A friend of mine was part of a family who stuck closely to their Scandinavian heritage, even though they'd lived in Seattle for at least four generations. Inga's father was a fisherman as had been his father and all his male relatives before him. He was a tall, strapping, very stern man and I don't recall him ever cracking a smile. Her mother, on the other hand, was a petite, bird-like woman, always chirpingly cheerful and flitting around the house keeping it neat and tidy. She was one of those sort of mothers who had freshly-baked cookies and cold milk waiting for her children after school. The kids in the neighborhood adored her.
In the 1960s, as we're all aware, corporal punishment was still allowed in schools and was a normal and accepted part of family life. Inga's family was no different. On many occasions I was witness to her brothers being solemnly led from the room by their father, his hand heavy on their shoulders, his razor strop in his other hand, and hearing the subsequent whoosh and crack of the well-worn leather striking their bared backsides. He invariably took them to the mudporch at the back of the kitchen where stood an old chair they were made to bend over after dropping their jeans and underwear. You could hear the boys' yelps and cries all over the house and, if it was summertime and the doors and windows were open, all over the neighborhood as well!
Inga was the only girl in the family and feared her father. She'd been the recipient of several harsh and painful spankings over the years although had never "tasted" his razor strop. Apparently this was reserved only for the boys. She once told me she'd overheard her father tell one of her brothers that that strop had been used on him and his father as well. To him, it was probably a family heirloom.
Christmas was a wonderful time at their house. Inga's mother would be baking for weeks and all the kids in the neighborhood would swarm to kitchen in the hopes of snagging a cookie or two. The entire house would be decorated and music would be playing on the hi-fi.
As Inga's best friend, I and my parents were often invited to dinner or to socialize in some other fashion. Our parents were great bridge players and good friends as well. I'll never forget one Christmas afternoon when we'd stopped by to exchange gifts. Inga seemed unusually subdued and her mother was not her usual happy self. It was difficult to tell whether Inga's father was in a bad mood or not. In spite of the jolly music playing on the hi-fi and the lights twinkling in their perfect Christmas tree, Inga's house didn't seem very festive.
In my childish and tactless way, I asked Inga what the matter was in front of our parents and her brothers. To my surprise and chagrin, she burst into tears and ran from the livingroom. Behind his parents' backs, one of the boys pointed to the stockings hung at their mantlepiece. At first I was confused, shrugging and looking back at him. I didn't understand what he was trying to tell me. Whispering in my ear, he explained. "Inga got switches in her stocking." Sure enough, several slender twigs were sticking up out of her red stocking.
I still must have looked blank, because he elaborated, tugging me into the hallway. "Her grades have fallen off. Papa is furious. He warned her if they did not improve before Christmas vacation, he would take steps. She expected to be punished but he never did anything. Until she saw her stocking this morning."
I was horrified. "You mean he's going to spank her with those STICKS?!"
Her brother nodded. "He already has used one this morning. Right after breakfast he took her to her room and gave her a good switching. There are three more in her stocking and he told her she'll get a switching a day until they are all gone."
Poor Inga! A spanking was bad enough but to be spanked with a stick just boggled my mind!
I heard her father bellow, "Inga! You come downstairs at once!" My parents looked embarrassed but were urged to make themselves comfortable in the livingroom while her mother bustled off to the kitchen to make coffee. I gathered they had either figured out what was going on or had been told. Slowly, Inga entered the room, her eyes red and puffy from crying.
"Sit down!" Her father pointed an imperious finger at a wooden chair. She blanched but obeyed, unable to disguise her wince when her bottom touched the seat.
For the next hour, all of us pretended to have a nice Christmas visit. Her brothers played with their new miniature race cars under the tree while our parents sipped coffee and chatted about whatever it was adults chatted about. I had pulled a chair up next to Inga's and we quietly played with our new Barbie dolls. She may have received switches in her stocking but Santa had also brought toys.
The next day, my parents were scheduled to visit out-of-town friends and had left me in the care of Inga's parents. I arrived early in the morning, bringing my little suitcase full of Barbie dolls and clothes, eagerly looking forward to spending the day with my friend. I'd forgotten all about her scheduled punishment. Inga had not.
She was quiet at breakfast. Her mother had made oatmeal and I loathed oatmeal. At my house, I didn't have to eat anything I didn't like, as long as I tried one bite first. Inga was picking at her bowl and I was frowning down at mine. Her father stopped eating and glared at both of us. "Eat!" he ordered.
I must have made a face. "I hate oatmeal," I stated in all my nine-year-old superiority. "I don't have to eat this at home."
Her mother paused and looked at me quickly, casting a furtive glance at her husband. Her father glowered at me. "In this house you eat what you are given. It is good and decent food and I worked hard to put it on this table. Now EAT!"
Stubbornly, I shook my head. I was confident there was nothing he could do to make me eat it. "Can't I just have some toast and jam instead?"
He slammed his spoon down on the table, making the glasses and dishes rattle. By now, Inga and her brothers and mother were looking at me aghast.. "No you may not have anything else!"
Inga nudged me under the table with her hand. I ignore her. Instead, I pushed the bowl away from me. "May I be excused please?" I glared back at him. He was a formidable man and I clearly understood why Inga feared him. But it never occurred to me that he might punish me as if I were one of his own children. Nor did it occur to me that my parents would condone such action. Boy, was I wrong!
I was not often punished. On three or four occasions I'd been spanked by my mother for what my parents doubtlessly regarded as severe infractions of the family rules. They'd been painful and memorable but they'd also been brief. My skirt had been lifted but my panties had remained in place, although thoroughly heated. And one time my father had spanked me while we were camping. That had been the most memorable of all not only because it was out-of-doors but because he'd used a "flip-flop" rubber sandal, which had delivered quite the sting.
So it came as quite a shock when Inga's father stood up from the table, his face red with fury, and unceremoniously tugged my chair out, grasping my wrist and pulling me to my feet. "No," he growled. "You may NOT be excused. Little girls who do not obey their elders are spanked in this house. You are in our care and so you shall be punished for your rudeness!"
Of course I protested, trying to pull away from him. But I was no match for his strength. He looked at Inga. "I might as well kill two birds with one stone. Bring the switches from your stocking and come with us." She started to cry immediately but didn't dare disobey her father. Her brothers were all intensely interested in eating their oatmeal as fast as possible. Her mother's eyes were downcast as well.
Together, Inga and I were marched upstairs, I still struggling mightily, threatening him that my father would be very mad at him if he spanked me. He was grimly silent until we reached Inga's bedroom. He looked at his daughter and pointed to her bed. She promptly sat down, still clutching those wicked-looking switches. He let go of me, giving me a warning look when I turned for the door, which he shut with a bang. Quelled, I remained standing where I was.
He pulled her desk chair out and sat down, looking from one to the other of us, his large meaty hands braced on his knees, his pale blue eyes steely. "You are both very naughty little girls and deserve to be spanked." He directed his hard look at me. "Your father will not be mad at me for spanking you. We agreed that, if it was necessary, I would punish you like my own child."
Now I started to cry. I didn't think it was necessary that I be spanked, just because I didn't want to eat their icky old oatmeal! Unfortunately, I made the mistake of telling him so.
He stood up, taking me by the arm once more. Then he ordered Inga to stand and bend over the side of her bed. Silently, she obeyed and I got the distinct impression this was a standard procedure she was all too used to. I watched while she turned around, reached under her skirt and pulled her panties to her knees, then lifted her skirt to expose her pale bottom. I could see the pale pink stripes still lingering from her Christmas morning switching. My eyes widened in surprise and horror. Without a word she reached for her pillow and bent over the side of the bed, placing the pillow under her hips. The result was that her fanny was arched conveniently in the air. She folded her arms and buried her face, sobbing quietly. I could see her fanny reflexively clench and unclench with dreaded anticipation.
Her father pushed me towards the bed, nodding at Inga's posture. "You do the same now," he said.
I glared back at him. "NO! You can't make me!"
But he could. Before I realized what he was doing, he'd bent over to yank my panties down, spinning me around and pushing me onto the bed. Then I felt myself lifted and a pillow stuffed under my hips. My position was adjusted and my skirt raised. All this happened in about fifteen seconds. I could feel his heavy hand pushing me down on my back to keep me in place.
I looked over at Inga, panic-stricken. She raised her head from her arms and seemed to say "I'm sorry" with her wet eyes before she once again buried her face. She knew what was coming. She knew the level of sting and pain that was about to be inflicted on her unprotected bottom. I, on the other hand, had no clue.
It wasn't long before I found out. I clutched at the bedspread, my cheek against the chenille pattern. Inga was right next to me and I could feel her body heat. She tensed-up. I felt her father's body move and heard the whistle of the switch sail through the air before it landed with a sharp SNAP and Inga recoiled with a wailing yelp. The whistle again and a loud SNICK and I was surprised that she didn't cry out again. It was almost a full second before I realized the switch had landed on my own pale and naked fanny. The delayed reaction soon kicked in and I screamed out as the red-hot trail of fire the switch left behind burned into me.
Inga's father was a strong man and he didn't believe in holding back just because we were girls. For the next several minutes, he switched us both hard and fast, sometimes alternating between us, sometimes concentrating on just one of us to keep us off-balance. In no time at all he had a pair of screaming, kicking, wailing little girls with very hot, very red-striped fannies bouncing on that bed. Inga knew well enough to stay in place but it was all he could do to keep me down. He flew that switch through the air in a steady rhythm, each stroke landing firmly and hotly. I cringed at each swishing sound, never knowing if it would land on me or not.
But it landed plenty of times on me. Never in my life had I felt such pain.. Once I'd burned my finger on the stove but this was like a million burned fingers, the sting all concentrated on my bottom. And Inga's father was thorough. He switched every inch of my fanny, from just below my waist all the way to my thighs, even landing a few there on that very tender skin. Mostly, though, he concentrated his effort on the sweet spots where the curve was and below-just the place I'd feel it most when I would sit down. IF I could ever sit down again! Clearly, this man knew what he was doing.
Inga's hand found mine about midway through our punishment and we grasped desperately at each other, our heads tossing, our tear flowing freely, our legs kicking frantically, our free hands clutching at the bedspread.
Finally, it was over and her father stomped out of the room, slamming the door without further commentary. We lay there, crying uncontrollably for another half an hour at least, reaching back to gingerly rub our swollen and welted bottoms. I couldn't believe the heat that was coming off my fanny and I pushed myself up off the bed to stand, tottering, and look in Inga's full-length mirror. I looked down at her fanny first, though, horrified at what I saw. My bottom was comparable.
Inga just lay there sobbing and hiccuping. "I'm sorry," she kept saying. I knew she was embarrassed at not only being punished in front of me but also that I was punished by her father too and she'd witnessed it. I pulled off my panties and lay back down on the bed, rubbing my bottom, still crying. I gave her a little hug and told her it wasn't her fault that I'd gotten a switching too.
Oh, how it HURT!! No amount of rubbing was making that hot sting go away. There was a tentative knock on the door and for a moment I was afraid it was one of her brothers coming to have a look at the damage. But, instead, it was her mother and she was carrying a jar of cold cream. Tenderly, she applied it to both of our hot bottoms, soothing the heated skin. Then she wiped our tears and told us to be good girls from now on so this sort of thing wouldn't happen again. Mutely, gratefully, we nodded, still lying on our tummies. She closed the door behind her and we drifted into a fitful slumber, holding hands once more, our bare red fannies still exposed to the air, covered in cold cream.
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