Avena Davidson’s teacher had just alerted her parents to another poor report card. Her father was a strict, old-fashioned disciplinarian. There was no way out.

You are welcome to contact the author, Avena Davidson.

With another bad report card, at sixteen years of age, my father would soon be taking my panties down, again.

My sisters and I were almost always spanked by Dad. Mum would rarely administer domestic discipline but would be present and sometimes held us in place. Spankings began in childhood and continued to late teenage life – my last one was at 19. Never using his bare hand, our father favoured spanking implements delivered with the arc and vigour of a hard tennis racket swing. Although we were girls, he delivered sound and thorough spankings never going easy on us.  A strict protocol was enforced.

My bottom was bared over the years for a variety of infractions and offences including laziness, hanging out late with friends and not doing my schoolwork. On this fateful day, my teacher had called both parents regarding my troubling report card – my dad was at work and my mother was at home – so there was no way to lie.

“Get in our room,” I remember my father growling once he returned home from work.  I was still in my school uniform as I entered my parent’s bedroom with other stuff cleared and a table in the middle. This was my father’s standard; we never got to lay across his knees or thighs. All our spankings were bare bottom, no ifs, no buts. Sometimes he would let us undress, other times, he would take off our lower clothes. This time, he unclipped my skirt, pulled down my tights (or pantyhose) and yanked down my knickers (panties). I lowered myself until my upper body lay flat against the table squishing my boobs. My mother held my hands keeping me firmly in place and preventing any unnecessary movement.

This time I would receive eight agonizing cuts with the whippy handle of the wooden feather duster. Eight was the number earned as I scored eighty below my expected grade. I would have to count each stroke, as usual. While I could cry as much as I wanted, swearing or doing anything to impede the spanking would only serve to increase the punishment. This wasn’t my first time but somehow the first lick seemed harder than usual, I screamed so loud with my saliva drooling out. By the fourth count and halfway mark, I felt my voice nearly dying out, yet my father told me to count louder. At the sixth searing stroke, I thought my bum was no more while a torrent of tears drenched my face..

“Eight!” I cried with the wooden handle burning mercilessly into my tormented naked flesh. I felt glued to the table as my mum had to literally pry me off. She rubbed something oily over my bum causing me to scream in pain again – there was absolutely no relief. Still bare beneath my waist, she picked up my lower clothes and guided me out: Moving slowly, my steps were somehow constrained by my painfully punished and blazing red buttocks. Lying face down on my bed, I barely heard the number of days I would be grounded – more tears and saliva flowed out staining my pillow.

You are welcome to contact the author, Avena Davidson.