"Garden Party Punishment" by The Strict Professor at The Chateau BBS; 714-455-2790 It's funny how memory works. You can be anywhere, doing any little thing, and something will happen which triggers a totally random string of memories. Usually you can't even figure out what it was that set the whole thing off; it just comes, and there's no stopping it. You're handing over a ten for some groceries and then suddenly you're remembering the way the sun used to glint off the water at your friend's beach house, throwing patterns on the wall. I was doing just that on a Sunday afternoon. Buying groceries, that is, when, instead of trying to remember whether plastic or paper was more environmentally friendly, I found myself remembering a similar Sunday afternoon, 17 years ago, when I was 13. I had been over at Susan's house, doing all the normal Sunday afternoon things that teenage girls do at their friends' houses: talking about guys (still, at that age, alternating between how cute and how disgusting they were as a species), griping about school, wondering if that skirt *really* matched the blouse or if it looked silly, and so on. And making prank calls. Mind you, we had advanced far beyond "Prince-Albert-in-a- Can" and "Is-Your-Refrigerator-Running?" at this point. Oh no, we were pros. We were into the heavy stuff: "We found your dog on our tennis court. Oh...you don't have a dog?...Well, WE DON'T HAVE A TENNIS COURT!!!" And of course, what better opportunity to experiment with our just-then developing sexuality? We called boys from school, guys at the market, doctors and lawyers. Anyone who would stick around long enough for us to ask gross questions (God! if they had ever answered!!) and fake a few orgasms (which must have sounded somewhat funny, since our knowledge of the big 'O' was quite limited to the fact that one screamed and moaned while having one). And, in an error of tragic proportions, we dialed, randomly, my father, the accountant. My father, a very astute man, recognized my voice instantly and (I thought I could hear a grin) said "Jackie? Is that you? It IS you!! Why..." I had of course hung up. At first we couldn't stop laughing. I had actually screwed up and asked my dad if he liked getting blow jobs! We were rolling on the floor for quite some time. Then, in between gasps for air, it sank in. I had really blown it. My parents are quite nice folk, but rather old-fashioned, and discipline has never been one of their weak points. While my mother couldn't bake a cherry pie to save her life, and my father has to call a tow truck if he gets a flat, they did know one thing: I was going to grow up as a "good girl." Not like one of those "tramps," to use my mother's favorite term, that paraded by the living room window every day on their way home from school. As a means to this end of producing a "good girl," there were many rules I had to abide by as a child, only half of which had ever been clearly stated in advance. The other 50 percent were to be discovered after the fact, and drilled in to me (for future reference) through a wickedly effective strategy which combined repeated lecturing and some heavyweight physical punishment. My folks, though dull in many ways, seemed blessed with endless creativity when it came to meting out punishment. Never the same thing twice, one could say. One month it was over the kitchen counter, tennis skirt up, tennis panties down for 5 swats with the metal spatula. Next month an ice cold shower supervised by mother (to "cool my temper") followed by 30 swats with dad's leather slipper. I of course experienced the more mundane spankings: over dad's lap, down with the jammies, for a warming session from his smooth, uncalloused hands, or what I always thought of as the "spur-of-the-moment" spank -- used with humiliating frequency by my mother in public places -- which involved a quick flip up of my skirt with one hand and three or four quick smacks with the other before I realized what was going on and managed to dance away far enough to make my mother let the skirt drop. Such were my adolescent years, from as far back as I can remember to the day I turned 16, the magic day when, it had been declared in advance, I would thereafter be spared the pain of spankings in exchange for the boredom of groundings (a technique I found, in those days when "popularity" ruled and socializing was the reason for living, to be almost worse in its own way.) But I digress. I had just realized, lying there on Susan's pink carpet, what a screw-up I had just committed. No way was I going to get off lightly. I was just beginning to formulate some of the possible consequences of my rash behavior when Susan's mother came in, a grim look on her face. "Jackie, your mother just called. She heard from your father what you girls have been up to and would like you home right away. And Susan," she addressed her daughter, who cowered in the corner like a scared animal, "you can just forget about going to Disneyland next week. You're grounded, and you probably wouldn't be able to sit on the rides anyway after the hiding you're going to receive." I scurried around her room gathering my belongings and slunk out of their house, already beginning to shake as I walked down the sidewalk to my house, a block and a half away. On the way I passed a few friends, but shook off their greetings like water, unable to focus clearly on anything. I imagined I could already feel the sting of my father's belt on my bare behind, or the wicked cut of a branch from the yard. It was only as I turned up the drive to my house that I remembered it was my Mother's turn to entertain the garden club. Three or four cars were parked by the curb, and two in the driveway. This realization produced mixed emotions. On the one hand, I might have my punishment delayed, since my mother would be busy acting as hostess. On the other hand, past experience suggested that the punishment might be carried out nonetheless, only in the presence of the assembled group. It could go either way, and I had no way of laying odds. I remember thinking, as I stepped up to the front door, that I hoped I had chosen plain jane underwear that morning. Unconsciously I reached down to smooth out my skirt, my hand running across the narrow strip of fabric which cut across my hip. Shit, I thought. I would be wearing the string ones today! But it had little bearing, I realized, since for a crime as heinous as the one I had just committed, the panties were sure to come down pretty quickly anyway. Still, it would have been nice not to be wearing what were, for me, at that age, my raciest pair, if it came to displaying them to the guests. I was just about to knock when the door was flung open by my mother. Characteristically for such situations she was obviously in a rage, but she was controlling it admirably. This restraint lent an even more intimidating air to her. She spoke in an icy cold, steely voice. "Well, good afternoon, my little phone tramp." She paused to glare for a second, her stare piercing me and turning my already queasy insides to Jello. "Go out back to the patio and wait for me, young lady. You are in some serious trouble." I started to stammer a response but her swiftly raised open palm silenced me, and I dropped my stuff just inside the door and made my way to the back. Pausing on the steps to the patio I took in the scene. Six middle-aged women and one boy about my age were staring at me, tea cups and biscuits held in varying stages of arrested motion. Apparently they had the situation explained to them before my arrival. I blushed beet red and fidgeted nervously with the hem of my skirt. The boy was unexpected. Sometimes these women brought their children, but this was the first I had seen that was over five. Mrs. Connors spoke first. "Jackie, this is my son, Edward. Edward is 15 and home from boarding school for his break. Edward, Jackie." He nodded. He too knew of my plight, I could see, since his eyes were gleaming with excitement. This caused me to turn an even deeper shade and I felt my eyes grow damp with the first tears. "I understand you're in a bit of trouble, Jackie," Mrs. Connors continued. "I'm sorry to hear that." But I could tell she wasn't in the least bit sorry, nor were any of the others. They fixed me with stares of disapproval, ranging from mildly condescending to outright contempt. A nice bunch of friends my mother hung out with, I thought. As if reading my mind, she appeared behind me. I went down the steps and turned. The first thing I noticed was the yardstick in her hand. A thick, heavy oak yardstick that I had grown to hate over the years. It was solid enough to gain some serious momentum when swung and long enough to afford my mother good leverage. I shuddered involuntarily and wished I had had the good sense to go the bathroom before leaving Susan's. My bladder suddenly seemed ready to burst. Mother motioned me to stand in the center of the patio, in the middle of the rough circle formed by the guests. Edward, I noticed, was about at 5 o'clock to me as I stood facing my mother. "Your father explained what happened, young lady. Now, I do not hold such a low opinion of your intelligence that I would imagine you had targeted him intentionally. Therefore I am assuming that was not the first such call you made. As I have said, you are in serious trouble. You upset your father, you abused Susan's mother's hospitality, you acted like a tramp in front of, essentially, Lord only knows how many citizens of this town, and now you have forced me to interrupt an otherwise pleasant gathering of friends. Do not think you will get off lightly, missie." I was in a twilight zone of shame and humiliation. I found myself thinking of nothing, staring straight ahead, bright stars floating in and out of my eyes occasionally. My heart pounded and my skin was clammy. In the middle of her lecture tears began to trickle down my face, and I was helpless to hold them back. "Now. We will try to deal with this as quickly as possible, so that we may all resume our conversations and enjoy what's left of this fine afternoon." My mother still stood at the top of the stairs, and appeared as a giant silhouette to my tear-clouded eyes. "First of all, let's have that skirt off, Jackie." I rocked in place. Before I could think to restrain myself I exclaimed, "No, Mommy! Please, no! Not with that boy here. Please!!" "Nonsense, young lady. I find it incredibly nervy of you, given the amount of trouble you are already in, to suggest that I inconvenience one of my guests simply to accommodate your modesty. Modesty which, I hasten to add, you seem to have had no problem overcoming an hour ago while you called people all over the city and offered them sexual services. Now not one more word. Get that skirt off immediately!" She punctuated her command by slapping the yardstick against her palm. I literally jumped, and began fumbling for the zipper on my skirt. It took me some seconds to calm my shaking hands enough to undo the zipper. Then, trying my best to block out everything around me, I slid it down to my ankles, crouching as I did so to avoid presenting Edward with a nice view of my panty-clad behind, and stepped out. Standing, I held the skirt in front of my crotch and looked at my mother beseechingly, hoping for a last-minute reprieve. It of course did not come. In its place my mother ordered me to put the skirt on the table before me and return to my place. In turning, after setting it down, I couldn't help glancing at Edward, who was sitting crouched over, both hands folded in his lap, obviously concealing his erection. He made no attempt to show sympathy, but instead made it quite clear that he was going to thoroughly enjoy the impending spectacle, whatever it might entail. I stood there before them all, hands at my side. To Edward, and to the others for that matter, I presented the following picture: a 13 year old girl, blonde, slim, and with just the hint of developing breasts concealed under her cotton tank top. My shirt stopped at my waist, allowing a clear view of my pink satin panties, which I just knew had ridden up in a very un-ladylike fashion behind. By this point my tears were flowing freely, though I had managed to remain silent. My mother descended slowly and came to stand in front of me. "Needless to say, Jackie, this will only be a part of your punishment. I'm sure your father will want some time with you when he returns from work." Her words threw me into a mental panic. Rarely was I punished by both of my parents for the same offense. When I was, you could be sure I would be feeling the after-effects for weeks to come. "Now, let's proceed. Mary, could you bring that over here?" she asked one of her friends, pointing towards the garden stool against the wall. Mary complied, placing it in front of me and then glancing at me with a look that spoke volumes : "Whatever is coming to you, you deserve." Amazing the faith my mother's companions had in her parenting abilities. I of course knew what the next step was, but I didn't want to propel events any faster than their natural course, so I stood motionless until my mother issued the command to kneel over the stool. With the same feeling that I imagine astronauts experience when the final air-lock is sealed, I dropped to my knees (noting briefly how hard and cold the concrete was) and then extended me arms in front me, lowering my torso until I was laying across the stool. Throughout this maneuver I did my best to keep my legs as close together as possible, well aware that Edward was now almost directly behind me, sitting comfortably with a Pepsi as he waited for this wet- dream come true to continue. My mother moved so that she stood directly behind me. I wasn't going to risk looking back to see if she had blocked Edward's view, but I fervently hoped that this was the case. I flinched as I felt my mother's cold hands on my waist, grasping me firmly and guiding me into the precise position she desired. I noticed a puddle of tears forming on the pavement beneath me. Nothing could have prepared me for the next command. "All right, I suppose that position will do. I would prefer your behind to be a bit higher, but we won't waste time looking for pillows. Now reach back and slide your panties down, Jackie." If my mother hadn't had the good sense to place a forceful hand on the small of the back as she uttered those words I would have sprung to a standing position immediately. As it was, my outrage and disbelief was clear to all. "NO!!!" I shrieked. "Mommy, I refuse! You can't make me do that in front of everyone! You can't do it in front of a BOY!!! I won't!! PLEEAASSEE!" The rest of my appeal was washed out in sobs and tears. But Mother was not to be deterred. "Shut up, young lady. That simpering is disgusting. Very unbecoming. Reach your little hands back this instant and pull those trampish panties down or I will have our guest Edward do it for you!" She knew what buttons to push, you have to give her that. In two seconds flat my hands were at the waistband of my panties. I pulled them down, feeling my stomach wrench as the fabric caught in my rear cleft for a second and left them at my knees. It's really quite impressive how tightly a young girl can clench her buttocks and keep her knees together when she has the proper motivation. I concentrated on nothing else, doing all I could to minimize my exposure. No boy had ever seen any part of me naked before, let alone been presented with a head-on view of my asshole and pussy from behind, and I intended to aid Edward as little as possible. My efforts were short-lived however, as my mother used her high-heeled shoe to spread my knees about six inches apart. I let out the first true sob of the afternoon, which turned into something more like a wail as it trailed off. There was little doubt now that everyone could see everything. A couple of times I had "explored" the region now on display, using a hand-held mirror while in a position quite similar to the one I was now in. I knew quite well what it looked like and I was dying of shame. Even looking in the mirror I had felt a bit self-conscious, feeling that such a view was perhaps so private that even I shouldn't be looking too closely. My mother was speaking, but I had a hard time focusing on her words. I knew the lecture was continuing, but the specific phrases were running together in an indecipherable mush. One sentence stood out, however: "so, you will get 25 with the yardstick." The second wail leaped out of my mouth unbidden. I had never had more than 10 before, and I was always a wreck after the first five. At first I thought I had misunderstood, until one of the ladies, (what dear, sweet ladies) said she agreed with the judgement; it was what she would have chosen for her daughter. Thanks for the second opinion, hag. I took a deep breath and stared straight down, honing in on an ant which was crossing the ground beneath me, lugging a piece of biscuit which must have been at least ten times its weight. I tried to draw strength from this, but when the first stroke landed, I forgot all about it and let out a hair-curdling cry. The first one is always bad, landing, as it does, on virgin skin, with none of the residual pain from previous blows to lessen its impact. My mother was indeed trying to make this quick. Habitually she went about her punishments as if there were all the time in the world, pausing now and then to continue the ongoing lecture or to suggest a readjustment of position. I had even known her to switch instruments midway through, unhappy with the effects of the one she had originally selected. On this occasion, however, she administered each blow in a steady rhythm, allowing about four seconds between each blow. She worked over my entire butt, cutting all the way from the top of my crack down to the upper portion of my thighs. She was skilled (she should have been, with as much practice as she had had) and I was grateful that each blow landed flat. Nothing hurts more than the edge of the yardstick, a fact I discovered during a session with my father -- while remarkably skilled with the belt, he never did master the art of keeping the yardstick flat. By the fifth stroke I was, as I had predicted, a mess. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I knew snot was joining the flow as well. My sobs were practically continuous, with only a brief reprieve when I had to breath. I was bouncing around on the stool, scraping my knees on the concrete and furthering my exposure to Edward. Hands clenched tightly in fists, I thought of nothing but the end. Finally it came. It took me some time to realize, in fact, that the rain of blows had ceased and gradually it came to my attention that my mother was speaking once again. "What, Jackie. Are you waiting for more? You heard me. Get to your feet!" I obeyed as quickly as possible, though I had to move slowly: the skin on my ass and thighs felt like they were tremendously sunburned, and felt as tight as cured leather. I somehow remembered to cross my hands in front of my crotch as I stood. Hoping for a little sympathy after all I had been through, I remained facing away from my mother. Wishful thinking. She told me to turn -- was I going to tack insolence and disrespect on top of everything else by turning my back? So I turned. Though I had my eyes focused on the ground before me, I could see Edward in my peripheral vision, and felt so weak I could hardly stand as it sank into me how I must look to him. "Hands at your side, Missie. I want you to apologize to our guests for causing this interruption." I pretended not to have heard the first part of her command, and Mother reached out with the yardstick and slapped at my hands. So, hands clenched at my sides, my practically bald pussy shining forth for all to see, I stated that I was very sorry and that it would never happen again. Mrs. Cooper chimed in that she should hope not. Edward merely smirked. "Ma'am?? Hello. It's $7.03. Do you have the pennies?" With a start I realized that I had been standing there with my hand in my change purse for some time, lost in my own private world of memories. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and said I did. I still don't know what it was that got me thinking about that afternoon, but I'd prefer it doesn't happen again. Some things are better forgotten.