The Holidays with Roberta

The following reminiscence first appeared in a little magazine called Twilight's Garden, which some of you may remember. It appeared a few months after the same autobiographical story we published here. Roberta is continuing her account of her life in Colbyville.

I once asked her if this story was true, like the one told in "In Old Tennessee." Of course, she said, though I thought she had a twinkle in her eye. But I know a lot of your friends, I said, and I don't know a Paige Whitfield.

"I had to change the names, dear," she replied. "You can understand that. No need to embarrass the woman further."

And the matter was closed.

Read the rest of the story in Christmas in Colbyville.

Christmas in Colbyville - Part I

Many people have asked me about Mrs. Cooper, who took a hairbrush to my pampered behind within a week of my arrival in Tennessee, that first summer so many years ago. Since she had no qualms about paddling me, a relative stranger, did she ever spank anyone else outside the family? Well, as I have stated, her influence on the community was profound. She was a keen judge of character and yes, she didn't hesitate when she thought a sound spanking would do someone some good. Even if that meant spanking under rather dramatic circumstances...

I recall one incident around Christmas, my favorite time of year in Colbyville. How I would look forward to those magic days! After Indian summer and hunting season, there'd be a special chill in the air that would herald the coming of the holidays. Handmade evergreen wreaths would make their appearance on stately doors all over town, and each door, it seemed, opened on a log fire lit to lend an extra warm glow to some festive gathering. There, over cups of julep or spicy eggnog, relatives and friends would gather to sing a carol or reminisce about Colbyville Christmases past. It was all as traditional and comfortable as only a country Christmas can be.

No small part of the season was the Christmas concert presented by the Elm Street Methodist Church Choral Society. No need to tell you which formidable local matron with a rich alto voice was also president of the Society. Mrs. Cooper had been a mainstay of the choir since its inception.

It was my first year in the choir, my first year in Colbyville as a married woman. Ray and I had set up housekeeping in the second-floor apartment in his aunt's old place in town. The kitchen was miniscule, I complained to Cheryl, so she invited me to join her in her mother's kitchen, turning out the dozens of cookies that would grace hostess' tables, church suppers, and old folks' homes over the next few weeks. It was a convenient excuse for us to spend hours together working and gossiping...oops, I mean "catching up." The chief topic that winter was Paige Whitfield, the Choral Society's star soprano.

"Paige isn't much older than Cheryl, Roberta. It was such a shock, Mrs. Whitfield going so suddenly. Has it been over a year already? She was the pillar of that family, Roberta. Mr. Whitfield..." She shook her head. Harold Whitfield was a good man, but lost without his wife. Lately he was out too late at night, and drinking too much.

"Lord knows Paige doesn't go to him for guidance. Without proper supervision, it's not surprising that she's been acting the way she has. Young girls today, they go off to college and come back thinking they know all about being a woman."

"Yes, mama, I agree," said Cheryl, barely suppressing a grin as her mother launched into a lecture.

"Forget to mind their elders, lose all respect."

"Yes, mama."

"A fine state of affairs!"

"Yes, mama."

Mrs. Cooper peered at her daughter intently.

"Do you find me amusing, young lady?"

"No, mama, of course not."

"Good, dear, I hoped not. Oh, look, you dropped a pecan."

"Where?"

"There, under the table. Bend down, you can just see it."

"Where? I don't see any-..."

SMACK!

"Ow-w, Mother-r!!"


The juicy part of Paige's story was that she had taken the money she had inherited (Mrs. Whitfield's side of the family was rather well off) and bought a slick, red sports car, and soon began spending her weekends in Nashville. Paige was star-struck, a small-town girl who thought she should be a star. She had a decent voice and she certainly had the looks: good height and figure, long blond hair, and cheekbones to die for. I would have been happy having any one of those attributes, but Paige wasn't. She wanted more than what Colbyville and the Choral Society had to offer. But instead of doing the hard work necessary to develop her talents, she devoted her time to making connections and seeing the "right" people.

That was all her business, of course. All I cared about was that she was an excellent soloist, and that made us all sound good. At least I thought it did. The other topic that dominated our kitchen conversations were the disheartening comments about our Fall Concert that had appeared in an unsigned review in the Nashville Eagle. The article heaped praise on "Paige Whitfield, a truly remarkable soprano," who "succeeded in spite of a lackluster chorus backing her up." Well! You can just imagine how we all felt when we read that. All of us were insulted; some took the criticism to heart, and the seeds of self-doubt were planted. Nothing we sang seemed to sound right and each found someone else to blame. As if Mrs. Cooper didn't have enough to do, what with ordering new gowns and getting the programs printed-- she now had to deal with thirty or so females who were on eggshells every time they got together.

Tempers flared one evening at rehearsal. In the middle of a solo, Paige stopped and turned to the soprano section, hands on hips.

"Who's flat?" she inquired imperiously. "I think it was you, Cheryl. Please, do be careful!"

There was an audible gasp of shock. No one had the right to correct the chorus, except the director, let alone single out a member. I knew what a firebrand my friend could be so I quickly dug my nails into Cheryl's arm.

"Just let it pass, Cheryl, please. Consider the source."

She bit her tongue, then looked at me and nodded, but I could see the incident would not be soon forgotten.


Just a week later came the night of the concert itself. Cheryl and our mutual friend Edna Carter were with me in the loft of the Old Church, the annex which had originally housed the congregation, but which was now rarely used. We had on our new gowns, lovely floor-length dresses of rich burgundy velvet. The rest of the choir were downstairs in the regular meeting hall where we held rehearsals, but Edna, Cheryl and I had just had to get away. I mean, here it was--our big holiday concert, the church beautifully decorated, the choir in gorgeous new gowns--yet our hearts really weren't in it. Rumor, accusation, and worry had taken its toll on all of us. The bad review in the Eagle, our shaken confidence, the tense, fractious rehearsals-- we were downright gloomy on a night in which we should have been on top of the world.

I was giving Edna a final lookover while Cheryl stared moodily out the side window.

"Our prima donna has arrived," she announced. "Late, of course."

Edna and I continued fussing till Cheryl fairly shrieked, "She's got a man with her!"

Paige had pulled the car up at the corner of the quiet street, where there was just enough light to reveal that there were indeed two figures inside, now locked in a passionate embrace. After a hot goodbye kiss, a tall, well-built man discreetly let himself out and began walking to the church. Evidently, he and Paige could not be seen going in together.

"Who is it, who is it?" the three of us cried as we jostled for position at the tiny window. The figure was nearing the brightly-lit entrance of the church.

"I don't know him."
"Never seen him!"
"Ohmigod, it's Cousin Ewan!"

Cheryl and I drank in all we could as the tall stranger strode up the steps and into the church. Then we turned on Edna.

"And who, pray tell, is Cousin Ewan?"

"Mother's first husband had an older brother, use to live out near Monroe. Ewan's his boy. They moved to Nashville years ago, but we still run into them now and then."

"Nashville?" Cheryl asked. She looked thoughtful. "What does he do?"

"Oh, he works for one of them newspapers."

Cheryl and I stared incredulously at Edna. Cheryl took her by both shoulders.

"Edna, is he a reporter?"

She nodded.

"It wouldn't be for the Nashville Eagle, would it?"

"Eagle? Bugle? Can't say for sure, Cheryl. You know I don't bother much with the newspapers."

"Edna, you ninny, don't you see? It was Ewan who wrote that crummy review, just to please that blond vixen. I can just picture the two of them cooking the whole thing up. They figured they'd just use us country bumpkins to advance their own careers. They think they're so smart! I could just spit!"

"Oh, Cheryl," laughed Edna, "don't be impressed by Cousin Ewan. He's just a local boy. My mama says, 'No matter where you go or what you do, everybody comes from somewhere.'"

Cheryl paused a second.

"Edna, sometimes you almost make sense, that's why I love you so. Cousin Ewan's a local boy and Paige is just a small-town girl."

A smile spread across her face.

"A small-town girl who needs a whippin'!"

She turned quickly and made for the stairs.

"Cheryl, where are you going?" I cried.

"I'm telling Mom!" she yelled gleefully.

Part II


[Photo: A Warm Welcome by photogramma1 at flickr.com]

Christmas in Colbyville - Part II

As soon as she walked into the rehearsal hall, Paige knew something was up. Every eye was on her, and you could hear a pin drop.

"You are late," Mrs. Cooper stated crisply.

"By ten minutes," Paige answered archly. "Is that so terrible?"

"Watch your tone of voice, Miss. This is not the first time you have kept us all waiting. Secondly, you are in a lot of trouble. I'll get right to the point: did you or did you not have anything to do with that shameful review in the newspaper?"

The question hung in the air for several moments as Paige weighed the odds that we knew something. She tried a little finesse.

"That review was just someone's opinion. I don't see why anyone would be upset by it."

"That review, Paige," Mrs. Cooper emphasized, "was biased and unfair. It hurt all our feelings. It was written solely to enhance your reputation at our expense. And it was written by Mr. Ewan Pierce, at your instigation. Can you deny it?"

A worried frown now creased Paige's pretty features. We evidently knew more than she had first thought.

"All right, Ewan did write the piece. But I didn't tell him what to write."

Mrs. Cooper exhaled in exasperation.

"My dear young lady, might I suggest that the nature of your relationship with Mr.Pierce would make it abundantly clear to him what you wanted him to say? And, further, I venture that tonight's review has already been written and approved by you!"

Paige blushed so brightly red that we knew instantly that Mrs. Cooper's surmise was absolutely on target. Any further pretense of innocence would be futile. Paige lowered her gaze and bit her lower lip as Mrs. Cooper continued.

"I hope you realize how serious a matter this is, young lady. We are all very, very upset with you. You are guilty of riding roughshod over other people's feelings in selfish pursuit of your own ends. Your punishment must be swift and sure."

Paige looked up, startled, at the mention of punishment, and she shifted her stance apprehensively.

"What you have done is most immature," Mrs. Cooper continued. "You are still a young woman, Paige, in need of a great deal of guidance. If only your mother, bless her soul, were still here. But what's done is done. And I'm sure she would agree that you must suffer the consequences of your misbehavior. And so for your penalty, I propose a public spanking, before the Society, here and now. Do I hear a motion?"

"So proposed, Madame President," several voices called out.

"Seconded," came the reply.

"Are there any objections?" asked Madame President.

Paige frantically scanned the room for support, but no one spoke up for her. In her defense, she could only voice her own anxiety.

"Ladies, please, you can't be serious. This is so...so...unthinkable! Please, you mustn't go through with it!"

Even as she pleaded, Mrs. Cooper had the bench from the rehearsal piano brought out to the middle of the room.

"Please check the corridor for roving males," she requested. "This will be a sight for women's eyes only."

She sat down, regally, near one end of the bench, and looked expectantly at Paige.

"Don't disappoint me with recalcitrance, dear. We'll all feel so much better when this is over."

As planned, Cheryl and Edna came forward to "assist" Paige. Mrs. Cooper would never tolerate dragging a girl to her punishment, but she thought a little "moral support" might be necessary in this case. Paige stiffened as Cheryl and Edna each took an arm, and I thought she might try to stand her ground. But Cheryl spoke to her in calm, confidential tones.

"I know you think you are going places, Paige. Maybe you will. Believe it or not, I wish you well. But just remember, Colbyville will always be your hometown. And if you ever want to have a friend in this town to talk to again, tomorrow or twenty years from now-- you'll get across Mama's knee this instant!"

Paige said nothing but she did allow herself to be led to Mrs. Cooper. She looked so mournful and sorry for herself I almost burst out laughing, but then I remembered how scared I had been in similar circumstances. You only had to look into Mrs. Cooper's commanding blue eyes to realize there was no escaping your fate. Indeed, Paige balked again, and there might have been an unpleasant scene were it not for Cheryl's quick thinking. Deftly, she released Paige's arm and delivered a forceful swat to the hesitant behind. The shock of that humiliating spank took the starch right out of Paige, and Chery and Edna had no further problems drawing her across Mrs. Cooper's lap. She settled compliantly into position, resting her head on her hands at one end of the bench, her fanny over Mrs. Cooper's thigh at the other, her long legs stretched out behind her.

At a nod from Mrs. Cooper, Edna reached down for the hem of Paige's gown. Paige gasped as she felt her long skirt coming up higher and higher. Cheryl stood at her waist, and gathered in the folds of velvet as they bunched about the girl's silken thighs, till at length Cheryl flipped the mass of fabric up and over to reveal Paige's exquisitely-shaped derriere, fetchingly clad in a pair of diaphanous pink silk panties. Paige could not clearly see the extent of her humiliation, nor--as Mrs. Cooper presently warned her not to cover herself--could she reach around and feel, so she waggled her behind to confirm what she already knew: her skirt was all the way up, her lingerie was in plain view, and she was about to get the spanking of her life.

With the room in a hushed and expectant silence, Paige swallowed and composed herself as best she could. Then she spoke in a surprisingly clear voice.

"Mrs. Cooper, ladies-- I want you to know I really am sorry. I didn't want to hurt anyone. The review just sort of came out like it did, and I let Ewan print it. I'm ashamed of myself and I apologize for upsetting you. I'm not trying to get out of my spanking, believe me. I...I...I just want to be friends again."

Well, she nearly stopped the show with that little speech. I guess being used to center stage helped; I don't know how else she could have gathered herself together like that.

"Oh, Paige, we are friends," Mrs. Cooper replied warmly. "We wouldn't bother to spank if we didn't love you. And I'm glad you're not trying to get out of this spanking, because we've come too far along for that. But I shall be fair. Now be still, and we'll get this over with as quickly as possible. I don't think it will be as bad as all that."

Anyone who applies correction regularly tends to develop a certain style. Mrs. Cooper always took her culprit over her knee, she always spanked over the panties, and she always said "It won't be as bad as all that" or something similarly encouraging. (Except it usually was as bad as all that.) What I didn't know was that Mrs. Cooper was quite capable of improvising when necessary.

"Oh, Cheryl, could you bring me a hymnal? The Second Revised, I think."

There were scattered giggles and I wondered what was up. Was she going to sing? I was mystified until she got the requested edition in hand: it made a perfect paddle!

Mrs. Cooper raised the hymnal high, Paige covered her face with her hand, and a large WHAP-P! resounded through the room. Beneath the sturdy book, Paige's flawless buttocks quivered.

WHAP! and again, WHAP! Mrs. Cooper held nothing back. The strokes came at a stately, measured pace, as befitted the formal nature of the proceedings. It was not long before Paige was squirmy, first pushing up on her toes--which only sent her bottom crashing into the hymnal--then bending at the knees--which only pressed her more firmly into the lap of her disciplinarian. She embarrassed herself no matter what she did, but it must have hurt so much she just couldn't help herself.

WHAP! WHAP! Mrs. Cooper was not dissuaded from her purpose by Paige's movements, and Paige eventually had to settle in as best she could, lying still and humbly accepting the full force of each well-laid-on spank. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! The hymnal was of a size to squarely cover both cheeks at once, and I really felt sorry for Paige as I watched her poor bottom redden, right through the sheer fabric of her panties!

Remember the old Zen puzzle: what is the sound of one hand clapping? How about: how many spanks in a good sound spanking? I stopped counting after thirty. With Mrs. Cooper you could never tell--she relied on her intuition as to when to stop. It was a combination of her sense of justice, the remorse of the miscreant, and, yes, mercy. Mrs. Cooper was often merciful. But I will say I'd never seen anyone defiant after a session with her. She didn't waste anyone's time: if you went over her knee for a spanking, you definitely got all you could handle.

So Paige was in tears when Mrs. Cooper finally told her it was over. She was not distraught, but I'm not sure how much more she could have taken. Around the room comments like "Serves her right!" and "About time!" had given way to "The poor dear!" As usual, Mrs. Cooper had judged the moment precisely.

"Up now, dear, and finish with those tears. There, your skirt is back in place. And we'll fix your hair and makeup, don't worry. You'll want to look nice for your solo."

"Oh, Mrs. Cooper, I can't go out there and sing--not after this!"

"Paige, I'll not have you sulking. You will sing, and sing beautifully, for those good people. I know you can do it. Just because a girl gets a spanking, it isn't the end of the world, you know."

Mrs. Cooper sighed, and looked benignly at the headstrong girl before her.

"You are a handful, young lady, and a trial to a mother. I can see that I will have to keep a close eye on you from now on."

Paige looked dubious, but finally a small, resigned smile tugged at her lips.

"Yes, Mrs. Cooper," was all she could say.


Mrs. Cooper was right about one thing--we all felt better after Paige took her punishment. The weeks of tension were over, and we positively sang our little hearts out. Paige was superb. And when she shed real tears during her solo, she had the audience in the palm of her hand. How were they to know those tears were inspired not by a sure sense of musical style, but by a certain aching part of the soloist's anatomy?

Paige had us over for New Year's open house. Mr. Whitfield didn't touch a drop; nevertheless, he smiled from ear to ear, telling everyone how lovely his daughter looked, and how nice it was to have a houseful of guests again. Paige seemed suddenly more content, and the little red sports car was often seen around town, even on weekends. Cheryl and Paige buried the hatchet, becoming fast allies in schemes to lure one Mr. Ewan Pearce more and more frequently to Colbyville. But that's another story. And, oh yes, the very next issue of the Nashville Eagle restored the fine reputation of the Elm Street Methodist Church Choral Society.

Mrs. Cooper was very well pleased.

Glitch

Well, for this month I had planned to post Roberta's domestic epic poem, "Marcie, Mary & Genevieve." It is, in my opinion, a masterpiece of light verse. If nothing else, it's the longest spanking poem I have ever seen. And it rhymes! However, in going through Roberta's papers, I find that the last page is missing! Rotten luck! I can't leave out the last page, so I will delay publication until I search further for the missing lines. This may take a while, because if I can't find it among her manuscripts, I will have to look in Aunt Roberta's-- wait for it-- Commodore 64. Yes, it still runs, as far as I know. But, I'm a little rusty; it's been years since I ran a 64. The good news is, as I see going through her papers, is that she saved the instruction manual.

For now, we'll have to do with just a taste:

But the husbands were resolved,
That for mischief the girls would pay,
Each took his wayward spouse in hand,
To treat in the time-honored way.

Across his lap and over,
Each miscreant was placed;
Marcie, Mary, Genevieve--
Naughty wives disgraced!

Three delicate silk-clad bottoms,
Turned up to face the sun,
Three lower lips were bitten,
Knowing what was to come.

So sorry to leave you hanging!

In Old Tennessee

I am thinking of a sleepy little town in Tennessee, where the cicadas hum in the trees; where neighbors chat over white picket fences and the children "sir" and "ma'am." It's a place where the churches are full each Sunday morning and there's fried chicken and lemonade in the long, lazy afternoon. Perhaps you know a town like Colbyville, Tennessee. If you do, you're lucky. And if you're like me, you remember it very, very well-- it's where I got my first real spanking.

Oh, it was a long time ago. July, 1960, to be exact. I was twenty years old at the time. I know, rather old for a first spanking. Yes, it was long overdue. I was a city girl, born and bred. New York City. An only child, and Daddy didn't spank. I saw precious little of him before the divorce, and almost nothing after. The alimony was generous, though, and Mother was quite progressive. I was denied very little and got away with quite a lot.

So how did Miss Manhattan find herself in Smalltown, USA getting the discipline she so sorely needed? Well, it was through my girlfriend at college, Cheryl Cooper. Even though Cheryl was a freshman and I a sophomore, we were both English majors who despised the beatnik poets then in fashion and shared a passion for Byron and the Brontes. Cheryl was lively and spirited, and pretty to boot. She made scads of friends, but the two of us were exceptionally close, especially considering how different we were. She was petite, outgoing, and a small-town girl; I was tall, reserved, big-city. When Cheryl invited me to spend some time with her at home over the summer, I gladly accepted. It meant I didn't have to spend as much time with Mother and her ultra-intellectual friends.

Colbyville certainly was different. Instead of nightclubs and taxis, there were ice cream socials and porch swings. Creekside under the tall willow, Cheryl and I would set up a fishing pole and read aloud all afternoon. Heathcliff trod the moors all over again, while I fell in love with Colbyville and its people. I was intrigued by it all, but especially so by Mrs. Cooper. She shared Cheryl's porcelain-doll looks. A porcelain doll with a backbone of steel, I should add. Cheryl's father made a good living as a lawyer, but Evelyn Cooper had a maid in just once a week, grew all her own vegetables, and served on several volunteer committtees around town. A real pillar of the community. She had raised two boys and two girls, Cheryl being the youngest. 'Mr. Cooper,' as Mrs. Cooper referred to him, seemed to have disciplined the boys, but the girls had always been her responsibility. She might have been forbidding to some, but I took to her right away-- I appreciated her guidance and admired her strength. Even at our first meeting, she mentioned something about teaching me to 'walk like a lady.'

So for the first time in my life I lived in strict but homey surroundings. Mrs. Cooper made it clear that I was now part of the household, and would be expected to do my share of the work. So it was one Saturday morning that Cheryl and I were to pick and shell peas for Sunday dinner. And Cheryl had promised a peach pie. Mr. Cooper had gone to the office and Mrs. Cooper was at one of her meetings. It was a warm and humid day, and we were taking our sweet time when Ray Barnes, the cutest of Colbyville's elite eligibles, drove by with his brother Jeff. Well, it doesn't take much time for young people to concoct an outing, so not long afterward Cheryl and I had packed a hasty picnic lunch and were hopping into the back of Ray's old Pontiac convertible.

Oh, it was all very innocent, I assure you. Okay, Cheryl and I did smoke a whole cigarette apiece, just to show Ray we were indeed sophisticated coeds. But we had told no one we would be gone and we stayed much too late. Long enough for us to realize we would be missed and that certain assigned chores would remain undone. It was well toward evening when Ray and Jeff dropped us off at the end of the driveway and skedaddled out of there, content to leave us to our fate.

What that fate might be I hadn't a clue. "Do you think she'll be mad?" I asked Cheryl.

"I know she'll be mad," she replied.

My heart sank. Only here a week, and already I was screwing up.

"What do you think she'll do?" I asked. I was afraid I would be sent packing, and said so.

Cheryl snorted. "You'll wish you were that lucky," she said. She explained that Mama considered me a "responsibility," and Mama didn't give up on anyone so easily.

"What do you mean?" I asked innocently.

"Roberta, sometimes you're so dense! We're in for it. Mom won't send you away, she'll see to it you're disciplined. I hate to break the news to you, darlin', but we're both probably in for a good, sound spanking!"

A spanking? For a college-age girl? I couldn't imagine Cheryl being treated so. Nor myself. I simply couldn't take the idea seriously. What I really thought I would get was a cold dismissal and a ticket on the next train out of town.

Mrs. Cooper met us in the foyer. She was still wearing the summer linen suit she had worn to her meeting.

"Cheryl, come with me," she said simply. "You, Roberta, are to wait in the living room."

Wait for what? I wondered anxiously. Upstairs I heard the sound of the Coopers' bedroom door closing. I forced myself to take a seat, mostly to keep from pacing. The big old house made small creaking noises as the heat of the afternoon waned. A slight breeze lifted the curtains. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked evenly on, in marked contrast to the tumult of my thoughts and feelings. I didn't want to be sent home, but what if Cheryl were right? Punished like a naughty child? I didn't even know how to be spanked, I told myself. It was one social grace I had never had to master. Besides, the whole thing seemed unbelievable to me. Cheryl may be just out of high school, but I'm older and a guest here. Mrs. Cooper wouldn't dare spank me.

But something deep inside told me that I was even more immature than Cheryl, and that Mrs. Cooper would indeed dare. I just might, for once in my life, have to face the consequences of my actions.

I strained my ears for any sound that might indicate what was going on behind that closed door upstairs. There! Was that not a smack? And that? Don't get hysterical, I told myself. It's only your imagination. But my heart was beating as fast as any Romantic heroine's.

There was no mistaking the sound of the door opening, however. And there was no doubt that Cheryl had shed more than a few tears. I heard her light footfalls as she scampered to her room, then the solid click of Mrs. Cooper's heels on the landing.

"Roberta, you may come up now."

She sat on the upholstered bench in front of her dressing table, her legs crossed, and listened to my story. Head hanging, hands clasped behind, I gave my account. I had no heart to lie, though I did omit the cigarettes, hoping Cheryl had sense enough to do the same. Even so, I was convinced I was doomed to banishment. I abjectly admitted my guilt and pleaded not to be sent back to New York.

"Send you back to New York?" she laughed. "That's the furthest thing from my mind. You can't escape your penalty that easily, young lady."

I could stay, I could really stay! I exulted to myself. But, did that mean?...I suddenly noticed Mrs. Cooper's ivory-backed hairbrush with the rose design, near at hand on the dressing table. Mrs. Cooper's eyes followed my gaze.

"Cheryl has just taken her spanking. I hope you are ready to do the same."

I swallowed hard and lifted my chin. I heard myself say in a voice just above a whisper. "Yes, Mrs. Cooper, I am."

"Very well," she said, with a slight yet fond smile. "I shall require your presence here over my knee. You will receive the same as Cheryl. And because the two of you are much too old for this sort of irresponsible behavior, I must be quite severe. Now raise your skirt, Roberta."

So! I was to receive no special favors. Good, I thought, but my stomach knotted in apprehension. My education in spanking etiquette was begun.

The tone of Mrs. Cooper's voice made it clear she would tolerate no dawdling, and certainly no pouting. Compliantly I reached for the hem of my sundress and slowly gathered it in folds about my waist, exposing my white cotton undies. The coolness I felt about my intimate parts was a shaming rebuke, and I blushed hotly. Mrs. Cooper only motioned me closer, uncrossed her legs, and took me over her lap. With her left hand she swept up my skirt and grasped me firmly at the elastic of my panties. With her right she made a final adjustment, gathering me in so that my legs were together and my feet fully off the floor.

Never before had I felt so helpless and ashamed. The courage with which I had agreed to my sentence seemed to fail, and the spanking had not even begun! From the depths of my nervousness I managed to speak, trying to express my remorse.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Cooper, I'm really sorry. I won't be any more trouble, I promise."

"I expect not, Roberta. Now, are we ready?"

"I'm frightened," I admitted meekly.

"Now, now, this won't be as bad as all that. The Lord gave you a padded place for correction, and I shall simply make good use of it. Now you just be still."

There was nothing else I could say. A wave of novel impressions and sensations swept over me. I was embarrassed, scared, and strangely accepting all at the same time. I was acutely aware of my behind, so prominently positioned, waiting for chastisement. My thin cotton panties felt somewhat askew, but I dared not adjust them. Mrs. Cooper had just warned me to be still, and I did not want to arouse her ire further. I could only wait for what was to come.

All was quiet. Outside the window a mockingbird broke into its evening song, and off in the distance a power mower whined. Mrs. Cooper reached for the ivory-backed brush.

I cried "Oh!" at the first spank, and closed my eyes for the second. It was not long in coming. Mrs. Cooper seemed to favor a brisk and regular pace. By the fourth or fifth stroke there was a smarting that did not subside between spanks. I wanted to whimper and plead, but I gave a thought for my dignity, and concentrated on keeping my buttocks relaxed--I had heard it hurt less that way. But all I accomplished was to snuggle deeper into Mrs. Cooper's elegantly-skirted lap. For her part, she took no notice of my distress, but continued with the task at hand. I surmised she had a certain number of spanks in mind, and that I would receive the full measure. She was unstinting, each swat a real stinger. I endured as best I could, but it seemed to me that Mrs. Cooper was intent on making me pay for every misdeed of my spoiled girlhood. I could at least take a bit of comfort from knowing that at long last I was being well and truly punished, and I persevered as long as I could--to this day I have no idea of the number of spanks I endured--but when the tears came I let them. I had earned the right to them.

Mrs. Cooper seemed to think so too. Her manner was decidedly gentle as she released me. I got shakily to my feet and she took both my hands in hers.

"I trust we've learned our lesson?" she inquired, looking deep into my eyes.

"Yes, ma'am," I managed through tears. She stood and put her arms around me.

"I treat you like a daughter because I think of you that way. It's not easy being loved, you know. You have to live up to it. Do you understand, Roberta?"

"I think so."

"Good. Now run along to your room. You and Cheryl are put to bed. And no supper for you both."


Back in the bedroom Cheryl shared with me was one of the more unusual sights of that eventful day: Cheryl stretched out on the bed with her delicate pink panties at mid-thigh, a cold compress crowning her bare behind.

"Don't laugh," she warned. "I made one for you, too."

I was grateful and made quick use of it, copying Cheryl's pose exactly. We made quite a spectacle, no doubt about it, but we didn't care. We were survivors, united by a common bond. Strangely enough, I felt wonderful. The warmth in my behind induced a mood as mellow as the sultry evening, and, with a big orange summer moon for company, Cheryl and I talked far into the night, sharing sisterly confidences.

Around midnight, Cheryl jumped up and went to the window.

"We've suffered long enough," she said. "We can climb down the old chinaberry tree here and let ourselves into the kitchen without waking Mom and Dad."

I was aghast. "Cheryl, I don't want another spanking, do you?"

She grinned. "Don't be silly. There'll be sandwiches already made, waiting for us."

She was right, there were.

"Mama's strict, but she does have a heart of gold," Cheryl commented as we dug in. She was right about that, too.


We finished Wuthering Heights and moved on to Jane Eyre. Sometimes Ray would join us, reading his favorite passages from Douglas Southall Freeman's Life of Robert E. Lee. The days passed dreamily, and we gave Mrs. Cooper no further cause to employ the hairbrush. I came again at Christmas, and the summer after that Ray proposed. It was on my wedding day that Cheryl told me that she had known from the first that I was the object of Ray's affections, and she had taken a spanking for me, so I was forever in her debt and mustn't forget it.

I owe all of Colbyville so much. Ray and I raised our family here. Mrs. Cooper is gone, but she left me the ivory-backed brush. A strange object for bequeathal, some thought, but she knew it would be meaningful to me. The rose design is still fresh, even after all these years. But then, Ray never did spank as hard as Mrs. Cooper!

[Photo: Reading in the Sunlight by garryknight at flickr.com]

Editor's Note

"The Rainstorm" is one of Roberta's earliest stories, written, I believe, in the '70s, so there might be some elements you are not familiar with. This was before the Age of Cellphones, when even a young wife could wander off alone and get herself into trouble. There's also a passing reference to something called a "down payment." So read on and learn, my dears!

The Rainstorm

The Rainstorm

Angry gray clouds were gathering as Debbie Carruthers anxiously scanned the skies from her living room window. Eight months of living in the small Wyoming town of Red Fork certainly did not make her an expert in forecasting the quirky mountain weather--she knew that. But she also knew the local radio station always played up storm warnings. Jim had told her to stay put till he got back from the Hawkins' place--another ewe having trouble with her lamb!--but Debbie just couldn't bear another Saturday afternoon alone in the house. There was plenty of work she could be doing in her schoolroom at Red Valley Elementary.

Jim on call again! When she had married Jim and moved to Red Fork, she had no idea how busy a country veternarian could be. A city vet could keep regular hours treating pampered house pets, but out here there was no such luxury. The ranching community depended on healthy animals for its very survival. The locals had already come to rely on Jim, in practice now as junior partner with Doc Hargrove. It was hard on the young couple to have to spend so much time apart, but especially so for Debbie. Jim had grown up nearby and was used to the life, but it was all new to her, from Denver and basically a city girl. She was beginning to learn that the citizens of Red Fork were a hardy breed, used to the vast spaces and accustomed to getting by on their own. The nearest hospital was thirty miles away. And the nearest mall? Forget it! Sometimes Debbie feared she would never fit in.

Her teaching job helped, even if it was only a temporary appointment. She felt she would work her way into a permanent position, and her earnings had made it possible for them to put a down payment on a little place in the foothills above town. The house was old and not much to look at, but they were just starting out. They would make a go of it.

Even now Debbie scanned the odd jumble of things with which she had tried to decorate. She had managed to get hold of a beautiful Navajo rug and some nice pottery, but that huge old orange sofa that Jim insisted they could not afford to replace! It seemed to swallow up the whole living room. And she couldn't believe she had a stuffed elk's head on her wall! It was an old trophy of Jim's that he just wouldn't part with. Debbie had taken to calling it "Mr. Antlers" and greeting it every morning. Jim retorted that maybe Red Fork really was driving her insane.

Deb sighed gloomily and escaped into the bedroom. She pulled on a pair of blue jeans and tugged at her cowboy boots. Living out West could be hard sometimes, but she loved the casual dress. She went to the window one more time to check on the storm, then decided to go all the same. Jim was just being overly protective, she told herself.

He had the four-wheel drive, of course, but she figured she could rely on her trusty VW, left over from her college days. As she got into the car she thought that maybe she should try to call Jim at the Hawkins' place, but once behind the wheel she decided not to bother. He would only remonstrate with her. Besides, she would surely be home before Jim got back.


"Chief, just got a call from Jim Carruthers, the vet. He thinks his wife is out in the storm somewhere."

Chief Brady, head of the town's five-man police force, turned to see Mabel Perkins at the door of the radio room.

"Debbie?" he inquired. "New teacher at the grade school?"

"Know her?"

"Sure. You know I'm out front of the school directing traffic every morning."

"Well, Jim's concerned. Thinks she may have gone down to the school to do some work. He just got in himself and she wasn't at home."

This was a problem. Chief Brady knew the creeks rose awfully fast and the roads were getting bad. His little department already had its hands full with reports of downed wires and washouts.

"We could send Smitty over to the school to see if she's there," Mabel suggested.

The chief smiled. Mabel was a local rancher and the town's unpaid mayor, a ball of energy who was never at a loss for a plan of action. She had come down to Red Fork's "town hall"--really just the police depot and some extra office space--figuring that that's where the mayor should be. The chief didn't mind that she was there. Quite the contrary. Like him, she was an "old hand": a long-time resident who was level-headed in a crisis.

"Nah, no need," he said. I'll take the Bronco myself and check it out. You hold the fort."

"Okay, but...you look worried, Brady."

"I'm thinking of Debbie, poor girl. She's not used to living in country like this. Hard on her. Jim needs to pay more attention to her. Buy her some flowers, take her out on the town."

Mabel was a little skeptical.

"I'd say 'take her over his knee' is more like it," she opined.

The chief laughed.

"Well, this is a pretty silly stunt, I'll grant you that. And I can't say it wouldn't do her some good. I did raise three daughters, you know."

"And fine ones, too."

Mabel thought a moment.

"Listen, once you've got her safe and sound, get me on the radio. I'll call Jim and have a little talk with him."


Debbie sat huddled in the front seat of the VW and looked at her watch. Three hours had passed since she had left the house, three of the scariest hours she had ever known. Near Miller Creek the rain had come down so hard she had pulled off the road to wait it out. Then when she tried to get going again, the car wouldn't start. She turned the key and-- nothing! Everything was probably soaking wet inside. She wouldn't have minded waiting-- except Miller Creek was rising ominously.

She was on the edge of panic and tears. It was getting dark, and quite cold, and it might be all night before someone happened along the lonely mountain road. She berated herself for not at least calling the Hawkins' place to let Jim know where she was headed. All because she didn't want to hear Jim's protestations. Now even a scolding from him would sound sweet!

Suddenly, she saw the glare of headlights in the rearview mirror. She was out of the car in a flash, waving frantically, heedless of the pouring rain. As the vehicle neared, she could see the driver talking on the radio. It was Chief Brady! She was never happier to see anyone in her life.


Jim drove down to the police station to pick her up. Debbie ran into his arms and he gave her a little hug, but said nothing. Deb knew instantly that he was very angry with her. Well, I guess I have it coming, she thought, and didn't let it bother her too much. She was just so happy to be safe and sound. She had been really, really scared, and when Jim pulled into the driveway their little house looked so cozy! Home at last! She felt warm and safe again, and figured it would not be long before Jim thawed, too.

She went directly to the bedroom to get out of her wet things. As she was towelling off her long brown hair, she heard Jim's voice from the living room.

"As soon as you get those blue jeans off, you can come out here and take your spanking."

She stopped in mid-towel and looked up, stunned. Had she heard correctly?

"Debbie? Don't make me come in there."

She went to the doorway, still disbelieving. Jim spoke to her calmly but forcefully.

"Don't just stand there, young lady. You know as well as I do that you deserve a licking for all the trouble you've caused today, and you're going to get one. So stop dawdling, it won't do you any good."

She opened her mouth to protest, but Jim held up his hand.

"Now, Deborah, I mean it."

Debbie stuck out her lower lip in a childish pout and turned back into the bedroom. When Jim was serious about something, there was no talking to him. And he certainly seemed serious about this. But she still couldn't believe it. Go over his knee like a six-year-old?

She toyed with the idea of resistance. If she held out just a little, perhaps he might forget the whole silly idea. But no, a man who handled thousand-pound steers for a living would have no problem handling a naughty wife. And that was the problem-- she had been naughty! She couldn't suspend her schoolteacher's judgment, which told her: Debbie deserves a paddling!

Okay, Deb decided, if I have to take a spanking to be restored to Jim's good graces, so be it. Jim was stubborn but he wasn't mean. She'd only get what she had coming.

She took off her jeans and laid them on the bed. She arranged her lacy pink Olgas neatly over her buttocks-- she would try to maintain as much dignity as she could. Then she marched out and stood before her husband.

She tried a doe-eyed, penitential look, but it had no effect. He simply looked at her expectantly, and of course she knew what she had to do. Over his knee she went, as daintily as she could, offering to him her soft and shapely woman's bottom. She felt like she was yielding to an irresistible force, like raging Miller Creek. Jim gathered her in, and she snuggled down against his thick corduroys, feeling beneath her his strongly-muscled thighs.

Face down on those ugly orange cushions, Debbie turned to survey the extent of her predicament. She was pinned and helpless in her panties, positioned for very sound punishment indeed! She caught a glimpse of Mister Antlers on the wall behind her. Like some doting, dignified old uncle, he would not look directly at his darling's plight, but instead stared off into the distance, embarrassed for her.

Jim waited till she was still, and then commenced. The blows came slowly and evenly-- Jim was a methodical man. It was like administering a dose of bitter medicine, bit by bit. The spanks would have a cumulative effect. The first dozen were accepted stoically, but as the second began she swallowed hard, and the third set of twelve elicited a number of plaintive little yelps. Debbie began a desperate squirming, but Jim was prepared, and grasped her even more firmly. The next twelve came down extra hard and squarely on the moving target, so that Debbie stopped, thoroughly convinced of his steadfastness of purpose. She again submitted meekly, fervently hoping Jim would soon relent. She relaxed as best she could under his iron grip, but the spanks continued to rain down on her now thoroughly tenderized bottom.

"Please stop, Jim!" Debbie wailed. "Please! I'll never disobey you again."

Fat chance, he thought, and pretended not to hear. But only a half-dozen more brought forth a flood of tears, before which he knew he was helpless. He loosened his grip.

Deb jumped up quickly, her backside absolutely burning. She had never in her life been punished like that! She stood awestruck and speechless before her husband.

"I only did this because I love you, Debbie. You could have died out there today. I had to make you realize that. That and...well, that I couldn't live without you."

She bit her trembling lip and through her tears she could see he was telling the truth. Now the full wave of her love for him arose within her and she fell into his waiting arms.

"I really am sorry, Jim. I had it coming. Please forgive me. I don't know how you've put up with me lately. I've been so mean and crabby."

"Sweetheart, that's my fault more than yours. I've been working too much and neglecting you. I'll make it up to you, starting this Saturday. Mabel Perkins is having a party at her place. She'd love to meet you. She's great fun-- knows everybody in the county. Want to go?"

"Oh, Jim, I'd love to! It's a date."

She laid her head on his chest, happy even on the orange sofa, as long as she was cuddled in his embrace.


That night she woke from a deep and restful sleep. She had a warm tingly feeling all over. She couldn't tell whether it was from the day's excitement, the thorough spanking, or the night's passionate lovemaking. She quietly slipped out of bed and went to the window. In the sky above the faintly-lit mountains the stars were sparkling. She sighed contentedly. The rain had stopped and the clouds had passed. Dawn would break bright and clear over Red Fork.

A Change of Pace

So far, we've featured fetching damsels spanked by their loving men. This is all well and good for things in general. However, there also exists feminine society, whose fine distinctions and exacting demands would leave most men exhausted and confused. In the course of her life, a woman sometimes finds herself in all-female company; so it behooves her to learn her lessons well. Herewith, "One Saturday Morning."