ABBIE, YOU’RE A BAD GIRL

“Abbie, Abbie, Abbie, my God woman what have you done now.” I’m Abigail Dunsmore (nee Warton) and my loving husband Richard’s reading the mail and he certainly does not like what he’s just learned. It seems our mortgage payment to the Home Loan Society is two months in arrears. And of course I’m at fault, I manage our household finances.

“Abbie, how could this have happened, where’s your sense of responsibility? I supply you with sufficient funds to meet our obligations, the expenses of running the house and adequate money for your personal needs, what have you done?”

“Where’s your head dear, why do we have days like today? This morning I had no shirts ironed; you ironed one after I complained but as a consequence I was late getting to the office then I came home to the odor of a burning roast and now this, please explain.”

“Oh Dickie, I try to be responsible but I guess I’m just a flighty girl, I’ll try to do much better in the future, I really will.”

I can explain it to myself; I’m a conniving little bitch. I know what I want and now I think I’m going to get it. It’s not something I want all the time, every day, but every three or four months I need it. Of course I’d not ironed his shirt, to burn the roast I’d set the oven temperature to 450 degrees and the money for the past due mortgage payments was in my bank account. I’d catch up on the ironing and post the payments tomorrow. Unfortunately the roast was beyond the help of medical science.

“Abbie, I know you’ll try, you have my confidence but, perhaps a little reminder’s in order, please go upstairs, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Oh please Dickie, no, I really do mean it, I’ll do better in the future, I promise.”

“Abbie, please, go and wait for me,” Richard ordered.

With a forlorn fearful face I trudged up. The look was for Dickie’s benefit, it wouldn’t pay for him to know all of my secrets, my knickers were damp. I was going go get a spanking, a well deserved spanking.

I’d learned at my father’s hand. W. Wallace Warton could be a severe man and he certainly was a believer in corporeal punishment. Please, I’m not implying that he was brutal, he wasn’t. He gave me the strap on two occasions but his punishments were appropriate to the transgression. I got the strap for coming home intoxicated when I was fourteen and again when I was suspended from school for being caught smoking marijuana in my junior year. They made their impression; I’ve not gotten drunk again although I do truly enjoy an occasional cocktail or a glass of wine and I’ve smoked nothing, marijuana nor cigarette since that day.

I don’t remember when he didn’t spank; I guess I was five or six the first time I went across his knee. It was on my bottom, over my dress. He gave me four or five good whacks then stood me up and explained why the discipline was necessary. That was Daddy’s way. The spanking then the lecture but you knew what was expected of you.

The more serious the deed the less protection I was afforded; over the dress, dress raised and on the panties or panties down; and always the lecture. I think I managed to average one a month until I left for home for college.

Mother wasn’t immune either, I’m sure Daddy still takes her in hand occasionally. She does have a penchant for mischief once in a while; I think I inherited my perverse desire for a warm bottom from her.

Initially I tried to avoid punishment. It hurt, oh not terribly so, the lectures were worse but I really didn’t look forward to a spanking. Then at age twelve, I’d just had my first menstrual period and I’d done something particularly devilish. He took me to his den, that’s where punishment was administered, and I lay across his knees. I never knew until I was in place which of the three ways I was going to get it. He lifted my skirt over my back and lowered my panties to my knees. I though, oh, oh, it’s on the bare.

He never gave more than ten whacks, usually less. This time I got the full ten. After five something happened to me, my tummy felt funny and I felt a tingling between my legs, a wonderful tingle then I felt wet and gooey down there, I lifted my hips up to accept my next five and I moaned. Daddy thought he’s hurt me, but no, it wasn’t pain.

He stood me up raised my panties and lowered my dress then explained why the spanking was necessary. I never heard a word. My legs were weak and I wanted to get to my room, why was I wet and what was that feeling?

Mother was just coming out of her room as I walked by. She stopped me saying, “Abbie, you look a little dazed, is something the matter?” She led me to her bed and we sat side by side.

“Mummy, Daddy spanked me.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied, “But that’s hardly the first time. What happened?”

So I told her. I told her how my tummy had roiled and I told her how I’d tingled, how I felt wet and gooey, but how nice it felt.

She reached under my dress and felt my panties then smiled at me, “Abbie I do believe you just had your first orgasm.”

We had our first discussion about the birds and the bees. She even explained sexual intercourse but she also pointed out the potential consequences, loss of reputation, pregnancy and such. She encouraged my to protect my virginity until my wedding night. She told me I’d have urges and explained self-gratification; masturbation if you will.

I went to my room and she went down stairs. I heard dished shattering and she swore. Loudly and clearly she swore. Not at all like my mother, we didn’t use foul language in our home. It simply wasn’t accepted.

Daddy tromped down the staircase. I heard him, he could be loud when he was angry, shout, “Mildred, the dishes can be replaced but the language is totally unacceptable, please come upstairs with me.”

And I thought, gosh, that was intentional, she wanted hers.

He took her to the den, the door closed but I could hear the muffled whacks, five of them.

When she left the den she stood in my doorway, she had tears in her eyes but a smile on her face. “Five on the panties,” she winked, “I always give him a few tears, it cuts down on the lecture, you should try it,” Like we were co-conspirators and, I guess we were. I took her advice, a few tears, for Daddy and now for my Dickie.

For the next six years, ‘til I left for school I was a willful girl requiring discipline at least once a week. Mother was better behaved or maybe it just took more for her to get to Daddy. She got hers every two or three weeks.

I met Dickie while I was in college. He’s a manager in my father’s firm and he’s so like Daddy he could be his son.