Copyright 1997 to <mijita@thetreehouse.net>. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

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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 rearing. ;)]

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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.

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[Image of Little Miss Naughty] The Marks She Earned (part 1: 'At Dinner')
by Mija

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 grounding me.

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 said:

"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 humor).

"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 and dizzy.

"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 up.

"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 knee."

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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