The Romance of Chastisement

The Romance of Chastisement

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Something About Thanksgiving

When I think of Thanksgiving I think of turkeys and stuffing and all that, but I also think of Puritans in wide funny hats with big buckles on them (query--what do the buckles do?) When I think of Puritans in funny hats I think of witches and town stocks and stern punishments and when I think of town stocks and punishments I think of birching and flogging. It's just the way my brain operates.

I got this story from Usenet. The author is identified as one Sam Brannan. It was a mess (sorry, Sam), so I've edited and reworked it, but essentially it's a scene in a seventeenth century Puritan village, presumably somewhere in New England.

                                                                    THE PILLORY 

  A hush quickly fell over the assembled villagers, and all eyes focused on the pillories in the town square as the women were led out.   To many young women this preparation for the punishment was the worst part of the sentence.  The shame and embarrassment at having this done as they looked out on relatives, friends, and neighbors was nearly unbearable. 

  Then they were locked in the pillories and the baring began. Constable Morgan prepared the woman at the right first.  A fair young woman, tall, with light brown hair, she bowed her head as much as the barred yoke in which her neck was locked would allow so as not to look at the group before her.  But the Constable was not to permit this.

  "Head up, please, Mistress", he said, "Look to your neighbors."  The young woman slowly raised her head, her pretty face blushing red as she saw her husband and family directly in front of her.  Part of the discipline was to have the parishioners, family, and friends and neighbors, witness punishment.  In back the Constable now began the dreadful process the women hated so badly.  Reaching to the young woman's feet, he took hold of the hem of her dress and began lifting it upward all the way to the small of her back, exposing her long white cotton underwear. 
The stocks into which the woman had been placed were such that her backside protruded outward with her back slightly arched, so that the dress stayed up where it had been placed.  Slowly he then untied the strings of her underwear at her waist.  The woman's face blushed even redder now and she let out a low moan as the drawers were slid downward over her wide hips, buttocks, and legs to come to rest at her ankles.  

Stepping back, the Constable looked upon the young woman he had just stripped.  Wide hips curved nicely to long shapely legs.  Round firm buttocks protruded backwards towards him, the mounds quivering as the woman nervously shifted from foot to foot. He saw how fair the woman's skin was, how delicate and smooth, and he knew she would suffer immensely.

  "And now, Goodwife, you are about to see what it is like to have your bare bottom put under the birch!" he said as he walked away.

 The woman cringed, thinking of the pain she would soon suffer and the embarrassment at having these men, her husband included, see her take a hard switching on the bare!  The man now stepped to the left behind a young maiden of no more that 18 years.  A slim girl, she too tried to look away from the crowd as the Constable approached and had to be reminded to look straight ahead into the snicker of her younger brother who stood with her parents.  She blushed beet red as her dress was lifted and drawers pulled down.  This tall girl had long slim legs that ran to a tight upturned little backside. 

  "A good spanking on this tight little bottom will teach you to behave, Miss," said the Constable, placing a sharp pat or two on the girl’s rump. 
 The last set of stocks held an older woman, mature, certainly early 40s.  In front of her stood her daughter and her daughter's husband, and her two sons.  She had tears in her eyes from the shame and the fear of what was to be done as the Constable raised her dress in back.  Wide matronly hips and stocky legs met at a large well fleshed behind whose cheeks vibrated from the motion of her drawers being stripped down.  

"Mary, you should be ashamed of yourself", he said lowly. 

 "Ohhhh", the woman moaned softly, shifting her weight from foot to foot, not realizing that in doing so her fleshy buttocks rolled for the men's view.  How long had it been since last she had been spanked?  Many, many years … but still she remembered well the loud smack as her late husband's strap connected.  Then the pain … the sting ... the fire consuming the backside.  "O please, constable," she pleaded, "I don't want to be whipped!"
Now the man stood in front of the three stocks and addressed the onlookers:  "We are met here this day to discipline these three women, our sisters who have sinned.”
 He produced a scroll and read from it, an account of offenses committed against the commonweal. Gossip, delinquency, and slander were among the charges.

 “While hidden from your eyes, each of them stands now with her buttocks and legs bare,” he continued. “The sentence of the Elders was that each would receive a sound dose of the birch rod or the strap at my discretion until her buttocks are well spanked so as to make her unable to sit for some time thereafter.” 

A low chuckle broke out from the assembled group upon hearing this. A public spanking was not as severe as some village punishments, but it was certainly humiliating, all could attest to that.

 “Is there anyone here who knows of any reason why this sentence should not be carried out?"  (Silence from the group as the Constable looked across).  "Very well then", he continued, "The head of the household of each of these women will please step back behind the stocks to witness punishment." 
"No. Please, sir constable," came a soft plea from the Matron as her eldest son, along with the girl's father and the woman's husband, stepped forward.  All three women bore expressions of anguish as the men walked around the side of their line to bring into view their bared rear ends.   Then, to complete the embarrassment for the errant women, the Constable called foreword three of his deputies. 

 Wide eyed, the three women, each now with tears rolling down her face, stared hard at the implement each carried in his hand.  The wife and the matron would get the birch rod, a thin bundle of three long switches tied with twine at one end and splaying out in a narrow fan pattern at the other. The women knew well the terrible sting and burn these rods could produce!  Each knew she would not be sitting that evening!  The young miss quailed in fear at the sight of the wide strap in her deputy’s hand. It would burn like fire. 

The Constable watched closely as each of his deputies took a position to the left and rear of the pilloried women.  From the front, the assembled villagers saw each of the women flinch as her buttocks were touched lightly with rod or strap
The Constable walked to the right front of the platform gave the order. "Deputies, do your duty. Three dozen, well laid on." 

 "NO … Please, no," cried the wife near the Constable. 
"Ahhh, no," moaned the older woman as she tightened her fists.
 “Ohhh,” came a long exhale of air from the girl as she too braced for the flogging.
 Almost immediately the loud and crisp WHACK of the strap against soft female flesh was heard.  A loud cry of pain came from the young girl while the other two took the first swish of the birch in near silence, the older woman letting out a low moan.
 It has been so very long since I felt punishment, she thought as she tried to brace herself for the blows. 

"Slowly now, men," the Constable said, "Make each one felt." 

At different intervals now there arose a near constant sound --  the whine of the birch and the crack of the strap against bare flesh mingled with cries, moans, pleas and sobs from each of the women being disciplined.  The assembly bore witness to the humiliating correction, observing each face contort and brace from the pain, observing the tears running down the woman's faces, hearing the anguished cries. 
In back, the family witnesses clearly saw plump female bottom cheeks ripple, jerk, vibrate, and shake as the birch rods and the strap spanked them.  Once white seats reddened under the steady barrage of strokes.  That it hurt was obvious to all watching.  In front, heads and hair shook from side to side. Fists tightened and opened as the women tried to bear up to the pain.  In back, feet began to dance on the boards of the platform.

  "Lay on well, men", ordered the Constable, "Make them feel it; do your duty." 

The deputies obeyed, drawing back and delivering carefully measured strokes that impacted the buttocks of the three penitents. The rods swished down in a blur and the strap smacked bare flesh with a loud retort.

 "Please… oh please..oh please…NO", cried the wife as the sting in her buttocks became unbearable. The birch switches felt like hot brands. It was a whipping like none other she’d ever endured. Each stroke produced an unbearable sting that spread from the crowns of her buttocks to the top of her head, washing over her in a wave of agony.

"OH..Dear God (sob)..My poor..(sob)..poor hiney," cried the older matron. The flogging was worse than any she’d ever received.

“Ow! Yow! Ow! Yow!” The young girl took her spanking with the strap with squeals, sobs and expulsions of air. Each sharp lick pushed her forward in the yoke chafing her neck. Her bottom felt seared as if she had backed naked into the family’s cooking fire.

 A member of the Parish in the audience asked aloud if anyone had been counting.  "Twenty four strokes so far for Goodwife Atkins", came an answer from a young man.  "Twenty-six for the other two", came a second reply.  "Oh my, oh my" whispered a young woman to her husband, "That must be terrible painful!"
  "It is like the fires of hell licking at your seat," replied one who knew as she softly put hands over the back of her dress. 

 It was clear to all the three women were suffering terribly.  That they were in a great deal of pain was obvious.  The viewers in front saw faces contorted, hands opening and shutting, heads shaking from side to side, and the streams of tears running down red faces.  And, of course, each time the switches or strap smacked across a bare fanny of one she yelled like a banshee.  

The older matron fared no better. "Please..(sob) oh please..(so) NO.MORE..(sob)..NO MORE", she cried as the punishment continued. It had been many years since last she had had a whipping like this and it was indeed horrible!  

The young wife on the far right was also suffering as she had never done before!  Dancing up and down, her feet tapping out a lurid jig, her full bottom cheeks bobbed with each step of her dance and then compressed and jerked with each stinging swish of the birch rod across their rounded surfaces.

The young miss burst into tears. “No more! Please stop! I’m sorry!”

The matron’s flogging finished first. A few seconds later the young wife received her 36th searing stroke. A final smack of the strap signaled the end of the young girl’s punishment.
The constable nodded. “Well, done, men. Please lower their dresses.” The deputies dropped the instruments of fustigation to do his bidding. Modesty was restored. He stood in front of the stocks and addressed the penitents. “You will remain in the stocks for one hour,” he said, knowing that they would have to endure the hot throbbing in their scorched buttocks without relief.

Then he addressed the crowd. “Justice has been done this day.”

 Then he added, “Well, that's that. The turkey dinner will now be served in the town hall.”

[Of course he didn’t say that, but hell, it is Thanksgiving and it seems to me that a Puritan village would get the punishing out of the way before supper was served.]

Art by Paula Russell

Saturday, November 22, 2014

F/M Sundays -- The Reading of the Will

This story is a classic gem that some will recognize. My version says it came from a site called Angels and Brats in 2000. The original author may have been Lurking Col who has an author page at LSF. I say that because there is a sequel of sorts penned by him called The Determined Ms. Greene. So he may have written this one, but there is no name on my file.

At any rate, whoever the original author is, I hope he will forgive me because I made extensive editorial revisions, but I think this version reads better.


My father's will was to be read in the parlor of the family home. I arrived  at the house to find everyone in attendance, my relatives, the family staff, friends of the family -- and a Ms. Greene, apparently my father's solicitor.

  She was an imposing woman. Tall and broad shouldered with close cropped light hair framing beautiful eyes, she was dressed in a severe gray suit that hugged a shapely figure, suggesting her obvious charms while staying within boundaries dictated by the formality of the situation.  I pegged her at about thirty-five, which made her a decade older than I, but still within an age range that I could relate to. I found her most attractive. 

 I became apprehensive when Ms. Greene came to the part of the will relating to me. It spoke of "special treatment." Being acutely aware of the strained relations between me and my father in those last few years before I had left the family home, I was wary of being singled out for some kind of "treatment"  in the will. Until  then my concentration had been primarily on Ms. Greene's amazing legs and  voluptuous figure when suddenly she read: 

 "...and with regard to my darling son, whom I unfortunately spoiled during his formative years, I have made a special provision that must be met  before he can expect to inherit the bulk of my estate. I have included  here the details of the treatment that, with his acceptance, will be  provided by my solicitor. I further require that it be given immediately  before any further provisions of the will are read. Should my son refuse  the treatment I have prescribed for him, then his inheritance will be  forfeit and the supplementary provisions will split the bulk of my estate  among others." 

 "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I raged. "What treatment? What's  going on here?"

There was a general murmur of surprise from the rest of the assembled group as well. My father had passed away quite suddenly. I never had the chance to make amends for the way I had made his life  difficult while growing up. I guess I was a bit of a spoiled rich kid and a particularly bratty teenager.  Maybe I did need to make  amends.   It looks as if father had some thoughts of his own about how I  should make it up to him when he wrote his will.

 "The terms can remain confidential, a certain extent," said Ms.  Greene sounding a little embarrassed herself. "If you will follow me into  the adjoining room I will describe what is required of you."
She addressed the remaining relatives and staff. "The rest of you I would ask to remain here as this should not take long and then we will proceed  with the rest of the will." 

 I felt self conscious as I rose under the watchful eye of over 25  people in the room, all of whom were dying for me to refuse the terms of  the will, I'm sure. When we entered  the next room, the lovely Ms. Greene explained. "I hope you will make this easy on both of us as it is rather embarrassing for me too," she began.  "The terms are very unusual, but I have no alternative but to follow  through with them for your own sake, otherwise you won't inherit. The will  requires that you agree to accept what I suppose you'd call a delayed reckoning of of sorts." 

I was all ears, but what she said next floored me.  "You must agree to accept a good sound spanking."

 I couldn't believe my ears. I nearly fainted. "What? A spanking?" I said. 

She continued without missing a beat, "Yes. It further  states that I should treat you like a child: over my knee with your pants down and your bottom bare. I am required to deliver a firm and hard spanking with a  hairbrush which your father has provided. Right here and now." She then went to the desk,  opened a box that sat there and brought out an old wooden hairbrush.

  "This must be some kind of joke," I said. "This can't be legal." But she  assured me it was indeed legal and that according to the will I had only  five minutes in which to accept my father's punishment…and his estate.   "But everyone will hear...they'll know what's going on," I pleaded.

 "Yes, actually, I think that was part of your father's plan. It seems he thought the rest of the family and the household staff would be delighted  to hear you receive your just desserts. I guess there's no love lost, as they say. I suppose you didn't make yourself very popular over the years  did you?"

 "No, I guess not. I know I used to treat the staff and our relatives  pretty abominably when I was a kid. I'm sure they would be delighted for  me to get a..." I couldn't bring myself to say it.

 "A spanking?" she helpfully filled in the gap with a smile. She was  beginning to look more confident now. "I'm afraid they're bound to hear it  and I know it will be an embarrassment for you, but from what you say it  sounds as if maybe you deserve it."

My eyes went down to the floor and I  must have looked like a little kid about to get it. I couldn’t believe it. They were all out there, listening. They’d be able to hear my abject humiliation.

 "You should know that  I received my own share of spankings from my mom and dad growing up. They  were painful and humiliating but they did the trick of making me mind my  manners, most of the time," she offered. 

"If I let you do it...I mean...will you..." I didn't really know what I was asking. I guess I was looking for some sign that this wasn’t real, that it was a big joke at my expense. She just shook her head.

 "The terms of the will are clear, I'm afraid and I would be in breach of  professional ethics if I didn't do exactly as it stipulates. A hard and  thorough spanking on the bare bottom is called for and I can assure you I  know exactly how to do that. I learned how over my own mother's knee. I'm  afraid you will be a very sorry and tearful gentleman when I finish....but  rich too, don't forget that. You have only a few more minutes to decide, incidentally." 

The minutes ticked by and I began to sweat. To be bent over the lovely Ms. Greene's lap might have some attractions, but she also  looked like a very determined young woman, committed to doing the  job properly, either out of sense of professional duty or just the will to dispense justice.  Her formal looking outfit suddenly seemed to make sense.  Had she come dressed for the occasion?  

 "Are you prepared to accept your father's terms?" she asked. I nodded. She  smiled. She went to the desk and picked up the hairbrush and patted it  meaningfully against her palm. "Very well then. Please take your trousers off. Perhaps your shirt and tie as well. You don’t want to get everything wrinkled." 

With utter humiliation I did as she asked. I felt like a fool standing  there in my underwear. She had taken a seat on the leather couch causing her smart, tailored suit skirt to ride up to mid thigh. I noticed. Although I  was embarrassed, I was also turned on like never before and it showed. I don't think that biological fact could have escaped Ms. Greene, although she did not acknowledge it.  Instead, she assumed the demeanor of a maiden aunt or strict schoolteacher as she held the hairbrush in her hand and pointed with it to her lap. 

 "Come on, I don't really have to go over your lap, do I? I mean, this is a  bit ridiculous. I’m not ten years old."  

"You will lower yourself over my knees in the next minute or you will be a  poorer young man for it, I assure you."

 I sighed and went to her side. I leaned over but couldn't bring myself to lay myself fully over her lap.
"Oh for Pete's sake, stop being such a baby about  this," she snapped as she grabbed my ear and pulled me down over her lap. It was no gentle tug either. "I expect you to take this like a man," she said. I stared at the pattern on the carpet feeling like an utter  juvenile. "This will be a real spanking but only equivalent to what you would  have received as a child if your parents had disciplined you properly. I warn you, if you try to get up before I'm finished, the spanking will begin all over  again as the will is clear that the spanking must be thorough and  complete. Do you understand?"

 "Yes," I whispered. As I stared at the floor, she inserted soft fingers and lowered my shorts in a  very matter-of fact way. There was nothing sexual in her attitude at all.  It was as if she were performing an unpleasant but necessary duty. In my mind I could see the room full of people next door about to hear me get my bare fanny tanned. They would be delighted, I was certain, and would  probably smile at each other with the sound of each whack coming through  the door.  

Then she began. She brought down the brush with a wicked smack square  across my bottom. I was surprised by the force she put behind it. My head  snapped up for a moment in shock as a wave of red hot sting spread across my behind. Then, I gritted my teeth and tried to hang on as she started to deliver a thorough and most effective spanking.  She was relentless. The brush fell again and again without  pauses for me to catch my breath and no way to handle the awful sting. Before long I was responding to each  whack and pleading.

"Ouch! Yah! Owww!" I yelled as each smack landed forcefully.

 At first I didn't want to yell out, but believe me when a hard brush  is delivered in a determined way across a bare bottom without letup, it  only takes about 15 or more whacks for you to forget about self control. I can only say that it stings and burns like blowtorch being applied to one's skin. Each smack creates a wave of blazing heat that builds on and amplifies the previous one. It was quite overwhelming. 

Finally, a pause: "How are you coping with it so far? Shall I continue or do you wish to forfeit your inheritance?" 

"No, but please no more," I begged her. I couldn't believe how quickly I  could be brought to the point of pleading. This woman had a thorough punishment in mind and she was achieving it very quickly.

 "Oh stop being such a baby, I've barely started."   Another series of smacks  built a blazing bonfire across my backside. I had never felt anything like it before  and hope to hell I never have to again.  She must have given me about fifty whacks with that hard wooden-backed brush. Each and every  one was distinct and painful. Each one delivered with force and  deliberateness by this determined young woman. My breathing came in short rapid gulps. I was pleaded with her to stop. I was  surprised to hear my voice begin to break.

 "Well," she said. "It sounds as if your father's message is getting  through to you."  She was taking a few more seconds  between each whack now making sure each one sank in. "Is it?" Particularly  hard whacks  hit on the underside of my bottom cheeks.

 "Yes, yes. I get the message. Pleeeease!" 

Vicious whacks now across my  thighs. I practically screamed. I really yelled now and after half a dozen on my  thighs I broke down and sobbed. That didn't stop the determined Ms. Greene though, she went right on with another dose across my blistered fanny which I was  certain must have swollen up like a balloon. It throbbed and stung like nothing I've ever felt before. Hot salty tears were staining my cheeks. I was  completely dominated, humiliated and exhausted. For the last little while I had been forgetting about the embarrassment of  having the crowd in the next room hear my ordeal. At first I thought they  would be an audience to some muffled smacks but they heard a lot more than  that. They heard my tears; they heard my pleas; they heard my sobs and  they heard every single whack across my bare and thoroughly punished  behind. Ms. Greene paused.

 That's when I heard a sound that made my humiliation  complete. From behind the doors-- the sound of a few hands clapping; then  a few more. Then quickly, everyone was applauding. "It sounds as if there's an appreciative crowd out there. I think they're  enjoying the show." I thought she was finished but not so. She continued  for another few minutes while I literally bawled my eyes out. I kicked my  legs and bounced up and down on her lap but I was determined to stick it  out. I was convinced that this Ms. Greene would be more than happy to  start all over again if I were to get up before being given permission. 

 After perhaps 100 or so of those devilishly stinging whacks, she finally  stopped. "Congratulations." She emphasized the word with an almighty  whallop. "You've taken your punishment very well," she said. "You've fulfilled the terms of your father's will." She rubbed the brush against  my inflamed backside. I slowly slid off her lap to the floor. I was too weak to get up right  away. I felt a thorough respect for the handsome Ms. Greene. She looked at me and said: "If you ever feel the need for a repeat dose, just give me a  call. I'd be happy to oblige. Your bottom looks gorgeous in red." 

I hardly  thought that asking for a repeat dose was likely at the time. The  suggestiveness of her tone, if anything, made me want to think about how I  might turn the tables on Ms. Greene. I was slowly pulling myself up and rubbing my backside furiously before putting my trousers back on, when I saw Ms. Greene open the door and walk  into the next room. A crowd of people  surrounded her and shook her  hand, congratulating her. I heard comments like:
 "Well done."
 "About  time."
 "Well deserved."
 "Wish I could have done it."
So I stood  for the rest of the reading of the will, my face every bit as red  as my fanny. Everyone was glancing at me out of the corner of their eye, mirthfully enjoying my discomfort and embarrassment. But at least I had the last laugh because  the bulk of the estate was now mine.  There was plenty of money and I had already begun to plan my revenge .  

Thursday, November 13, 2014

The Sorority Bet

Here is a chapter from Gwen's Sorority Days. Rival sororities have a yearly bet.

Art by Paula Russell

“You might as well come over here and sit down.  First go put on a robe.” Joyce watched as the naked girl bounded out of the room. Her skin was fair except for the two rounded cheeks of her bottom which were now bright red. She returned clad in a bathrobe and gingerly eased herself into the sofa. “I hope it’s not a long story. I don’t want you cooled off too terribly much. You still have ten good paddle swats coming, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But it is an important story I think.” 

Joyce smiled and patted the paddle in her hand. Gwen’s eyes followed the ominous tapping. “Go ahead then, tell me.”

Gwen leaned forward and faced Joyce. “Competition among sororities was always really fierce. And the CAT’s were our big rival. It was a friendly rivalry, most of the time, and it went back years. Part of that rivalry was a yearly tradition that we called simply, ‘the bet’.”

“CAT’s?” asked Joyce.

“Chi Alpha Tau. CAT for short. And they lived up to their name. They could be catty. Anyway, there was this thing called the Pan-Hel trophy. It was awarded every year to the best sorority and best fraternity. We competed in grades, sports, charity fund-raising and even a singing competition. Everything was points. Points for winning at volleyball, points for best grade point average, points for everything you could compete about. That was for the trophy. But we had a running side bet with the CATs. Regardless of who won the trophy, we bet on who would get the most points. And the payoff of that bet was a little secret ceremony.”

“The pledges weren’t part of it because they were not really members yet, so the first I knew of ‘the bet’ was when I became a sophomore. It was a pretty intense competition and all year long both houses kept a running tally. If it was close, those final weeks could be very intense. At the end it was usually decided by grades and the day they were posted was a big day.

“Anyway, the way it worked was, the loser had to fete the winner. You had to prepare and serve a feast. All the sisters were part of this. And we dressed up. Because we were Greek clubs it was in costume--- a toga party, girls only. But to cap it off, at the end of the evening there was what we called ‘the wheel of misfortune’. This was really the big part of the bet. All of us at the party had to play. We had to put our names in a bowl, and at the end of the feast when everyone was finished, six names were to be drawn. Each of those six had to come up one by one and spin the wheel. And accept whatever fate it dictated.

“The wheel had been made years ago. It was like a dart board with these pie-shaped segments with numbers and colors. It divided into 8 segments plus two black segments with no number. The wheel was mounted on this frame that had hooks on it too. The hooks had numbers next to them from one to four. Well you can guess what went on the hooks. There was a leather spanker like that one, a standard sorority paddle, a leather strap, and a crook handled cane. Each implement had a set number of strokes that went with it.

“So if you were unlucky enough to have your name drawn, you would have to spin the wheel and wherever it landed, that was your fate. One twist was that if it landed on black, you had to doff your toga and spin again, so you got it stark naked. All the numbers were in white and red. If you landed on white 2, for example, you got to keep your panties up, but if it was red 2, well, you got it bare. If the previous spin was black, it didn’t matter.

“My junior year, we lost. CAT not only beat us, they took the trophy, so they were riding high. That year there were thirty five sisters excluding the pledge class. So on the appointed date all 35 of us dressed in our togas and carted the food and drink and everything over to the CAT house.”

“What were the togas like?” asked Joyce, “long flowing robes?”

“No. Just the opposite. They were short tunics with a belt or sash that came to about mid thigh. The CATs wore longer robes or dresses in the Greek style. This set them apart from us. We were the slave girls, they were the aristocrats for the evening. So we showed up for the party and as we filed in, we each had to write our name on a slip of paper and put it in a bowl. We knew what that was---later on six names would be drawn. And all of us from our president on down had to do it.

“That must have been hard for the seniors,” mused Joyce.

“Oh, yeah, especially the officers. They were used to being in authority positions and here they were, reduced to being serving girls like pledges, and at risk of being paddled or worse.”

“So the party started and we served food that we prepared in their kitchen. We were like caterers, you know? All evening we were running around in our skimpy togas, carrying around little trays and being waiters. Some of cooked, some of us cleaned, bur we all worked. And underneath it all there was this friction—the knowing smiles, the little remarks. We could tell they were all waiting gleefully for the after dinner ceremony. You know it dawned on me at one point that the charity auction thing I told you about was a lot like this. It’s probably where they got the idea.

“Some of us knew each other and they rubbed it in. They’d say things like ‘hope you are feeling lucky tonight,’ or ‘I wonder who is going to be squirming in her seat tomorrow---if she sits at all?’ Sometimes it was less kindly. Someone told our president, ‘I do hope it’s you Carolyn. I’ll love to see that fine ass of yours decorated with a few stripes.’

One girl told one of our members, ‘You know Britney, the way you constantly made a pest of yourself in Professor Bertram’s class, I think you need a good paddling. I really do hope we draw your name. It’s a pity it’s only six of you.’

“As you can guess, we had to grin and bear it. It was a rule that we would bear this kidding with good grace and it was considered bad form to talk back or get mad. In fact if any of us did, it was swats for that person later, after the party. So we just smiled and did our best to take it.

“We got more nervous as the time approached. Who would have to spin the wheel? The penalties were all set at pretty much the maximum for the implement. The cane was six, the paddle, ten. I think the strap was fifteen and the spanker thirty. Finally when all the plates were cleared away we were called into the large great room and they brought out the bowl with the names in it.

The CATs president, Miranda Thorp, then took over. She said, ‘Ladies we now come to that part of the evening we’ve all been waiting for. Our sisters at Kappa, to their misfortune, have lost the bet this year, and well, dears, it’s time to pay up. May we have the wheel please?’ Somebody rolled it out. We exchanged nervous looks as we saw the dread implements hanging on hooks on either side of the wheel. ‘We have three of our members who are running for next year’s office of pledge mistress so we decided that that it would be most appropriate for them to act as executioners, as it were, for tonight’s festivities.’ The three came forward and they were all pretty and athletic looking. We had no doubt that some of us were in for a hot time. Each one of them would draw two names and administer the penalty to those girls.

“I recall the first one was named Sandra. I did not know her. We all stood nervously in a line while she put her hand in the bowl and drew out a name. The first name she drew was Robin Deere. Robin gave a little gasp, but she stepped forward gamely. Robin was this very studious type, but really beautiful, raven black hair, terrific figure, too. Most of the time she hid it but in these skimpy togas her charms were on full display. Sandra said, ‘Robin, pleased to meet you’ and everyone chuckled. ‘Go ahead, spin the wheel.’

“The wheel had these little nails that passed over a pointer making this clacking sound, like Wheel of Fortune, that TV show. Robin spun it and it landed on a red 2. That meant the strap, 15 licks and bare. It wasn’t the worst I guess, but it was bad enough. Someone brought out a sturdy chair. Sandra told Robin to bend over the back of it, hands gripping the seat. She did and her tunic rode up. Sandra pulled it up all the way to reveal Robin’s shapely bottom clad only in sheer nylon panties. She took the strap off the hook and whooshed it straight down a few times. I saw Robin sort of flinch at the sound. Then Sandra said, ‘panties down please,’ and Robin obediently reached back with her thumbs and peeled her panties down to her knees.

“Sandra stood back and ran the strap through her fingers, then in this fluid motion she drew it back and swung it forward. It landed with a loud thwack! right on crowns of Robin’s bottom cheeks. Robin hissed but stayed down. It was considered poor form to break position, and in fact the rules said if you did, that stroke would not count. Sandra proceeded to swing that strap in a flat arc for 14 more searing licks that painted red stripes across Robin’s bottom. It was plain to see she had practiced with it, because she had the motion down pat. She’d run it through her fingers, cock her arm back and bring the strap forward in this lazy arc. But there was nothing lazy about the loud splat! it made. Robin’s bottom cheeks wobbled with each impact. It must have hurt. We all realized then that the pledge mistresses-to-be had probably practiced with all the implements on the hooks.

“Robin took her licks well though. That strap made her bottom cheeks dance but she held on. She finally got up, wincing and rubbing. She got back into the line and I heard her say, ‘yow, that girl could really swing that strap. She whipped my butt good—whew!’

‘The next name was Kim Matthews, a voluptuous sort of girl, but short. She had kind of a prominent posterior, I guess you’d say. Maybe that was good.  She stepped up, spun the wheel and got a white 3. That was ten with the paddle on the panties. Again, Sandra knew how to paddle and she gave Kim’s fanny  ten solid swats that had her lifting up on her toes and choking off squeals.

“I guess I want to know how you did,” said Joyce. “And how your friend Misty fared.”

“I’m coming to that. You see I cheated again. That’s why this is an important story.”

Joyce was astonished. “You didn’t! Gwen, I can’t believe this. Maybe we should just get on with the paddling you have coming.”

“No, no. Not in the way you think.”

“What did you do?” Joyce tapped the paddle meaningfully in her palm.

Gwen just shrugged and gave Joyce this little half smile. “I told you I had felt bad about Misty, so when we came in, Misty was carrying stuff and I said I’d put her name on a slip for her and drop it in the bowl. But what I did was, I wrote my name twice. You see all they did was count the number of slips in the bowl to make sure each Kappa had put one in, so…”

“So no one was the wiser that Misty was not at risk,” finished Joyce.

“Right. I figured it was the least I could do to sort of make amends.”

“And how did that work out?”

Gwen looked Joyce in the eye. “I got paddled. Bare.”

“The next pledge mistress candidate was this really solidly built girl that I  knew named Janet Keegan. She looked sort of Nordic, you know, blonde hair in bangs, big boned. She pulled my name out of the bowl. Well, let me tell you, my legs turned to jelly. I managed to come forward and Janet fixed me with this big broad smile. ‘Hello, Gwen,’ she said, ‘how nice to see you.’ The look on her face was like a cat eyeing a canary. ‘Give the wheel a spin, if you please.’ I spun it and got a red 3. That meant the paddle—bare. Ten swats.

“Then she said, ‘Oh, my’ with this mock look of concern. Everybody laughed. Then in this conversational tone she said, ‘How did you like Professor Greer’s romantic poetry class? I absolutely adored studying Coleridge didn’t you?’ This was so bizarre. I didn’t know what to say. Here was this woman whooshing the paddle around, limbering up and she was carrying on like we were old chums who’d bumped into each other at the student union.

“So I said I’d liked it and she said, ‘I think maybe you liked Dr. Greer more, the way you wiggled that cute butt of yours at him every time you came to class. Let’s see if we can make it really wiggle.’ Then she whispered in my ear, ‘I’m really going to enjoy giving you a hiding, Gwen. You have the cutest little fanny.’ Then she stepped back and said, ‘Over you go. I’m sure you know the position—hands on knees and skirt up. Oops, first, please slip those panties down.’

“I turned ten shades of red, but I slipped down my panties and bent over. I braced myself with my hands grabbing my knees. It was really a humiliating posture, especially in front of all those girls. She pressed the paddle on my hiney, taking aim, I’m sure. The next thing I felt was a hot burn as the paddle cracked down, making this whack! noise like a gun shot. The heat crested and just as it did, she smacked me again. It was really burning. She knew how to pace a paddling, I’ll say that. She waited between smacks, maybe ten, fifteen seconds. This was just as the heat from the last swat was reaching maximum intensity, then whack! I’d get another. I can imagine what I looked like---bare butt all red and wobbling when she hit it, me shuffling my feet trying to stay in position. I thought I was going to scream, but the last thing I wanted was to jump up and clutch my burning behind before it was over. How I made it through those ten searing licks, I’ll never know.

Joyce had been listening intently. “Wow, but I guess now you know what Misty went through.”

Gwen shrugged. “Yes, now I do.”

“Hmmm, I’ll have to think about this now,” said Joyce.

“Let me tell you the rest. After me, Janet drew the name of our president, of all people. I had to wonder about this. Carolyn Harper was sort of a tall regal beauty, you know, blonde, long legs, the works. As befitting a president she came forward with her head held high. She was like some Saxon queen, captured by the Amazons. Janet knew Carolyn too, although she was a year behind her. ‘Ah, Carolyn, how nice to see you.’ Carolyn smiled, but I know it was killing her to do so. It turns out they had both dated the same guy for a while so there was no love lost there, I think.

“Carolyn spun and it came up nearly as bad as it could be—it was a red 4. That meant the cane. Six strokes, bare. A hush came over the room. The tension was thick. Janet picked up the cane and flexed it. It looked wicked. It was thin and very whippy. She bent it nearly in a circle then let it go as Carolyn watched. It just wobbled back and forth like a snake getting ready to strike. Carolyn later told us that Janet whispered to her too, ‘You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to do this, Carolyn. I’m going to stripe that saucy butt of yours like there’s no tomorrow.’ Then she said, ‘we’ll do this schoolgirl style. So if you please, Madame President, take your panties down.’ All the CATs  giggled as the regal Caroline Harper peeled her panties down. She had a firm shapely bottom, that was for sure. ‘Now touch your toes, Carolyn, let’s get that bottom high and tight.’

“Carolyn bent over and presented that magnificent ass of hers. Janet stood to the side and measured, adjusting her stance. ‘We’ve been practicing you know, Carolyn. I do hope I acquit myself well, don’t you? Now keep very still. Don’t get up. If you do, there’s extra you know. We wouldn’t want that would we?’ Janet took the cane and held it over her head facing sideways to Carolyn. She pulled the cane back through her left hand and spun on the balls of her feet whipping it forward in this very fluid motion. The cane whined through the air and hit with a snap! Sound, like a twig breaking. Carolyn gave out this loud hiss, you know like when you draw air through your teeth. A red stripe appeared right across the middle of her hiney.

“We all winced. You could tell that had really hurt. Then Janet lined up and delivered another stroke with that practiced motion that made the cane strike accurately right across the crowns of Carolyn’s bottom cheeks. She hissed again and another red line appeared. We could tell now that this was a real ordeal. Carolyn’s legs were shaking. She was trying to stay down and take it. Janet, I just know, was trying to make her rise up. It was a battle of wills—Janet’s skill against Carolyn’s bravery. The third stroke was right in the fold, where your ass meets your thighs. Carolyn let out a muffled squeal. Janet stepped back a minute then lined up the fourth stroke. She tapped Carolyn’s bottom, and Carolyn flinched. Then Janet did that draw back and pivot motion and crack! the cane struck Carolyn on the underside of her buttocks just above the fold. Carolyn’s hands left her ankles and sort of fluttered and she moaned, but she stayed in position. Now Janet stood back and contemplated her handiwork so far. There were four lurid weals across Carolyn’s behind. She took up her stance once again. The fifth one did it. It landed right in the fold and Carolyn shrieked, “yeoww….Ahhhrhh!”  and stood up clutching her bottom. She stamped around for a moment and looked around, panicked.

“Janet just smiled and said, ‘How unfortunate. That one did not count. We’ll have to repeat, Madame President. Back over you go.’ Carolyn’s face was a study in anguish, but to her credit she did not beg. She regained a bit of composure and bent back over to present her bottom for what turned out to be two more searing strokes. When it was done you could see seven distinct red lines across her bottom. Everyone actually applauded when Janet finished. I never knew if they were clapping for Janet or Carolyn—maybe it was both.

“My goodness. It all sounds rather cruel,” said Joyce.

Gwen nodded. “That one was serious, for sure. I don’t know what it was between those two, but it sure went beyond the sorority bet. Janet had really given her a hiding.”

“The last pledge mistress candidate was a tall lanky girl named Virginia Burns, Ginny for short. I knew her. She was very friendly and outgoing. She was from the South and spoke with this thick drawl. She stepped up and drew Tracy Clark’s name from the bowl. Now, Tracy was this little blonde, cute as a button, but with a great figure. She was maybe five feet tall. Ginny was nearly a foot taller. Tracy spun the wheel and the thing everyone had dreaded all night happened. It landed on black. Well, everything went silent then, until Ginny said, ‘Well darlin’ looks like you have to take it all off. Go ahead now.’ Blushing ten shades of red Tracy stripped her toga and panties off to stand there in the buff. Ginny admired her for a minute then said, ‘Aren’t you just the cutest little thing, honey? Go give that wheel a spin. Let’s see what kind of lickin’ you’re going to get.’ Then Tracy walked up and spun the wheel. It landed on a white 1. Too bad. It was the mildest penalty, 30 swats with the leather spanker, but Tracy was already nude.

“Ginny eyed Tracy for a minute, then she dragged the chair back over and sat herself down, slapping the spanker on her thigh. ‘Tell you what honey. We’ll do this like your momma would do. You just come across my knee, now, you hear? I’m going to give that cute lil’ fanny of yours a good warming.’ Tracy grimaced but she had to do it. She let Ginny put her over her knee. She was so small her feet were up off the floor fluttering around. Ginny circled her waist with her left hand and pushed her over a little farther. Tracy was beyond embarrassed at being held over Ginny’s knee like a ten year old without a stitch of clothing on.

“Ginny raised the leather spanker and popped it down on Tracy’s behind. Tracy’s head flew back and her legs kicked up. Then Ginny did it again. It landed on Tracy’s bare bottom with a loud crack! ‘Somebody count,’ said Ginny, and they all did. Ginny’s arm rose and fell, the little spanker smacking Tracy’s bottom cheeks with resounding cracks. Tracy started wriggling, but Ginny said, ‘Oh, no, darlin’—none of that. You keep that cute little fanny right here.’ Ginny was in no hurry though, and it took a few minutes for her to dish out all 30 smacks. By that time little Tracy was writhing and yelping and her legs were kicking like a swimmer’s. It turned out her behind was cherry red when it was all done, too. It looked like a pretty thorough spanking to all of us. It was quite a sight because Tracy was so slight and Ginny was so tall and well built. She just totally dominated the smaller girl, and it did almost look like a stern momma dishing out a sound spanking to a naughty daughter.

“When it was over Tracy got up and rubbed her bottom, oblivious to the fact that she was standing there nude. Then she recovered her wits and quickly got into her clothes. The last one was a strapping, and I forget who got it, but again Ginny really knew how to dish it out and that girl was sporting a butt that had been well leathered by the time it was over.”

“Whew,” said Joyce. “That is some story. I’ll have to think about your paddling. But don’t think you’re off the hook, young lady.” Joyce wagged a finger at her. Then she saw the clock and froze. “Oh my God!”

Gwen looked at her, puzzled. “What is it?”

“It’s the time! I had no idea. I was supposed to meet Brad. He’s waiting for me. We have a date. I’m not even dressed.” This was bad. One thing Brad hated was her being late. He’d told her so on more than one occasion. She calculated the time. She’d be forty five minutes late at best even if she rushed. “Look, I have to go. We’ll take this up later.”

Gwen said, “Ok. Can I help?”

Joyce’s eye fell on the leather spanker. “Can I borrow this?”

“Sure,” said Gwen, “but how will that help?”

Joyce wasn’t sure either but the vague outline of a plan was forming in her mind. And she had to admit, it was being fueled by the afternoon’s activities. Maybe Brad would be more forgiving if she could convince him she was really, really sorry.