Copyright 1997 to <email@example.com>.
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[This first story was posted by Bea/Peg along
with my original delurk. What with one thing and another, I
never got around to writing the second part (let alone the third
or fourth parts) until now. Reading this over, I noticed the
change in my writing style. I can only hope it's been for the
better. Comments are always welcome. Just keep in mind please
that this is a work of fiction rather than my take on good child
I want to dedicate this, my first posting,
to Bea [who is of course now Peg] who took the time to show
me around ASSville
and whose gentle e-mails gave me the means and courage to post.
May all her wishes and dreams come true.
The Marks She Earned (part 1: 'At Dinner')
Last quarter was the start of my second year
of college, my first year living away from home (I'm a 19-year-old
Mexican-American - traditionally we don't move out until we
get married). My parents brought me up strict Roman Catholic
(twelve years of Catholic school - four at an all-girls academy!).
I was not allowed to date or wear clothes my mother hadn't approved
first. I'd spent my first year of college at a Catholic all-women
college which I commuted to from their house. Although I wouldn't
have called them harsh, my father spanked me with his hand and
a ping-pong paddle - if not frequently, then consistently for
certain offenses (lying, defying him or my mother, getting bad
marks etc.) - until I was about twelve, when they switched to
Although my Santa Barbara university is only
an hour and a half away from my parents' home, it seemed a world
away. No more curfews, no more rules about my clothes or make-up.
I felt like I'd been released.
I also thought I needed to make up for lost
time. Although I did alright in two of my classes (I managed
to get a B and B-), my third class was Medieval British History
(too boring) and it met at one o'clock in the afternoon. By
then I was usually lying on the beach working on my tan or playing
volleyball. I missed more of these classes than I attended.
Finally I went to the professor (a kind, grandfatherly sort,
I thought) and explained to him that my grandmother was ill
and I was driving back and forth to LA to sit at her deathbed.
He was very sympathetic and offered me an 'incomplete', which
I would finish by turning in a paper during the winter break.
Well, of course, during break, I decided I had better things
to do than sit in a library researching Edward III so I called
my professor and told him my grandmother had passed away. As
I expected, he immediately offered me another month to finish
the assignment. I smugly assumed I was home free - an assumption
which would soon and sadly be painfully removed!
Two weeks into the semester I returned to
my dorm-room after breakfast to find a message from Daddy on
my answering machine. He informed me that he would be in Santa
Barbara that night and wanted to take me out to dinner. I was
to wait outside for the car by six. There was nothing that unusual
in my getting such a message - my father is a software designer
and has clients all over SoCal. What I was most concerned about
was how to hide the 'love bite' that Trent, my current boyfriend,
left on my neck the night before. Before you ask, yes, I am
still a virgin, at least in the technical sense.
Not knowing where we would go to dinner (my
father has excellent if expensive tastes) I wore a slightly-above-the-knee
silk dress and heels. My tan is dark enough that I don't need
to wear hose. I solved the 'love bite' problem with several
layers of foundation. I figured with regular applications of
powder, I could conceal the mark - if not, I could pretend it
was a curling iron burn. I French-braided my shoulder-length
black hair and went down to the lobby to wait for Daddy.
As I sat in the lobby I chatted with other
students, who, seeing me dressed up, wanted to know where I
was going. My boyfriend invited me to come to his room for a
late-night beer party. I said I couldn't, that I would need
to wash my hair. I really didn't care that my excuse sounded
totally lame. Trent was irritated (he's Anglo and flushes) and
"Well, don't forget tomorrow night, Tess.
Be ready by 7:00." (Friday was his fraternity formal invite.)
I rolled my eyes and raised my voice just
slightly (I kind of liked bugging him - he's got no sense of
"Chill!! Like I'd forget a party I had
to buy a new dress for??"
I knew that I sounded bitchy, that the formal
was a big deal, the one everyone wanted to attend,
but I was still irritated about his leaving marks Daddy might
see on my neck. He didn't kiss me goodbye but just growled,
"have fun", and stalked off.
I nearly called after to apologize, but just
then my father's truck pulled up in front of the dorm so I shrugged
Trent off - after all, I could make it up to him tomorrow.
Daddy got out of the Blazer. He's not tall,
maybe 5'10", but he is stocky (180 and muscular) and that
makes him look taller, particularly in a suit. He came around
to my side of the truck to greet me and help me in (I'm barely
5 feet tall). I noticed his look at me seemed quite intense
and my hand instinctively went up to cover my neck. He didn't
say anything about it, however. Instead, he asked me about my
roommate and my courses. I chattered at him, being careful not
to mention Trent or the remarkable improvement in my beach volleyball
game. His silence made me tense. I wondered if he had considered
how tan I was, and the number of hours I was spending lying
on the beach to maintain it.
"Where are we going?" I finally asked.
"Le --- in the Hotel de ---. I'm staying
the night there."
I was surprised. My father did not usually
spend a night away from home without my mother. But he didn't
explain and I just assumed he had some sort of business near
here in the morning. Our table was waiting for us when we arrived.
Dinner progressed normally enough and I began to think I might
make Trent's party after all. Then came the coffee and dessert.
I would mark this as the point where the evening deteriorated.
Before the waiter came with my chocolate cheesecake
and Daddy's espresso, my father passed me some mail that he
said had come to the house and I "might want to look over".
I set it aside, planning to read it later that night. The dessert
came, but as I was about to take my first bite, a voice next
to me said:
"Miss R---! How delightful to see you!"
I looked up to see Professor Payne, my history
professor, the one I had an incomplete from, smiling down at
me. I could feel my heart beating faster as I introduced him
to Daddy. "Please don't mention the incomplete," I
thought as he sat down at our table. "Please don't mention
the 'death' of my grandmother, who is probably at this moment
eating dinner with my mother." There was a roar like giant
seashells were pressed against my head and I felt both sick
"Please God, don't let me get caught."
I all but said it out loud.
Still, it seemed to be going well. They were
talking about a (surprise!) mutual friend they had discovered.
They didn't seem to hear the beating of my telltale heart. To
distract myself from my mounting anxiety, I began to leaf through
the (mostly) still-sealed mail. Credit card applications. Magazine
subscriptions. The last envelope was card-shaped and addressed
to my family. It had already been slit open.
Inside was a card with a picture of lilies
on the front. My heart dropped into my stomach and crashed into
the suddenly-leaden dinner. The roar in my ears was deafening.
It was a condolence card.
Do I have to tell you who it was from?? I looked
up and my dad and Professor Payne were watching me - my professor
with a slight smile that was utterly chilling. Both of them
met my gaze.
I was trapped.
"Well, Teresa Maria?" said Daddy
softly. "What do you have to say to us?"
"I don't know - I mean I didn't think
. . ." I stammered, trying to think of something to say.
Tears were forming in my eyes. I looked at my father, then my
professor, and back to Daddy. He called for the check and signed
it to his room. I was like a zombie - unable to protest 'cause
I couldn't possibly excuse this. As Daddy led me firmly by the
arm out of the dining room, I barely noticed Professor Payne
hand him a folded sheet of paper.
"Come by to see me tomorrow and we'll
discuss your grade," was the last thing I heard as the
elevator door closed.
I took a deep breath and started. "Daddy,
I'm sorry. I just didn't know what to do. I -"
He turned suddenly and slapped me. Not hard
enough to bruise, but the sting stopped my flow of words. His
grip tightened on my arm. Just before the door opened, he said:
"You have no idea how sorry you are going
to be. I thought you were a young lady, but it appears you are
only a spoiled, dishonest little girl."
I was still pondering Daddy's remark as he
pulled me into his suite. He yanked me toward the couch and
I half fell, half sat down on it. Tears of self-pity were leaking
out the sides of my eyes and trickling down my face. What would
happen to me now? Was Daddy pulling me out of school? Would
I have to move home again? Through the tears I glanced around
the room. Why had my father gotten a suite anyway? Was I not
even going to be allowed to go back to my dorm for one night?
And what was that over there on the bar?
A ping-pong paddle, its wooden surface laid
bare, rested on the marble surface. A ping-pong paddle in a
hotel suite. I thought I recognized it. It wasn't used for games,
had never in my memory touched a ball.. As far as I knew it
had only ever been used on my backside. Still though, wasn't
I nineteen years old?
I couldn't help squirming on the couch, the
blood rushing to my face. My bottom began to itch, like the
blood was rushing to it too. My father had taken off his jacket
and was now neatly rolling up his right sleeve - a gesture I
suddenly remembered painfully from my childhood. Everything
clicked into place - the meaning of the suite clear. There were
no adjoining rooms and at 8:00 p.m. on a warm night it was possible
no-one was even in any of the rooms on our floor.
Daddy pulled a straight-backed chair from the
vanity out into the middle of the room, positioning it carefully
in otherwise empty space. Finally he looked down at me. My face
was slick with tears, my nose was running, my dress was riding
"Teresa, will you make me come get you
or will you walk over to me?"
I tried to get up, to obey him, but my body
rebelled. I was rooted to that couch.
"You can't do this," I said. "I'm
an adult now. I'm in college . . . you can't just spank me."
My women's studies rhetoric came flooding back
to me. Right here, right now, I was a victim of patriarchy!
I had to resist!!
Daddy walked over to the bar and picked up
the paddle. He set it on the floor next to the chair. Then he
walked over to me. His eyes narrowed (this was a signal I should
have heeded - he was here - my feminist professor was not).
"This is your last chance to come over
and take your punishment. I promise this will be much worse
if you make me make you. I want you to stand up, walk over to
the chair, pull down your panties, and turn yourself over my
When I did nothing but sit and leak tears
with my hands over my face, his arm shot out and he picked me
up by my waist. My resistance was limited. Part of my brain
(the part I should have listened to) told me to be still. But
I wasn't. I started trying to kick and yell. All I accomplished
was the loss of my shoes. Daddy sat down in the chair and yanked
me across his lap. My dress was bunched up in my armpits. I
kicked. I called my Daddy el hijo de puta (a son-of-a-bitch
- only sorta worse, not really very wise of me). Daddy picked
up the paddle and swung it down on the tops of my legs, SMACK.
Once, twice - fives time on each thigh. I began to cry. My hands
reached back to protect my backside - Daddy cracked them with
the paddle and grabbed them with his left hand, pinning them
behind my back. Daddy then went to work on my bottom, now covered
only by thin panties, as I begged him to stop.
The swats from the paddle alternated back and
forth between my left and right cheek. I no longer was capable
of resisting. I simply cried aloud as my brain counted the strokes
of the paddle. I reached twenty-five (not counting the first
ten) when my father lifted me off his lap and onto my feet right
in front of him. My hands tried to rub the heat out of my bottom
as the tears streamed down my cheeks. As I stood before my father,
barefoot, my hands under my dress rubbing my stinging backside,
I felt like I did when I was ten years old. Shy, foolish, ashamed
and (mistakenly) glad the punishment was over, my sobs turned
into little gulping gasps and my tears continued to fall.
My father still held onto the paddle. "Now,
pull down your panties and bend over my knee. Let's see if we
can finally start."
I burst out sobbing. I couldn't believe this
punishment wasn't over.
"You need twenty-five more to help you
think about obeying me?"
This got my hands moving. They felt as if
I had no thumbs - or as if I was all thumbs. I reached under
my dress, turning my back to Daddy as I fumbled with the waistband
of my panties. Shaking, I slid them down to my knees, then off,
and turned to face my punishment.
[continued in part
2 . . .]
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