I have toyed with the idea of writing a memoir about my life in Domestic Discipline, but two things are stopping me. First is the fact that I have always thought that autobiographies are nothing but pure narcissism. Don’t get me wrong, all published works are acts of narcissism: we as writers not only believe our work is good, but we know you will think it is good too! But memoirs are a special kind of narcissistic. While I might write a snappy little piece of spanking fiction (don’t worry, new tab!), it’s just that: fiction. Characters and situations that I came up with. They don’t exist, they live in my head. And you if you read my story, your head as well. But with a memoir, the author believes that you are so engrossed with their life that you will spend hours going through hundreds of pages to read about where they’ve been and what they’ve done. And maybe you will. A different kind of narcissism.
The other reason is bit more tangible. Amazon has an iron-clad policy against publishing works that involve sexual situations with minors. And that is a policy that I completely understand and agree with! But it makes it difficult to publish a memoir dealing with my life as a spanko that starts quite a bit before my 18th birthday. With that in mind, if you have any objection to material that involves a less-than-adult version of me in sexual situations, please don’t read any further.These stories aren’t necessarily intended to arouse, but arouse they might, and I certainly don’t want anyone to be offended by the content or narcissism of publishing these stories.
And if you are? Oh well, spank me!
Growing up, my parents never spanked me. It’s not that they didn’t believe in it. My mother would threaten it whenever she felt it would get her point across, and on more than one occasion my father told my older sister he would take his belt to her if she didn’t start acting her age. That always shut her right up, which led me to believe she had prior experience with that scenario, but she would never tell me, and I wasn’t about to ask Daddy.
Just because I was never spanked, didn’t mean I wasn’t keenly aware of it. I knew my friends parents spanked them. They never talked about it when they could avoid it, but when I asked them what they were doing after school and I was told, “homework” I knew what that meant. Or rather, I imagined what that meant. I fantasized about what that meant. It didn’t occur to me that I could spank myself until much later in life, and that always proved to be fruitless. So I was left with an overactive imagination about what a spanking was like and no way to scratch that itch. Mind you, the internet was a thing by this time, but my father was not keen on having it tie up the phone line in the house. It would be another two years before we got that luxury, and by the time internet (and internet porn) was a thing on cellphones, most of my questions had been answered.
On the days when my friends were “doing homework” I would go straight home and pull out a dated copy of Webster’s Dictionary from under my bed and flip to the S’s. The page with the word ‘spank’ was dogeared and discolored from being opened there some many times. I would read the definition over and over, the closest thing to pornography I had. Often I would find myself subconsciously grinding my hips against a pillow. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew it felt good, and I knew that reading the formal definition of spanking made it better. I would hump my pillow for hours until my parents got home. I never got close to actually climaxing… jeans and panties and not knowing how to use one’s hand prevented that, but the act was there, and spanking was the catalyst.
I was fourteen when I finally got the opportunity to see first hand what I spent so many afternoons dreaming about. I got permission to ride the bus home with my friend Becca. She lived in the subdivision across the street and my mom wasn’t home to drive me over and she didn’t like me crossing the busy intersection. Becca lived in what my mother called ‘The Hills’ although it would be a while before I understood the reference. Becca’s parents were well off and it showed. Their house was massive and well decorated and always spotless. Very different from our small house with two bedrooms and a shared bathroom. Becca had her own room with a private bath and a TV and video games and a laptop. We spent the afternoon playing Playstation and flipping through fashion magazines. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until the phone rang downstairs.
Becca’s face went completely pale and she started to shiver. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me it was probably time I went home. I looked at my plastic Disney Princess watch. It was 4:30pm. My mom wouldn’t be over to pick me up until 5pm.
“I can’t go yet, Becca. What’s wrong?” I asked.
She grabbed my wrist and pulled me to my feet. “Nothing, it’s just I don’t feel good. You should go wait downstairs.” She tried to pull me towards the door, but I dug my feet into the carpet and wouldn’t budge.
“Becca, what is going on?” I demanded.
She tugged harder. I pulled back and she lost her grip. I fell on my butt and stared up at her. She was ghost white and beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Her fingers trembled. I started to stand up when the door into Becca’s room burst open, slamming against the pink wall. Her mother stood in the doorway, her face red, her mouth twisted into a frown. She held a wooden spoon and tapped it gravely against her open palm.
Becca whirled around. “Mommy, please,” she started.
Her mother burst in and grabbed Becca by the wrist. Her body went limp, and her mother dragged her to the bed, amidst kicking and pleading.
“Mommy, no, Asti’s here. Please, pleeeeeeeease,” she wailed.
“I cannot believe you!” her mother shrieked. She was in her own world, not hearing her daughter’s cries, oblivious to my presence. “Skipping class? Again?! Get over here!”
Tears streamed down her face. Her mother grabbed the waist of her jeans and Becca jumped back. “No, please.”
Her mother either didn’t hear her or pretended not to. She unbuttoned Becca’s jeans and yanked them down with her panties in one quick motion. A look of horror flashed across Becca’s face as she stood naked, a patch of bright red public hair visible for all to see. Her nudity only lasted a second as her mother pulled her over her knee and started to spank her with the spoon.
I was in shock. I had always imagined a spanking to be calm and collected with a hand (or as my father threatened, with a belt) and for it to take a while before you cried. None of that happened. Becca was bawling as soon as the spoon smacked her naked butt. Her mother brought the spoon down with such speed and force I was sure the sound barrier was about to be broken. She didn’t listen to her daughters cries or pleas. Becca’s butt got redder and redder, the spoon left a phantom outline after each swat.
I’m not sure how long it lasted. Long enough that Becca eventually stopped pleading and then even stopped crying. The only sound she made was a pitiful gasp each time her mother spanked her. When she was done every inch of Becca’s bottom was a deep red and sweat dripped from her forehead. She dropped the spoon on the ground and told Becca to stand in corner. Becca did as she was told, weakly getting off her mother’s knee and shuffling to the corner with her jeans and panties around her feet.
Her mom turned to me. “Asti, you should wait downstairs for your mother.”
I scrambled to my feet and hightailed it down to the living room. I heard the bedroom door shut behind me. I waited by the front door with my backpack in hand ready to go as soon as my mother’s sedan pulled into the driveway. Becca’s mother yelled at her, her voice obscured by the closed door and distance, but the sound of more smacks to Becca’s bottom were clear as day. I rushed out when my mother’s call pulled in. She tried to talk to me about my day, but my mind was elsewhere. Mostly back in Becca’s room, watching her mom swing the wooden spoon like a woman possessed while her daughter struggled over her knee.
I didn’t realize it until I got home and up to my room, but my panties were soaked. Mixed emotions ate at me. Fear, disbelief, excitement. I spaced out through most of dinner and when I crawled into bed that evening I lay on my stomach with my pillow between my legs. No amounting of humping would make the lingering fire in my groin go away. I touched myself over my pajama bottoms but didn’t dare go any further. I eventually rolled over and drifted to sleep, horny and confused. I finally saw what I always wanted: a real spanking. But rather than being satisfied, I would more curious than ever.
Asti Rymark Erotic Fiction 