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Chapter
2
Peggy's basement disappeared.
I was in my room. I looked down at my body. Gone was the little-girl
blouse, shorts and sneakers. I was again naked on top, but this
time I was holding a blouse up against my body to see if it would
match the short pleated skirt and shoes that made up the rest of
my outfit. I was 15 again, and it was date night!
I could here my father
calling from downstairs. "Becky, Roger is here."
It's amazing how fast
I could get dressed as a teenager. I was out the door with my date
minutes later listening to my father's voice, "Don't forget, be
home by midnight."
Needless to say, I blew
curfew. Not by a little, but by a whole bunch -- I arrived at 2
a.m. to greet my rather irate father. He just glared at Roger and
told him to go home.
I could hear the sound
of Roger's tires as they scrunched on the gravel in the driveway.
My father stared at me in silence. I wanted to crawl inside myself.
I could hear the clock
ticking on the mantle. He let me stew in anticipation. Finally he
said in his typically quiet fashion, "Young lady, what time were
you supposed to be home?"
"Midnight."
"And what time is it
now?"
"A little after two."
"That's right. And in
those two hours, you couldn't find a phone?"
This conversation was
so logical -- and I knew I was going to lose. I didn't have an answer
for his question and he knew it.
"Don't you know what
that does to a parent's mind? I had you injured, dead, or worse.
HOW DARE YOU DO THAT TO ME!" He raised his voice for the one and
only time.
"I love you very much,
Becky, but you are driving me crazy. You are going to have to be
taught a lesson for your own good."
I hadn't been spanked
since I was a little girl, yet I knew he wasn't talking about the
customary grounding here. I knew he was going to spank me. What's
more, I knew that he was going to start with a simple, over-the-knee
spanking, and then use his belt.
My father dragged a
chair from the corner of the room. He sat down. I gulped. "Right
here, Becky!" He said pointing to his lap. I had no will in the
matter. I simply lay over his lap and closed my eyes. History as
it was, was happening again.
I felt his hand run
up my leg and lift the back of my skirt over my waist. Next I felt
the coolness of the room on the bare skin of my butt. Before I knew
it, the first slap landed on my right cheek. (Why did dad always
hit the right cheek first?) I felt the sting radiate across my rear
end.
Whap! The second blow
fell on the other cheek. My father had the unique talent of being
able to do two totally independent things at once. In this case,
it was talk and spank. Unlike mom or other parents that I've seen
spank, dad did not pace his conversation to the cadence of the spanking.
"I really don't want
to treat you like a little girl, Becky. For once I'd like to be
able to tell you to do something and have you do it without even
worrying about it. But I can't do that. You're untrustworthy. You
don't think about anyone else but yourself. You seem to delight
in putting me in discomfort. Well, that can work both ways. You
put me in mental discomfort, and I put you in physical discomfort.
You won't be able to sit down for a week."
At this point he pulled
the strap from the pants that were draped over another chair and
started wielding it on me.
Dad's threats about
not being able to sit down for a week were unfounded. I knew he
couldn't really hurt me. He never did before, and he never did in
the future. Sure, there was pain, but the pain was really temporary.
What really hurt was my pride. Here was a man I deeply respected,
someone who I probably loved in a daughter-father way more intensely
than most girls my age. What I really wanted was his respect, and
all I got was his scorn. I knew I had to make it up to him somehow.
If it meant that I had to offer my ass to his hand, then so be it.
The real pain was inside
me. I was humiliated. Here I was a teenager, on the edge of womanhood,
and I was being treated like a girl half my age. Part of me was
ashamed of that, and another part was envious of it. I was growing
up, and that had its advantages, but I was afraid that I was growing
out of "daddy's little girl." Part of me wanted to stay that girl
forever. Spanking was one of those few things that we still did
together from that part of my life.
By the time he was finished,
tears were running from my eyes. Something else was also running.
I could feel the heat rising from my rear end, but it wasn't the
hottest part of my body in that area. I felt the twinges of an incipient
orgasm.
"Now get upstairs and
go to bed," my father ordered. "We'll deal with this more in the
morning."
I wanted to say, "No,
dad. Let me stay." I knew he would die two years later; killed by
a drunk driver. I wanted to stay, but that would have changed the
way things really were.
So, I went upstairs
and opened the door to my room and instead of entering my room,
I found myself in the basement of the sorority house. My big sister,
Agnes, was there to greet me.
She grabbed me by the
arm and led me down the hall. "I'm glad you can make it Becky. We
have use for your butt."
I was led into one of
the party rooms. There, standing in only bra and panties were several
of my sister pledges. Also standing around were several brothers
from the frat house down the block. I recognized them as ROTC types.
"Stand still," I was
ordered.
One of the boys came
over to me and started undressing me. He slowly undid the buttons
on my blouse and let it fall from my shoulders to the floor. Next
I felt his hand on my hip as he lowered the zipper on my skirt.
I kept my eyes focused straight ahead as I was taught to do earlier
in the week.
I could hear the rasping
sound and feel the gentle vibrations of the zipper on my hip as
it made its southward journey. Soon my skirt was pooled up about
my feet.
"OK, slip off your sneakers,
and join the other girls!"
We five pledges were
lined up facing the boys. Reba, the president of the sorority addressed
us. "As you girls know, we lost the softball game this weekend.
As you also know there was a bet riding on the game. What you might
not know is that there was more than beer at stake."
She walked up and down
the line, looking each of us in the face like a drill sergeant speaking
to a group of new recruits. "The loser literally put her ass on
the line. I don't know how far this tradition goes back, but even
my older sister had to put up with it. The losing team gets spanked
by the winning team." She turned to the boys, "Wait until next year.
We'll whip you ass on and off the field." She said defiantly.
Turning back to us girls,
she said, "You'll notice, of course, that none of us `real sisters'
are involved. You pledges will sit in for us, so to speak. Take
heart, maybe next year we'll win, and you may be selected to spank
some male butt."
"And so girls, I want
you to present butt to these MVPs from down the block. Turn around,
drop your panties, and grab your ankles."
I felt that rush of
excitement and sexuality that accompanies extreme embarrassment.
Just last week I felt so funny undressing in front of the other
girls. Now I had a complete audience as I listened to the catcalls
and whistles of the boys."
The boys walked up to
us as if they were part of a military drill team. They did everything
in unison. Each boy stepped beside his girl, turned around, put
his left arm around her waist, and awaited further orders.
The leader (was the
"ranking member?") issued a terse order. "Be-GIN ... SPANK!" They
each started spanking in cadence to a dirty marching call. (I later
learned it's called a "Jody Call" although nobody can explain why.)
I lost count of the
spanks. Again, pain wasn't the issue. Humility was. I was nothing
more than a gambling chip in some sort of a game to be tossed into
the pot as an entrance fee to the game. Perhaps it was worth it
as I knew I would gain entry into the sorority.
I gradually became aware
of my surroundings. I was sitting in the chair in my living room
curled up with a good book. The phone rang and it startled me. I
picked it up and said, "Hello."
"Bek-bek, David here,"
(this was totally unnecessary -- nobody but David has ever called
me `Bek-bek',) "drop whatever plans you have for tonight. We're
going out."
"Where are we going?"
I asked.
"That's for me to decide,"
he said in genuine David fashion.
"I mean, I have to know
what to wear."
"I'll tell you exactly
what to wear," was his response. I could detect his leer over the
phone.
"Yes, dear." I responded.
"Good girl! ... I'm
meeting a few friends tonight and I want to impress them. So I want
you to wear that white band-aide thing; the one made out of stretchy
material. Don't wear a bra. I want to see what you've got. Put that
white short thing over it; the one that where you tie up the shirttails
under your boobs. Tie it up so you make them stick out, but they
still jiggle when you walk. Next I want to see those navy blue short-shorts;
the ones that show off that luscious ass of yours. Put on those
high-heeled sandals; the ones with the straps. Oh yeah, one more
thing, make sure you got some sexy panties. ... I'll be over to
pick you up in about an hour." He hung up without even waiting for
a goodbye.
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