Saddle Sore: Chapter I
The Cowgirl’s Hiding
Saddle Sore
Book I: Chapter I: The Cowgirl’s Hiding
Content warning: Depicts corporal punishment in a domestic setting.
As Mamma’s trusty wooden spatula made its impact across the seat of 16-year-old Jayme Schmidt’s dusty denim jeans, the prodigal teen heard a dense, resounding thunder clap echo through the room.
Jayme’s dirty blond hair flew in waves around her as she jerked her head up, catching a glimpse of the peach tree branches swaying and the light of dawn peeking through the window.
With both legs dangling across either side of Mamma’s right knee, Jayme couldn’t even get a glimpse of Mamma’s face or the spoon. Sometimes, she could just make out a flurry of movement in her peripheral vision, but apart from that, Jayme’s impressions of the scene unfolding behind her were restricted to her sense of hearing…and sense of touch.
“It’s not even breakfast! How did I manage to start summer vacation like this? Why is God doing this to me?”
A second slap of the spatula was enough to discourage Jayme’s private questions about theodicy.
“Okay, God, I get it. I know I goofed.”
Two more stiff swats from the spatula, one for each cheek, were enough to make Jayme wonder why all her friends at church were so terrified of bare-bottom spankings in particular. In her 16-year-long career of practicing for the rodeo by taking regular trips across Mamma and Pop’s knees, Jayme was pretty sure she’d earned every spanking she possibly could, with every possible implement, in every possible state of dress, in every possible combination.
“Sure, you get less protection with a bare butt, but do you really think parents don’t know that too? When you’re in your jeans they know it’s open season, and…”
Another wallop, another futile twist of Jayme’s hips. As the denim up the jeans rode up her crack, Jayme could perfectly imagine a blushing little cartoon face on her booty wailing “Lemme’ out! Lemme’ out!”
Three quick spanks in staccato rhythm, followed by two more in the firecracker explosion style, before a pause let Jayme catch her breath and consider her position.
Outside, the local mourning dove was cooing above the barn, as if lamenting Jayme’s pains.
“Vinyl record scratch. Yup, that’s me, you’re probably wondering how I got myself into this situation!”
As she felt a gentle tap of the spatula rub against both her lower cheeks, Jayme heard Mamma’s stern voice. “Jayme Hilario Schmidt, so long as you live under this roof, you will not take the Lord’s name in vain. Is that clear?”
Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Jayme’s tongue moved before she could think. “All I said was ‘Gosh dang it.’ Didn’t know that it counted.”
Jayme winced as she heard the sarcastic bite in her own words.
And Jayme winced again as she felt the bite of the spatula across her own bottom.
“Jayme, this is not a debate. When I ask you a yes or no question, I expect to hear either ‘Yes, ma’am’ or ‘No ma’am.’ Is that clear?”
“Yes’m!” Jayme rested her hands on the spotless kitchen floor. When Mamma was in a lecturing mood, she usually put the spanking on hold to get her point across. Jayme would have cursed herself for forgetting that, if cussing wasn’t a spankable offense in the Schmidt household.
Jayme felt Mamma trace small circles across the seat of her pants with the spatula. The Amish-made antique made a gentle swishing sound as it brushed against the denim in figure-eight patterns, lifting each of Jayme’s cheeks slightly with each pass.
“That’s better, Jayme. Now, in the first place, it most certainly does ‘count.’ It’s called a ‘minced oath.’ It’s coming as close to the blasphemous phrase as possible. You said you didn’t know a phrase like that ‘counted.’ Think carefully. Do you recall what your father and I have taught you about the third commandment?”
Jayme felt oddly soothed by the gentle touch of the spatula. “Um…Yes, ma’am. I think so, Ma’am.”
“Can you recite Exodus 20:7?”
Jayme nodded furiously, suddenly back in Sunday School mode and eager to please. “Yes, ma’am! ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.’”
“And what does the third commandment teach us?”
“Yes! Straight out of children’s catechism!”
Wondering if having her bottom hanging in the air was improving the blood circulation to her brain, Jayme recited beautifully: “The third commandment teaches us to reverence God’s name, word, and works.”
Jayme’s heart started to swell with pride, before she remembered her humiliating position. Not one child at the First Reformed Baptist Church of Redfield could honestly say they had never been spanked. Even amongst the teenage girls, whispered stories of recent spankings were commonly exchanged with giggles in Sunday School discussions, when the boys were not present of course. The Bible clearly taught that faithful parents must spank their children…what would be the point of hiding it?
But Jayme had a sneaking suspicion that not even all the naughty girls of First Reformed Baptist Church combined earned spankings quite as frequently as she did. Jayme had come to that conclusion, to her chagrin, when the other teens had started to notice that Jayme always seemed to have at least one new spanking story every week.
It wasn’t that John and Mary Schmidt were particularly strict or eager to spank Jayme. In fact, some of the stories she heard about the other girls’ thrashings made Jayme feel practically spoiled!
It was just that Jayme’s parents saw spanking as a first resort rather than the last resort:
“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”
Jayme’s Pops and Mamma handed out little spankings to their seven children more frequently than candy, in the hope that they wouldn’t have to dish out harsher punishments later.
For Jayme’s older brother and sister, this method had worked wonders!
So long as you didn’t talk yourself into a for-real spanking, the Schmidt siblings usually escaped with little more than a few light-pink marks as a reminder of their minor misdeed.
Unfortunately, once she was over a knee, Jayme’s brain tended to turn off. She was just that good at talking her way into a spanking, to the point that Mamma had hung racks of kitchen implements at strategic points around the house and barn to speed up the process of providing Jayme’s regularly scheduled maintenance spankings.
“And do you think that phrase shows proper reverence to God’s name, word, and works?”
“No, ma’am!”
“So, why did you do it?”
Jayme grinned, glad Mamma couldn’t see her face from this angle.
“Just once…just once! I’m going to talk my way out of a real spanking!”
Jayme’s mind was racing as she thought about what she had done to deserve this. While helping clean out the stables, their clydesdale, Sir Hamilton, had taken a nip at Jayme’s golden-brown locks. All Jayme had done was yelp the offending phrase as she brushed him off.
“I just got caught off guard. I’m sorry, Mamma,” said Jayme, in her sweetest, angelic voice.
“I understand that, Jayme. It doesn’t excuse you, but I do understand. You will get six more swats with the spatula, and let that be a warning to you!”
“Yes, Ma’am!” Jayme nodded as she felt Mamma adjust her grip and prepare to finish the brief interruption to their morning schedule. One swat for every birthday was the standard for a warning shot spanking.
“That butt-head! This is all his fault!” Jayme thought out loud.
“...What did you just say, Jayme?”
It was as though Jayme suddenly snapped awake, her mouth agape. That thought hadn’t just been in her head? “Um, I meant Sir Hamilton!”
“Where did you hear that expression?”
“I think from the girls at church?”
“Well, I don’t want it repeated under this roof! Stand up, Jayme!”
Swallowing, Jayme shuffled to her feet.
“Bad omen!”
Awkwardly, Jayme stuffed her hands into her back pockets to keep from fidgeting and looked down at Mamma. A petite, pleasantly plump brunette in her late 30s, “Mamma” Mary Schmidt was shorter than four of her seven children, including Jayme.
But what Mrs. Schmidt lacked in size, she made up for with her command of the English language and her surprisingly toned muscles, thanks in no small part to delivering spankings almost daily for nineteen years.
As the descendents of German and Spanish farmhands, the whole family ate a lot, and the whole family worked a lot. Jayme mused how much her own penchant for sassing and back talk had contributed to giving Mamma exercise over the years.
“Jayme, you must learn to think before you speak. ‘Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles.’ Or in your case, keepeth your bottom from troubles. Take off your jeans, and get back across my knee.”
Jayme practically felt her ears steaming. “But…all the other girls at church say it, and they don’t get spanked!”
Jayme balked when she saw Mamma’s withering stare.
“Why, mouth, why? What did my…bum ever do to you?”
“If they don’t get spanked, then they most certainly should! Do you remember Proverbs 29:15?”
Jayme felt a slight prickle of warmth from underneath her denim jeans. Hanging her head, and still unable to escape Mamma’s firm gaze, she recited from memory. “‘The rod and reproof give wisdom’…but…uh…”
“‘But a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame!’ Now, off with your jeans, young lady. If you don’t, I’ll use Pop’s belt on you, and you won’t like that one bit. Are you going to argue, or are you going to obey?”
Jayme’s body tensed, and her hands flew from her back pockets to remove her own belt. “I’ll obey, ma’am!”
She’d only gotten a licking with Pop’s belt three times in her life, and that was enough for a lifetime. The sound of her own belt flying through the loops of her jeans sent a thrill up her spine. Jayme delicately set her belt, covered in a decorative floral pattern of punched holes, into Mamma’s open palm. As Jayme’s fingers fumbled with the button of her jeans, she was painfully aware that Mamma now had a belt at hand, as well as the spatula.
Slowly, slowly, Jayme lowered the front zipper. Slowly, slowly, Jayme lowered the dusty denim jeans, to reveal pink panties emblazoned with a silhouette of a girl on a horse, and the words “Ride ‘em, Cowgirl!” stamped across the back in letters formed from a lasso. Jayme felt them riding high on her crack, still giving her a slight wedgie thanks to her writhing across Mamma’s knee.
A rich baritone voice echoed from behind Jayme. “Did I hear something about my belt? Well, now! My little Firecracker in trouble? Why am I not surprised? Need me to lend a hand, Mamma?”
Jayme’s shoulders tensed, as her face blushed red from the tip of her nose to the tips of her ears. Her jeans around her ankles, her cowgirl undies doing nothing to hide the pale tan line below her freckled, muscular bottom, Jayme looked behind her to implore her father. “Pop? No! Please! I’ll be a good girl!”
“Oh? Then why are you already getting spanked before breakfast?”
Jayme turned to look to Mamma, silently pleading her to speak as a witness in her defense, only to find Mamma giving her a bemused nod. “Go on, Jayme. Confess your sins.”
Stepping out of her jeans, Jayme straightened up and turned to face Pop, her hands wavering between covering her modesty from Mamma behind her or from Pop before her.
Unlike his wife, Pop was a towering figure, dwarfing even Jayme’s six feet. Jayme was alternatively her Pop’s “Lil’ Firecracker,” or his “Tall Drink o’ Water.” The former nickname had been earned when 6-year-old Jayme had disobeyed strict instructions to not touch the fireworks for the 4th of July, only to accidentally set off an entire box at once. After Jayme was rescued and the fire was put out, all of her siblings, and several approving neighbors, were treated to witnessing a second fireworks show in the form of Jayme’s first-ever bare bottom spanking, delivered right on the porch steps by both Mamma and Pops in turn.
Since that day, Jayme had lovingly been nicknamed “Firecracker,” and the story was a favorite whenever guests arrived, especially for Independence Day Celebrations.
Jayme settled on demurely folding her hands in front of her. “I…nearly took the Lord’s name in vain, Pop. It was an accident!”
Pop nodded and raised an eyebrow as he glanced at the jeans around Jayme’s ankles, silently indicating her to go on. “Then…I sassed and backtalked during my spanking. But I’m gonna’ obey! You don’t gotta’ take your belt to me!”
Pop smiled. “That’s good to hear, Firecracker. I’d hate to have to spank you on your first day off from school. Now, turn around and let Mamma finish what you started!”
Trembling with relief, Jayme obeyed, resting on Mamma’s knee and leaning forward into position, genuinely thankful for her Pop’s kindness. “Yes, sir!”
Maybe, just maybe, if she was perfectly obedient…
“Mamma, if you’re going to be at it for a while, I’ll just make breakfast.”
Mamma practically cooed, “Oh, you big sweetie! Jayme, hold onto this for me until I ask to have it back!” Jayme saw the spatula lower into her field of vision and accepted it obediently.
“Of course, I still have six of the best with the spatula coming…”
Mamma patted the pale, prostrated posterior a few times with her hand, and Jayme felt the warmth emanating from the ten imprints left by the spatula.
“Jayme, I want you to know I love you. I’m glad you’re being more cooperative now, but I still have to spank you.”
Jayme swallowed hard and replied politely, “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I know I was wrong.”
“Be brave, and hold still, and I will spare you your father’s belt.”
Jayme rested the spatula on the floor before her and focused on it, before shutting her eyes tight to accept her fate. “Thank you, Mamma!”
Mamma wasted no time and began Jayme’s hand spanking with crisp, steady strokes. With seven children to deal with, Mrs. Schmidt had been forced to dispense with excessive lecturing and extraneous rituals during a spanking. She believed in carrying out the sentence promptly.
A wooden door slammed shut, and over the steady slaps, Jayme heard her oldest brother Joseph’s tenor voice. “Pops? Stables are all cleared out! …Ah, sorry, Jayme!”
Her older sister Jessica’s sympathetic, sing-song voice added, “Oh, dear! Hang in there, Jayme!”
Of course, Joseph and Jessica had both been up early to help Jayme with the stables. And by now 14-year-old Joanne was likely up to tend to the chickens.
“Oof! Thanks, Joseph! Thanks, Jessica! Yelp!”
“At least Mamma’s letting me keep my panties!”
Being spanked in private was a privilege, not a right in the Schmidt household. Maybe not even a privilege, more like a luxury, Mamma’s schedule permitting.
Thankfully, Mamma had decided years ago that, for the sake of modesty, bare-bottom spankings were only delivered in a private bedroom or the woodshed.
Jayme’s public bare-bottom spanking for the firecracker incident had occurred before this rule was put in place, and had indirectly been responsible for the change. Joanne had been so delighted by witnessing it, she’d teased Jayme ruthlessly to the point Jayme snapped and started a fight. After hearing both sides of the story, Mamma and Pops had forbidden Joanne from teasing Jayme, and quietly ended the practice of spanking their children’s bare bottoms in public…after spanking Jayme and Joanne’s bare bottoms, and sentencing them both to spend the rest of the day wearing a single large t-shirt emblazoned with the words “our get along shirt.”
Behind her, Jayme heard a dry, monotone female voice. “Ouch, that’s gotta’ hurt.”
“Oh, great! Here’s Joanne!”
“What’d Jayme do this time? Or are you going for a world record? ‘Most spankings received over the course of a summer’?”
Pops didn’t look up from his cooking. “Knock it off, Joanne. ‘Girls who tease, wind up over knees.’”
Joanne saluted, before finding her place at the table. “Roger, Wilco!”
Jayme heard a chair scoot, and just knew Joanne was adjusting her seat to get a better view of the show.
Joanne had been going through a rebellious, goth/emo/punk phase of late. But unlike Jayme, Joanne had learned to carefully avoid crossing any lines that would earn her more than a quick “warning shot” spanking.
In the years since their violent argument, Jayme and Joanne had actually grown quite close, but that didn’t mean that Joanne wasn’t going to tease her ruthlessly for getting spanked before breakfast.
Over the steady claps of her own spanking, Jayme could make out a soft sizzling behind her. “Bacon, sausage and eggs will be ready in a few minutes, Mamma. Ya’ nearly done? I’d hate to serve you an overcooked meal.”
“Don’t worry, dear, I’ll have this timed perfectly. I’d hate to serve you an undercooked daughter.”
Jayme felt tears well up behind her closed eyes, and prayed for strength. She knew she’d cry sooner or later, but at least she didn’t have to blubber like a baby. The steady crackling and hissing of the cooking grew louder, and Jayme suddenly realized she was so hungry it was intoxicating. She couldn’t help but imagine her own hams, toasting and sizzling on the pan along with breakfast.
Just as Jayme was about to break down, Mamma paused the spanking. With the sound of frying bacon now filling the room, and still feeling the lingering afterburn, it took Jayme a few seconds to even notice the pause.
“Jayme, we’re almost done. Hand me the wooden spatula.”
Jayme tried to say, “Yes, Ma’am,” as she lifted up the spatula but the closest she could manage was a whimpering cry that sounded like, “Mmmyesss, ma-mmeeee!”
As she dimly saw the spatula taken from her grasp, Jayme rested her elbows against the floor, and felt her tears pool against her cheeks and the skin of her forearms.
The moment the spatula made its first impact, Jayme’s resolve not to cry melted like butter.
The steam from the stove filled the room with a pleasant aroma, accompanied by the sweet music of Jayme’s voice in broken sobs.
An oil bubble in the bacon pan exploded with a sharp “Pop!” at the precise moment the wooden spatula made the six and final impact against the center of Jayme’s bottom, right where her lower cheeks met her thighs.
Everything was perfectly cooked!
Mamma helped Jayme back to her feet, planting a soft kiss on her wet cheek which Jayme returned thankfully. As she bent down to pull up her jeans, Jayme discovered them missing and struggled to remember where she put them. She found them neatly folded near the wooden stool where Mamma had sat and wondered if Jessica or Joanne had retrieved them for her.
Just as Jayme was trying to squeeze her swollen, bright red buttocks back into her overly tight jeans, the twins, 11-year-old Jack and Jill, arrived in the kitchen, just in time to catch a glimpse of the damage.
Jack stifled a yawn before the revelation woke him out of his stupor. “Yawn! Oh no! Jayme got spanked…already?”
Jill cocked her head with polite interest at the sight of her older sister’s well-roasted rump. “What did you do this time, Jayme?”
Mamma shooed them to the table. “Wait until I wake up Juniper. Jayme can tell you the whole story then.” Mamma carried 6-year-old Juniper to the table, and Jayme related the whole sordid tale to satisfy her younger siblings’ morbid interest.
Pops served breakfast, and gave Jayme a quick kiss on the forehead before whispering a congratulations into her ear for enduring her trial.
The spanking signaled Jayme’s forgiveness and restoration. Apart from a little friendly ribbing from Joanne, none of her siblings teased her about the spanking. Why would they? After all, everyone got spanked, right?
…
Jayme lay in bed that night and looked at her digital clock: 9:00 p.m. She had to be up by 5:00 a.m. at the latest for morning chores.
It wasn’t any lingering pain from the spanking that was keeping her up…not exactly.
The scorching pain had faded after only a few minutes, and the remaining soreness had bothered her for most of the day, especially where the spatula had made an impression on her lower cheeks. Riding Sir Hamilton that day had been murder. But by bedtime, the saddle soreness had almost completely healed.
Nevertheless, Jayme found herself thinking about the spanking, and with a flourish she threw off her blanket and fumbled in the dark to find something in her dresser drawer.
Creeping on tiptoe, Jayme carefully opened and closed every door so as not to wake Mamma or Pops. Slipping on moccasins and a thin jacket at the front door, Jayme used a flashlight to make her way past the barn and towards her favorite, private place: the woodshed.
“Finally! Just hope they don’t catch me! …What would they even say? It’s not like I’m doing something wrong…”
But Jayme wasn’t too sure. Sure, her parents had never told her not to do this. Yet somehow, it still felt wrong. But how could it be wrong, if it was the punishment for being wrong?
Trembling, Jayme lit the dangling bulb in the shed and basked in the warm, incandescent light. She was surrounded by bridles, straps, a wooden paddle, everything that could ever be used to correct a wayward child.
From her bag, Jayme pulled the secret objects: a wooden hairbrush, and her own belt.
There was a very good reason why Jayme knew that she was the single most-spanked girl in her entire family, in her entire church, maybe even in the entire world. And that was because, at every possible opportunity she had, Jayme would spank herself.
She had almost been caught a few times. She’d stopped giving herself spankings in her bedroom after the twins started asking Mamma and Pops who was getting spankings after bedtime, to their confusion. Pops had finally concluded the twins must have heard something like a woodpecker, or racoons in the trash, or branches smacking against the side of the house.
After that close call, Jayme had been careful not to repeat her mistake. The woodshed was perfect. No one ever went there unless…well, it was time for a real spanking.
Jayme’s entire body trembled, and she felt a delicious thrill as she bared her bottom and examined it. She had been dying for this moment ever since Mamma had announced that she was going to get a spanking.
It wasn’t as if Jayme enjoyed being spanked by her parents. In fact, every time it happened, she was sure she would never, ever want to be spanked again. But sooner or later, the desire to be spanked would return with vengeance.
And every time she spanked herself, the guilt that there must be something wrong with her would plague her for days. But the more guilty she felt…the more she needed to be spanked.
Jayme patted her bottom experimentally with the hairbrush, then raised it high.
She recited the words from memory: “Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; But the rod of correction shall drive it far from him,” and brought the hairbrush down squarely across her own buttock, embracing the sensation, savoring the tingle, and only wishing that someone would catch her, right at this moment, and take over.
As she brought down the hairbrush again and again in a steady rhythm, she cooed phrases like, “I’m a bad girl,” and “I’ll be good.”
“Please, don’t spank me!” followed by “Punish me! I deserve it!”
Setting down the hairbrush, Jayme picked up her belt and folded it. As she snapped it together in her hands, she thrilled at the sound, and repositioned herself for self-flagellation.
“Maybe it’s not such a bad thing to get spanked all the time! After all…I’ve gotta’ learn!”
Jayme had no words to describe why she felt the way she felt.
All she knew was, at this moment, she was perfectly happy.
[End of Chapter 1]