Some D I C

When I was a child, my parents used to take me to church down the street. it was a non-denominational church, run by a pastor from somewhere in the states. He was a pretty emotional preacher, and really got things happening. It was pretty exciting…He was a great preacher on family values, and used to spend some time talking about the whys, the methods, the whole purpose behind discipline. He was, of course, talking about spanking. He would say a prayerful approach to spanking, with both parent and child asking God for his mercy, would be the proper christian way, and would be a purification for the whole family. Pretty heavy stuff, most of which I dozed through, because those were sermons where he was very cool and calm, not the waving shouting preacher he was usually. Anyway. From time to time, I would ask my parents about it, but, they were definitely not spankers. All this thought and discussion came to a head when I was nine, after I got caught playing hookey, and my school and parents found out that I had been forging absence letters. I got a real talking-to and the school laid it on with my parents. I felt very bad for them. I knew they would do nothing to me, but, I needed to do something, anything, to make things better One Sunday, after church, I asked my mom if we could go see the pastor (dad was away). We sat and talked it out with him for a good hour, and at the end of it, he sat back, turned to my mom and said: “I think Michelle needs, and I do mean needs, a good spanking.” I turned very red. My mom shook her head “I couldn’t do that, I just couldn’t.” I looked at my mom and then at the pastor. He was looking at me, and nodded his head. “Mom,” she looked at me, “maybe the pastor could do it…” “Would you?” she said. He was an older man, maybe in his late fifties, and he nodded, again. Then held up a hand. “First…we pray together. The lord will guide us.” So we did, all three of us. After a while, we all stood, and the pastor sat in front of mom and me. He turned to his intercom, and called in his wife. He told her what we had been talking and praying about. Then, he sat, very quietly. He turned to my mom. “Before we do this, there is one more thing that has to happen.” Mom looked puzzled. “You have to learn your lesson, as well.” He paused, then patted his legs, “over my knee.” My mother gasped, and shook her head. I called out something about it not being fair. The pastor looked at her. “You. You have to learn your responsibilty. If Michelle is to be spanked, you must know something of what she suffers. Come.” Woodenly, mom walked over to him, and lay across his knees. He raised her skirts, and began a quick hard slapping. Mom’s mouth popped open and she began gasping and sobbing. Then, she began to bawl. I had never heard her cry like that. She just howled, tears pouring from her. He stopped, and set her on her feet. “Go sit down. Michelle. Over here.” I lay across his lap, hoping my jeans would protect me. I had begun to regret the whole thing. “Wait John,” the pastor’s wife spoke, then walked over to me, “let’s do this properly.” She grabbed my jeans and panties, and pulled them down to my knees. I remember whimpering in protest. “Now. Now, she’s ready.Remember what this is for, Michelle.” I felt the air on my bare bum. The pastor said,”Dear, tell me when three minutes is up.” SMACK! SMACK! “Owow!” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! “Ohohoh…oweee!” He spanked and spanked. I yelled and writhed and sobbed. “OHHH! UH!UH! OWEEEE! OH! OWOWOWOW!Pleasestopstop!pleaseohpleaseohplease stop!!!I’m sorry mommy! owowowow!!” smack! smack! smack! On and on it went, and, at last, I just dissolved in tears, bawling so loud I hardly recognized my own voice. And then, it was over. He pulled my jeans and panties back up, and set me on my feet. He held my face in his hands, and said: “No one wanted to do this, Michelle…But I hope you have learned your lesson.” I stood there, for a moment, sobbing, then flung my arms around his neck. As we walked home, my mother put her arm around me. “I never want to go through that again, Michelle.” She stopped, then put her hands on my shoulders. “The pastor will never do that to you again. No. Don’t interrupt. That is something that is going to stop, too. And, you know why? Because my bum hurts (she started laughing)and from now on, when you do something naughty, (She reached into her handbag and pulled out a wooden-handled hairbrush) this, my dear will be used on your bare bottom. Understand?” I nodded. But, of course, me and that hairbrush did become very well acquainted, indeed

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