Saddle Sore: Chapter II
The Cowgirl’s Secret
Read Chapter I here. Content warning: depicts corporal punishment.
As the decorative rawhide belt bit across her bare butt cheeks, Jayme gasped, her eyes snapping open. Looking back at the marks left by her self-inflicted spanking, Jayme pouted. “It’s just not the same…”
The problem with spanking herself is she could never quite forget that she was the one doing it. She always either hesitated at the last moment, bringing down an unsatisfying slap, or else the stroke would land so hard it “woke her up” from the daydream.
What was it Mamma had said earlier, while Jayme lay obediently, bent over the knee? “Be brave, and hold still, and I will spare you your father’s belt!”
A small part of Jayme had wanted to call Mamma’s bluff: to squirm and sass until she heard the tell-tale snick-snick-snick sound of Pop’s belt being pulled through the loops. Maybe Pops would hand it to Mamma with a wry joke at Jayme’s expense: “Be quick, Mamma. I’d like to keep my pants up today, at least.” Over the years, Jayme had grown used to being the butt of many a spanking joke.
Then again, if Pops thought his “precious, little Firecracker” was defying Mamma’s authority, he might just as easily have escorted Jayme to the woodshed himself. That had only happened three times in Jayme’s entire life, and no matter how much Jayme was tempted to earn another “for real” trip to the woodshed, she always chickened out in the end.
Jayme winced as she traced the lines of fresh, raised weals left by her own belt, complimenting another set of oval-shaped welts left by her own wooden hairbrush. She could even still feel the lingering marks left by Mamma’s wooden spatula, though those didn’t hurt anymore, so long as she didn’t bend over too much. It always surprised Jayme how quickly her bottom recovered after a spanking. As she spotted a spare saddle resting on a sturdy, wooden rack, a tempting new idea occurred to Jayme.
While standing, she could aim the belt in a wide arc, whipping it across her back, and could usually land it across both of her cheeks. The hairbrush was more unwieldy. God just hadn’t designed the arm to deliver a proper hairbrush spanking at this angle. But Jayme recalled how, months ago, when she’d tried this in her own room, she’d managed to spank herself perfectly, so that her fantasy became real within her mind’s eye. On that occasion, she had laid down on her own bed, her hips propped up by a pillow, and delivered a hand-spanking to both of her cheeks, before adding a second dose with the hairbrush that left her near tears, and a warm, glowing sensation all over her body, especially her posterior.
Unfortunately, it turned out the walls of the old farmstead were too thin. Jack and Jill had overheard strange, slapping sounds, and Jayme had been forced to abandon spanking herself in her bedroom. “Thank God Dad bought that it was just raccoons…” Jayme thought out loud.
As Jayme set down her belt and hairbrush within easy reach, and experimentally lay herself over the saddle, she found the rack could easily support her weight. “This is comfortable. And my bottom…” Jayme patted it playfully, “...is in the perfect spanking position!”
With a deep breath, Jayme cleared her mind of her surroundings, and tried to reflect on her many, many cherished memories of being spanked.
There was her first-ever bare-bottom spanking she’d received after she’d disobeyed her parents instructions not to touch the fireworks in the garage before the 4th of July, with explosive results.
Then there were the many spankings she and Joanne had earned for brawling with each other. Mamma and Pops were very fair. They never spanked Jayme if she hadn’t started or escalated the fight, but on the one occasion when Jayme had started an unprovoked fight, she’d earned her first thrashing with Pop’s belt, and never repeated the same mistake.
More recently, as a freshman at Redfield Christian High School, she’d endured Pop’s belt thanks to letting her grades slip out of pure, stubborn laziness. Jayme repeated Mamma and Pop’s words on that dire occasion, as they escorted her to this same wood shed. “We don’t expect you to be perfect, but we do expect you to make an effort…”
But as Jayme caught sight of her own pink, cowgirl panties falling gracefully, to join her pajama bottoms around her knees, something new pressed into her mind.
In reality, Jayme’s parents never spanked her so harshly, nor so cruelly. But sometimes, Jayme couldn’t help but wonder…what if?
As she kicked her feet playfully, she could almost hear Mamma saying, “Stop squirming! Oh, that does it, Jayme, you’ve earned yourself a bare-butt-blistering!”
“Oooh nooo, Mamma…not on the bare!” Jayme whimpered, her cheeks burning as she remembered being punished in front of her siblings. She was back in the kitchen, the wooden spatula before her, her entire family behind her, all eyes on her now-naked nates. “Please, just wait til we’re in my room! Puh-leeeze! I’m too old for a spanking!”
Jayme used her left hand to land a hard, resounding clap to her left butt-cheek, followed by a quick, crisp smack to her right cheek, using her right hand. It felt real! “No more back-talk, Jayme! You will never be too old for a spanking! And your brothers and sisters need to see what happens to naughty girls who break the ten commandments!”
Tears dampening her eyes, Jayme turned her head to plead with her beloved Poppa. “But…but…you said I only get spanked on the bare bottom in private! That’s the rule! Please, Poppa! Tell her to stop! I’m sorry! I’ll do better!”
But her father only shook his head. “I know you’ll do better, Firecracker. But you’re not nearly sorry enough. Not yet. From now on, the rule of this house is: all your spankings end with your bare, bright-red bottom on display in the corner. Regardless of whether or not your siblings are in the room. Or any guests for that matter!”
“Noooooo!” whined Jayme, before Mamma landed a single, deliberate spank with every-ounce of her considerable strength. The next spank didn’t land immediately, and Jayme rasped as she felt the impression of a handprint rise across her buttock, licking at her like a tongue of flame. She saw all her siblings’ expressions of concern and amusement. Her older brother and sister, Joseph and Jessica, looked sympathetic, but nodded with agreement.
As a second, slow spank landed, on the exact same spot, Jayme held back a scream and kept her eyes fixed on the scene behind her.
14-year-old Joanne was twiddling her thumbs, flashing a toothy smirk. Then she casually tossed aside her lanky black hair to get a better view of the action.
In contrast, the twins, 11-year-old Jack and Jill, watched nervously, thinking about how they were never, ever going to take the Lord’s name in vain, like Jayme had. 6-year-old Juniper watched, wide-eyed, as she sucked her thumb.
Everyone in the room knew that Jayme had earned every single swat she was getting, including Jayme.
Finally, as the third, slow spank landed, on the exact same spot, Jayme turned away, shame-faced. “Ow! N-not…the s-same suh-spuh-spot, Mamma! Oh no, no, no!”
But Mamma landed the fourth spank on the exact same spot anyway, picking up the pace.
Jayme bucked and reared like an unbroken bronco at the rodeo, before a wail escaped her lips.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, Jayme dear. In fact, after this hand-spanking, I think we’ll finish with the hairbrush. But not until you learn to hold still…assuming you ever want this spanking to end?”
As the fifth spank landed, unmercifully, on the exact same spot, Jayme’s world became hazy. She heard Pop’s voice from far away. “Be thorough, Mamma. I’m taking her to the woodshed for a taste of my belt as soon as you’re finished.”
Near ecstasy, Jayme used both her hands to quicken the tempo of her self-spanking, finally aiming spanks at other areas of her bottom. Soon enough, she would even out the color to a consistent, cherry red. It was almost perfect! She had almost forgotten this spanking wasn’t real.
CRASH!
The sound of a metallic clatter awoke Jayme from her reverie. Hopping up from the saddle, Jayme tottered over to the door to take a peek. A shadowy, cylindrical shape rolled on the ground near her house, before two shining eyes caught the light from the incandescent bulb lighting the woodshed. A raccoon had knocked over their trash can…for real this time!
A light flicked on through a window. Jayme recognized it as the Master Bedroom. Mamma or Pops was awake!
Even then, Jayme remembered not to cuss. (Using naughty words was a spankable offense, after all.) “Fudge!” she hissed as she tried to simultaneously tiptoe as silently as a deer, and sprint as quickly as a cheetah. Instead, Jayme found herself flying towards the soft grass. Her legs flew up behind her, entangled by both the pajama pants and panties she’d forgotten to pull back up. One leg of her pajama pants went flopping as it nearly came clean off her leg.
Jayme spat out a grassy clod of mud. “Frick!”
Spooked by the noise, the raccoon darted along the wall, right under her parents’ bedroom window. Hopping on one foot, she pulled her pajama pants roughly back on, feeling her undies bunch between her thighs. Jayme ignored it and bolted towards the front door, away from the light of the woodshed and her parents’ window. Even if the racoon drew their attention for a moment, Jayme was still within a clear line of sight.
She heard muffled footsteps inside the house, and without thinking, threw herself behind one of Mamma’s prize-winning begonia shrubs, inches away from the front door. A tall, burly man burst out the front door, leaving it ajar behind him.
“Who’s out here?” barked Pops, aiming a flashlight around the bushes. Jayme saw the light flicker across her bare toes.
“Is it a raccoon?” squeaked Mamma, in an unusually shrill voice, echoing from around the corner. Jayme guessed Mamma must be poking her head out the bedroom window.
The light pulled away from Jayme’s toes, as Pops circled around the house towards the same window. “I think so! Either that, or a ‘possum! Well, lookee here! Little booger tried to pull the bungee cord off the trash can. Definitely a coon!”
Realizing that her father was out of sight, Jayme began to inch her way toward the front door. She froze as she saw the glow of the flashlight point towards the woodshed, its door still ajar. She could barely make out Dad’s voice around the corner of the house as he mused out loud. “…Huh, that’s odd. The light’s on in the shed.”
Mamma practically screeched. “Don’t go, baby! Someone’s out there!”
Pop’s rich laugh boomed across the front yard. “Haw! Relax, hon. I probably just left it on when I was working out there…huh, must have been last Sunday?”
Jayme felt the cool metal of the doorknob against her sweaty palm.
“Don’t shoot!” Mamma wailed!
“Easy, easy! No one’s gonna’ get shot. Go to bed, honey!”
“Fuck!” thought Jayme. Of course, Pops owned a handgun for home-defense! What if he was armed?
How could she forget? Once, when Jayme was twelve-years-old, she had tried to crack into Pop’s gun safe, furious at being told she was not yet old enough to learn to use a firearm. She’d managed to guess the passcode correctly, but Pops had wisely decided to keep the bullets and cartridge stored separately. After he caught her red handed holding his handgun, Jayme had received the definitive “Spanking of Her Life” with Pop’s belt in the woodshed, followed by two weeks worth of bedtime spankings to reinforce the lesson in gun safety. The day after her final bedtime spanking, Pops had invited a thoroughly repentant and red-bottomed Jayme to join him at the gun range to learn proper firearm handling. Jayme still felt fuzzy, tingly butterflies in her stomach whenever she thought about those daddy-daughter sessions, both the spanking and the shooting.
At the present moment, Jayme had butterflies in her stomach, but not the fuzzy, tingly kind. What if she startled Pops by mistake, and he assumed she was a trespasser? But if she announced herself, that meant exposing herself to questioning about why she was hiding in the front yard.
As Pops made his way to the woodshed, Jayme knew she’d be back within his line of sight soon. It was a choice between potentially getting shot, and potentially exposing the reason for her secret night-time trips to the woodshed. Jayme slowly turned the doorknob. Easiest decision of her life!
Jayme felt her blood run cold as the door hinge whined a musical cry, and she ran bump into someone standing on the welcome mat! Jayme read the words, “Knock, and it shall be opened unto you…Matthew 7:7b” on the mat beneath her bare feet, then snapped her head up to find Joanne, her messy, jet-black hair covering one of her eyes. She was wearing black pajamas with creepy-cute cartoon images of skulls and animals in a Gothic style. The pants were frilly and voluminous, like pantaloons, while the matching, ornate, spaghetti-strap shirt revealed Joanne’s belly button. In Joanne’s many carefully-chosen battles to persuade her parents to allow her to wear some Goth-style clothing, while also staying within the dress code of Redfield Christian School, these pajamas were her prize trophy.
One of the straps of Joanne’s top flopped off her shoulder as she blinked, still half-asleep. “...Jayme? How’d you get ahead of me?”
Jayme sensed Pop’s flashlight shining from behind her. “Who’s there? Joanne, is that you, Little Miss Sunshine?”
Joanne craned her neck to peer over Jayme’s shoulder. “Yes, Pops. Me and Jayme are here.”
“Firecracker? You all right?” asked Poppa.
Stupidly, Jayme felt her temper flare up, remembering all the times Joanne had played tattle-tale during their 14 years of sisterhood. Then, Jayme remembered that the gig was up anyway. Her feet were bare, her pajamas grass-stained and rumpled. Beneath them, she felt her freshly-spanked hindquarters tingle, and clenched her glutes taut. While her panties were still bunched up below her cheeks, the scratchy inner-lining of her pajamas teasingly reminded Jayme that she was practically going commando, and her pajamas were hanging low on her hips. One cursory inspection of her behind would immediately reveal fresh, angry red marks from her hairbrush and belt. Those self-same spanking implements, along with her missing moccasins, were currently sitting right where she’d left them: next to the saddle rack in the woodshed.
As Jayme turned to face her Pops, one look at the loving, concerned look on his face made her want to come clean and confess all. But she couldn’t force the words out.
Dad turned his light back to Joanne. “Both you girls heard it too? Sharp ears!”
“...Yeah. I came running to the door in a flash the second I heard it,” answered Joanne, neutrally. She snapped her head up to catch Jayme’s eye. “Right, Jayme?”
Jayme heard her own voice answering, as if her lips didn’t care what her brain had to say on the matter, “Right, Joanne. I heard the raccoon, then hopped right out of bed.” The words of the lie sounded strange to Jayme’s ear.
“You little fibber! You deserve a spanking just for that!” she thought, as if a little cartoon angel was sitting on her right shoulder.
“...Wait! Who said anything about a raccoon? Why do you have to suck at lying?” she thought again, as if a little cartoon devil was sitting on her left shoulder.
Jayme was sure that Pops could see right through the guilty look on her face. She glanced down, ashamed to look him in the eye. Sure enough, Poppa’s pistol was secure in his leg holster. He wasn’t brandishing it now, but he’d had it the whole time. “Thank God for trigger discipline,” thought Jayme.
As he made eye contact with Jayme, Poppa smiled reassuringly and patted the holster gently. Jayme knew instantly he’d seen the cagey look in her eyes, and assumed that Jayme was nervous at the sight of the firearm. “Good guess, Firecracker! It’s just our little local trash panda, sneaking around and causing trouble again. Nothing to worry about. I’ll bring the cans into the garage tonight, so he won’t bother us. You girls toddle off to bed, now!”
Jayme felt herself turn and march robotically, as obediently as ever she had, since being sent to bed with a stern warning at age two. The effect was only heightened by the fact that her bottom was currently sore, stinging, and smarting from a sound self-spanking.
She and Joanne both froze as Dad called after them. “Wait, girls, I have something else to say to you.”
Both Jayme and Joanne’s hands reflexively flew to their bottoms. Of course! They were out of bed after bed time! That was one of the very first house rules they’d learned to think of as ‘a spankable offense’!
Dad beamed, “Love you, Firecracker! Love you, Sunshine!”
“Love you, Poppa!” both girls answered together.
As they approached Joanne’s bedroom, Jayme did a double-take as her little sister spun on her heels to fix Jayme with a minxish smile. “You okay, Jayme?”
Jayme answered without pausing to breathe. “Yeah-course-I-am-just-a-bit-rattled-why?”
“Well, you’re walking all stiff. What, you still sore from the spanking you got this morning?”
“You can’t resist, can you? Any time I get spanked, you just have to get your little digs in?”
Joanne rolled her eyes dramatically (a stunt that would have earned either of them an instant spanking if they dared to try it in front of Mamma or Poppa). “That’s not what I–”
Joanne caught her breath before regaining her cool composure. “Look, I’m not trying to razz you, I’m just mulling over what just happened. Pretty wild, right? …You must have hopped out of bed pretty quick to get all the way to the front yard, huh?”
As Jayme peered down the hall toward her own room, she immediately saw the hole in her flimsy lie.
Jayme pictured Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson standing alongside her, examining the crime scene.
“But Holmes! How did Jayme manage to run all the way down this hall, past Joanne’s room, without anybody noticing?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson, our seemingly innocent Miss Jaymee was not in her room! She was in the woodshed, spanking herself with a hairbrush and a belt!”
Jayme shook her head, forcing herself to think. Yes, her story was implausible at best, but not impossible (depending on how long Joanne took getting out of bed). Jayme flared her nostrils as she prepared for a bluff. “Yeah! I hopped out of bed the second I heard it…Well? What’s so funny?”
Joanne yawned dramatically, before leaning against her heavily decorated bedroom door nonchalantly. Neither satanic, nor occultic imagery were allowed under the Schmidt family roof, but Joanne had managed to convince their parents that the ornate, upside-down cross was meant as a symbol of St. Peter’s martyrdom, and not of the Devil. “Nothing! I was kind of groggy when it woke me up…you’re lucky Dad didn’t catch you outside! You might have gotten shot!”
Joanne said the words “catch you” as though they were a succulent, forbidden sweet she was rolling over her tongue. Jayme wanted to slap the smug look right off Joanne’s face. She would have too, if not for the many lessons on the virtue of self-control Jayme had learned while sitting upon, or bent over, one of her parents’ laps.
Jayme fixed Joanne with what she hoped was her best ‘mom look.’ “Dad would never do that. And there’s no such thing as luck, Joanne. It was the grace of God. You think it’s funny, me getting shot?”
Finally, Joanne’s cavalier attitude disappeared. “What? No! That’s not funny! …Man, I suck at this. Look, I’m not happy you got spanked. I get spanked–not as often as you–but I hate getting spanked, just as much as you. And I’m not sad because you didn’t get shot, either. It’s just…been a weird night.”
Jayme was momentarily at a loss for words. She loved all her brothers and sisters, but her relationship with Joanne was the most complicated. Joanne might rib her for getting spanked, but she was somehow also the easiest person for Jayme to talk to about certain things.
Joanne was easily in second place behind Jayme for the “Most Spanked Child in the Household” contest. The prize for winning the blue ribbon was probably another spanking, Jayme mused.
Not waiting for Jayme to answer, Joanne shrugged and offered a hand. “So…truce?”
Jayme wasn’t quite sure if she believed Joanne, but she shook hands anyway, strangely touched by the gesture. “Truce.”
Feeling lighter than air, Jayme made her way to her bedroom, rubbing the lingering sting from her throbbing buttocks with both hands. With a start, Jayme turned to catch a glimpse of Joanne’s cat-like eye disappearing behind her heavily decorated door.
In Sunday School, Church, private school, and at home, Jayme had learned the importance of controlling her tongue. Obviously, if you said naughty words, like the f-word, you could expect a trip across a knee. An important aspect of that was to control yourself in thought, word, and deed. Jayme didn’t just want to avoid saying the f-word to avoid a spanking. She wanted to avoid so much as thinking the f-word. Because, in her heart of hearts, Jayme believed that any use of the f-word was a sin, and rightly merited a long, hard, bare-bottom spanking.
“Fuck. Fuck! Fuuuck!” hissed Jayme. Joanne was on to her! This was all part of some devious scheme! Why did God hate her? Why did the Good Lord delight in punishing her so? Jayme rested her forehead against the simple arts-and-crafts cross decorating the front of her room. She remembered her second favorite Bible verse. Proverbs 17:3. “The fining pot is for silver, and the furnace for gold: but the Lord trieth the hearts,” recited Jayme from memory, instantly repenting of her sinful thoughts. Still massaging her aching bottom, furiously, Jayme nudged her bedroom door open with her forehead, and collapsed onto bed.
She’d screwed up badly today. She’d nearly gotten caught. She’d lied to her dad’s face. For a moment, the fiery pain emanating from her backside felt comforting. At least she’d gotten spanked. Not that it should really count for the lying. “That spanking wasn’t nearly hard enough…Not for lying,” huffed Jayme.
Jayme twisted as she felt her tangled undies bunch uncomfortably against her pajama bottoms. “So that’s why they say not to get your knickers in a twist…” she mused as she finally fixed them.
Jayme curiously glanced back, wondering if she’d catch a glimpse of her naked ass glowing bright red, like Rudolf’s shiny nose. It certainly felt like it should be glowing in the dark. “No more risks like that. I can’t get caught,” Jayme told herself, as she pulled her pajama bottoms back up.
Lying in the dark, a quiet little voice in her heart answered, “Then don’t get caught!”
…
As Jayme drifted off to sleep, she recovered a long-forgotten memory. She was four years old, taking a long shower. As she washed the shampoo from her hair and glanced down at herself, she realized that, sooner or later, she would probably need a spanking for something or other. Little Jayme immediately delivered a firm spanking to her own, dripping-wet bottom, sending droplets flying with each resounding swat. She even added a lecture in a stern, parental voice, just like she remembered hearing Mamma and Poppa do while spanking her or one of her siblings. She didn’t stop until she felt tears welling up in her eyes, and the sting had built to the point it was unbearable. After drying off, she’d marched smartly to find her parents, wrapped in a towel, to explain her clever idea. “See? My bum is bright red. Now you don’t have to spank me ever again! I can spank myself for you!”
She remembered the hoots of laughter, remembered the serious talk about not needing to do that ever again, and remembered blushing with humiliation as that funny “Kids Say the Darndest Things” anecdote was repeated over and over, first to siblings, and later to guests.
“You can’t just spank yourself, and have that count as a punishment for later, Jayme. Don’t you see? A spanking is supposed to teach you right from wrong. You get a spanking after you do something wrong,” Poppa had explained gently.
But as far as Jayme was concerned, both then and now, she needed all the spankings she could possibly get.
[End of Chapter 2]