of humility from time to time.

  Sometimes I have to wear one of those circle skirts with a stiff crinoline underneath, which all gets piled up over the small of my back. This time, though, I’m in a simple pair of jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a thick leather belt through the loops

  The same belt I’ll be punished with.

  I undo my pants and yank the belt off, and if you think that’s not every bit as chilling as just hearing someone else do it for you, you’re wrong.

  Once I get the belt off, what I have to do is lay it on the bed beside me, and then I have to pull my pants down to my knees and get into position and wait.

  Sometimes my husband comes right away.

  Other times, he takes his sweet time and makes me lie there in that vulnerable, humiliating position for so long I can hardly stand it. What makes it worse, of course, is once my butt’s all healed up from my last whipping, I can hardly remember the actual pain.

  I can only remember it hurt.

  I can’t remember how badly it stung, but I can remember how much I cried, how gently I was forgiven after and absolved of my sins.

  You’d think the guy was the freakin’ pope or something, and I once made the grave mistake of saying that to him, earning for myself the worst beating I ever got in my life.

  Now I just keep quiet.

  Now what I do is shut up and play along and just say my part, and if my husband wants me to confess to a lot of made-up bullcrap that never happened, I will.

  I’m thinking my bedspread could use a wash when he comes in behind me. Suddenly I become hyper-aware.

  The fact that I can’t remember the exact pain from last time only makes it worse. It scares me, and I can hear every move he makes, every little creak of the floorboards beneath his feet.

  All I can do is lie there in dread, anticipating what’s about to happen.

  We’ve played this game often enough, it’s true, and I can pick up on every nuance of his mood. The simple fact that I’m a teenager tonight is enough to tell me I’ll be getting it good. When I’m just a ditzy housewife, all he does is turn me over his knee and teach me a lesson, but when I’m a bratty, spoilt teenager, he whips me hard. I hear him behind me and I know he’s just standing there looking at me, gathering his thoughts, plotting his first move.

  “Well, young lady?”

  I feel myself swallow hard, like I’m really guilty of something.

  “Yessir?”

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. I promise not to do it any more.”

  He never says a word in response, and he doesn’t move from where he’s standing. My heart pounds violently and I want him to do something - anything - to break the tension.

  Instead, he just waits there until I sigh.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Am I boring you?”

  “No, Daddy.”

  His shadow looms large behind me and I see his hand reach out for the belt. I hear the buckle jingle, and already I want to cry.

  “Are you really, really mad, Daddy?”

  He heaves a deep sigh of his own and I feel him grab the denim bunched around my knees and jerk it all the way down to my ankles. Next, he leans over and shoves my shirt up into my armpits.

  “You stay right there, you understand me?” he says. “And those feet better stay on the floor where they belong.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Of course, understanding a thing and being able to carry it out are two very, very different things, and after the first lick of the belt, my ankles curl up protectively, causing him to abort his next swing.

  It hits the mattress beside me harmlessly. He throws the belt down and starts slapping my thighs with his bare hand.

  “See?” he tells me. “You can’t even obey a simple command.”

  He picks up the belt again and grabs my ankles and sets my feet firmly back down on the floor behind me, warning me not to move again. The next swing of the belt makes me cry out and sob aloud.

  “What did I tell you about breaking curfew again?” he asks, taking another swipe at my buck-naked ass.

  The leather connects again and I feel a blast of fire bloom out across my cheeks. I writhe on the bed, trying hard to maintain my position, but my feet leave the floor again of their own volition.

  “Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, praying he won’t add to my punishment.

  He stops and shoves my feet back down once more.

  “I’m not playing around with you,” he tells me.

  My pants huddle around my ankles, and I’ve never felt so naked in my life, but then I feel him crouch down and slip my shoes off, one by one.

  “Too bad you don’t know how to listen,” he says, yanking my pants all the way off. “Just let me tell you once more, though, and you’ll go cut yourself a switch.”

  “No. I won’t move again, I promise.”

  He says nothing, and I tense for the next blow. The last thing in the world I want is to get it with a switch, so I press my ankles together to remind myself to be still. He lashes me about half a dozen times more over the tops of my thighs, and I do my best, reaching out to grip the opposite edge of the bed. My arms don’t reach, of course, but I hold fast to the bedspread as the blows rain down on my sore ass, some of the licks cutting straight across my sit-spot.

  It’s easy to stay in position now.

  And in character.

  I hear the sound of the belt as it whizzes through the air again, then the impossible crack as it finds its target. The sound seems to echo for a moment and I want to avoid the next blow, but I don’t dare.

  “Oh, Daddy.”

  All he says is, “Sorry, Kitten, but you just never seem to obey, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  I know then escape is no longer an option, and I wait for the next inevitable stroke.

  He works me over pretty hard now, and I don’t know how much more I can take, but I keep my feet planted to the floor. Before long I surrender to my punishment, raising my hips involuntarily, each lash of the strap bringing us closer to the end. He whips me from the lower half of my ass to just above the backs of my knees, and I know there’ll be a few bruises tomorrow, but I also know when it’s all over, he’ll be there kissing me and rubbing my poor, beat-up bottom with something healing, and his words will be sweet and gentle, half reproach and half apology.

  He flings the belt down onto the bed and drops my discarded jeans beside me.

  “Now, I want you to go wash your face and get ready for bed,” he tells me, already less stern. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to tuck you in.”

  Warp speed ahead.

  He comes back a few minutes later like he promised, and now, now that we’re done with the whipping, we veer away from the role-play a little
bit and start in on the lovemaking.

  He pulls me up on his lap to cuddle me and kisses away my remaining tears. I want him and need him and I’m no longer a teenager.

  Now I’ve transformed into a beautiful, desirable young newlywed, and I’m wearing a sheer little peignoir set from the sixties I’ve picked up from a consignment shop. He still has his shirt and tie on, but now he’s wearing a smoking jacket and drinking a martini, like he’s Dean Friggin’ Martin or Hugh Hefner. He kills off the martini and I’m on him at once, much more aggressive, probably, than your average woman from the sixties.

  I have no trouble taking the drink from his hand and setting it on the bedside table beside us, no problem unbuttoning his jacket and loosening his tie.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, darling. What took so long?”

  He reaches into his pocket and produces a tube of aloe.

  “This.”

  He pats his lap with his free hand and I get over it.

  “Silly you,” he tells me. “Sunbathing in the nude and burning your bottom like that.”

  He pulls the filmy peignoir up and eases the see-through panties down carefully. With gentle strokes, he spreads the cooling lotion, and when it evaporates quickly, he sits there caressing my ass like it’s made of smooth silk.

  I feel - and hear - his chest pump with air, and I know it’s turning him on just to have his fingers so close to my pussy. I hang onto his thigh and work my legs apart for him, and he takes instant notice, reaching down to stroke my cunt.

  He finds my clit and teases it a little, drawing out the shy little nub. And I don’t know how they felt about oral sex in the sixties, but I do know how I feel, and I want him to eat me.

  “Oh, darling, that feels so wonderful,” I tell him, and he pats my butt, a signal for me to get up. Without a word, he lays me face-up on the bed and crams a pillow up under my hips to raise them.

  A shiver runs through me, because that means he’s going to tongue me back there, too, and he sets to work, bringing me off quickly and then standing up to undo his pants.

  His cock springs free and he grabs me by the ankles and guides himself in. My ankles rest on his velvet-covered shoulders as he starts pounding into me, the sensation stronger for both of us in this position.