My stepmother had just died, only two months after my father passed away. I truly think that she died of a broken heart, and wanted only to join with him in the afterlife as she had here on earth. I could now see that she was capable of love, at least for him, at least in her own way. I was named executor of their estate.
“It seems so strange to be back in this house, back in their bedroom!” I confided.
“How long has it been since you were last here?” Robert asks, putting a comforting arm around me.
“Oh, gee… five years…” He knows that I didn’t get along with her, so didn’t feel welcomed back.
“Are you okay?”
“Thanks for asking… no, not really. There are so many ghosts in here…” My eyes tear-up from all the memories, from the sense of loss. I drift away, enveloped by the past.
I stared at their marital bed, wondered how many times they’d actually made love in it. (They certainly wouldn’t have had intercourse anywhere else in the house.) She was such a puritanical prude, and then made my father that way. I remember him when he was with my real mother, how openly affectionate they were… Was it a reaction against this surrogate parent that made me such a sexual deviant?
Thinking about that, my mind wanders to that Saturday afternoon about a month after she’d married into our family. She called me into this room, was sitting on this very bed. She started to lecture me about staying out too late the night before. Curfew for this high school senior was midnight, and I’d snuck in at twelve-twenty, BFD! Her voice grew shrill.
“You’re not my mother, you can’t tell me what to do!” I screamed back at her.
“I am your parent now, and I will see that you and your sister are raised right.”
More harsh words were exchanged, I saw red! Then, suddenly, I was over her lap and looking at the hardwood floor. I felt her pulling my clothing out of the way.
“You can’t spank me! You can’t… I’m too old for… Stop it!”
She was strong, and righteous indignation made her all the stronger. Her many slaps hurt, but she didn’t think it was enough, so reached into her nearby purse and produced her hairbrush. These wallops really stung. I struggled. She hit my bottom all the harder. Finally, after about ten wicked spanks, I wrenched myself free and stood over her.
“That’s the last time you’ll ever do that to me!” I vowed.
I was partially right. As soon as my father came home later that day, they conferred, with lots of animated back-and-forth. They disappeared into this room, and after more conversation, I was called in about ten minutes later.
“Your mother tells me that besides breaking curfew, you were disrespectful, belligerent, even physical with her…” I didn’t really hear what he said after his second word because I was screaming inside my head that she was not my mother. I returned to being in the here and now, with him pacing and her standing in front of that open window. I heard him say, “Bend over the bed…” as he started to unbuckle his belt.
He’d never punished me, he’d never had to! That was the key, it was all this woman’s doing. I obeyed, but telegraphed with my body language that I wasn’t happy about it. I felt him raising my skirt in back.
“We decided that you’d get this belt-whipping across your panty-clad bottom… this time… I hope that there won’t be a next time…!” My mind didn’t follow his reasoning, went off in its own direction, thinking that she didn’t want him to see how hard she’d already punished me, that she didn’t want him to see the mature bottom of a woman too old for corporal punishment, didn’t want him to see a voluptuous woman’s bottom compared to that of a shriveled up shrew…
He started to strap me. Each lash hurt more than the last. By the fifth one, I lost control over my body; my right hand lifted from the bed with the intention of rubbing the burning pain back there. Immediately, my stepmother dove across the bed to grab both my wrists and hold them down in place. We glowered at one another as my father whipped my backside a while longer.
I was crying, back in the present, with Robert’s arm around my heaving shoulders. My hands flew to my bluejeans’ button and zipper. I wriggled them down. It took a lot of effort, they were skin tight, so tight that they took my underwear down with them.
“Take your belt out, Robert. Whip my butt for me! I really need it… need to exorcise some ghosts…”
My loving Top gave me what I needed, exorcised my demons, exercised his strong right arm and my sturdy ass. His belt cracking across my innocent cheeks brought me right back to that Saturday, to all the times that she convinced my dad that I needed a refresher-lesson. She never spanked me after that day, but she held my wrists and looked me dead in the eye, as her loving husband beat my butt for her. I got it about once a month, until I decided I had to leave home. How I hated her! How I hated the beatings with that old belt! And now I live for it! Robert leathered me thoroughly.
“Fuck me, lover!” I yelled out, and helped Robert out of his clothes so that we could do it all the sooner.
We coupled from behind, a position I’m sure was foreign to the prude, with Robert massaging my reddened rump as he plowed into me. I held off orgasm after orgasm, feeling them build inside me until I couldn’t hold back any longer. When I finally let it rip, it was a screamer of an orgasm, it was a squirter of an orgasm; I gushed all over their bedsheets. Without missing a beat, I dabbed my fingertips into the viscous puddle and smeared some of the slick stuff up my butt crack.
“You know where I want it…” I growled at my lover. He gripped the fanny flesh he’d been rubbing and parted me wide. “This one’s for you, bitch…!” I whispered under my breath, knowing that somewhere she was watching us, that I was having the last say. The butt whippings I used to fear and detest are now the focal point in my active sex life. We fuck all the fucking time, joyously, uninhibitedly, so uninhibited, I often ask my lover to defile my well-whipped ass, just as he was doing now. It was a raunchy, filthy butt-fuck, just like I like it. I groaned and growled and cursed, loving the invasion where I shouldn’t love to be fucked, where no “good girl” would think about entertaining her lover. “Oh, fuck me up my butt, Robert!” I screamed to high heaven. “You always fuck my ass so well! Cum inside me there… fuck me hard… yes, cum for me… Yes… Yes…” Good riddance, I said as I imagined her chastened spirit scoot out the open window. The wind ruffled the curtains, then all was still.
The sooner we could sell this house and all its contents, the better, in my opinion. Then we’d split the money evenly between my sister and me. She didn’t want a thing in here. The only thing I kept was my father’s old leather belt. It reminds me how a life can come full circle, and that it’s never too late to have a happy childhood. I’ve often wondered if, after I left home, my younger sister ever felt that belt in dad’s hands; I’ve never asked. She never married, isn’t very sexual, kinky or otherwise. Maybe, if she sees the distinctive belt hanging in our closet, it’ll spark that conversation.
PLEASE NOTE: This piece is a total fabrication. Though it contains some biographical elements, it is entirely fictionalized, inspired by the photo.