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Right now I'm being haunted by the image of
switches. I can imagine walking through the woods fearfully,
knowing what he's looking for, seeing each tree with a little
tremble. Feeling vulnerable in my skirt. Wondering if there's
anyone around as I see him break a slender branch off and start
to strip the leaves from it.
I imagine him turning to me, handing me the
switch and then bending to take my knickers down, then off.
Leading me to a fallen tree, laying a rug over it and waiting.
My heart would pound and I'd feel the unexpected breeze beneath
my skirt. I'd consider fleeing and discard it as impossible.
Tremble as I pressed my stomach against the log, feeling him
raise my skirt high onto my back.
There'd be talk of course, but I can't think
of what it would be. Something to let me know this was being
done to correct me. Would I cry yet? Perhaps. The first stroke
would sting sharply, like being cut. More would follow, enough
so I'd try to rise and have to be held back over. The sting
would torment my legs, my bottom, and I'd cry then sob frantically.
He'd finally stop, leaving me with a bottom
covered with lacy red welts that itched to be rubbed. But that
isn't allowed. My skirt would fall back as he lifted me up and
sat himself on the log to comfort me. I'd make his shirt wet
with my tears as he patted and rubbed my bottom, reminding me
He'd hold my hand as we walked back through
the woods to the car. I'd long to rub but know I couldn't. In
the parking lot, I'd worry about a passing breeze lifting my
skirt and showing my marks. I'd be sure everyone could see I'd
The welts would burn into the car seat as
he drove us home.
to stories about us
to the treehouse