Suzanne by Naomi Darvell

Isn't it amazing how many memories we keep stored up in our minds, without our being consciously aware of them?-- but nevertheless they are ready to emerge at any time, either randomly (like things floating to the surface of a pond) or in response to a word or gesture from someone in our lives. Some of these things you cannot believe you had ever forgotten, once you recall them.

My husband and I quarreled over something stupid and, as often happens, the aftermath of our quarrel led us into the bedroom. Still rather angry, my husband raised my skirt and pushed me into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. After opening his trousers minimally, he leaned over and picked up one of my ankles in each hand. He lifted my legs, tipping me over so that I was on my back, thighs spread and bottom raised. The awkwardness and complexity of these actions seemed to increase his impatience; his motions verged on the brutal as he hooked my legs over his shoulders and reached down-- it was a long reach-- to yank my panties out of place, just enough to allow him entrance. Feeling him move against me, and chafing under the rough wool of his trousers as they rubbed against my exposed thighs and bottom, I recalled the way my Aunt Sarah used to spank me.

I lived with my Aunt Sarah, a spinster, from the time I was twelve years old. Sarah was generally kind but had no natural feeling for children. Perhaps because she was conscious of this failing, she was extremely careful and systematic in her dealings wirh me. Never that I remember did she raise her voice in anger or strike me impulsively. She did punish me, but the method of punishment was entirely thought out. If I did something wrong Sarah would tell me, "Suzanne, you know what to expect tonight." On those nights she would come to my room at bedtime, holding a little wooden hairbush if I had been especially naughty. (For lesser offenses she spanked me with her hand.) When she appeared I would get up, raise my nightgown and bend over the edge of the bed.

Usually Sarah let me keep my panties up, but a couple of times she pulled them down. Without saying anything, she would whack away at my bottom for a good five mintues. I always cried when the spanking was over. Aunt Sarah would sit down beside me and rub my back and shoulders for a while, then help me get into bed and pull the covers up around me before kissing me goodnight. One thing that seems odd now: she never spoke of these punishments before or after they took place. She never even said the word "spanking:" just, "You know what to expect."

One evening I lay on the bed waiting for Sarah to come in and spank me. For the first time I felt angry, convinced that I had done nothing to deserve this punishment. My resentment increased when Sarah appeared carrying the hairbrush: more unfair still! A spanking with her hand I might have accepted, but I decided at that moment that I would not let her beat my bottom with the hairbrush. Usually I prepared for a spanking as quickly and compliantly as possible, hoping to preserve some of my dignity and maybe even obtain a bit of lenience. This evening however I stayed on the bed, lying there on my back. Sarah looked at me in surprise and I stared boldly back at her. "Get up, Suzanne," she said. "Let's get this over with." I shook my head. She appeared to be at a complete loss. I suppose she found it difficult to talk to me anyway, and she could only manage a situation like this if everything had been worked out beforehand and no discussion was necessary.

"Well, turn over then," she said, coming to stand near the edge of the bed. I shook my head agaiin. "What am I going to do with you?" she said, and it was not a rhetorical question. At lest she leaned over, took hold of one of my ankles and lifted my leg, exposing the thigh and the lower part of the buttock. "Smack!" The hairbrush came down on the tightly stretched flesh. I yelped: the first time I had ever cried out during a spanking. Aunt Sarah looked inspired. Putting down the hairbrush, she lifted both my legs and bent them back. Using one arm to keep my legs in position, she started paddling me with the brush. This was far more harrowing than being spanked while bent over the bed, because I could see my aunt's angry face, her lips compressed and her eyes flashing; and I had to watch the hairbrush as it made its way again and again towards my poor bot. I wriggled, trying to thwart my aunt's aim: this effort only resulted in my thighs being struck more often; or, worse, in the hairbrush landing right on top of my little pubic mound, which was made terribly vulnerable by my bent-back position. After I had taken a few spanks there I was not in terrible pain, but I was conscious of a heat and a throbbing that I associated with looking at nude pictures, or playing arond with my male cousin. This spanking lasted much longer than usual. Aunt Sarah and I were equally caught up in the antagonistic excitement and, well, the competitiveness, I suppose, of this new athletic type of spanking. Towards the end Sarah was actually scolding me as she spanked. "Next time I'll take a strap to your bottom!" "Good," I said defiantly, bringing down another hail of spanks on my already blistered rear.

When Sarah put down the hairbrush and let go of me, I rolled over onto my tummy: paradoxically willing, now, to turn my bottom up, wishing to hide and protect the throbbing area between my legs. I had had sexual feelings for as long as I could remember, but to have them awakened by a spanking seemed obscurely shameful. Sarah comforted and kissed me as usual-- no, even more tenderly, feeling remorse no doubt because she had obviously enjoyed spanking me.

After that I would gladly have gone back to being spanked face down, with my bottom over the edge of the bed; but pride and the competitive feeling made me lie there every time, staring at my aunt as if to dare her to try and get at my bottom somehow. Once she came over and grabbed my legs I would lift them willingly enough, but always with a defiant look, and I continued to wriggle under the spanking instrument. I say "instrument" because Sarah did eventually resort to the strap: a special item she bought somewhere, in keeping with her methodical approach. This strap became the instrument of choice as I grew older-- for I continued to be spanked until I left for college. After every spanking I would roll over, presenting my beaten bottom and hiding my arousal, which increased as the spankings became more severe and antagonistic.

After I left Aunt Sarah's house I actually missed the excitement of my strappings, which had become a funny kind of secret between the two of us. I do not believe that Sarah was (consciously) aware of my arousal, but the ritual of my whippings had revealed something in each of us. In college, when I became sexually active I never asked my boyfriend to spank me-- I never even had the idea. I do recall once lying invitingly on the bed and watching while he undid his belt. He had a slightly ticked-off expression on his face for some reason, and for a second I flashed on the image of that belt smacking down on my rear the way my aunt's strap used to. "Hurry, hurry!" I cried; as soon as Paul entered me I had a powerful orgasm.

Now, recalling all of this while my husband and I make love, I say impulsively, "Do something for me.'

"What?" He is miles away, on the verge of his own climax.

"Slap me. On the behind. Spank me." As I say the last words his hand is already coming down on my bottom, turned up backwards just as it was in the days of my Aunt Sarah.