Note From The Editor: The writer of this very nice story sent it to me and asked to remain anonymous. However, I have his e-mail address, so if you want to tell him what you think about his story you can email me ([email protected]) and I will make sure he gets your comments.
Gloria set up two afternoons a week to teach me how to dance. At first she played the music she had. I liked a lot of her's, the Beatles of course (everyone liked the Beatles, everyone I knew), among others.
The lesson before my birthday I started bringing some of my own records, "Jumping Jack Flash" and "Get Off of My Cloud" were two of my favorites. I liked "Mother's Little Helper" too. That I had listened to them enough to know the words prompted Gloria to remark that I may be a bad boy after all.
It surprised her that I could play them on the guitar. "I didn't know you played the guitar." she said. I thought all boys played the guitar. When I told her that "Jumping Jack Flash" was played in an open G tuning (rather than the standard tuning), although played in B flat, she confessed to not knowing what I meant, but said that she would have to tell her mother about that.
"Why would your mother want to know about 'Jumping Jack Flash'?" I asked.
"Not about the song, Jeremy!" she laughed, "but that you can play it. Sometimes you can be so dumb for being so smart."
I left with her reminding me about the next lesson being my birthday. I hadn't forgotten.
For the next few days I was constantly wondering what Gloria really had in mind, if anything, for my birthday. Cake and ice cream was the standard fare for birthdays. Maybe she planned that. Maybe not. She said she did, but if she forgot that was OK. Maybe she didn't plan anything at all other than to wish me a Happy Birthday. I decided that to expect anything more than that would just be setting myself up for a disappointment. After all, why should anyone really care whether I had a birthday or not.
My dad was in Spain for several weeks around my birthday. He called at least twice a week, and sent me cards, books, pictures, and various gifts whenever he could. Two days before my birthday a large box arrived in the mail. It was so big the mailman couldn't deliver it and Mrs. Travis had to take me to the post office to pick it up.
It was a hand made guitar from Madrid. It is beautiful (I still have it). It has a spruce top, rosewood back and sides, mahogany neck, an ebony fretboard. The tuners are gold plated. I don't know what it cost, but it must have been a lot in those days for it would cost a lot now. It wasn't new so was already broken in and is loud enough to fill a good sized auditorium. I really couldn't play good enough to deserve such a fine instrument, but I've always cherished it, and continue to play it as best I can.
The day before my 13th birthday a card arrived from Mrs. McConnal from Paris wishing me a Happy Birthday, telling me how much she missed me and wished I could be with her on this trip but promising a good school year and a trip next summer.
I was wakened on the first morning of seeing the world through the eyes of a teenager by the telephone ringing. It was my dad. He wanted me to know that he missed me and wished he could be there and that he was thinking of me. I appreciated that call, I think, as much (maybe more) than the guitar.
After the call, however, the world looked rather gloomy, even though it was a bright, warm, summer's day. I was a teenager today, and no one my own age was even aware of it. My mother had always arranged a birthday party for me while she was alive, but she had been gone for over three years now. Kids my own age didn't even know I existed. Kids in my class at school thought I was a freak. Besides, birthday parties were for kids.
In fact everyone thought I was a freak. Whenever I approached a group of boys in my class, hoping to join in a conversation, they were talking about baseball or football, things I knew nothing about. I would often notice girls looking at me from the corners of their eyes and then giggle. I finally realized they were laughing at me, I guess for being such a baby.
Even Mrs. McConnal knew I was such a misfit that she made her daughter teach me how to dance hoping it would help me to fit in a little better.
This thinking led me to smoke the first joint of the day. And after that followed the first drink, which was a mistake. I could usually resist the call for the first drink, but always had a lot of trouble resisting the call for the second, and the third was then a given.
As time for my lesson with Gloria approached I was aware that I had drank a little too much, but it was too late. Besides, I really didn't want to see Gloria, or anyone else by then. But I didn't know how to get out of it this late. She had already given up her afternoon on my account. So I cleaned myself up, thinking maybe I'd feel better after a shower. I didn't. But at least I didn't feel particularly drunk, so I got on my bike and began the short ride to their house.
I wasn't going all that fast (fortunately) when, just before I reached the McConnals' house, an elderly neighbor of theirs backed her car out into the street in front of me. Maybe if I had been cold sober I'd have seen her coming. Maybe I'd have been able to avoid her and remain upright at the same time. But as it was, all I could do was lay the bike down in the street.
It didn't damage my bike, but it did skin me up pretty badly. My knee, shoulder, and arm got scraped. And I banged my head, but not severely. (that was the last time I ever rode without a helmet.)
The old lady was frightened badly. She got out of her car and immediately wanted to take me to the hospital. I must've looked a lot worse than I really was. I was bleeding, but everything was superficial.
I assured her that I was alright and that it was not her fault. When I told her that I was on my way to the McConnals' house anyway and that someone there was expecting me she was relieved enough to go on about her business, after my repeated assurances that I was OK.
Actually, I figured this was providential. It gave me an excuse to simply tell Gloria that I wasn't feeling like dancing today, thank her, and go back home where I wanted to drink some more smoke some more and take some pain killers . . . lots of them. (It didn't occur to me until years later that such a course of action might well have proven fatal, considering how much I wanted to drink and how many pain killers I wanted to take.)
Gloria took one look at me and exclaimed, "Jeremy! What in the world happened to you?" I explained about the accident and told her that I thought I should go on home and clean myself up.
"No, you come on inside this house." she insisted. I protested only once and then gave in to her demands. I really did like her, and enjoyed her company. Being near her was almost as invigorating as being near Pretty Lady.
She took me into the main bathroom and began getting some bottles out of the medicine cabinet. "You're not going to put alcohol on this are you?" I asked.
"Hydrogen peroxide." she said. "Besides, you smell like you've already got enough alcohol inside you to do you for a while, don't you?"
I didn't answer. She brought the bottles and some wash cloths over to me. "Well?" she asked.
"Yeah, I guess." was all I could say.
She began washing off the scraped areas and cleaning off the blood that was sunning down my leg and arm and head. "You didn't remember that spanking Mama gave you very long, did you?"
How could I ever forget that. "I haven't forgotten it." I mumbled.
"Then what was it for? Drinking and drugs, if I understood right."
"It was for scaring your mama." I said, my voice getting softer by the second.
"Maybe that, too." she said, being as gentle as she could in tending to my scrapes and cuts. Once she had me cleaned up good she began applying iodine, and that did sting. I flinched when she first began covering my scrapes with it. "Does that hurt? she asked.
"Not like your butt's going to hurt when I get through with this." she said with a touch of irritation in her voice.
"No, Gloria." I whined. I didn't feel like putting up much of an argument right then, but I didn't want a real spanking, either. "Don't, please."
She put her face in mine (such a pretty, round face, as pretty as her round bottom) and said, with a touch of a smile but in all seriousness, "You've got 15 birthday licks coming anyway, birthday boy. Only I think you've just graduated from my hand to my hairbrush."
"But Gloria . . . "
"Jeremy," she said, shaking her head in disbelief, "you were riding on the street on your bike drunk, and probably stoned too if what Mama tells me is right. You could've been killed. Daddy would say that a 13 year old, in the streets, drunk, presents a danger both to himself and to others." She had finished her doctoring. "Now, would you rather get it from me or from Mama when she gets home?"
"No, Gloria, please don't tell your mama. I've already been too much trouble to her." I started to cry, thinking of what a burden I must be to Mrs. McConnal as well as Mr. McConnal. Maybe I was also hoping that seeing me crying like that would elicit a response of a hug and, 'Oh you poor thing, don't you know we love you.'
But instead she responded by taking me by my good arm and leading me to her room. "Then come with me." she said.
"Gloria, no. Please." I put up some little resistance but knew it was futile, so didn't really try to fight her.
I had never been in her room before. It was appointed with all the things I associated with girls; her doll collection from earlier years, her college pennant, memorabilia from high school. And it smelled like Gloria, so fresh and sweet. I liked being there. The thought crossed my mind that a guy could get an erection just by being here and smelling this room. She stood me in the middle of the room and went to her dresser and retrieved a hairbrush. As a hairbrush it looked inoffensive enough, but as a spanking implement it looked formidable. It wasn't round, like her mother's, but oblong, more like a paddle. All I could think of was, 'Oh, God, don't hit me with that.' but said nothing.
I was crying while Gloria walked up to me and, putting that brush in my face, again sternly told me how dangerous my behavior had been and that she intended to warm my fanny but good (her words). Then came the command, "Bend over."
"Gloria, please don't." The idea of a playful birthday spanking was fine, but I feared this was really going to hurt.
"Now!" she said.
Well, at least it would be more of a big boy spanking and not an over the knee little boy spanking. Not much consolation, that. But first she added, "Pull your pants down first."
My face flushed red instantly. Oh, no, was Gloria now going to see me with my pants down, too? Can't she leave me a little dignity?
"Now, young man, or you'll get extras." she added emphatically.
I tried to lower my pants and bend over in the same motion, in an attempt to hide my privates from her sight, not thinking that afterward it might mean nothing to me at all to hide them. I got my pants and underpants down to my knees and bent over, knees straight, hands on my knees. She then grabbed me like her mother had twice before; holding me around the waist and pulling me tight against her side.
I thought for a moment that Gloria must've gotten it herself this way when she was younger. I also pushed my butt out, trying to avoid her touching my dick, which was now, of course, becoming hard.
She gently laid her brush/paddle across the lower part of my ass, which I had learned was my tenderest spank spot, and began lecturing me. When the brush left my young bottom I gritted my teeth, trying to brace myself for the licks to come. It didn't do much good. My attempt to keep my dick away from her left arm, which was wrapped around my waist, was quickly forgotten as soon as the first lick slammed into my freshly turned teenaged rear end.
SMACK! "That's one." she said, as my first pelvic thrust pushed my penis into her arm, accompanied by a yelp from me.
SPLAT! Ooowww, Gloria don't! "That's two."
WHAP! No, please! "That's three." She was working on the same spot all three times.
WHAM! She hit the tops of my thighs. I was not crying, much to my surprise. "That's four."
SPLAT! Aaaagggghhhh! Stop, Gloria, please! "That's five. Will you ever drink and drive again?"
WHAP! OOOOWWWW! No, I promise, never! "That's six." Her brush was covering both of my ass cheeks at once and both thighs, and it was hurting beyond belief. "Can you remember it this time?"
WHAM! Yesssss, I promise. Stop, please! "That's seven."
WHAP! I was howling by now, uncontrollably. "Eight."
BOOM! NOOOOOO! PLEEEEASE! "Nine."
SMACK! Sto-ah-ah-ah. "Ten."
BAMM! She wasn't letting up a bit. And I was howling at the top of my lungs. "Eleven."
SPLAT! Noo-oo-oo. Glor-ah-ah-ah. "Twelve."
WHACK! I was bawling, by now sure that she would never stop spanking me. "Thirteen."
SMACK! Aaahhgggggg! "Fourteen."
WHAP! Nooo-ooo-ooo. "Fifteen."
She must have stopped and released me at that time, though I wasn't aware of it. The next thing I knew I was jumping around holding my blazing bottom. Whether I came out of my pants during the spanking or during the spectacle afterward I don't know, but I must have danced around for several minutes before I became aware that I was exposing to Gloria everything I had so desperately wanted to hide only minutes before (though it seemed like an eternity ago).
Gloria stood watching for a time, arms folded, holding her weapon, with a stern expression on her face. No doubt she was pleased with her work, first easing my suffering and then paddling me into oblivion. In her eyes, no doubt, a little boy had gotten everything he needed that afternoon.
I was still hopping around, bawling, when she returned her brush to the dresser. It was then that I became aware of me nakedness. I turned my back to her, still holding my blistered bottom, and my cries must have changed from the squawling of a spanked child to the sobs of a child feeling pain far deeper than physical.
She came up to me from behind, put her hands on my shoulders and asked, "Do you want me to stay with you while you compose yourself? Or would you rather I leave you alone?"
Ignoring my own exposure, I turned to her and held her around the waist, crying, "Don't leave me now, Gloria, please don't leave me now."
She held me close, stroking me head while in a soothing voice repeating, "It's alright now, Jeremy. It's alright. You don't have anything to worry about."
And then all that had been eating at me earlier came gushing out as, "I just want to be dead. I don't want to go on any more." in the midst of sobs and tears.
She took my head in her hands and while holding both cheeks forced our eyes to meet, "What did you say?"
With tears still streaming down my face and my words garbled by uncontrolled crying I said, "I can't go on any more. I'm just 13. I don't want to any more. I don't want to."
In as sympathetic a voice as I had ever heard she said, "Jeremy, if I didn't think you meant that I'd spank you again for saying such a thing." Then her eyes opened, "You feel left all alone to fend for yourself, don't you?"
I laid my head against her chest again and, still crying, simply nodded, unable to make words come.
She held me even tighter. "Oh, darling little brother, please don't feel that way. We all love you so much. You've got such a fantastic life ahead of you. Just please let us help you to hang on until everything gets in order."
Then we didn't say any more for a long time. We just held each other, both of us crying now. Her rocking gently from side to side in a soothing rhythm, as if we were slow dancing.
When my sobbing finally receded into near silence, and my gasping for breath eased, she held my head in her hands again, our faces only inches apart. She smiled and said, "Know what?"
"What?" I answered.
Her nose touched mine and with a bright smile she said, "You don't have any pants on." She playfully rubbed the sides of my hips where my gym shorts would have normally been.
I had totally forgotten that I was totally pantsless all this time. A fresh red blush quickly filled my face. Do I pull away from her? Then she'll see everything I've got. Well she has already anyway, but . . . Do I hold on to her for even a moment longer? Then she won't see my front, but she'll be able to look down on my butt, which she's seen a lot already. If I do that I'll get a hard on for sure and then it'll really be embarrassing. Panic swept over me. What am I supposed to do?
"Tell you what," she said, spinning me around quickly enough to let me know that she saw nothing more that what she had already seen, "I'll leave you alone for a minute to get dressed, but then you come right out, OK?"
"OK." I said.
"Immediately, now," she said, "no dawdling. Right?"
"OK." I said again, bending over to pick up my gym shorts and underwear, knowing that I was giving her a perfect view of the 13 year old fanny that she had just set fire to, and knowing that she probably got a look at my genitals also as I bent over, but she had seen all this only minutes earlier any way so there was no need to any exaggerated modesty now.
She left as quickly as she could. I got dressed as quickly as
I could and went out into the house to join her.
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