Just chatting with Big John who asked me to reminisce about any spankings I may have received as a teen. There really truly and honestly was only one until Nigel, and by then I was 19.
I used to have this great good friend in high school. We'd actually been friends since about the 2nd grade, but had become really close in high school, and I do mean close. Remember all that experimenting you do with your friends? (probably more girls will get this than guys, but) Well, Christie was the one that I experimented with. She was fully developed at age 11. Seriously. Fully. But I was her first kiss, not some (as we thought then) sleazy boy! Later when we were close to graduation we slept together one night, determined it wasn't too our liking, though we did sometimes make out when we were drunk.
But, about 2 hours later, we were through almost all of the Mad Dog, most of the food, and were lighting the last cig when Sheriff W. came in the door. By the way, they lived in a mobile home, so there would have been absolutely no way to hide what we were doing.
He walked in sniffing the air, and strode straight to Christie's bedroom door. Without even knocking he stormed in, gun belt still on, radio on his shoulder crackling, and said, "Just what in the hell is going on in here?" Christie quickly jumped up and turned off the radio. I sat there like a statue, cig in one hand, Mad Dog in the other. My mouth dropped open and I simply stared at him. Christie didn't have a ready answer, she just stammered over and over, "Dad...um...Dad..." I gathered my wits and jumped up saying, "It was all my idea, Mr. W. I'm sorry. We were just having a little fun."
"A little fun that can lead to a lot of trouble. Christie, get over here," he boomed, reaching for his belt buckle. I took off for the bathroom; the nearest escape, even though I knew I'd probably still be able to hear Christie getting spanked. Sheriff Wilcox stopped me before I could climb into the bathtub to hide. He grabbed my arm, grabbed the bath brush off the shower head where it hung and dragged me back to her bedroom. Of course I was protesting. Who wouldn't be? But Sheriff Wilcox was having none of it. After he pushed me onto Christie's bed, I grabbed her hand, but it was only a moment before he jerked her up with one arm, sat down on the bed and pulled her roughly over his knee. He started spanking her with the bath brush over her pajama pants, but quickly pulled down her panties too. Slap after slap, while she tried not to cry out, but she couldn't hold it in. I sat there and watched kind of numb as her bottom turned first red and then blue, bruises and welts forming while I sat in a stupor, counting each swat. ( If memory serves correctly, there were about 50) You know what? Now that I think about it, I remember being fascinated by the whole experience, yet when I was older and Nigel first spanked me, I didn't even think about that fascination. At that time all I could think about was, Why in the world is this hot guy spanking me?
So Christie was screaming, Sheriff Wilcox was spanking, I was staring, and then he popped her up off of his knee and ordered her to kneel on the floor, her hands above her head. "Dad..." she whined. "Not in front of Emily Ann." (yes folks, Emily Ann).
"Yes, in front of Emily Ann, and don't you sit there looking so goofy little girl," he pointed at me with the bath brush. "Because you're next!"
Okay, readers (and Big John). I was scared then. The one and only time I had been spanked before this was at 6 years old when I spilled red juice on my cousin's white dress on purpose. My Uncle had scooped me up and blistered my butt! So you can imagine how I might have been feeling about Sheriff Wilcox wailing on me with a bath brush.
Christie slowly inched her way to the floor. "Now, put your hands on your head and don't rub," he ordered. Christie quickly obeyed.
"Come here, Emily Ann. Lay yourself across this bed and don't move," Sheriff Wilcox said to me. Christie followed my movements with wary eyes. I'm sure she was thinking that after this little fiasco we wouldn't be friends anymore. I scooted over on the bed until I was nearer the place Sheriff had indicated, glanced under my lashes at Christie standing there, arms raised, a wince pinching her features, and then rolled onto my tummy at the edge of the bed. The next thing I heard was a CRACK! rending the air, one split second before I felt his leather belt slapping across my bottom. I jumped about 10 feet off the bed, landing on my feet, my hands on my ass and backing myself up to the bedroom door. "Oh, no you don't," I whispered. The belt hung loose in his hands, looking about as harmful as a piece of spaghetti.
"Emily Ann, get your little ass over here before I drag you over," he boomed. I jumped, startled at his tone. The Sheriff really was a commanding presence. All tall and lean, pretty good looking, still kind of young, in scary great shape. (Sound familiar, anyone?) I had little choice, so I got my little ass back over there where I was rudely shoved back into position. Sheriff W. then reached down and pulled down my nighty bloomers, under which I was not wearing any panties. ( still don't like those things!) Then he pushed Christie down on the bed next to me. She grabbed my hand and we held onto each other tightly as the sheriff spanked us. First a strap for me, then a strap for her. We alternately called out in pain as each lash landed on our bottoms, Christie's already sore from the bath brush used earlier. I had stopped counting after the first 20, not able to concentrate on anything except the unaccustomed fire being branded into my bottom with each stroke. I don't think that man stopped until he was plain worn out. Us two girls were both bawling, apologizing, begging (I learned to beg from the best, Nigel darling. I come by it honestly!) and screaming, the bones in my right hand paralyzed from Christie's squeeze.
When there were finally no more CRACK!s snapping in the air, we both lay there, absolutely exhausted and sore, he said quietly, "It's for your own good girls. You must turn out to be nice girls. Nice girls. It's what your mother would have wanted, honey. Nice girls don't drink and smoke. Now you'll remember."
And he simply left.
Christie and I laid there side by side for an hour or more, our hands still clasped in solidarity. Then she whispered, "I'm sorry." but had trouble meeting my eyes. I leaned forward and kissed her nose, our little best friends forever thing that mainly meant, I love you. We didn't end up moving for hours. We just laid there silently, reddened bottoms up in the air, until we both fell asleep.
Later on that night though, when I realized how aroused I was from the whole crazy situation, I woke Christie up and we...well...experimented a little more.