There is a saying that the grist mill of the gods grinds with infinite slowness but complete thoroughness. Yet it would appear that this process was being remarkedly accelerated in the brief span of the two weeks during which Arthur Hadley and his mature, beautiful, brown-haired new wife Eleanor were spending their honeymoon in Mexico.
The personable forty-three-old widower had come to Malibu with his precocious and spoiled eighteen-year-old daughter Hester on his vacation, still grieving over the death of his wife Sonia. In the prime of life and at the peak of his virility, a virility which even his harmonious marriage to his gentle and somewhat reti cent wife had hardly even tapped, he was destined to have the pattern of his entire life changed by the seeming irrelevance of a beach ball. Of such small things in history made, just as in the famous ballad describing how a battle was lost for want of a two-penny nail.
For it happened that the thirty-nine-year old brunette widow Eleanor Stanfield and her delectable golden-haired sixteen-year-old daughter Betty were vacationing at Malibu at the same time, and while the two were playing catch, Betty launched an exuberant throw which made the ball hit Arthur Hadley, who was peacefully sunning himself at the time. From that accidental introduction, a romance quickly flourished between the two bereaved adults, who found each other not only intellectually sympathetic and congenial but also physically attractive.
And so the upshot of it all was that Arthur ardently proposed to Eleanor, whose own passions had been suppressed for six long years during which time she had brought up Betty according to her own sincere beliefs in the wisdom of judiciously applied corporal punishment.
When Arthur Hadley learned by what means Betty had acquired her obedience and genuine parental affection, he was astounded, for he had not dreamed that in this day and age parents still used the old-fashioned method of the strap and the hairbrush to bring up a teenager. But by contrast, seeing how his own daughter sulked and was thoroughly anti-social, he believed that his marriage would bring him not only a helpmate and bedmate of incomparable charm but also an aide in correcting Hester's errant ways even at this comparatively late stage in her hitherto unrestrained young life. Eleanor confided in him as to her methods in punishing Betty, and further startled him by discussing how her friends punished their children by the same old-fashioned but effective means. And finally, she instructed golden-haired Betty to see to it that Hester met Betty's young friends and discovered her herself just how their parents straightened them out when they strayed off the path of exemplary conduct.
So this "psychological campaign"-for that is actually what it was!-began as soon as Arthur and Eleanor left for Mexico, and Betty brought Hester along to meet seventeen-year-old Sally Jamison, who was one of Betty's dearest friends. Hester was unpleasantly shocked to hear Sally admit without any hedging that when she was naughty, her mother and father didn't hesitate to use a ping pong paddle on her bottom, or if the fault was serious enough, a special spanking strap which was like the old Scotch tawse.
Arthur Hadley's bespectacled auburn-haired daughter expressed her horrified indignation at hearing this avowal, much to Sally Jamison's amusement. Indeed, in Sally's own words, "You better not let my Dad hear you call him a brute just because he paddy whacks me when I need it, Hester. You mean to say you've never been spanked in all your life?" And Hester turned a vivid red with embarrassment, for that was exactly the truth: she had never received so much as an admonishing slap from either her dead mother or her indulgent father. But, as we shall see, in this concluding volume of our story, the blissfully unconcerned days of her immunity from strap and hairbrush and parental hand were rapidly drawing to a close....
Perhaps it was just as well for Hester Hadley's peace of mind that she and her new stepsister Betty didn't visit the Carruthers household about eight-thirty that same night, or the bespectacled auburn-haired introvert would have seen two very attractive girls subjected not only to the parental hairbrush but to an additional dosage with their father's belt.
Svelte attractive Mabel Carruthers and her genial husband Dave had decided to go out for a drive and a social call on one of Dave's business acquaintances who had just moved into the neighborhood in the pleasant little town of Claremont. This left their daughters Verna and Barbara alone in the house, and since school was about a month away, the two sisters animatedly discussed the prospect for fun and games during the oncoming semester.
Verna Carruthers was fourteen and a half, and a good deal of a tomboy. Her dark brown hair was styled in a ponytail, the hair combed away from the top of the forehead, and her face was oval, with widely spaced large brown eyes, a straight, thin-winged nose, and a ripe sweet mouth, whose lower lip was somewhat more pronounced and petulant. Her high-set cheekbones and her firm little chin proclaimed her to be a spirited adolescent, which indeed she was. Her supple charming figure gave promise of decided beauty in the next few years, for she was about five feet four, with a very supple waist, surprisingly ample, upstandingly rounded buttocks which in contrast with her long slender thighs and sinuous calves, made this amplitude even more pronounced. Her breasts were pert young oranges, set widely apart, and saucily firm. And her milky skin, dotted with delightful freckles on cheeks and chin and along her upper arms, made her an extremely provocative young Lolita. Despite her youth, she was already at the age of being greatly inquisitive about the opposite sex, and as a matter-of-fact the episode which we are about to witness stemmed entirely from this preoccupation.
Verna had often been scolded and then spanked for the tomboyishness already alluded to. She was fond of playing baseball with the boys, biking and roughhousing with them, and she liked to wear jeans and cutoffs rather than skirts. These outer garments were taboo during school time, but since this was late August, her parents permitted them. And on this particular evening, she was wearing a pair of extremely tight cutoffs which accentuated the surprising mature contours of her bottom and came down to mid-thigh, revealing lovely milky bare thigh and calf. She also wore a boy's blue cotton T-shirt, and sandals, white cotton panties and a bra. She was quite proud of this bra because to her it symbolized growing up and being able to take her place in the adult world.
Her sister Barbara, almost seventeen and an inch taller, was a young Venus. Her rounded face, with Grecian nose, a small full mouth, gray-green eyes, rounded cheeks and dimpled chin, together with a warm creamy skin, had already drawn a great deal of attention from the boys in Claremont high. Through both her parents, as with Verna, had forbidden her to have any "steadies" until she was eighteen, Barbara had a secret "understanding" with a carroty-haired, freckle-faced seventeen-year-old Tom Jeffrey, who was the star tackle on the varsity football team.
Barbara, unlike her sister, was very much interested in presenting the appearance of a poised and mature young lady. She wore a skirt and blouse, sheer flesh-colored nylons, and sandals, and her black hair was feathered in layers all over her lovely head, with tiny curls clustering down her face. She was seated at the writing desk in her room upstairs-Verna's was next to hers-writing a note to her "dreamboat" Tom Jeffrey when saucy Verna, without so much as a by your leave, opened the door of her room and walked in announced. "Hi, Babsie," she cheerfully greeted her brunette sister. "Whatcha doin', huh?"
Barbara Carruthers whirled around, her face red with embarrassment at being found out. "Verna, you know perfectly well I just hate that nickname!" she exclaimed. "Didn't anybody ever teach you to knock?"
"Sure, lots of times," Verna giggled as she approached the desk. "You can't be doing homework, school won't start until practically another month. Ah ha! I know what, you're writing a note to your heartthrob, aren'tcha?"
"Now see here, Verna," Barbara angrily expostulated, "that's none of your business and you know it!"
"I know. But I bet Dad and Mom would really tan your hide if they knew you had a crush on that lanky string bean of a football player, I bet."
"I suppose you'd snitch."
"Not me, Sis. Just the same, you better be awful careful. You know how strict Dad and Mom are about not having steadies. 'Course when it comes to that, there's an awful sweet boy I'd just love to have take me to a movie and hold hands with, if you wanna know something. His name's Dick Trotter."
"Oh, for gosh sakes," her brunette sister giggled, "You don't mean that awful drip with a cowlick that he always needs combing and that sissified voice of his, do you, Verna?"
"Now you shut up about Dick Trotter! Come to think about it, I don't think much of that Tom Jeffrey either, if you wanna know something," Verna indignantly countered.
"That's none of your business! After all, I'm practically seventeen, and in another year I'll be old enough to get engaged and married, so there!" Barbara haughtily declared, sitting up very straight to indicate to Verna that after all, she was a perfect lady. The maneuver thrust out the magnificent closely spaced round young cantaloupes of Barbara's titties, the already well developed points threatening to burst through the thin nylon bra which held them in check. Her hips were lusciously curvaceous, her buttocks being two broadly oval, very tightly spaced fleshy globes of delectable resilience and firmness. Her rounded thighs and delightfully contoured calves were already drawing wolf whistles from the males on campus.
Barbara had also experienced her first sexual emotions-something her parents didn't yet know about-when she had gone on a picnic last month with Nancy and Sally Jamison and Constance and Janet Gilmore, and just by accident Tom Jeffrey had driven up in his old jalopy out by the forest preserves where they were picnicking. Louise Gilmore had sent Hilda along as chaperone for the girls, but Hilda hadn't said anything when Barbara had sneaked away to chat with Tom. They had gone off quite a distance from the others, and Tom had gawked and shifted from foot to foot and got red in the face, and then finally had grabbed Barbara and kissed her hard on the mouth. She'd gasped with delighted surprise, made a pretense at first of being shocked by his boldness, but then she'd let him kiss her again. And she'd begun to feel the churning, moistening warmth in her pussy, so that when he'd pulled her to him and pressed her up against his hardening young cock, she'd almost fainted away with the thrill of it. They'd made plans to see each other this fall, and Barbara had explained that her parents wouldn't allow him to come to the house as a steady, but they'd work something out. And that night, alone in her room, still having that wonderfull itchy feeling between her legs, the lovely brunette had pretended that Tom was right there with her in bed and had used her finger on her pussy until the explosive ecstasy of orgasm had assuaged her hungry young needs-at least for the time being!
Barbara was highly incensed by her younger sister's flippant reference to her secret boyfriend, and reacted with typical feminine jealousy, which has no age limit: "Now look here, Verna, you just keep your mouth shut about my guy, and I won't say anything to Dad and Mom about your puppy love!"
"Puppylove?" Verna echoed, hands on her spacious young hips. "I like that! That droopy long drink of water you go for wouldn't even give me a flutter down you know where!" and with this she put a forefinger to the crotch of her cutoffs.
Barbara turned crimson with annoyance at this salacious and certainly unexpected critique of her boy friend's sexual powers. Of course, she hadn't yet got to the point of finding out whether or not Tom Jeffrey was man enough to give it to her-she secretly wanted to give her cherry to him and find out what it was all about. But Verna's taunting deprecation was just too much. Rising from her chair, she slapped her sister's face.
"Why, Babsie," Verna mocked her, sticking out her tongue, "so you've been trying to play house already with your guy, huh?"
"You shut your snotty little mouth if you don't want another slap," Barbara raged.
"Yeah? Well, that reminds me. I owe you a good one for that. Here you are, Babsie," Verna retaliated with a vigorous slap that reddened Barbara's olive-tinted cheek and sent the older girl stumbling back, her hand to her stinging cheek and her eyes wide with disbelief that her own younger sister would dare such an outburst.
And then a battle royal began. Quite forgetting their sisterly ties, Verna and Barbara scuffled on the floor, rolling over and over, pulling hair, cuffing and scratching each other, oblivious to all else in their furious attempt to come off victorious and once and for all assert the supremacy of either one. As a result, they didn't hear the front door, nor did they hear their father's comment to his wife Mabel, "Listen. Mabel, what's going on upstairs? Sounds like a bull in a china shop. Let's go see!"
And that was why as Mabel and Dave Carruthers approached Barbara's room, they stopped for a moment, thunderstruck at the angry voices and the sounds of physical combat: "Oww! Goddam you anyway, Verna. Now you went and tore my best blouse!-I don't care, you just keep your mouth shut about my boyfriend, Babsie-oohhh! Cut it out, let go, let go of my cutoffs-"
"What's going on here?" Fred Carruthers angrily exclaimed as he and his wife entered the room. They saw Barbara lying on the floor with her knees up and her skirts fallen away to show her voluptuous young thighs, her fingers buried in Verna's ponytail and yanking it as hard as she could, while Verna was ripping Barbara's blouse and going to work on the latter's bra.
"Oh gosh!" Verna was first to realize the frightening reality of the situation. She released Barbara and stumbled to her feet, gulping, her face cromsoning, "I-I-we-we were just having a sort of rumpus, D-Dad, that's all, honest!"
Barbara uttered a gasp of consternation when she found herself on her back on the floor with a highly interested audience of two contemplating her. She got to her feet, smoothed down her skirt, ruefully glanced at her torn blouse and gave her younger sister an inimical look, then stammered, "That-that's right, Dad. Verna and I were just kidding around, that's all."
"I see," the svelte auburn-haired Mabel Carruthers tartly replied. "Just a friendly little skirmish, isn't that it?"
"Sure, Mom," Verna chimed in, desperately trying to tilt the balance scale in her favor. But it didn't work very well.
"In that case," her mother said pointedly, "It's very funny that your father and I should be listening to things that properly behaved young ladies wouldn't even dream of thinking, much less yelling out loud. I think, Dave," turning to her husband, "It's time we had a little session with the hairbrush. Verna and Barbara seem to have forgotten the last little episode, don't you agree?"
"I certainly do," Dave Carruthers nodded, eyeing his older daughter sternly till she quailed, turning very red in the face, and lowering her eyes. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this and I do mean bottom. Mabel, you take Verna, and I'll give Barbara what's coming to her."
"Right, Fred. Come along, young lady," Mabel Carruthers told her tomboyish brown-haired daughter who looked suddenly crestfallen. She took hold of Verna's hand and led the girl into the adjoining room and then closed the door.
"Now I want the truth, Verna,'" Mabel Carruthers emphatically declared, her hands on her hips, and staring intently at the pretty brunette teenager. "What were you and Barbara fighting over? And don't try to weasel out of it, young lady, by telling me it was just all in fun. I'm not going to repeat what I heard you and Barbara yell out at each other as we were coming down the hall. I've a good notion to wash your mouth out with soap to start with before I give you a spanking. How serious that spanking's going to be depends on your being truthful with me right now, Verna. Well?"
Verna hung her head and scuffed the rug with her sandaled foot. She was almost literally in the position between the frying pan and the fire. If she told the whole truth that it was a squabble over boyfriends, she could just imagine what a thrashing she would be in for. If she fibbed, on the other hand, she knew perfectly well that her mother considered lying as one of the seven deadly sins and would chastise accordingly. Finally, her nimble young mind came up with a faltering account in the hope of satisfying her inquisitoner: "Well, Mom, it was like this. We-Babsie and me-"
"Barbara and I," her mother irritatedly corrected. "You know perfectly well your sister detests that nickname, and so do I. It reminds me too much of the Bobbsie Twins and heaven knows the two of you would never pass muster as them, thank goodness. Though in some ways I'll admit it would be a relief to our nerves if the two of you were just as placid and sweet as those two fictional characters. All right, out with it!"
This little interlude had given Verna more time to collect her thoughts and fabricate a more plausible story. Miserably, she knew that she was in for the hairbrush no matter what she said, but the only real question was how many spanks she would get: the more convincing her story, she felt sure, the more chance she would have of diminishing what might well be an imposing and very painful number.
"Well, Mom, Barbara and I, we were talking about movie stars, and I said I liked John Wayne and Barbara said she couldn't stand him, and then we got to arguing and she said I was just a silly kid and didn't know anything and I got mad. And then, well, I guess we both lost our temper."
"Hmm," Mabel commented. "I have a hunch you're not quite telling the truth, young lady. But since I can't prove it and I'm not a wardeness at a concentration camp, I'm not about to try to use stern measures to get the real truth out of you. However," and this with a meaningful smile that sent shivers up and down Verna's spine, "I think the dose of hairbrush oil I'm going to give you ought to be a sufficient remedy to keep you from wanting to indulge in any more unlady-like pugilistic bouts with your sister from now on. Get me the hairbrush, Verna."
"Y-yes, Mother," Verna faintly stammered, blinking her eyes very rapidly to disperse the first onrush of childish tears which followed this dire order. She walked over to her dresser and gingerly picked up an old-fashioned black wooden oval shaped hairbrush which lay in a little plastic tray, and came back slowly towards ,her mother, who had seated herself in a straight-backed chair and had smoothed her skirt.
Mabel Carruthers extended her right hand for the implement of chastisement and waited. Verna did not need prompting now, for the ritual was all too familiar to her. "Pl-please, M-Mother," she quavered, "I deserve to be sp-sp-spanked for being naughty, and-and I'm awfully sorry, M-Mother."
"That will do for the time being," her mother briskly remarked. "Now get ready."
With a doleful sigh, Verna unbuttoned her cut-offs and, stopping a little, tugged them energetically down. They were extremely tight-fitting and they seemed reluctant to leave the buttocks which they shaped out so suggestively. Under them, the thin white nylon panties, quite brief and exposing just the beginning of the base of that milky behind, remained the girl's only veil.
Verna placed her cutoffs on the edge of her bed, and then slowly draped herself across Mabel Carruthers' lap, clasping her hands together, bowing her head and shoulders down low, a pose which uparched the jouncy, ample hillocks of her condemned young posterior. Mabel Carruthers laid the hairbrush down on the middle of her daughter's back, and then with both hands seized the waistband of the flimsy panties and began to roll the garment down. Without being told, Verna arched her loins up just enough so that her mother could snug the sheath off and completely expose the milky, contracting checks of her behind, leaving the panties neatly and tightly rolled up at her upper thighs.
Then, retrieving the hairbrush with her right hand, Mabel Carruthers circled her daughter's slim waist with her left arm, tucking the girl in closely to her body, lifted the hairbrush slowly. Then after studying the tightening cheeks of Verna's apprehensively quivering naked seat, she applied the first sonorous, crisp spank against the plumpest curve of the right buttock.
Verna's flesh was quite sensitive, and the bright pink imprint left by the hairbrush sprang up instantly, while the tomboyish brown-haired teenager uttered a squeal of pain and kicked up one sandaled foot, glancing up at her mother's stern face as she poignantly tried to read from Mabel Carruthers' expression just how severe this hairbrush spanking was going to be.
The svelte auburn-haired matron prided herself in never punishing in either haste or anger. Verna was therefore doomed to a prolonged and quite taxing ordeal, as her mother suspected that Verna had not been telling her the full truth about the reason for the altercation. The hairbrush applied five energetic smacks to each of the girl's bottom-summits. Then there was a brief pause, while Mabel Carruthers adjusted her hold around the girl's squirming waist, contemplated the already crimsoned behind, and resumed with five smacks to each lower summit.
There followed another pause, by which time Verna was softly crying and wriggling uneasily as she tried frantically to ease her position and at the same time hopefully disperse the growing heat that was beginning to blaze in her naked posterior.
Now came five more smacks to each upper summit, and then still another pause. Thirty hairbrush smacks already constituted a reasonably severe punishment; but in Mabel Carruthers' private opinion, Verna was due a really sound chastisement for a number of accumulated little faults which this latest episode had topped off.
She therefore clamped her right leg over the girl's calves, which at once announced to the sobbing teenager that any hope of a reprieve was gone, and proceeded to finish Verna's correction with twenty more slowly spaced strokes of the black wooden hairbrush which "touched up" the regions of that milky behind which had not yet felt the chastening sting of the parental implement of discipline. Long before the fiftieth spank fell, Verna's hips were tossing and twisting and arching wildly, her tearstained and contorted face was turned back towards her mother, and her sobbing, supplicating pleas included many a childish avowal of her intention to be a very good girl from this moment forth.
At last it was over. Verna had been well trained, as had her older sister; she did not at once rush her hands back to rub her blazing bottom though there was no doubt she was yearning to do so. She had to lie in this uncomfortable and ignominious pose, her hands still clasped in front of her, while Mabel Carruthers lectured her on the naughtiness of picking a quarrel with her own sister and over so trivial a subject. Then in the next breath, her heart almost stopped beating when her mother added, "Now that school isn't too far off, young lady, let me warn you that I'm still going to keep what I said last semester. No steady boyfriends, and that goes for Barbara too. And most of all for you, young lady, because you're not even fifteen yet. Just don't let me ever catch you flirting with some of those personable boys at school, or Verna or your father will have something to say about it with his belt after you've had the hairbrush. You understand?"
"Y-yes, Mom ... Ooh, I'll be so good, please say you forgive me, Mom!" her daughter sobbed. So long as she remained over Mabel Carruther's lap and with the latter's leg fettering hers, the state of her naked blazing behind made her terribly apprehensive that her mother might decide to impart a little extra "touching up" to her already fiery naked posterior.
But finally it was over and the sobbing youngsters was allowed to rise from her mother's lap, and then, her panties still tangled around her thighs, to put her arms around the svelte auburn-haired matron and to kiss her and tearfully express her repentance and her regreat....
Meanwhile in her own room, brunette Barbara faced a rather more trying ordeal. Dave Carruthers had made his older daughter remove her skirt and panties, undo the tabs of her garterbelt, and then lie over his lap as he seated himself on the edge of her bed. With his left arm tucked around her waist, he began her punishment with a sound and energetic handspanking of about forty slaps which covered the jouncy ivory-sheened globes quite thoroughly. Despite what she considered an almost grownup age, Barbara wasn't able to hold back her tears and sobs, and soon her pretty sandaled feet were kicking wildly up and down as Dave Carruthers' big hand smacked angrily against her reddening bare behind.
But it was to her consternation to discover, when the spanking was over, that he was unbuckling his belt and drawing it up out of the loops of his trousers, then doubling it in his hand.
"Ohh, Daddy, please not your belt! I'll be so good, I didn't mean to fight with Verna, oh please, Daddy, let me off any more! YOU spanked so hard," she poignantly wailed.
"I don't like to hear any daughter of mine using some of those dirty words you were yelling at Verna, young lady," he grimly reminded her as he laid the doubled belt against her reddened posterior. "I'm going to give you twelve good ones, and you'd better not ever let me catch you swearing like that again, or I'll make it fifty with the belt as a starter, do you hear me, Barbara?"
"Oh yes, D-Daddy, oh please, my bottom hurts so awfully already," Barbara Carruthers sniffled.
But this plea brought no sympathy from her father. The doubled black leatherbelt rose in the air, then descended violently with a noisy thwack against the broadest curves of the huddling inflamed bare cheeks. A squeal of anguish tore from the victim, as she kicked her legs up and down, wriggling over his lap, quite heedless of the salacious spectacle she was making of herself.
By the time the fifth smack of the belt had bitten across her vividly splotched naked seat, Barbara was crying like a child and begging forgiveness and mercy in the same breath, wriggling so frantically that her father had to pull her closer to him with his left arm against her bare waist.
He lectured her now at each of the final seven spanks: "I just want you to be sure you won't forget what I've been telling you about using such terrible language-" Smack "-do you hear me, Barbara?"
"Owww, ohhh!! Oh yes, Daddy, I hear you. I promise I won't, oh please not any more!"
"We're going to have a new neighbor and his grownup daughter in the neighborhood, Barbara, and I hope you're going to set a good example-"Whack!" She's a year older than you are, I hear, and she's never been spanked. And I don't want you trying to act as grownup as I'm told she does, you understand me, Barbara?" Crack!
"Oww-oh yes, Daddy-Arrhhh! Oww! I'll promise I'll be good, oh please, oh please let up now, Daddy!"
But all her supplications were in vain; the full dozen spanks were inflicted with the stinging belt, and when it was all over, lovely creamy-skinned Barbara Carruthers wept like a child as her hips kept frantically swerving back and forth across her father's lap. Just the same, though it was dreadful for her, she still had presence of mind to say a silent prayer of thanksgiving that her father hadn't really found out why she and Verna had been fighting. It could have been a lot worse!