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Behind the Woodshed
Sometimes you just have to take them behind the woodshed.
Heaven knows I don't take any pleasure in it. The cause is backtalk mainly. What my own daddy would have called "sass."
She's a good little minx, mostly. But she'll just go a little too far, push a little too hard. Not every time. These trips are pretty rare. Sometimes a sharp smack or two on her bottom or across her cheek'll be enough. Maybe some of you don't think people should get slapped on their face. And maybe that's right for you and yours. But I know a swift little slap is just what my girl needs sometime. It brings her right back to herself. So think and do whatever you want. I'll do the same.
But anyway, sometimes that's not enough. And we have to take a little trip across the back garden, out to the apple tree behind the woodshed.
I make her come with me. Take good hold of her wrist and she comes along. I don't have to tug - she doesn't lag. I don't kid myself. It's not that she's eager or because she knows she deserves this. She follows me closely because she knows if she resists, I'm going to take her pants and panties down right there and give her a quick bare-bottom smacking. My girl's not fond of having her backside bared in the great outdoors so I get a lot of obedience.
And tears, of course.
The walk across the garden to the tree behind the woodshed is slowed by her tears. She starts to cry as soon as my hand grasps her wrist. That's all it takes to hear how sorry she is. I won't lie, part of me hates seeing those tears, wants to hug and comfort her. But that has to come later. Right then I have to tell her why she should be sorry. And how much sorrier she's about to be.
The apple tree is a pretty thing. Not too tall, but hardy in this mild climate. I don't know why it was planted behind the woodshed - you can hardly see it from the rest of the garden. The walk's useful though. The tree needs little pruning beyond the walks I take with my girl. She has to stand and watch while I cut one, two, three - worse case four - switches off that apple tree. As I cut them, I pass each over to her. My girl has to carry them for me, back across the garden.
I've thought, briefly, about using the woodshed for her switchings. The idea has a certain romantic traditionalism. But the truth is, the shed's got a pretty low roof. And besides, I want her to fear the switch, not some spider lurking beneath the woodpile. So our trips are behind the woodshed for the switches and then back across the garden to the house.
With my hand holding one wrist and the switches grasped in the other, my girl can't wipe her eyes anymore. So her tears fall freely on our walk back. I don't scold now. She wouldn't hear me anyway. She only has eyes for the switches. I can see her watching them bend with each step.
Back at the house, I take them from her and send her to the room. To her corner. She's not the sort who can stand still for long by herself. But I'm there, behind her, trimming the switches, stripping them of leaves and buds until all that's left are the swishy rods.
I cut them through the air a few times each before setting them aside. Before I go and fetch my girl from the corner, I stack the pillows at the side of the bed.
She stands in front of me, tearfully apologizing, promising to be a better girl as I tug down her jeans and panties. Softly I kiss her forehead, tell her I know she's a good girl - know that she wants to be good.
The sting, I say, will help her remember.
She nods, hopeless now. It's an easy trip over the pillows, bottom high, toes just brushing the floor. The switches are almost silent, whistling into her tender bottom and legs.
My girl isn't quiet though. She can't be. My left hand holds hers in the small of her back. She tries to stay in position, tries to prove she can be a good girl, but soon my hand is restraining and controlling.
If I have to use more than one switch (a more serious lesson), the pillows get pushed aside and my girl goes over my knee where I can hold her in place. Her howls tell me she's contrite and make me sure this won't be a lesson we'll need to revisit soon.
The switching over, I hold her close as she sobs, feeling her tears against my chest as I stroke her hair to help her hush.
Whatever the time, I help her into soft, clean panties and PJs. It never takes long to rock her to sleep.
I gather the switches when I leave. There'll be no trace for my girl to see when she wakes.
These days are hard. And, thankfully, few. But sometimes, you know, you just have to take them behind the woodshed.
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