From Michelle's notebook...

I was spanked any number of times when I was growing up. I'm going to share the last of those spankings with you. It happened in July of the summer after I graduated from High School. I was eighteen years and three months old. There's no reason why I should have been spanked and no reason I had to put up with it.

But I was, and I did.

I'm a little fuzzy about the incident for which I was punished. It's strange but typical. Often a spanking overshadows the events that led up to it to the point where I don't remember them clearly. I remember the punishment but not the "cause".

We had been at my aunt's house for lunch. Somewhere along the way, I managed to disagree with my parents about something, I don't remember what. It was just the four of us and it never occurred to me that my parents would get upset about it. It wasn't like I was yelling at them or anything.

The problem was that my Aunt agreed with me and said so. When that happened, my mom went cold. We left pretty soon afterwards. I went straight from my Aunt's to my job in one car while mom and dad took the other one home.

A few hours later I drove home, having temporarily forgotten about the "argument". Walking in the back door, I immediately entered the kitchen. They were waiting for me. They'd probably heard me in the driveway.

Mom was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, facing the right side of the room and Dad was standing next to her. It was instantly clear that they were planning on spanking me, right then and there.

"Get over here young lady!" It was typical of my mom's attitude, expecting me to do whatever she told me without question, regardless of the fact that I was an adult. Dad was equally stern but quieter.

For a split second, I thought about telling them "no" and giving them a piece of my mind - but maturity kicked in. I decided to just cooperate, bend over and take the spanking that they were obviously there to deliver. I didn't want to cause a scene.

It hurt my feelings that they felt they needed both of them to do it, as if I was going to kick and scream or something. I hadn't done that since I was eight. No, I walked over to her and was prepared to lie across her lap without any trouble. As humiliating as it was going to be, it was the end of a long day and I didn't have the energy to fight with them.

Of course, I knew that I didn't deserve it and that they had no right to do it, but amazingly enough, I loved them and I was willing to go along - because they wanted me to. After all, it wasn't like I had never been spanked - although it had been at least two years. I wasn't afraid. I knew I could take it.

They didn't give me a chance.

When I got within range, Mom caught me by surprise, grabbing my left wrist and pulling it across her to her left side. I lost my balance and tripped over her lap, landing on her thighs. My chest was hanging over the side of the chair and I was looking at the floor.

They started talking about me as if I wasn't there. "Help me slide her farther over." Dad grabbed my ankles and pushed me so that my behind was almost over Mom's left leg and I was falling forward. I quickly put out my hands to catch myself and they hit the floor. Most of my weight was on them and it felt like I was doing some kind of weird push up.

My boobs, of course, rode up toward my face, although they were "tight" enough back then that they didn't smother me.

The position was very awkward for me and it was intended that way. They didn't allow me one shred of dignity.

"Hold her still," Mom said, as she put her hand firmly in the middle of my back. Dad still had hold of my ankles and pushed my legs down toward the floor, jackknifing me.

The blood was rushing to my head and it was already a little hard to breathe. I needed both hands to keep from falling over so I couldn't use either of them to block the spanking. Not that I was going to, but they were making sure of it. It was humiliating to be treated as if I couldn't hold still for a spanking or that I would struggle and fight them.

If they had simply asked, I would have bent over whatever they wanted and would probably have pulled down my jeans and underwear for them. Instead, they missed the chance to have me submit to them voluntarily. That was their loss.

I relaxed and reminded myself that it was going hurt but that I could take it. Long ago I had learned that being scared made a spanking a lot more torturous. If I was afraid of it, afraid of how much it was going to hurt, I would be terrified and the terror was a lot worse than the physical pain.

"Now, young lady", it was Mom being indignant again, "you are going to learn to show respect to your parents and not contradict us in public."

I thought to myself that the home of my Aunt, my godmother, was hardly "in public". It didn't matter.

It started almost immediately. The first spank was a bit of a shock, even though I was expecting it. It was a hard slap and it stung. She continued to spank me hard with her open hand on my jeans, as fast and as hard as she could, on the middle of my bottom. Dad held me firm.

It hurt. It stung like hell, but I wasn't scared. I knew it would hurt and I knew how much it would hurt. I let the pain flow through me and didn't cry. As long as I didn't let the pain "get to me", I was OK. I wouldn't panic. The terror wouldn't set in. I could take it... and I wouldn't humiliate myself.

That was the problem. For them, the whole point of the spanking was to get me to cry - to scream and beg for mercy. In their minds, I was supposed to humiliate myself. Somehow, I had hoped that we could avoid that particular aspect of my punishment this time around. But... no such luck.

They got mad.

"It's not working," she said.

"Swing harder," was Dad's reply.

"I'm already hitting her as hard as I can."

"Do you want me to do it?" he asked.

"No," she growled, spanking me non-stop the whole time, "I'll get this defiant little brat to cry if it's the last thing I do."

Re-arranging me on her lap, Mom started spanking on the tops of my thighs and on the "crease". It hurt more. In fact she was now hitting me on the most sensitive part of my bottom. The pain of each spank demanded my attention but it still didn't make me cry.

It was a dilemma. If I let the terror get to me, it would be awful, but if I didn't cry... if I didn't start crying soon, Dad would take over. He might pull my jeans and underwear down. He might even use his belt, which he had threatened several times but done only once before.

They seemed that angry.

If he used the belt on me, I would loose it and would spend several minutes in Hell.

Even that didn't frighten me enough to cry. I tried to cry and I couldn't. I wasn't able to give in to the fear without surrendering to the panic.

And the tears wouldn't come.