From: gaetana@aol.com (Gaetana) Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking Subject: Hot Buns for Coffee (Or: Grounds for Punishment) Date: 14 Oct 1994 22:15:05 -0400 Message-ID: <37ndv9$dcb@newsbf01.news.aol.com> Hot Buns for Coffee - OR Grounds for Punishment Copyright 1994, Gaetana (CONTENT: Disciplinary spanking, m/f juvenile, non-sexual) My Midwestern parents were, by definition, serious coffee drinkers. Although we never lived in an elegant neighborhood, drove elegant cars or entertained with much style, they selected the best coffee available and brewed it in whatever state-of-the-art device was on the market. When I was 8 or so, that device was an exquisite wasp-waisted glass drip pot made by Silex - a wonder of physics and a thing of beauty. (Perhaps they're still available, an aesthete's rebellion against Mr. Coffee, but I don't know.) It seemed natural to me, when instigating "playing house" on the flat tin roof of a neighbor's garage in the alley, that having a proper coffee pot was essential. The delicate 2-sectioned glass mechanism, with the fragile connecting tube to channel first the heated water to the upper chamber and ultimately to carry the fragrant porcelain- filter brew back to the lower carafe, was hauled with us along with cups and saucers, pots and pans, and cheap utensils, all liberally liberated from our four households. It was relatively easy to access the low roof by clambering up over a slanted attached shed and handling the equipment up from hand to hand. Gene, Mikey, Patty and I often played together - all of us about the same age and well-matched in imagination and daring - although both regularly got us into trouble. We commiserated with each other about homework and teacher woes, chores, siblings (an only child, I was spared the latter), and the hated but usually well-deserved paddlings we all occasionally got - since the sound, if not the sight, normally transmitted through our row-house community, there was no point in dissembling and there was a kid-community relish in dramatizing the unpleasant for the moment of Tom Sawyer-like martyrdom it allowed the recent victim. Once or twice the boys dared to drop their drawers to show off a red and freshly-strapped behind - the girls (me included) as amazed by the sight of young male anatomy as the proudly displayed welts. I know mention of kids playing house evokes some naughty "show and tell", but we were lost for hours in innocent domestic role-playing. I proudly showed off my expertise in making and serving imaginary coffee in the very real and expensive Silex pot, before Patty's mother emerged from their back door to yell, "Patty, where are you? You get in here and wash up for supper!" We'd lost track of time and dads were home and waiting for dinner. Patty hesitated, all our eyes meeting with some alarm. She didn't dare NOT answer, but we didn't want to give away our location on the Mullins' garage roof either! "Pat-TEE!!" her mom's voiced raised in pitch and volume, "You want me to come GET you?" That did it. Our mothers were great at rhetorical questions that no one wanted answered. "No, Mom - I'm coming right now!" Patty shouted. Her mom found the direction of her daughter's voice and stared up at the garage, then striding purposefully to the end of the yard, shading her eyes from the late afternoon sun. Another rhetorical question followed - parents were good at them! "Just what the devil do you kids think you're DOING up there!?" Patty was quickly dissolving into panic and sliding frantically down the garage roof to the roof of the shed, "I'm coming, Mamma! I was just coming anyway!" The last was far from true but I guess it was a stab at defense. If so, it fell on deaf ears, since her mother was breaking off a green switch from a handy sapling, and captured her daughter by the arm the instant she touched down on the alley. By this time, Mikey's grandmother, who took charge of him and his sisters during the day, was on their back porch. Patty's mom called up to her (simultaneously landing a deft and practiced swat across Patty's bottom with the switch), "Will you LOOK what these children are up to?" Patty swung her bottom forward, likewise a familiar but fruitless evasion tactic. We stared. "You could have broken your necks up there!" Patty's mom reinforced the message with a hard thwack with the switch, and Patty whimpered. "You think that smarts?" (Patty's mother was a pro at this) "You wait till I get you in that house!" With that, they executed a little procession back through the alley to their back yard and kitchen door, Patty's forward progress an incredibly energetic prance to the rhythm of the switch, and accompanied by high-pitched wails of protest. My bottom quivered sympathetically as their back door slammed shut and, after a few heartbeats of silence, Patty's yells crescendoed to shrieks: I knew what that meant! Patty was secured with skirt hauled up and panties around knees, the stinging switch finding bare twin targets while her feet drummed helplessly on the floor. Mikey's grandmother had called my house and my dad appeared at our back landing. He looked angry and concerned. Gene and Mikey seized the moment and did an quick and athletic dismount from the low garage roof, Gene taking off up the alley and Mikey running squarely into the blockade of his sizeable grandmother. She bent down and whispered something to the boy that provoked immediate tears, the two of them heading grimly into the house. I didn't envy Mikey either, but that left my dad staring up at me on the roof, surrounded by "borrowed" housewares, including our precious icon, the Silex. "You get down here," my dad ordered. I scrambled to assemble the things I'd taken from the kitchen, when he interrupted, "And give me that coffee pot!" I picked up the Silex and was starting the precarious descent when a resounding SWACK!! issued from the back door of Mikey's rowhouse and his anguished screech followed instantly! I jumped as if shot and my foot slipped on the metal roof. Another and a third sharp SWACKS!! cracked through the late afternoon air and Mikey's wails replaced Patty's. I caught myself, but shakily, and the glass Silex slipped from my hands, falling in a seemingly endless flight to smash on the gravel of the driveway. To the unmistakable sound effects of a strap on Mikey's bottom, my father and I stared in utter horror at the shards of the finest coffee pot in the neighborhood. I slid to the ground, both hands over my mouth, tears starting. My father shook his head, near (I think now) to laughing. But then his expression became severe again and he ordered me to go and get a dust-pan and a paper bag. "Go ahead!" he said, I've got to clean this up before someone ruins all their tires! You have got a lot of questions to answer, young lady." I obeyed with alacrity and watched, stomach churning, while my dad picked up every crystal fragment of the former Silex. Standing, he took the bag in one hand and my wrist in the other, dragging both into the yard. We could still hear Mikey's moaning sobs, but the application of the strap had apparently ended and I guessed he was getting the obligatory stern lecture while still pinioned and smarting over his grandma's ample lap. Words did seem to stick with us kids longer when absorbed by a mind attached to a flaming bare behind. He'd be lucky if the report to his returning parents didn't earn him an encore performance from his father. My dad explained to my mother where the remains of our fine coffee pot resided now, and the brilliant scheme for domesticity their daughter had concocted. My mother's eyes sparkled a bit too, in retrospect, and I dared to hope that they'd consider this a "cute" prank. But my dad obviously thought a lesson had to taught. "I don't know how else to get you to think what you're doing," he shook his head. "I think a good spanking is in order, don't you?" Another rhetorical puzzler. "N-no! I mean, Daddy...!" But he was already sitting down in the straight, white-painted kitchen chair and motioning me over his knee. "Daa-ddy!" I sniffled "Daddy!! I didn't...we didn't m-mean!" "You never do!" he admonished, and ended my protest by hauling me across his lap and pushing my cotton sundress up to my waist. Then he took the waistband of my cotton panties and pulled them down! I tried to leap up - I'd never EVER been spanked on my bare bottom. Oh, this was serious! He held me down, almost gently, but without difficulty and raised his hand. I squirmed, "Nooooo...no spanking, nooo!!" But the SMACK fell on my bare behind anyhow and, an instant later, the most fiery sensation spread through my whole posterior! "OWW, Dad-dy!! Owww!!!" I squealed and wriggled, but the hot SMACKS continued to land unerringly on their unprotected target, each punctuated with a warning: "If I EVER see you playing on that roof you are going to get the strap, you understand? " "Owwww, Daddy- YESS!!" "You are going to pay for that coffee pot with your movie allowance , you understand ?" "Ohhhh- OWWW" Yes!! Yes!!" He spanked me for about 10 minutes, the hardest, longest, and barest paddling I'd ever gotten (up to then!). My eyes felt swollen and as red as my bare cheeks and I remember the utter shame of being hauled to my room, sniveling and hiccuping, panties falling off along the way, to be instructed to wash my face and "settle down", before coming downstairs to apologize for breaking the coffee pot and endangering my neck (apparently more valued than my ass). I remember melodramatically flinging myself on my bed, rubbing my hot, stinging rump in earnest and sobbing loudly until I realized no one was paying much attention. Ultimately, I obeyed my instructions to clean up and face the dreaded apology. Dinner was conducted as if I weren't squirming miserably on what felt like twin balls of scorched hamburger. The new Silex cost me many weeks of missed Saturday matinees. Gene got home scot-free, but I had the satisfaction of finding out he got his delayed but no less severe spanking when his mother found out from Patty's mom about the Garage Affair. We all compared notes eagerly later, somehow the shared commiseration soothing our sore butts and providing a badge of courage, won in a noble cause. Nothing more was ever said about the incident by my parents, who were probably secretly amused by the disaster. I make very good coffee, by the way; just don't offer me hot buns on the side! ; ) Gaetana (no de-caf, please)