I did some editing but the story is pretty much as I found it.
REPORT CARD DAY
Schoolwork and grades were very important in my home when I was growing up, and therefore report card days were also very important. Good report cards merited treats, sometimes a little cash and perhaps some other privileges. Mediocre report cards merited gentle scolding and urgings to do better. Bad report cards merited vigorous scolding and sometimes spankings. With four report cards being presented on the same day, it was not infrequent to have one or more siblings sitting down to a special treat on the same evening that one or more siblings were unable to sit down at all! I will proudly proclaim that I was often the guest of honor at dinner, but will blushingly admit that there were days that I was the guest of honor, figuratively, in the woodshed.
High school found me pretty full of myself. I was in the school talent show, the Girl Scouts, the church choir and the school chorus - quite a well-rounded student. Miss Puberty was finally paying some attention to me now that I was sixteen, and I was even starting to become a well-rounded girl, too! I was kinda cute and kinda popular, and things were going my way. Life was pretty good to me, and though I would have denied it at the time, Mom would have been right to warn me, as she so often did, that I was getting a little too big for my britches.
So now we are in the spring-time. The third report card of the year has been issued, and I'm not feeling so well. Right there, in black and white, sits a big, ugly D - - - right next to the word Mathematics. I study the remaining grades. One D can be nullified by a group of A's, but there don't seem to be any of those at all, let alone a group of them. Actually, there seems to be an insufficient number of B's here, too. I wonder what those teachers were thinking when they dreamed up these grades? Mostly C's and this D - not very good. Surely I was doing better than this, and haven't they seen me in the talent show and heard me singing in the chorus? Don't they know that I'm kinda cute and kinda popular? Girls who are 'kinda cute and kinda popular' get good grades, not D's!
I'm worried. This D will get me punished. It is particularly worrisome to me, since I am the daughter of two parents who believe that even a 'kinda cute and kinda popular' sixteen-year-old girl can still be spanked. For some bizarre reason they seem to think that even a worldly sixteen-year-old girl can reap great benefits from a good, old fashioned spanking. This D would have definitely meant a spanking if I were still in elementary school, but hey - I'm in Junior High now. An F would have guaranteed me a spanking, even in Junior High, but this was only a D. I wonder and worry about what sort of formula Mom and Dad use to calculate the punishments for bad report cards. I should be on the Honor Roll - A's and B's are expected...and this is a D. My report cards have been slowly sliding downhill, and there were pretty stern warnings on the last report card day along the lines of, "And your next report card better be much better, young lady." Not only was this one not 'much better', it was actually a good bit worse!
There is another factor here that is troubling my soul. I had conveniently forgotten to present some of my worst test papers, quizzes, assignments and the like. It is going to be kind of hard to explain how I brought home all of those A, B and C papers, yet ended up with a D for the marking period. Mom and Dad understand these nuances of grading, and they are surely going to ask me how all these good grades averaged out to become a D. There are going to be a couple of pretty steamed parents around when I admit to having misplaced a couple (well...several!) of those D and F papers. I'm troubled with one more complication, but since I'm sure that it won't even come up, I'll just skip it for now.
Yep, I'm pretty worried as I carry this report card home, and I have a good reason to be. The possibility of a spanking in my immediate future hangs over my head, or maybe over my bottom, like a cloud.
There is a knot starting to form in my stomach as I present the report card to Mom, and I see the frown forming on her face. I'm trying to work up a little water for my eyes so that I look pretty sorrowful for when Mom questions me about it. She seems to take an awfully long time reading it, and I stand there intently studying her face to see if I can read my future there, as in a crystal ball. As any capable gypsy would have seen, I see gathering dark clouds, but whether they were spring showers or a severe thunderstorm, I can't tell.
"This is not a very satisfactory report card, is it, Pamela?"
"No, Ma'am." I was taking the middle ground. I didn't know yet how much trouble I was in, so I didn't know what defense to play.
"No, I don't think so either. In fact, I don't see a satisfactory grade on here anywhere at all. I thought that this was the report card that was going to show such great improvement? I don't see any improvement here, do you, Pamela?"
"I'm not happy about this report at all, young lady. Perhaps you are spending too much time with Girl Scouts, and chorus and this talent show and all, and not enough time doing homework."
Oh-oh. Sounds like grounding to me. "No, Mom. They really aren't that bad. I just missed an A in English, and I should have really had a B in Science. I can bring them all back up, easy."
"And what story are you going to tell me about this D, young lady? How did you manage to get a D in Math?"
"Well, Mom...it really should have been a C. I thought it would be a C. Maybe I didn't do so good on the last quiz, or something. And I don't think Mrs. Jones likes me, either."
"Mrs. Jones doesn't like you? I don't see how that has any relevance to this D. And I fail to see how one bad quiz can result in a D, do you? Since you have never brought home anything less than a C in Math, how do you explain this D? How many papers have I not seen, Pamela?"
Uh-oh. She has realized what I was hoping she would miss. I decide that it is a good time to start the water-works, but genuine concern has already started them for me. "I...um.. a couple, Mom...I always thought that I could bring the grades up, Mom, and I didn't want to make you mad! I really thought that I'd get a C, Mom...really I did." The words rush out of me. I have to get her convinced that I almost had a C before she concentrates too much on the D. "And I promise that I won't get a D again! I'm going to work real hard, Mom...maybe even get an A next time!"
"You know that your father and I expect to see every test, young lady, not just the good ones. You've been concealing your poor grades for the whole marking period, haven't you? And not just in Math, either. And now you bring me home a grade that is almost failing."
I stare at my feet. Since I have no good rejoinder for this, I simply stand there and softly cry.
"I don't know what we're going to do with this report card, Pamela, but you will be punished. I'll have to talk to your father about it, and he is not going to be happy one bit. Now set the table, and start on your homework. We'll talk about this after dinner."
It was a long wait through the rest of the afternoon and early evening. I took some comfort in the fact that the word 'spanking' had not been used during our earlier discussions, and although I didn't like the word 'punished', it was a much better word than 'spank'!
After dinner, I was summoned to the Court of Mother and Father. Dad seemed angrier than Mom, but they were both very angry at the less-than-expected grades in all subjects as well as the particularly disturbing and unexpected D. They didn't like being fooled, and the absence of bad tests brought home during the marking period had been a very poor choice of mine. I was crying, since the tone of their voices told me that one of them was probably already planning to spank me. Which parent, and with me wearing what I couldn't tell, but they were acting pretty grim and so the knot in my tummy was settling down and back a little further toward my rear.
In one sentence Mom made my spanking inevitable, though she didn't even realize it as she said it.
"I'm also very angry with Mrs. Jones, if that is any consolation to you. We should have received a poor work notice a month ago, and I can assure you that we wouldn't be looking at a D today if we had received one. I intend to call Mrs. Jones tomorrow, and tell her that I wish we had received a notice this marking period, and that I had better get one this time if your grades don't come back up in a hurry."
I mentioned earlier in this story that there was one more complication that sort of worried me, though I dismissed it on the way home from school. That complication had now reared its ugly head. You see, a poor work notice was a letter mailed to your parents half-way through the marking period if you were either '...working below ability', or '...in danger of failing' any of your classes. These were awful letters to have arriving in our mailbox, and could well result in a warm and pink bottom. My immediate problem - the one that caused my tears to really start flowing - was that a poor work notice had indeed been issued. That Mom and Dad never saw it was a credit to my sister Tammy's sneaking it out of the mail when it arrived, and my clever disposition of it by fire. By burning it I had successfully avoided any chance of being spanked for it and had given myself half of a marking period to bring my grade up. Yep - I was pretty proud of me that day! Now I am realizing that my stupid idea has probably traded a warm and pink bottom for a hot and red one.
I know that if I confess to having burned the poor work notice, one of these two angry parents will start spanking me. I also know that if I let Mom call Mrs. Jones only to find out that one was mailed but never received, I'll get a spanking that will be even worse than the one that would be earned by truthfulness now.
Mom and Dad are caught by surprise as I start crying even harder. You would think that most girls would be delighted to know that a teacher was to be scolded, but my reaction was not smug delight - it was extra tears. They are not stupid, and they only take a moment to realize what is happening.
"There was no poor work notice, was there, Pamela Joan?"
Boo-Hoo!!! I can't lie, and I can't tell the truth! I can barely speak. "I...I...Oh, Mom, Dad! I'm so, so very sorry!! Please don't be mad at me...."
Over the next few minutes the story comes out. Though I would have loved to implicate Tammy, I leave her out of it. She had only taken it from the mail so that I would know about it before Mom saw it, and so that I could present it to Mom at a good time. When I told her that I intended to destroy it, she was horrified. It took a lot of persuasion to get Tammy to go along with me, and also the solemn vow that if I got caught I would leave her out of it. She threatened me with a fate worse than death if Mom and Dad ever found out that she was involved in this conspiracy.
As the confession comes out, Mom and Dad grow even more furious. I blubber and apologize, and try to make some good reasons for my stealing the mail and hiding it from them, but they are not moved. My bottom is starting to tingle and itch as I run out of excuses and reasons and simply stand there crying.
Now that my brief outburst is over, it is Mom and Dad's turn to talk - and boy did they take advantage of it! I was forcefully instructed in the evils of taking the mail, the inappropriateness of presenting only good and mediocre test papers, and in the unacceptability of my report card. They feed off each other in a tag-team of scolding, and I just stand there bawling.
"You get your little self upstairs to your room right now, young lady. I'll be up to deal with you in a little while, but I will tell you right now that you are in deep trouble, little miss. Very deep trouble, indeed."
I start to raise my defense again, "But Mommm...really...." but she cuts me off with a terse, "This instant, young lady, do you hear me?" I turn on my heels and scamper up the steps, crying the whole way.
Ages passed while I was in my room waiting. My bottom side was itching, and I squirmed and clenched my rear in anticipation of just how Mom planned to deal with me. To improve my chances of having her go easy on me, I decided that I ought to be at my desk, diligently studying when she walked into the room. Surely this demonstration of my redoubled commitment to schoolwork would calm her down a little. Each time I heard movement in the hall outside my closed door, my stomach would knot and my bottom would twitch, but it seemed that everyone in the family passed by my bedroom door, but not one opened it. Several times I heard what I though was Mom coming for me, only to hear the bathroom door close, or another sibling passing by. Was that Mom? Did she just go into her room, maybe to get her brush? No - the footfalls recede. Is that Mom? Stopping just outside my door? No - someone just went into the bathroom. Those are heavy footsteps - - Dad? No - must have been elder brother Bob on his way to his room.
I sat there, alternately crying and drying up, waiting. Downstairs I was sure that Mom and Dad were talking about me. I wanted to go to the bathroom - not so much because I had to go, but simply to get me out of this room, and maybe to eavesdrop a little. Maybe Tammy or Jenny knew what was happening and could tell me, but this isolation was keeping me from hearing what was in store for me. I knew that it wouldn't be wise to slip out to the bathroom - I was best to stay put where I had been told to be, so there I sat.
My bedroom door opens. Mom steps into my bedroom, and wordlessly pushes the door closed behind her. I pretend that I am surprised by her arrival - showing how intently I had been studying. Books are spread out, papers on every inch of desk, and I'm chewing on the end of my pencil. I look up and water springs to my eyes - the look on her face is no more gentle now than it was when she ordered me to my bedroom.
"Do you have any idea," she begins, quite softly, "how angry and disappointed your father and I are with you, young lady?"
I start to sniffle again. I promise everything that I know she wants to hear. I'll be the best student from now on. I'll never take anything from the mail again. I'll bring home every test and quiz - good or bad. I'm making all of these solemn vows so earnestly that she can't help but to be moved by this display of my change in attitude. When I have finished promising how good I would be in the future, I begin telling her of the depth of my sorrow and shame at my own behavior.
"It is too late for 'sorry' now, little lady. You hid your bad grades from your father and me, and then you present this report card with these grades on it. Even if this was all we had to deal with today, Pamela, I would spank your bottom, do you hear me? But no. To make it even worse, you take your poor work notice from the mail and burn it. This is beyond comprehension, Pamela Joan, and I am going to give you a spanking, Little Miss Pamela, a good spanking, young lady, for all of these things together."
Even though I had resigned myself to being spanked, some part deep inside me had still been holding out hope that I would get out of this unscathed. On the words, "...give you a spanking, Little Miss Pamela...," I fell apart. I cry like a little girl, from deep in my soul, loud and hard.
"Stand up and take off your dress."
"Silly girl", you may be asking yourselves, "Why didn't she change out of that dress while she was spending all that time in her room by herself?" That's all well and good for you to think, sitting pleasantly in front of your computer today! But who, in her right mind would risk being caught somewhere between taking her dress off and pulling her pants on when that door was going to admit an angry parent at any moment? Not me, that's for sure!
I fearfully look to where I have been studiously avoiding. Yep, I see it. There, in her right hand I see her hairbrush. That hairbrush and I have met before, too many times for my taste, and we have never worked on my hair when we have been together. Mom only uses her hairbrush for the most emphatic of my lessons - and it's appearance here today is devastating.
I start to undress, bawling and apologizing the whole time, and stalling as much as I can. Finally my dress is laying on the foot of my bed and I am standing in front of Mom in my bra and panties, shoes and socks. Mom hasn't moved. She stands there like a statue, unaffected by my crying, my pleading, my promising or my undressing. She is still looking so very angry. I stand there bawling, staring at my feet, and bashfully trying to cover the front of my panties and my nearly empty bra with my hands.
"Take your underwear down," she says, waving her brush in an up and down motion just a little south of my belly-button, "I promised you a good spanking, little miss, and that means bare fanny-- with your panties down, Little Miss Pamela...and no more stalling. I am NOT in the mood to fool with you anymore, Pamela Joan. NOW, young lady!"
"Whaaah!!!" She said 'bare bottom', and she was talking about mine!!!
I cry and beg her not to make me take my underwear down, but I know it is a futile battle. I try to tell her that I am too old at sixteen to have my panties down for a spanking (I've only been sixteen for a few months, so it sounds like a good reason to me!); that I haven't been bad enough to deserve being spanked bare; that I am so sorry that she doesn't have to spank me bare; that I will just die if I have to push my underpants down; that I am too old for her to see me without my panties on; and that my panties are so small and thin that a spanking with them on will hurt just as bad as a spanking with them down. She isn't moved by my arguments - in fact, they seem to make her even more angry at me.
"I am sick and tired of this Pamela, every single time that I have to spank you." She seems to fly across the room, though the room is not that big. I feel a vice-like grip on my arm, and I am spun sideways. Smack! Smack! Mother quickly snaps her hairbrush solidly once on each side of my bottom, and my thin cotton panty seems to offer no cushioning.
"Now are you going to take them down for me, little lady, or will I have to do that again?"
She is still holding one arm tightly, and my other hand is desperately rubbing the smarting sting in my panties. "Ooowww, Mommm! Don't, please! Please don't make me take them down, please, Mom - - I'm sooo sorry!"
"I am tired of this, young lady. We go through this every time you get a spanking, and I don't want to hear any more of it!" Smack! Smack! The hairbrush snaps against the same two spots of my bottom again, and I believe that my panties have grown even thinner and less protective! "Mommm!" I squeal as I try to squirm away, "Please, no more, Mom...please!" I reach back with my free hand, and start to push my little panties down. As Mom realizes that I am finally complying, she lets go of my hand and I'm able to use both hands. I modestly slip the seat of my panties down, just barely below my rear but leave the front up as high as possible, and I'm crying very hard. These first spanks have stung tremendously, and I'm old and wise enough to know that I haven't seen or felt anything yet. I know that in my mom's mind, two spanks on each bottom cheek through a pair of panties does not constitute spanking her daughter.
Smack! Smack! "You know better than that, Pamela!" I swear she found the exact same place for my third spank per bottom cheek, and these spanks now with my underpants down back there! Since she is no longer holding me, I dance away a little. I just have to stop these spanks, so I cooperate and swiftly push my underwear all the way down below my knees where they drop to my feet. It never occurs to me that although I believe I am taking down my panties to avoid further spanks, I am actually pushing them down in order to get even more!
These pre-spanking spanks have built a small and smarting fire on my bottom, and I am fully crying now. I want so badly to be bashful and modest, but with my bottom already burning I simply can't cover up properly anymore. Now I am standing in my bedroom wearing my little bra but with my underpants looking like cute little pastel anklets around my shoes. I hadn't wanted mom to see that I was finally growing up, but now that I'm bare from my tummy to my feet and clutching my bottom, she can surely see what I don't want her to see. I'm so glad that Dad hasn't joined us for this because I know it wouldn't have changed what has happened so far one bit, and it wouldn't change what was about to happen either. If I'm going to have to be spanked with hardly any clothes on, better it be from Mom so that it is at least another girl who is seeing what wondrous changes Miss Puberty is bestowing upon me.
"I am very disappointed with you, young lady," she starts in on me again, "And if I had given you a spanking for your last report card I am sure that I wouldn't be here to spank you today." It is always hard to listen to Mom's fiery lectures, but even harder to pay close attention when I'm mostly undressed and about to be spanked. "The last time you promised your way out of a spanking, little miss, but that won't happen again!"
"Now get across my knee." She waves that hairbrush over the bed as if, like a magician she is going to float me over and across it. I just hate the way she uses that brush as an extension of her hand to wave, point and especially to spank. Just seeing 'Mom's little helper' makes my bottom tingle, though it seems to be nothing to her.
I’m going across her knee to be spanked like a little girl. I don't feel much like a big girl as I stand here with my underpants down and waiting to be spanked. Daddy doesn't seem to have any trouble putting me across his knees for a spanking, and I don't feel much like a big girl when I'm lying on his lap with my panties down, either.
I shuffle to the side of my bed, and gently lift one knee up so that I can get onto my bed. As I sort of bend/kneel/crawl onto the parental lap with my feet tangled in my lowered panties, I learn that it isn't wise to present such an inviting target to an angry woman holding a hairbrush. As I unintentionally stick my bare bottom right out at her, a hard spank cracks across my poor rear, stinging both of my bare cheeks and helping me to flop down. I squirm around a little to lay straight, and grab my pillow to my face for comfort. I clench every muscle from my waist to my toes, anxiously squeezing my bottom cheeks, my thighs, my knees and my ankles together.
"Please, Mommy...please don't spank me! I promise that it will never happen again!!" I cry and beg as I lay there bare bottomed and ready to be spanked. What a foolish looking girl I must have been as I lie there, bottom cocked up by mom’s knees wearing nothing from the thin bra straps crossing my back and shoulders to the shoes, socks and panties at my feet, displaying my twin bottom cheeks that are surely already turning pink. I ought to be embarrassed at being in this juvenile and revealing position - I'm embarrassed to create this image for you even today - but I'm too concerned about what she is about to do to me in this position to be much worried about her seeing me like this.
"I heard these promises last report card day, didn't I Pamela Joan. And you forgot them just as quickly as you made them, didn't you?"
I peek back over my shoulder, only to see an angry woman leaning over me with her hairbrush poised in mid-air...
Boo-Hoo!! "Mom, please!! I really mean it this time, Mom, please no more!!!" In desperation I reach back and place one hand protectively on each bare cheek. "Pleeease, Mommy....I'm soo sorry, please no more!!"
"No more?" She asks in mock surprise, "No more?? Young lady, I haven't even started spanking you yet!"
Spank! One of the problems of being a sixteen year old girl is that my bottom has rounded to the point where there are still places to plant the hairbrush on my bottom or thighs, even with both of my hands back there!
"I don't like being lied to, little lady, and you make and break promises too easily, don't you?"
"Owwee, Mom!! I won't Mom, Please, Mom, I won't break any more promises, I promise....pleassee???" The irony of promising to stop breaking promises is lost on me at the time.
"Before I leave here today, Pamela, you are going to have a well spanked bottom to help you to remember all these promises that you have been making, and you are going to know what happens to girls in this family who break their promises! Now move your hands, little lady."
I reluctantly and slowly uncover my bottom again, and clutch my pillow in anticipation of what is coming.
She starts spanking me for real. The lecturing is over. The seemingly random and indiscriminate spanks are over. Now that hairbrush is rapidly smacking all over my bare bottom and down onto the tops of my thighs. I am bawling at the top of my lungs - surely loud enough to wake the neighbors, if not the dead, and trying my best to squirm my tender rear away from her burning spanks. It doesn't occur to me, and wouldn't have mattered to me anyhow, that everyone in the family can't help but hear the smacks of the hairbrush on my bare bottom and my carrying on like a baby behind my closed door.
Mom does nothing half-hearted, especially spankings. My bottom is burning up, and I am kicking, squealing, squirming and bawling long before she is done spanking. My carrying-on has no effect on her, and she is determined to give me a spanking to remember. She's no novice at this task, having tended to my bottom for me so many times before, and she has not gone through the effort of retrieving her hairbrush, supervising the removal of my dress and the lowering of my panties just to let me off with a few birthday-style spanks. No, she wanted my underpants down and wanted me face down over her knee in order to give her darling, 'kinda cute and kinda popular ', but 'too-big-for-her-britches' sixteen year old daughter a real, live, honest-to-goodness, old-fashioned, bare-bottomed hairbrush spanking. And that is precisely what she did.
When the long and vigorous spanking was over, Mom stepped back to survey her handiwork as I squirmed and continued bawling the hard tears of a well-spanked girl. An hour ago I would have sworn that I was too big and too old at sixteen to be spanked, and especially too big and too old to have my panties pulled down for it. Now I understand how false those thoughts were, for I have just been given a spanking and I am proving that I'm just a girl who still needs, still gets, and still benefits from having her little panties taken down and her bare bottom soundly spanked for her when she's bad.
Mom patiently waits for my sobs to subside, probably looking with grim satisfaction at the bright red bottom cheeks she has given to me. As I calm down a little, Mom feels the need, as she does after every spanking, to reinforce the lesson that she has just taught to her nearly naked and bawling 'kinda cute and kinda popular' sixteen-year-old daughter.
"If your grades don't improve on your next report card, Pamela Joan, we will be right back here over my lap again for another spanking with your underpants down, and I promise you that I will spank your bare bottom even longer and harder than I did today. Do you understand me, young lady?"
"Yeeesss, Mommy, pleasee stop...whaah! I'm sorry!!"
"Will I be seeing EVERY test from now on, little miss?"
"Oowwee....please Mom, I promise!!! Please no more!!"
Each of these new spanks of her hairbrush on my so well spanked and still bare bottom are burning more than the spanking itself, or at least so it seems at the time.
"If you ever take anything from the mail that isn't addressed to you again, little lady, you will be spanked. Am I making myself clear, Miss Pamela? You will be spanked, and I do mean spanked!"
"Ohhh, booo-hooo!!" I don't even respond anymore, I simply cry and bury my face in my pillow. She lets me up and I flop on the bed face down, crying and rubbing my blistered fanny.
I hear the door to the bedroom open, and look back over my arm at her again. She stands in the open door, looking right at me (and holding the door wide open for anyone in the hallway to see, though there is nobody there). "You may get dressed again, Pamela, but don't you leave this room again until every bit of your homework is done and you are bringing it to me. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," I cry, hoping against hope that she is closing that door while I am laying there on my bed wearing the results of my spanking and very little else.
The door quietly closes, and I take the next half-hour to cry and soothe the red bottom that she has given to me with her hairbrush. I've already done most of my homework, thank heaven, since it is almost impossible to do it lying on my bed, but also nearly impossible to do it while sitting on my chair.
There is one major difference between the promises that I have made this day and the ones I made nine weeks ago when the last report card had been issued. That last time I had promised Mom and Dad that I'd bring my grades up. Now, after this spanking, I not only promised my parents that my grades would improve, I also promised myself. And you know what? I kept those promises - every single one of them!