(M/f nc edgy, voy, drama)


In the tranquil mid-evening, the young traveller smiled and listened.

Several yards away, in a house made of wood with a XIX century look to it, events were taking place. The clanging of pots and bowls suggested a dinner being prepared. The sound of a chair being moved suggested a floor sweeping, a cleaning being carried out. The pitiful howls of a high-pitched feminine voice suggested trouble.

It was then, and only then, that the young traveller – pacing absentmindedly aside the long road, his bag thrown over his shoulder, a thin trim of wheat between his teeth – realised that one or more juveniles were experiencing old-fashioned correction.

In that house, a girl was about to be spanked.

* * *

The look on his face had never seemed angrier. His fiery blue eyes were now filled with rage, and his nostrils dilated and shrank at the rhythm of his heavy breathing. Laura Hershey looked at her father with a look of terrified bewilderment, still hopeful this was not real, and yet completely aware of the fate awaiting her. There had been times, before that fateful accident at the mine, when his father was a man of wisdom, a loving and caring man, a guide for his family. How could he ever be so angry at two young frail little girls like her and Melanie, who was only eleven years old? Could he still inflict even more pain?

At fifteen, Laura knew how the world turns, and she read the answer in his eyes the moment before her fate was sealed.

You will fetch me the hairbrush…

Her pupils dilated, her breathing increased. She was in for it. The moment had come. Again.

"You will fetch me the hairbrush, Laura."

She stopped protesting. She stood still in the kitchen doorway, listening to her mother arrange dinner, too scared to move or say anything, still transfixed, her eyes watching nowhere.

A sudden jolt emerged from deep within her, emanating from the rim of her stomach and spreading around. Her bowels twisted and contracted, tying themselves in a tight knot. A burst of energy darted towards her heart, having it miss one beat. Her throat refused to breathe and formed a lump instead. Downwards, the skin and the muscles and the flesh of her young derriere readied as though for battle, springing up to attention as the word 'hairbrush' was addressed to them and not to the girl's hair. Even lower, her knees lost power and almost failed her, her legs and feet now icy as stalagmites. And finally the impulse, which had no lessened nor slowed down, reached her head, and a long, complicated process of her brain brought her, seconds later, to the realisation that she was going to get another beating. The third that week.

Laura heard herself moan in protest, without any recognisable words being spelled. Her father's nostrils and eyes dilated, if possible, even more, but it was her mother's reaction, the woman who had been standing at the sink as if nothing was going on, that astonished her.

"Did you hear your father, Laura? Go to my room and fetch the hairbrush on top of the dresser."

Her voice was not firm as it was meant to be, not calm, not peaceful. Laura looked at her with, once again shocked by her lack of resoluteness. She loathed her once more for that. Sarah Hershey was completely aware of the consequences such an order would have soon brought to, and yet she seemed unaware. Mrs. Hershey had spoken those words out of pure knowledge that her daughter would soon be experiencing the back of that dreadful, pearly-white hairbrush on her bottom cheeks, and flanking his husband was her only, own way to survive his rage unharmed.

"Now!" said Laura's father, Mr. Hershey, and his voice boomed in the silent evening.

As though suddenly awake from a long dream – and at the start of a nightmare – Laura squeezed her eyes and darted towards the stairs, as if running for dear life. Up the stairs, in the room, to the dresser, where's the brush?, here it is, out of the room, what's up Laura?, lock up in our room Melanie, not again!, lock you up honey don't get yourself in danger too, down the stairs, hand it over here Laura...

There. Hell and back in no time.

Was I fast enough? I did my best, sir. Please, sir…

"Too slow," barked Mr. Hershey, as he took the heavy, wooden instrument from her daughter's hand. He raised his hand and slapped Laura's face with his palm, hard. Laura suppressed a yelp and stood motionless in front of him.

He moved a kitchen chair in the middle of the room, where there would be enough free space all around, then he sat down and adjusted himself. Then he looked back at her.

Laura Francesca Elisabeth Hershey was fifteen years old. She had long brown hair descending almost to her waist, and beautiful green eyes sparkling with the firelight. Her slim body and outlines, not to mention the straight mouth and the slightly plump cheeks of her face, made her look younger, and those who did not know her true age often addressed her as 'child'. But Laura was no child. There was not, and there never will be, a child who could endure a hairbrush beating from her father without losing control, without peeing herself, without fainting over his lap. The strength the man put in his "discipline sessions" (as he called them, but which were nothing less than plain torture) could not be bore without a strong built and strong muscles -- but since Laura and her eleven year old sister Melanie had none of those, they had to resort to their iron will. Because you can bruise iron, but you cannot break it.

Most of the times.

There were no more waits. Stretching an arm as though he was inviting her to the ball, Mr. Hershey motioned his eldest daughter to him, and Laura could not help but to comply. It suddenly dawned on her that the dreaded moment was about to arrive. It would happen there, and then, and there was nothing she could ever, ever do to avoid it.

A timid tear went over the ridge of her left eye, looked down, considered for a moment... and jumped, descending her face, streaking her now colourless cheek with a small, thin ethereal line. It was her remorse coming through.

Is this my fault? It is me making him so angry. My poor daddy is always right. And then, he had that nasty accident at the mine…

Without being ordered to, Laura raised her summer dress up to the waist, thus revealing her cotton, plain yellow panties. She took a few steps, the wooden floor feeling warm under her bare feet, and reached her father's right. He looked even angrier, as if her lack of resistance was spoiling part of his fun. Her immediate compliance and total lack of protests were, apparently, not suiting him.

He slapped again Laura's face, and this time she let out a small moan. Then Mr. Hershey pointed at his lap.


They say he is insane. He is not. I am a bad girl, not him a bad man…

And she lowered herself on her father's knees, both of them, resting her weight half on her belly, half on the front of her thighs. The man hardly ever needed any adjustments, since both daughters knew the procedure and the exact positioning all too well. Laura's body was neatly draped over his lap, her head and feet suspended because of her petite size, her very long, shiny hair resting on the floor. She did not know what to do with her arms; they kept grabbing the chair legs, moving to the floor, arranging her hair in a sweet, noble attempt to regain her dignity.

But there was no escaping the present situation, and the present situation meant a beating.

Laura felt her father placing the hard wooden hairbrush on her back, leaving it there as he always did during the first part of his punishments. The tool's equilibrium was precarious: one movement too harsh, one uncontrolled jolt, and it would fall to the floor. That is why Laura and Melanie Hershey were instructed not to move, because the hairbrush falling – or the ruler, or the spoon, or the paddle – meant a strict and totally unpleasant response from their punisher.

Trouble is: it was very hard not to squirm under the tremendous blows of Mr. Hershey's hand to their upturned, if panty-covered, rumps.

Knowing that the first part of tonight's punishment was about to being, Laura Hershey braced herself and prepared to receive the first stroke.

* * *


It echoed through the cultivated fields like a gunshot, loud and clear, like a platform breaking under too heavy a weight.

The young traveller listened intently, hoping to hear more of that sound and knowing full well what it meant. He had never been in that region before, nor he had ever seen that house or known who inhabited it, but was fully aware of what was going on inside its walls, and longed to hear it all before walking on.


The sound repeated itself two seconds later, and this time it was followed by a moan, a little squeal, something like an animal bawling to be left free by its cruel keeper.

Definitely a spanked little girl.

There was an intake of breath from him and a low, animal-like moan. He was enjoying it all.

And still the clanging of pots and bowls continued.

* * *


A third wallop hit Laura's buttocks, and she protested again with a shrilly shriek.

Three distinct smacks had left three distinct areas of pain, that were now melting together as Mr. Hershey charged the fourth blow...


Laura could not help but yelp again, but fought very hard, with all her will, not to move or squirm too much. She restrained herself from doing so clutching to the chair's legs, steadying her body as much as she could. Until now, it was successful.


Fifth smack, and Laura just had to move around a bit. She made her own hands strong and again grabbed the chair, but she had nevertheless moved and the hairbrush had shifted a bit on her back.


They fell in a very rapid sequence, like bullets from a machine-gun. Laura's yelps dissolved into her first cry of the night, as the tears blurred her vision and her bottom started to pulsate with the sting. Again, the hairbrush shifted a bit on her back... reaching the ledge...


The last, tremendous blow of the first part of Laura Hershey's ordeal had her almost fall over. She held to the chair legs for dear life, trying not to buckle, trying to keep herself steady as she could.

But the hairbrush moved again, dancing dangerously on the edge of her back. Could it be stopped?

It was right above the ledge as Laura cried her first bitter tears. The hairbrush had stopped there, in perfect balance. She was safe...


Mr. Hershey quickly retreated his finger and smiled.

It echoed through the room like a thunderbolt, the hard wood of the hairbrush impacting with the hard wood of the floor. Laura turned around to see it, and the three family members' eyes were fixed on the tool as it twisted and buckled, finally resting on its front, showing them the flat side that would soon be smacking on Laura's bottom.

The fifteen year old girl let out a deep, sorrowful, prolonged wail, announcing her anger, preoccupation and utter disbelief for such an accident.

How could I be so careless? It is my fault, see? My daddy is a good man. He is fair.

And in fact, a firm, tranquil, unperturbed voice – but that smelt like booze – announced: "This means the switch, Laura."

And it did. But not before the hairbrush.

Laura cried again, as her mother, finally moving away from the sink, reached them and picked up the dreaded instrument of correction from the floor, handing it back to the man. She threw her a vengeance-filled gaze, and she looked away.

This time there were no ceremonies and no waiting, as Mr. Hershey lowered Laura's little childlike yellow panties down to her feet, raised the hairbrush and SMACKed it down on her now bared, already pinkish, pert buttocks


Laura yelled, but there was nothing she could do. Her father repeated the blow, and he did it again, and again, and again.

The hairbrush smacks rained down on the poor girl's quivering backside, making her squeal with loud and louder voice as they fell. Every time the hard wood made contact with the tender skin it would leave a distinct oval shape, a white blotch that would soon turn to pink, and then to deeper shades of pink, to melt with the overall color of the rest of her bottom, which was rapidly turning to red.

Laura kicked her feet from the very first blow, kicking her panties off almost immediately. Mrs. Hershey picked them and placed them on the kitchen table. She moved around her husband and daughter like a careful and attentive waitress, doing all those little things he could do to help her man disciplining their offspring. A female Faust, if there ever was one.

Again the smacks continued, and Laura cried in earnest by the time the count reached thirty. Nor she nor Mr. Hershey counted them, aloud or in their minds, sure that the girl's father would stop only when he saw fit. And as his daughter's bottom was already showing signs of having been hardly beaten, the man was about to stop. But not quite yet.

By now, Laura felt her butt like an overly numb area, where a throbbing pain dwelled all over and single hairbrush smacks melted undiscernibly into one another. The steady rhythm her father had chosen – about one smack per second – made it impossible for her to absorb a whack's pain before the next one was delivered. And since they ranged from the upper portions of her bottom, where the back starts, to the lowest zones, where buttocks fade into thighs, and even lower, on the back of thighs themselves, there was an uncontrollable, spread-all-over burning fire in her backside, and that was reason enough to cry frantically.

It lasted some more seconds. Something like a minute had passed, and something like sixty hard, hearty, full-force hairbrush strokes had been planted on the child's cheeks. Finally tired of kicking, Laura had fell limp on her father's lap, crying her heart and eyes out, her tears falling to the floor, where a tiny pond formed for a second before being absorbed by the wood.

She realised her father had stopped the beating only seconds after he had. Her long wails and cries and coughs made it impossible for her to hear the noise stopping, and her behind was aching so much that it could not feel a bee if it stung her right now. Her heart beat faster than ever, her lungs felt the fatigue of heavy breathing, her mouth opened and close to let out the wails and her nose ran freely. An indistinguishable heat vamped throughout her body, reaching her ears and flaming in her head. She felt miserable as she rarely had before.

Daddy is right, Daddy is right…

But at least it was over. Her hairbrush spanking was over.

And now...

* * *

The young traveller breathed heavily as the blows stopped. He could feel the heat radiating throughout his own body, and most of the saliva withdrawing from his mouth. He did knot know who ever lived in that house, but whoever they were they had a knack for harsh punishments. He had never seen – or heard – such a hard spanking, and the girl's cries were louder than he thought possible.

He was about to walk away, sure the much-enjoyed show was over, when suddenly the house front door cracked open, and a slender figure in a multicoloured summer dress and bare feet walked in the yard. It was a stunningly beautiful girl, about thirteen or fourteen years old, looking still much like a child.

She was crying.

Is it her that I …?

The young traveller blinked and for a moment he felt horrible.

He watched from a safe distance as the girl walked fast to the old wooden barn, opened the little door on one side and disappeared in. A light flickered on inside the building, and then flickered off few seconds later. Still crying in full, the girl walked closed the door carefully and walked back towards the house, her shiny, airy brown hair and her lovely light dress moving behind her.

The young traveller could not help but wonder if she had been punished with that dress still on, or if it had been raised. If it was so, were the panties still worn? Were the girl's lovely bottom and mounds still entwined by the soft tissue... or were they stark naked, the protruding globes aglow with red fire, the inviting cleft on the front gently whipped by the soft, warm spring evening breeze?

He licked his lips, and only then he noticed she was carrying something in her hands. Something long and thin, maybe a tree branch, maybe... maybe a switch.

Is her punishment not over yet?

He could not believe it. But he did not have the time to dwell on that thought, because suddenly, the moment before reaching the house front door, the girl turned around and watched in his direction. Dusk was approaching, the falling embers would protect him from view even if he was close... would they?

Sure enough, the girl looked in his direction, but only for a second, and then resumed walking. She reached the door and pushed it open. She stepped in, the switch clutched in her hand, and closed the door behind her back.

The young traveller waited.

* * *

Laura Hershey bent over the same chair where her father had been sitting moments before, giving her a hard, thorough, blistering hairbrush spanking. Still crying, the young girl pushed her hips up until they rested on the chair's rigid back, and planted her hands and the top of her head on the seat. She stretched her bare feet so that toes would barely be touching the floor, and she waited, crying, impatient, scared.

I am so going to get it now. He will beat me to an inch of my life, I know…

Mr. Hershey approached her daughter from behind, and raised her dress. Below the tissue, the child's plump bottom was covered in a deep pink, almost red patina, as though varnish had been applied all over. From the upper portions to mid-thigh, the little girl's behind had been severely bruised, and sure enough some blisters were starting to poke out from beneath the flaming flesh.

He always does.

But this did not guarantee Laura immunity from the third, and final, part of her punishment. The "equilibrium method" had been used in the Hershey household in the last two years, ever since the accident, and the penance for letting the tool fall to the floor – which showed lack of composure, and therefore lack of respect for the ongoing punishment – had been enhanced through the months. When still a child of ten, Laura's sister Melanie had let the brush fall on the very first blow, and that had her promoted to the barn switch (up until then she had been given the belt as an additional punishment). As for Laura, she remembered those times when the extra session consisted in belt licks, and now, as she was bending over and waiting, she compared those with her first time ever with the switch.

She had been thirteen and a rambunctious child, which needed harsher-than-ever punishment every week, or so He seemed to think. After a ten minutes long session with the belt, which had left the poor girl bawling on the floor grasping for air, her father had decided he was not satisfied with the results of that tool, and that he would give her the switch from then on. He made a demonstration by sending Melanie to get the switch, and applying one stroke, the strongest ever, to Laura's damaged bottom, leaving one single line streaming tiny droplets of blood.

But the past beatings were past beatings, for both Laura, Melanie, Sarah and the man, and presently, Mr. Hershey raised the dress up to Laura's middle back, but did not stop. He brought it over her head and off, leaving the girl in her birthday suit, nude not as the day she was born, but far, far more. You can be more naked than naked, Laura had learned. She cried some more thinking of this, because as much as she and Melanie were now used to her father seeing them naked or half naked, such a thing still produced the worst kind of embarrassment.

The following move made her blush even deeper, to the roots of her hair, as Mr. Hershey reached for the insides of her thighs with both hands, gently touching the soft skin with his fingers, and pulling them slightly apart, about a foot, leaving her exposed and ready for her switching. She cried anew, knowing that now he could – and would – really see anything about her. She had no secrets.

I never had.

Laura expected a long lecture now, but only a very short one came:

"You have been a naughty girl and now you will receive six strokes of the switch, Laura. Do you understand?"

I do not. How could I?

She muttered a pitiful 'yes sir' through her cries, and then she felt him move to her side. It was starting...

Swish… CRACK!!

The switch spanked down on Laura's red bottom with the force of a thousand hammers, producing a loud sound.

The little girl felt a searing, mind-blowing pain, as if her bum had been cut in two, and arched her head and back, screaming like a banshee.

Swish… WHACK!!


Again a monstrous smack, again a howling response. It was unbearable. It was unsustainable.

Let me go.

Swish… WHIP!!

Let me die here, now.

Laura howled again, screaming as if murdered, for all the world to hear. Her only salvation, and her worst doom, was that they were alone in the middle of the countryside.

Swish… CRACK!!

There is a man outside…


Swish… WHACK!!

The fifth had been the strongest so far, and Laura screamt again, her voice now raucous, her lungs longing for some regular breath, her hear thumping wildly, scared, unable to stop. In her brains, images of stars and birds, running animals and past events, the sea and the snow, raged on without control, flashing in front of her eyes, blinding her, torturing her.

I was your little girl, remember? I brought you coffee in bed.

Swish… CRACK!!!!

You touched the warm skin on my shoulders and said I was your jewel.

And she thought number five had been hard?

Your jewel.

It had been a nice, affectionate caress. This was a switching. This was painful. Number six was insanely painful. It smashed across both of her thighs, very low, and a small portion of the switch ended up hitting the inside of her thighs, reaching for the most tender spot in her whole body.

Do you recall the cold nights in front of the fireplace?

Laura cried in excruciating pain, seeing red now, seeing no more now, her body shocked with electricity. She did not know how ever she could maintain position, but it was probably because she could not move anyhow. Her body felt like one giant piece of stone. A statue. With a welted butt.

You held me whole. I curled up in your lap. I felt safe. My daddy would never let me go.

It took her a while to regain composure, to ease down, to slow down her crying. She heard footsteps upstairs and a little squeal, meaning that Melanie had heard – if not seen – her whole punishment, and had been scared by her crying and the sound of the switching and run away. She heard her mother say something to her father, maybe about how he had been too harsh, maybe about how he had over-spanked her. But on the other hand, she might as well have complimented with him.

Can I help you, daddy? Can I fix you? Do not go to the mine today, daddy. Stay with us today, daddy.

Several minutes passed before she could be on her feet again, and when she did, they almost failed her. She took a few practising steps on the floor, and seemed happy to realise that she could still walk after all.

Am I still alive? Is this life? How many times will this happen again?

Her father said: "Laura, dear, please take this back to the barn. Just in case."

She nodded, but she did not listen.

* * *

As the screams and the crying died away, the young traveller thought there was nothing more to witness. It was over. The man's rage was over, the girl had been properly punished. There was nothing more interesting here.

I would better go. I need to think this through. The night will help me.

But then he saw that the house front door cracked open again, and the same girl went out of it. He looked intently, and saw her walking unsteadily, again carrying that switch.

When she reached the barn and turned her back to him, he caught a glimpse of her bottom.

God. Why?

He ran, sprinting towards the barn, and he got there in time to catch the girl in his arms before she walked back to the house.

"Who are you?" she asked in a frail, pitiful voice. She was scared, surprised.

"What did they do to you, child?"

* * *

The young traveller had a gun. Laura took it. She ran into the kitchen, and took care of the woman. Then she had the man kneel on the floor, bawling like a child, his piss all over himself. Smelt like a pig. Was a pig. She pulled the trigger.

Laura turned around, and realised that Melanie was standing in the kitchen doorway.

Was that... a cry, on her face? A smile, perhaps?

She reached for her tiny little sister, hugged her, keeping her tight in her embrace – why are you shaking, Melanie? it is over; someone took care of that for us – then she got a wool blanket out of the wardrobe, bread and water from the kitchen – who did this mess here? where is mom when you need some cleaning? – and money from the jackets.

Outside, the young traveller waited, and they ran together in the coming dusk.

* * *

But Laura smiled to the young traveller, and pushed him away.

"I am fine," she said, and ran back to the house.

He stood there transfixed, unable to move, breathing the warm evening air, chewing nervously on his trim wheat. He could not stand it. He could not be there. He had to run, and he did, off the wheat fields, feeling as guilty as one can feel.

Laura reached the front door and went in without looking back.

I am coming, daddy. I am your little girl. Please be nice to me. I love you daddy.

Her father was crying on the floor.

Oh yes… I know you will not do it again. I know, do not worry.

The large wound on the back of his head was opening once again.

It was my fault daddy. Yes, I suggested you to go to the mine that day. Sorry. Punish me, I deserve it.




"I tried to kill the pain, / but only got more. / I lay dying and I'm pouring / crimson regret and betrayal."
"I'm crying, praying, bleeding, screaming. / Am I too lost to be saved?"
"My wounds cry for the grave / My soul cries for deliverance / Will I be denied / Christ? Tourniquet. / My suicide."

(Amy Lee)


The author is completely against the practice of non-consensual spanking applied to children and teenagers as a form of discipline: it is dangerous, violating and potentially abusive. All my stories are archived at http://www.geocities.com/haley_brimley/