F/M Spanking Sunday — Another by Pete

I’m taking time off from blogging to write more F/M stories, so to fill this slot I’ll let Pete entertain you with

The Reincarnation of Aunt Anne

By Pete

It was a crisp Fall day in 1964 when I walked down the familiar long hallway for what I hoped was the last time. I was 21. In just 2 days I would be marrying Anne Graham, the vivacious blonde I had “gone with” all through college. Though the war in Vietnam was escalating, I had few concerns – at least my impending marriage would keep me out of that horror. My only immediate horror rested within the carefully stapled piece of paper I held in my hand. It was a note from my Mother to Aunt Anne. In it, I knew, would be a single number – probably between 50 and 80 – and a question mark. It was an old family tradition.

When Uncle Harry, my namesake, was killed early in the war, Aunt Anne splurged a part of her considerable inheritance on this rambling Edwardian monstrosity. Two large wings connected by a side-by-side 6 car garage on the first floor, and this seemingly endless hallway on the second. My family had moved into one wing shortly after I was born, while Aunt Anne presided over the other.

Aunt Anne and Uncle Harry were the major source of gossip in my family. She the gay and uninhibited debutante, and he the adventurous scamp. His pre-marital affairs were legendary, but in Anne he found a woman who was more than a match for him. She spurned all his propositions and proposals for more than a year, finally capitulating only, it is said, when Harry agreed to let her “reform” him. Though no one knows for sure, it is widely speculated that the reformation was accomplished via the frequent and harsh application of her antique ivory hairbrush to Uncle Harry’s bare backside! I am a firm supporter of this speculation.

My mother, you see, although a firm believer in corporal punishment for recalcitrant children, was afflicted with a severe case of soft-heartedness. So when my misbehavior merited the sound application of a firm maternal palm, Mother’s execution was, most often, both feckless and feeble. Aunt Anne, a strikingly beautiful woman of 25, upon witnessing one of these disciplinary disasters, suggested to my Mother that she send me over to see her the next time. “I know how to take care of Harrys,” she giggled. And so the tradition was born.

The next time I was naughty, Mother merely smiled, dashed off a brief note, and dispatched me to Aunt Anne’s quarters with it. I can still remember that day. I was 4 years old. Totally innocent, totally unsuspecting. I recall knocking on the door to her parlor, her cheery, “Come in Harry, I’ve been expecting you.” And the disaster that followed!

She was seated in an antique, but sturdy, straight backed chair. She smiled at me warmly. She beckoned me to come to her. I did so trustingly, and handed her Mother’s note. She opened it and thoughtfully regarded its contents, then turned to me and calmly began to unbuckle my belt. Though I squirmed and wriggled, she deftly shucked down my corduroy knickers and underpants, and hoisted me easily up and over her long slim thighs. Although I knew by then what was coming, I wasn’t all that concerned. Mother’s half-hearted efforts had left me with little fear of spankings. Patting my chubby little cheeks lightly, Aunt Anne encouraged me to tell her all about the mischief I had gotten into. Full of fun herself, Aunt Anne would generally laugh uproariously at my escapades (although, as I was to find out painfully, generally the harder she laughed, the harder she spanked!). Then she paused to roll up the right sleeve of her blouse, and saying something like – “Well, we’ll have to take care of that, won’t we?” – Aunt Anne administered the spanking of my young life! Though she used only the flat palm of her hand, this tennis-fit young woman whaled my poor, tender cheeks until I fairly shrieked from the sting and bawled like a baby. The spanking finished, Aunt Anne embraced me warmly, tenderly pulled up and fastened my underpants and knickers, and gave me some milk and cookies.

That ritual continued throughout my life. If pressed, I think I could remember each and every fear-filled stroll down what I came to call Murderer’s Row…and it was a trip I was to make at least once a week! I certainly recall the day when I “graduated” from her hand to her hairbrush! I was about 10 at the time and had played some particularly noxious prank on a neighbor’s daughter in school.

I recollect how, after I had somewhat euphemistically described the event in my usual position (turned over her knee with my bottom bared), Aunt Anne remarked that I was “getting to be a big boy now, and probably shouldn’t be punished like a baby anymore.” I thought this was my lucky day as she set me on my feet. I started to pull up my pants when she said, “No, Harry, not just yet.” It was then that I saw she had gone to her bureau and retrieved her hairbrush!

“Uh oh” I thought, having heard the perhaps apocryphal tales of how she had tamed Uncle Harry with this self-same hairbrush. Returning to her chair, she noted my awestruck expression and giggled, “You’ve heard the stories, then?” I nodded yes. “Don’t believe everything you hear!” She admonished with an impish grin as she once more hauled me across the lushness of her warm lap, “but you can rely on what you feel! Oh Lordy! All my previous spankings dwindled into pale insignificance as she introduced my tender, bare behind to her hairbrush – WHACK! She beat a tattoo on my wildly gyrating, quickly reddening, rapidly blistering cheeks with that damned brush until I was too breathless to even cry. I do remember that spanking! When at last it was over, and she had gone into the kitchen to get me my milk and cookies, I went over to her dresser and inspected what was to become a very familiar object to me. It was about 10″ long overall, split about evenly between its gracefully curved handle and its oval head, which was maybe 4” across at the widest part. The bristles were soft and supple, the yellowing ivory back had some intricate carving of what looked to be cherubs and roses – it was hard to tell for it was worn rather smooth. “On Uncle Harry?” I wondered. From that day on, all of my spankings were given with that damnable brush.

And it wasn’t too long after the hairbrush came into play that I started to recognize the sexual aspects of these spankings. Aunt Anne was an outstandingly attractive woman by anyone’s standards – with a slender but extraordinarily shapely body – and she knew it. Tennis shorts, short shorts, short skirts, slit skirts…these were her favored attire. Which meant that the long, slender thighs I was turned over were most often either bare or stockinged…an erotic resting place indeed for my own naked groin. And Aunt Anne was a pioneer in the bra-less movement as well, which meant that the ample bosom to which my tear-stained cheeks were clasped during her post-spanking comforting was most often only lightly veiled at best. Oddly enough, these sexual aspects were confined to the periods before, after and in-between…not during. As I walked down the long hallway, I would find that the very real feelings of fear and apprehension would be mingled with a tingling feeling of anticipation as well, and when Aunt Anne set about to undress me, she often found herself confronted with an erection! A miniscule problem at first, but one that grew over time. Her solution was to ignore it, correctly assuming that it would soon go away. And go away it would! By the time she had applied the third SPANK, all of my attention moved rearward some 6″, focusing on the unhappy condition of my stinging posterior. Afterwards, however, when I was pressed tearfully against her soft, warm breasts and her hand was lightly stroking my blazing buttocks (and sometimes in between), the thrilling erotic tingles would return. In between Aunt Anne starred in a rich fantasy life where sex and spanking were irretrievably mingled.

But back to the day in question. That day in 1964. The day before my wedding. There had been a stag party the night before that, I cheerfully confess, did get somewhat out of hand. The details are somewhat hazy, but there was a large girl-containing cake, a confrontation with the police, and a fender-bender with a tree. When I arrived back at the manse at about 6:00 AM, I found myself confronted not only by Mother, but Aunt Anne and Fiancee Anne as well. Not one of my better mornings. Compassionate and caring, they spared me most of the verbal abuse I deserved and allowed me to retire with what little grace and dignity I could muster. Until about noon, that is, when Mother came in and handed me a note for Aunt Anne.

I was really quite upset, for although I had continued to visit Aunt Anne for “attitude improvement” sessions throughout college, the frequency of those events had diminished dramatically. I mean it is a tad bizarre for a grown man to sprawl across the still-trim lap of his fortyish Aunt to receive a sound spanking on his bare bottom. It certainly wasn’t something I’d tell anyone about. I had speculated, though, on the meaning of life after Aunt Anne. Her spankings had been such an integral part of my upbringing that I confess I really felt I’d miss them! But I didn’t tell her that. At any rate, I was feeling quite indignant about the whole thing…college graduate, soon-to-be-married man, aspiring junior executive…now feeling the familiar and scary “naughty little boy” knot of anxiety and fear as I neared both Aunt Anne’s door and a blistered bottom.

Though I did consider simply not showing up, old habits are hard to break, and I found myself timorously knocking on the familiar parlor door.

“Come in, Harry, I’ve been expecting you!”

I paused, it really didn’t sound much like Aunt Anne, but I guessed she probably just had a cold, gritted my teeth and walked in. To my astonishment and dismay, the gorgeous blonde creature seated in the familiar antique, straight-backed chair, holding the familiar ivory-backed hairbrush was not Aunt Anne, but Fiancee Anne!

“Wh-what are you doing he-here?” I stammered nonsensically.

“Come here, Harry, I think you have a note for me from your Mother?” She beamed radiantly and beckoned to me with one slender hand.

I was panic stricken. “B-but…”

“The note, Harry, let me have the note.”

“Oh. The note. Uh, sure.” Unbelievably I staggered over to her chair and handed her the note. She opened it and thoughtfully regarded its contents, then turned to me and began to unbuckle my belt! Though I squirmed and wriggled, she deftly shucked down my slacks and shorts and hoisted me over her silk-stockinged thighs! I was dumbfounded. I didn’t know what to do. Patting my bare, upturned cheeks lightly, Annie asked, “OK Harry, what did you do this time?”

I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say. She patted my bottom a little harder. “I asked you a question, Dear.”

Totally confounded, I found myself blurting out all the sordid details of the previous evening’s bacchanalia, at least all the details I could remember. Anne laughed heartily throughout. She was a good sport, I remember thinking.

“Well then, we’ll have to take care of that, won’t we?” She said, pausing to roll up the right sleeve of her blouse, then tightening her left arm around my naked waist.

“This can’t be happening!” I recall thinking, and then…

SMACK! The impact caused a rush of hot sting to bloom across my bottom.
 CRACK! This wasn’t happening! It stung like crazy!
  WHACK! Yeoww!

My fiancee began to spank me with all of the skill and vigor of Aunt Anne on a good day! “OW!” I squealed, then “oh ugh OUCH Please! OH Nono ooh eeyah umph.” Grunting, groaning, squirming…my bottom jerking, twisting, jiggling…my legs scissoring, toes drumming on the oriental-carpeted floor…I went through all the convolutions and time-honored, traditional, involuntary spanking responses I had perfected with Aunt Anne over the years.

The brush’s hard flat back stung my bare bottom as intensely as anything I’d ever recalled, like a neverending hornet attack.

Anne continued to spank me with a seemingly practiced ease. “I will SMACK teach you to obey WHACK me, just as WHAP-WHAP you have SMACK learned to CRACK obey Aunt SMACK Anne. You will WHAP learn that I WHAP won’t tolerate this WHACK kind of SMACK mischief either! WHACK SMACK CRACK SMACK How am SMACK I doing so WHACK far?”

I recall thinking somewhat ruefully, through the pain-wracked/tear-dimmed haze, that I wouldn’t be missing Aunt Anne’s spankings after all! And surprisingly relieved, I squealed and howled and pleaded to my heart’s content…knowing very well it wouldn’t help a bit.

The spanking continued without letup, an implacable barrage of smacks delivered to my flaming fanny. Left cheek, right cheek, right across the crease, it just went on and on. Given the enthusiasm and vim with which Anne kept applying that hard-backed brush to my soft-skinned bottom, I rightly guessed that she was taking to her new-found disciplinary role like the proverbial duck to water.
She didn’t stop until fully 60 spanks or so had consumed my entire derriere with a flaming conflagration, and sincere tears of honest pain were coursing down my cheeks. She turned me around – surprisingly strong was my surprising Annie – and nestled me against her bosom.

“Harry?” She whispered.

“Y-yes.” I blubbered.

“Tomorrow, when the minister asks you if you’ll love, honor and obey?”

“Yes?”

“You better believe it!”

Well, that was 20 odd years ago. 20 really odd years most people would think. Because Wife Anne has become the reincarnation of Aunt Anne. Any/every time I screw up, Anne will happily hand me a small scrap of carefully folded, stapled paper. My “invitation” to an intimate – but still painful – disciplinary session with my beloved wife. The “real” Aunt Anne gave us both her antique, straight-backed chair and her antique ivory-backed hairbrush. They are well and often used. I can’t complain, though. Anne is fair. Fair but firm! I guess I am spanked no more or no less than when Aunt Anne was in control. We’ve moved to California, so the only times I face that long walk down “Murderer’s Row” are when we come back to visit and Wife Anne lets Aunt Anne spank me for old time’s sake. Though she’s 65 now, she can still reduce me to tears in a matter of seconds.

Now it’s just a short stroll to our guest bedroom where Wife Anne has installed the traditional punishment chair. But the result is the same. Bottom bared. Over her knee. And a good, sound spanking with Aunt Anne’s hairbrush that leaves me with wobbly knees, blistered buttocks and a tear-stained face. The intricate little carvings on the back of the brush have all but disappeared now. 2,000 spankings will do that. That’s what I guess I’ve gotten…about 1,000 from Aunt Anne, 1,000 from Wife Anne. Macho pride aside, I’m not sure I’d have it any other way!

[note: if you like Pete, some more of his stories may be available from CF Publications]

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