In Her Mother's House: Part 1: Flight, Return, and Reckoning
(Part one of several. It's a bit rougher than what I usually post, so be warned. I wanted to write not so much a spanking story, but a story about a spanking. This part has all the main action, what will follow, is the fall-out afterwards...)
Gwen was sitting in a coffee shop when she got her father's text:
She felt her stomach flip inside her. She wanted to type: 'on a plane to London', but things were more than bad enough as it was, so she tapped in the correct location. His reply came back instantly:
'Wait there for me. We have some things to talk about."
“Yeah, I guess we do," she thought ruefully. "There's a lot we should be talking about, but thanks to me, that's all been reduced to one subject…”
She tried not to think about what had happened just two hours ago, to give herself a respite before she had to face her father, but it all poured right back in: the fight with her mother…what her mother said…what she said…the shock and hot sting of her mother's slaps - two of them, like pistol shots in the confined space of the kitchen…what she did after that…
she couldn't undo. She hit her mother. Hard. Across the face. With the back of her hand. When she closed her eyes, she could still see that hand, lashing out, striking her. The look on her face. Then her words:
“You ungrateful little bitch! How dare you!!”
Right in front of her, Mama's face, a red mark on her cheek, a little smear of blood at the corner of her mouth, her eyes blazing.
I'm not doing this anymore, she thought. She put her hands up level with her chest. She pushed, harder than she'd intended. Mama, falling, her hair in her eyes. A different look, shocked, frightened, limbs askew. She stepped past her, dazed. She grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter. She turned, and stumbled out the back door. Everything went red. Somehow, she found herself here.
“Look what you've done!" she thought to herself. "Was it worth it? To sink to her level?”
Her level!? No, so much worse. How much lower is it possible to get than knocking your own mother to the ground? And really, weren’t Mama’s slaps a form, however back-handed, of respect, an admission that her daughter was capable of wounding her. A proper 28 year-old, Gwen thought, would've taken that in stride, would've used it, at the right time and place, to get what she wanted. At the very least, she wouldn't have given her the satisfaction of a reaction. But she was not a proper 28 year-old. Not married, or even engaged; just barely employed, working part-time at her father's law office, while she still, fitfully, pursued her Bachelor's degree; still at home, in the room she'd had since she was ten.
Gwen shook her head in dismay. She was never going to be forgiven for this. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to will away the tears she could feel forming. She opened her eyes. There was her father, standing in front of her, tall, bearded, his hat in his hand. Of course, she thought, even when chasing down an errant daughter, he held to his dress code. She glanced up quickly. Yes, he was wearing a tie. Then she looked in his eyes, and the smile that had almost formed on her lips disappeared.
“Get up. This is no place to talk," he said. "Gather your things together and meet me out front.”
His voice was so contained, almost cold, that it made her shiver. She looked up. He was gone. She did as he said and followed him out.
She found him standing just outside the door.
"Over there." he said, inclining his head toward the park just across the street from the coffee shop. He strode across the road without waiting for her, forcing her to run a little to keep up with him.
Gwen hastened her pace, her orange turtleneck bright in the sunlight as she moved, a contrast to her plain black slacks, swishing softly with each hurried step. The soles of her kicky shoes tapped rhythmically against the pavement, as she tried to match her father's decisive stride. She’d picked her outfit to match the promise of this sunny fall day; now it seemed almost to mock her. She found herself a little breathless as they entered the park and she followed him to the softball diamond, a place where she and her co-workers sometimes hosted informal games against other firms.
It was deserted now, save for the two of them. Her father selected a worn wooden bench bleached by the sun and sat, carefully setting his hat down beside him. He patted the spot next to him. Gwen set herself down, folding her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting.
His gaze was fixed on the dusty field in front of them. He seemed to be searching for the right words, his jaw firmly set, a mark of the gravity of the situation they found themselves in. After a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, he turned to her, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach lurch again.
"Is it true?" he asked bluntly, foregoing any preamble.
Gwen's own eyes widened ever so slightly, a surge of anxiety causing her heart to flutter like a trapped bird. She knew exactly what he was referring to; there was no use pretending otherwise. Her lips parted, and her voice, typically light and tinged with a subtle timbre that hinted at a heritage not entirely American, was weighted with regret.
“Yes," she admitted. Her response was barely above a whisper, yet it reverberated in the silence like a gunshot. "But she hit me first!”
The words hung between them, a raw confession that seemed out of place amidst the placid scenery of the park. Her justification sounded childish even to her own ears, more like a playground dispute rather than the unpleasant reality of a grown woman nearly thirty laying hands on her own mother.
Her father absorbed her words, a shadow of conflict passing over his usually impassive features. For a long moment, he was still. Then, with a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his disappointment, he took off his glasses, and planted his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.
Gwen watched, the flutter in her chest becoming a dull ache. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him this unhappy. The fabric of her top clung to her skin as she felt beads of perspiration trail down her spine. Her nails, dark red, and chipped where she had picked at them, dug into the palms of her hands, betraying her anxiety.
Here, in this place of happy memories, her father's distress cut her to the quick. She could almost hear the thoughts tumbling through his mind: accusations, excuses, judgements. Papa, the calm center of her family's life, now seemed adrift, and Gwen felt a sharp pang of guilt for being the cause.
Her remaining resolve wavered as she considered her motivations for defiance, that stifling sensation of living under expectations that no longer fit her, and compared them to the result, manifest in the quiet misery of her father. Gwen's gaze lingered on him, the man whose approval she still craved despite her desire to live on her own terms. He slowly lifted his head, revealing eyes that held a storm of emotions.
“Do you want to leave us?” he finally said, in a tone so sad that it made her want to cry.
“Maybe it would be for the best,” he continued, “I could get you a motel room tonight, and I know someone who could get you into an apartment by the end of the week. I’ll help with the deposits and such, and cover things until you find a job…”
Gwen, alarmed at the turn their conversation was taking, interrupted his stream of words:
“But, Papa, I have a job now, don’t I!? And this is all so fast! Can’t we work…”
Her father held up his hand, and looked her straight in the eye.
“No, you don’t have a job anymore, I’m afraid,” he said, in a voice suddenly steely, “and you don’t have a place to live, either. Those were two of your mother’s minimum conditions for not reporting your…assault on her to the police.”
“But, Papa…Papa, please!…"
“I’m not finished talking!”, he said, quickly and sternly. “The other condition is that she need never see you again. As it stands now, you can no longer have a home with us, or even visit, I’m afraid…”
“NO!!” she shouted , in a voice they could probably hear across the road, back in the coffee shop.
"Please, Papa. You can't mean that. To never see Mama again? How can she want this?" Gwen's eyes welled with tears that threatened to spill onto her cheeks. The thought of being cut off from her family, the center of her life, no matter how difficult that life might be, was too much to bear.
Her father's face softened for a moment as he reached out to steady her trembling hands. "Gwennie…I wish things were different," he said quietly. His own distress was evident, but he held his composure like the seasoned lawyer he was, trained to deliver even the most unwelcome news with poise. "Never doesn’t always mean never, though. I will try...with your mother…sometimes we have to find new ways to mend what's been broken."
"Is there really no other way, Papa?" Her voice shook.
He sighed, his fingers drumming lightly on his trouser leg before he spoke again. "Your mother...she did propose a…an alternative." He paused, looking off into the distance as if hoping to find some escape from the situation at hand. "But, honestly, I can't imagine that you would accept it."
Gwen tried to read the expression on her father's face, searching for a clue, any indication of what this mysterious alternative might entail. But he was evasive, his eyes not quite meeting hers. How horrible could it be, that he would just assume that she would rather leave her home, perhaps forever, rather than accede to it?
Her heart hammering against her chest, she drew in a deep breath, the air feeling too thick as she tried to prepare herself for whatever it was that her mother had concocted:
“Papa," she started, her voice trembling again despite her best efforts, "please, just tell me what it is.”
Her father cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. He looked down at his hands before meeting Gwen's expectant eyes. "You would brought home," he began, the words coming slowly, "in disgrace."
Gwen felt a chill creep up her spine, a foreboding sense of dread settling heavily in her stomach. Disgrace was a strong word, loaded with shame and that old-fashioned...that old-world strictness that had always loomed over her relationship with her parents.
“And," he continued, his voice strained with obvious embarrassment, "I am to...to punish you." He paused, as if the next words pained him to say. "With a spanking. In front of your mother. A proper spanking, mind, not just a slap on the wrist”
It was an outlandishly draconian solution, one that sent Gwen reeling back to the days of her childhood when such punishments were not uncommon. Now, at twenty-eight, the very idea felt surreal, almost laughable if it weren't so earnestly presented. The air around her grew suddenly stifling, as her father's words echoed in her head like a verdict from a capital trial. Her face flushed a deep crimson as she absorbed the full weight of what he said. The image of herself, a grown woman, being spanked like a misbehaving child was mortifying.
"Is this some kind of joke?" Gwen asked, though the gravity in her father's eyes told her it was anything but.
“No, my dear," he replied softly, his own discomfort apparent from the flush creeping up his neck. "It was your mother's condition for allowing you back into the house.”
Her mind raced as she grappled with the reality of the situation. Deep down, she knew, that for her mother, it wasn't so much about making her daughter suffer pain as it was about making her submit to an authority she had thought she’d outgrown, about compelling her to display her contrition in the most pathetic way imaginable.
"Can we really not find another way?" Gwen's voice cracked, her eyes pleading for an alternative that would spare her, and her father, from this degrading spectacle.
He met her gaze with a mixture of firmness and pity. "I'm afraid this is the only path your mother offered."
The finality of his words settled into the space between them, leaving Gwen to make the hardest decision of her adult life. Her fingers trembled, gripping the fabric of her slacks. The world seemed to close in on her as she realized that her path forward was a retreat into a past she thought she had left behind years ago.
“Proper spanking," she said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "That's what you used to say when you were going to take down my pants." Her voice faltered as she struggled with the next words, the ones she never imagined she'd have to say again. "You're not...not really going to do that, are you?”
Her father sat motionless, his eyes downcast, for a long time. Then, so slightly that it was almost imperceptible, he nodded, his jaw set tight.
Gwen watched that silent nod, a subtle movement magnified into a declaration she couldn't ignore. This was the price of mending the rift with her mother, of returning home. A price paid not in contrition or sincere apologies, but in the currency of old-fashioned parental control, pain, and shame. The atmosphere between them was rife with unspoken thoughts and fears. Gwen sat, stunned, trying to wrap her head around the two awful choices in front of her. She slumped over, unconsciously mimicking her father as she hid her face in her hands, desperate for a private space to collect her thoughts.
“Du musst das nicht tun, meine Schatz.”
Her father’s deep voice broke the silence, each word measured and spoken with a accent more pronounced than the one in which he spoke English. You don't have to do this. Her parents rarely spoke their native tongue at home. When they did, it was a sign of something serious, that they didn’t want her younger brothers to know about. They had done so the last time her father had spanked her, back when she was in high school, discussing how best to handle her while her brothers played on the living room floor, and she sat, miserably, at the foot of the stairs. Eventually, Mama took the boys to this very park, while she and Papa went to the garage…her face grew hot at the memory. Here he was again looming over her, tall and forbidding, even seated, yet the offer was tender, an olive branch extended through the dense thicket of demands, duty and discipline that threatened to overwhelm them both.
Gwen didn’t respond, remaining motionless, save for the slight rise and fall of her shoulders as she drew in shallow breaths. Her father's words echoed in her head, a testament to his love, but also a reminder of the choice that lay squarely on her own shoulders. Slowly, back and forth, one loafer-clad foot traced a little path in the dirt below her. She was the very image of a child awaiting punishment, trapped in the body of a grown woman.
Why did Mama demand this? The question burned through her thoughts like a brand, igniting sparks of indignation. And Papa, why did he consent to it? And why…why had he thought she would be content with running away, with never seeing her mother again!? Anger twisted inside her, a hot coil that tightened around her heart. But worst of all, was the sour taste of self-reproach that lingered at the back of her throat. It was her own words, her own actions that had spun them all into this mess. That was the reality that she, and only she, had to confront.
She lifted her head a little, taking in the afternoon shadows as they slowly made their way towards them across the expanse of the ball field. In their dark approach, she found an odd comfort. She had bolted from the house earlier, in a blind panic, but knowing with a certainty that bordered on premonition, that a reckoning would follow her flight. Now, as the consequences threatened, a kind of resolve settled over her. If she was to be punished, then let it come from Papa's hand, tempered by the hurt she saw so clearly etched in his eyes. This man who sat beside her, whose presence filled so much of her life with its mix of warmth and solemnity, bore his own wounds from her folly.
Gwen's gaze continued to drift across the view in front of her, landing on nothing in particular as she chewed the inside of her cheek. Her guilty conscience taunted her. Why shouldn’t she be punished like a badly behaved little girl? After all, isn't that exactly what she was? An outsized, petulant child. The thought twisted in her gut, a barbed reminder of every misstep that had led to this moment.
Her father's silence hung heavily around them, a palpable presence that mingled with the whirl of her thoughts and the distant murmur of life beyond the two of them. It almost felt as if time itself were holding its breath, waiting for her to accept the full weight of her transgressions.
A sigh escaped her lips. Her voice, when it came, was soft and low.
"It'll hurt...on bare skin..." And so she announced her decision. In the tranquil atmosphere of this little park, punctuated by the sounds of children playing and hectoring dog owners, Gwen quietly declared that she cared more for her family - more for her mother, than she did for her own dignity. Her father's eyes widened for just a second, but she knew her words had gotten through.
"It is meant to hurt," he replied, his voice low but firm, slipping into an old, familiar role with an ease that came from years of guiding and shaping her life. The words were not spoken maliciously but as a simple statement of fact, an unavoidable truth of the moment they found themselves in.
"But not too much," Gwen replied, her voice steadier now. She was starting to find her footing in this newly returned world where the lines between right and wrong were decided for her, and where her forgiveness would be purchased with her pain. She felt no shame now in ascertaining the terms of sale.
Her father simply nodded:
“No more than it has to,” he said, the unspoken understanding passing between them like the slightly chill breeze that rustled the leaves above.
She drew in a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill her lungs, steadying the fluttering in her chest. Her hands unclasped from around her arms, falling limply to her sides as she turned to face him. She noted the faint lines etched around his eyes, the flecks of gray in his tidy beard, the subtle clench of his jaw that spoke of his own discomfort with the situation. Yet, there was a firmness to his posture, an unwavering straightness that reminded Gwen of the countless times he had carried their family and its troubles on his strong back.
"All right, Papa," she said, the slight waver in her voice betraying her nerves.
Her father met her eyes. There was no need for further words. She realized that after this, nothing could be the same between them. She shivered a little, and not just because of the breeze.
Gwen felt the bench beneath her yield as her father rose, his presence a towering shadow against the late afternoon sun. His hand extended toward her, an unspoken invitation back into the fold of her family, and its expectations.
“Well then," he said, slipping his glasses back on, "We'd best not keep your mother waiting.”
She reached her own hand up to his, feeling the familiar strength of her father's grip. With his assistance, she stood, her legs buckling momentarily; they'd fallen asleep from sitting so rigidly on the hard bench. She hadn't realized how tense she was. After a bit, she regained her balance, and they turned to go.
They departed the sanctuary of the park, the scene of many happy memories in her life now recolored forever by what had been said here today. Her father's hand rested on the small of Gwen's back, its weight light yet undeniable. It was a gesture that had guided her through crowded rooms and across busy streets when she was younger, but now it seemed to press upon her with the full force of the situation at hand.
They walked quietly through their tranquil suburban neighborhood.
The leaves of the maple trees lining the sidewalk were just starting to turn, their edges yellow on this early fall day. Gwen couldn’t help but look a little longingly at each house as they passed it by, wishing that it was to one of them she was headed to, and not to where her father was guiding her. Each step, however, took Gwen closer to home, closer to what awaited her there, and further and further from the life she thought she had been leading.
Her feet moved mechanically, following her father’s lead. They didn’t speak, but the space around her seemed filled with the echoes of what had been said, and the fear of what was to come. Ahead, the familiar outline of their house came into view, a place of safety now set to become a place of punishment.
As they approached, Gwen's felt her heart beat quicken, aware that once through that door, the dynamic between her and her parents would never be the same. That hand at her back was both a solace and a summons, a reminder of the strength that bound her family together even as it gently but inexorably propelled her to what lay ahead.
Breaking the silence that had enveloped them, Gwen's voice was feather-light, but strained with concern. "Do the boys know?"
"They don't," her father said, his assurance carrying the weight of certainty. "It's none of their business." Gwen immediately thought again of her parents discussing in German how she was to be punished in front of her brothers, so many years ago. She feared that now they were older, the old barrier of their original tongue was no longer so impermeable
He turned to look at her, his eyes softening. "I'll send them out of the house until suppertime." His words were gentle, and bore the strength of a promise—that what little dignity was to be left to her under the circumstances would be protected, at least by him.
Gwen nodded, drawing a quivering breath. Her nerve was starting to fail her. With each step towards home, she could feel the layers of her adult persona being peeled away, revealing the childish core of her life with her parents.
The latch clicked a soft reproach as her father pushed open the front door. Gwen's gaze lingered on the threshold, a line she was about to cross into a world reshaped by her own actions. The air felt different here, weighted with an unspoken tension that clung to her skin like humidity before a storm. She swallowed, her throat tightening as her nerves grew taut.
"Come on now," her father murmured, a low timbre of encouragement that nudged her forward.
She stepped through the doorway, the familiar scent of home wrapping around her like a well-worn blanket, but both the comfort, and annoyance it had once evoked had vanished, replaced by nervous anticipation and a sense of deepening shame at the prospect of being humiliated in such a familiar setting. Her mother wasn't in sight, yet her presence permeated the walls, the furniture, every picture frame that lined the hallway—a silent audience to the unfolding drama.
Gwen’s hands were clammy, and she wiped them discreetly on her slacks. The fabric whispered against her palms. The thought of facing her mother made her chest ache.
"Deep breaths, Gwen," she reminded herself.
Her father took off his hat and blazer, and hung them on the coat-rack in the foyer. Gwen set her purse on a small table next to it. The circle of her flight from her responsibilities was closed. Things were going to happen now, she thought to herself. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs. It was her mother, elegant in a simple short-sleeved turquoise dress, and a pair of espadrilles. Her face bore a pleasant little smile, that didn’t come anywhere near her eyes, which even at the distance between them, blazed like fire. Gwen had realized of course, that her mother was furious with her, but it wasn’t until now that she understood just how furious she was. It took everything she had not to run out the front door and just keep running. Her mother reached the foot of the stairs and walked over to her, radiant with triumph. She fixed Gwen with an unyielding glare that she could barely bring herself to meet.
"So, the princess has deigned to grace us with her presence," she began, her voice dripping with a venomous sarcasm.
"Forgive me for not curtsying, your highness." The words slashed through the air like a whip, and Gwen flinched, her big eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to dispel their sting.
Her mother gestured grandly toward the living room with a sweep of her arm, mockingly formal. "We would be honored if you would join us in our humble sitting room, though the furnishings might not meet with your approval..."
Gwen’s lips parted, a response teetering on the edge of her tongue, but the look in her mother's eyes warned her that any attempt to defend herself would only add fuel to the fire. Behind her, she could feel her father’s presence—silent yet powerful. His disappointment with her was a tangible thing, pressing down upon her almost as heavily as her mother's scorn. But within it, there was a thick strand of caring that her mother’s anger seemed to lack, a lifeline that Gwen clung to even now. Her throat constricted, the words she wanted to say lodged in it like thorns. She searched her mother's face for a glimmer of softness, a hint of the nurturing figure who had once cradled her after childhood nightmares, and bandaged up skinned knees. But her eyes were fierce, her body rigid with indignation.
"Mama, please..." Gwen's plea came out in a whispery squeak, a fragile attempt to reach something behind the fire in those eyes.
The slap came fast and hard, a crack that split the tense silence. Pain bloomed hot on Gwen's face, her head jerked to the side from the force of her mother's hand. Her skin burned, the echo of the contact reverberated through her skull, and for a moment, the room spun around her.
"Dolores!" Her father’s voice tore through the chaos, a deep and guttural shout. Her mother gave a little shrug of her shoulders, not at all cowed by her husband's response.
Gwen's hand flew to her stinging cheek, fingers trembling as they brushed against the tender flesh. The copper taste of blood was in her mouth, and she swallowed hard and tried to tamp down her emotions.The slap had not only marred her skin but had left an imprint inside her, a mark that wouldn't easily fade. She bit her lip, willing herself not to cry, to not show any more vulnerability than she already had. In that moment, she felt every inch the child her parents still saw her as, yet the sting of her mother's hand pushed her further from her childhood than she had ever been.
“Mama please what!?" her mother spat out, her voice laced with scorn. Fury radiated from her like heat from a flame, her eyes lit up with anger. "After everything you've done, do you think you have a say in this!? You're lucky not to be in the street with the clothes on your back! You were free enough with your hands, weren't you? Don't be so surprised to be paid back in kind!”
The words were physical blows, each one landing with the force of a punch. Gwen recoiled, her heart pounding erratically. She searched for something to say, some way to defend herself, but the accusations left her mute, drowning in a sea of shame.
A sudden commotion erupted behind them, jarring the tense scene. Her younger brothers, Andrew and Terrence, stood frozen in the foyer, eyes wide with shock. What had they heard? What had they seen!? Their presence felt like another layer of punishment, as they witnessed their sister's utter debasement.
For a moment, her mother’s facade slipped, revealing the briefest glimpse of remorse flickering across her features. But just as quickly, she snapped the mask back into place, drawing herself up with an air of well-earned vindication. The brothers exchanged a glance, and then looked to their father, distress and confusion written on their faces.
Their mother’s voice cut through the electric silence that had charged the air in the aftermath of her outburst, sharp and unforgiving:
"Anyway, that was my contribution to your moral education today...meine Schatz”. She couldn’t have made the endearment sound more contemptuous if she’d spat after saying it. She turned to her husband, her eyes still smoldering with cold fire. "But we'll leave the rest to your father, I think. You did make things clear to her, didn't you, Hans?"
Her father, who had been standing slightly apart, his expression a stormy mix of disapproval and restraint, nodded once. His eyes met Gwen's for a fraction of a second, and she saw in them a reflection of her own turmoil.
“Boys," his voice commanded attention without rising above a speaking tone. "Your mother and I need to talk with your sister. I want you out of the house, now! Don’t come back before seven, understand?”
Andrew, at 16 normally the embodiment of teenage sang-froid, could not quite mask the pallor that had overtaken his features. He looked like someone who’d had a better view of a roadside wreck than he had bargained for, his usual confidence replaced by an uneasy quietness.
Terry, two years his junior, struggled even more visibly. The corners of his mouth trembled, a telltale sign of tears being fought back. His eyes darted between his parents and his sister, seeking some assurance in a world that had suddenly become a very frightening place.
Gwen, despite the sting on her face and the weight in her chest, mustered the smallest of smiles for him. It was meant to be comforting, a silent promise that everything would somehow be okay. But it faltered, crumpling under the burden of her guilt and her fears of what lay ahead.
The boys hesitated, seemingly reluctant to leave their sister to face their parent's anger on her own. At another look from their father, though, they turned and shuffled out, the door closing behind them with a sound that felt far too final.
Alone now with her parents, Gwen braced herself for what was to come. Her father's presence filled the room, a force as solid as the walls around them. He removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose in a momentary display of weariness before slipping them into his pocket with deliberate care. Her mother fixed her with a look, hard but a little tremulous at the same time; something seemed a bit different with her, after that slap, and her brothers.
“Well, bring her along then,” she said to her father. “It won’t do to keep Her Highness waiting…”
She turned on her heel, and entered the living room.
She felt her father take hold of her upper arm.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but it is time…”
Gwen hung her head rather than let her father see the fear in her eyes, and let him guide her along after her mother.
Gwen's steps faltered slightly as she entered it, that happy family space now transformed into the arena of her humiliation. Her father gently but insistently guided her to the sofa. The familiar creak of the floorboards beneath their feet marked the final steps of her journey from adult daughter to penitent child.
Her mother, ensconced in an arm chair, observed the procession with a gaze sharp enough to cut skin. A mirthless grin played on her lips, betraying a harsh sense of satisfaction at the approach of her daughter’s overdue comeuppance.
Upon reaching the appointed spot, her father released his hold, letting Gwen stand on her own yet feeling more vulnerable than ever. Without a word he unfastened his belt, slipped it through the loops of his trousers, and then doubled it over. He let it dangle from his right hand, almost casually, but no one could mistake the gesture’s meaning.
Gwen's skin prickled with a sudden chill, that seemed to seep into her bones. Her thoughts raced, skidding over an icy surface of fear. 'No harder than it has to be,' Papa had said. But how hard would that be? How would she endure what was coming for her?
The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. She felt now the full weight of her father's disapproval and disappointment. Silent questions hung heavy - was her relationship with him in trouble, too? Would this really be enough to salvage it?
She tried to summon the image of herself as the good girl, the one who aided her father at the office, who diligently pursued her studies, who tread carefully around her mother's moods. But that image crumbled like dry leaves in the face of her recent outburst. Standing there,waiting to receive her father’s discipline, Gwen was acutely aware of how small and childlike she felt, and how little now like a grown woman.
She could hear her pulse beating in her ears. The air in the room felt suddenly thin; each breath she drew seemed to lack oxygen.
“Not feeling so full of yourself now, are you?" Her mother voice again, looking to wound: "Her Highness has had a comedown, hasn't she?”
A flush of shame heated Gwen's cheeks, the words striking their intended mark. She fought against the urge to retort, to defend her wounded pride. Talking was what had got her into trouble in the first place. Deep down, beneath the hurt and humiliation, she knew the truth of her mother's barbs. She had been too full of herself, too headstrong—and now the bill for her arrogant behavior was due. Frozen by the full realization of what she had brought upon herself, Gwen could only stand there, hesitant. She'd accepted the justice of what was to come; she knew without doubt now that she deserved it. Yet the cold amusement playing across her mother’s features made that acceptance a bitter one.
"Take down your pants and…and your underwear, please, and lie down on the sofa…let's not drag things out." Her father's voice,understated yet firm, cut through the mire of her thoughts. He stood beside her with an air of solemn duty, the belt in his hand the symbol of his role in the events of today.
Gwen nodded, mute, her fingers trembling slightly as they reached for the waistband of her slacks. There was no hiding from this anymore, no escape from what was coming. With each fumbling attempt to undo the little hooks that held the fly together, she felt her parents eyes on her. She couldn't look at them as she complied with their demands, couldn't bear the looks of disappointment and triumph that would surely be etched on their faces. Instead, she focused on the task at hand, on the mechanical motions of undressing, on preparing herself for what must be endured. It was a small bit of control, but it was all she had left.
After an agonizing minute, she managed to get the little cloth tab unfastened, and it flopped over to the side, exposing the top of the zip. Her fingers, numb and clumsy, had trouble getting hold of the tiny pull; after a couple of attempts her father kindly turned his head. She finally got a grip on it, and quickly lowered it.
When she let go, her slacks slid right down to her ankles, like a comic turn in a silent movie. Her mother laughed:
“Not so high and mighty as we thought, are we?" The words were like vinegar on a cut. "You gave me a good lesson in humility this morning...now it's your turn.”
Gwen bit her lip again, as hard as she could. She kept her eyes fixed on her feet, looking at the little pile of black fabric that now festooned them, an unhappy sight that only reinforced the bite of her mother's comments. It occurred to her that she was going to have trouble climbing up onto the couch with her legs encumbered by her fallen slacks, and so she found herself forced to remove them entirely, first nudging off her shoes with her toes, and then working her stocking feet free, turning the flimsy garment inside out as she did so.
But now a worse task was at hand. Her father, his head still turned, gazed studiously at the clock in the corner. Gwen tried to will her hands underneath the hem of her turtleneck, to take hold of what they must, but they seemed reluctant to move. She stood there, breathing deeply, gathering her courage.
"Go on then, meine Fräulein, your father's waiting!" Her mother's sharp tongue sliced into her again. She could feel tears on her cheek. She took a deep breath, turned herself around to face away from her father, paused for a beat, and then reaching under her top, she grabbed hold of the waistband of her panties, and snapped them down her legs. Wobbling a little, she stepped out of them, and tossed them onto the little pile of clothes on the floor. She turned back to mount the couch and then...
"Were you raised in a barn!? Pick up your clothes, fold them, neatly, and put them on the table!" Her mother apparently, was not finished with her sport.
Gwen stopped, and stood there helplessly, her hands pulling down on her turtleneck in front. She knew better than to speak now, but inside, she was screaming:
"Mama, please stop! Can't you see? Can't you see how sorry I am? I'm here, doing THIS! Isn't that enough for you!?"
Her mother had other things on her mind:
"Did you not hear me!? Pick up your clothes, and do as I said! Honestly, Hans, she defies me, even now!!"
"Dolores..." Her father said no more, but it was obvious that his patience was being tried. Her mother kept her spiteful expression, but turned her eyes away from his.
Without making her father ask her, Gwen squatted down, her modesty abandoned, and did as her mother commanded, placing the tidy little bundle on the glass coffee table next to the sofa. Her tears were falling more steadily now. She bent back down and picked up her loafers, her favorite pair, with their little tassels, and placed them on top of her underpants. When this was all over, she thought, she would throw everything she had been wearing today in the trash.
She turned and faced her mother again, and spoke, her voice wavering, tears rolling steadily down her cheeks:
"I'm so sorry, Mama, I have no excuse for what I did to you. I have no right to ask you for forgiveness. And I am sorry, too, Papa..." she inclined her head slightly in the direction of her father, "That I have forced you to do this, after so many years...that this is happening is nobody's fault but mine, and I know I deserve everything I am going to get..."
Her voice petered out. Her eyes remained riveted on her feet. She knew she should've at least tried to meet her mother's gaze, but she couldn't; she was too ashamed. She had made it this far on the hope that her father, however disappointed and even angry he might be, was her ally in the cause of ameliorating her mother. That ended when he took off his belt. She now felt every bit of both her parent's disapproval, and she realized it wasn't just her relationship with her mother that would have to be rebuilt from the ground up.
Then her mother spoke again:
"Oh, so very noble for a girl with her ass hanging out in front of her father! We'll see how much dignity you'll have left in a few minutes, eh!?"
The words were vicious, but this time her father didn't intervene. Gwen had reached the lowest point of her life, her emotional reserves used up. She began to weep openly, her body shaking. Suddenly she felt her father's hand on her shoulder, and his voice, low, in her ear:
"Please...the sofa...so that we can put this behind us...all right?"
"Yes, P...Papa," she choked out between sobs, "b-but please, a...a moment..."
She took several slow, deep breaths, until she no longer felt that pathetic hitch in her chest as she inhaled. Then she placed first one, then the other knee onto the sofa, and turning her body so that she faced one of the ends, she lay herself down on the cushions, with her feet, in their little white socks, propped up on one of the arms. She folded her arms, and lay her head down inside them; better she thought, not to see, not now. Her breathing was still fast, and her heartbeat faster, but she felt a bit more in control. Her father through all this had been the picture of patience, and her mother was, mercifully, silent.
She heard the floor creak beside her, and felt her father's hands on the hem of her top, which he attempted to adjust. She realized, suddenly, that it was long enough that it reached down to cover part of her backside, and again, to spare herself and her father the necessity of him asking her, she lifted up her hips, allowing him to slip the garment up above the small of her back.
"I am helping myself into Hell," she thought bitterly.
Her father cleared his voice, and spoke:
“I won't ask for your forgiveness. I am your father, and sometimes, this is what fathers are called on to do. But please know that every part of me hates that this has become necessary. As your father, I beg you to reflect on this and on the actions that brought it about, so that neither you, nor I, will ever have to be in this position again.”
Though she had calmed down from a few minutes ago, her tears had never stopped falling, and the ones that fell after her father’s plea felt especially bitter. Her father’s hand may have been holding her arm, but she had brought herself to this moment and this place. She would never be able to take back that slap, but maybe, if she took this well, she might, someday, be allowed to move past it.
There was a pause. The living room was quiet. She could hear the voices of a couple of kids outside, calling to each other. The slightly scratchy fabric of the sofa cushions tickled her belly and thighs. She tensed, her hands gripping her forearms like a vise. Suddenly she felt her father's hand, pressing down firmly on her back.
She heard a whistling behind her, and then her thoughts took a very different turn.
The first strike of the belt landed with a resounding crack, sending a searing line of pain across Gwen's exposed bottom. She gasped, her nails digging into her arms. Four more slow, deliberate strokes followed, each eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her. She bit her lip hard as she fought to remain quiet. Her eyes squeezed shut, willing the tears not to fall.
There was another pause, and then, without warning, the pace quickened. The strokes came now in rapid succession, the pain sharp and surprising, much more than she had anticipated. Her mind raced, desperately trying to get a handle on her situation. She began to count silently, her inner voice a feeble whisper in her head:
The pain intensified with each snap of the belt across her bare skin, and panic began to rise in her chest. Still, she forced herself to hold still and stay in place, biting the back of her hand to stifle her cries. The awful tally rose:
“Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen...”
Her father’s breathing grew labored enough that she could hear it. Still the belt fell:
“Eighteen...nineteen…twenty.”
Suddenly, the onslaught stopped. Gwen's body trembled, her toes curling against the sofa arm. She heard her father's ragged breaths behind her, mirroring her own shallow panting.
“Don't get up," Hans said, his voice firm but a little sad. "We're not finished...”
Gwen's heart sank at her father’s words. She pressed her face deeper into her folded arms, bracing herself for what was to come.
The belt cracked through the air once more, resuming its furious cadence. Gwen's resolve started to crumble as the pain intensified, each stroke like fire across her already stinging bottom.
"Twenty-one...twenty-two..." she counted silently, her inner voice wavering.
Her fingers dug into a sofa cushion, aching with the effort to stay still.
“Twenty-eight...twenty-nine...thirty...”
A cry escaped her lips, breaking her concentration. The counting ceased, replaced by a desperate mantra:
“I can do this! I have to do this!…”
Despite her best efforts, undignified sounds began to slip out. Gasps, grunts, and finally, wails echoed through the room. Her composure shattered, Gwen found herself instinctively twisting her backside left and right, trying to avoid the relentless assault. A particularly hard stroke brought her head up out of her arms; she turned it back, just for a second, and caught a glimpse of her father’s efforts: a crazy quilt of thick red streaks splayed across her pale buttocks. It was a sight she immediately wished she’d never seen…
"Papa, please," she whimpered.
"Gwennie, please…you’re making this harder than it needs to be!" he instructed, his tone a mix of frustration and concern. "We can't finish this if you won’t hold still."
Gwen's heart raced at his words. "Can’t finish?" she thought, panic rising. "How much longer is this going to go—?"
The belt whistled through the air once more, striking with renewed vigor. Gwen's body jerked involuntarily. Each stroke seemed to find a spot already tender from previous blows, making it harder and harder for her to stay in place.
"Gwennie...", her father said again, a note of warning in his tone.
“Papa, please!" Gwen desperately gasped between sobs. "I'm trying! I'm trying to hold still...”
But her body betrayed her intentions. As the pain rose to a crescendo, she found herself twisting again, desperate to escape the stinging band of leather. Gwen bit her hand again, hard, tasting blood. She tried to focus on the pain she was creating, but sharp as it was, it formed no distraction from the inferno raging in her backside now. Finally, she couldn’t control herself any longer. She thrashed about, her feet kicking, her fists pounding the sofa cushion beneath them. Her father no longer spoke, but holding her in place as best he could, simply continued swinging the belt down onto her tortured bottom. She was reaching the end of her tether; when would he stop!? Please, Papa, stop!! She had a feeling that she wasn’t just thinking that; that in fact she was saying…screaming it out loud, perhaps for a long time now…she was saying something else, too…it was so strange to be saying things while her mind was focused on something else…what was she saying… oh…”Mama, I’m sorry!!”…so childish…well, it couldn’t be helped, could it?…
It was odd. The pain, though it was still there, felt different now, kind of…abstracted. She knew, somehow, that this wasn’t a good thing, and that there would be hell to pay later, but for now, in this present that was the only thing there was, she was floating, not content…oh no, not at all, but just above the squalid figure humiliating herself on that sofa…The problem was, though, that the pain never went away, and every few strokes the belt would land on some spot that made it feel like a dentist’s pick poking an exposed nerve, and then she could sense the cotton wool that seemed to have wrapped itself around her tearing away. All too soon, she knew sadly, she was going to be right back where things were happening, full time, and she didn’t want that, not at - suddenly, there was her mother’s face, right next to hers, and she was screaming, too:
“Hans! Stop it! You’re hurting her!!”
Out of the corner of her eye Gwen saw her father's right hand open, and his belt slip out and fall to the floor, and then she was smothered with a different kind of assault as her mother took her head in her hands, stroking her hair, and lavishing her with kisses.
"Meine kind…Meine armes, armes kind..." , she crooned, over and over.
Gwen was beyond knowing what to do about her mother's sudden transformation from vengeful Fury to angel of mercy, and frankly, it hardly mattered; all she knew now was that Mama had made it all stop, had leapt in and ended this nightmare of a day, and that despite everything...everything!, she still loved her. The exhausted girl, her bottom on fire, her throat sore from screaming, managed to slide off of the sofa onto her knees, and clasping her mother around the waist, she buried her wet, messy face in the expensive fabric of that turquoise dress, and sobbed: childishly, noisily, without restraint or shame. All the fear, all the guilt, all the pain, all of the tumultuous emotions of this terrible afternoon poured out of her, like water from a burst dam. Mama was silent now, but one of her hands still stroked Gwen's hair, while the other held her tightly against her.
Unseen by his daughter, her father bent down and picked up his belt, and then quietly left the room.
Dolores stood, almost motionless, as she continued to gently stroke her daughter's hair. The stream of murmured endearments had dried up, as, taken aback by her daughter's collapse into tears, she found herself unable to focus on anything but her own ruinous actions. It was as if, she thought scathingly, she had been in a dream, fighting a terrible enemy who threatened to destroy everything she had worked to achieve, only to wake up and find her house burnt down around her, with a gasoline can at her feet, and a book of matches in her hand.
"What have I done?" she thought, looking down at her daughter, reduced from capable young woman to whipped child in less time than it took to smoke a cigarette. The harsh words, mostly hers, and exchanged blows, again, mostly hers, swirled in her head with the images of Gwen's torment at her father's hands, and other images of harsh punishments from long ago, in a different place, that she had thought she had left behind. What would it be like for her daughter in twenty years? What room would she have in her heart for her mother then? Or in an hour, for that matter? Right now, the poor thing couldn't think, but when she'd had a chance to fully comprehend what had been done to her, what then?
With her mind wandering along these cheerless paths, she was too preoccupied to notice that her daughter was settling down, her sobs subsiding, replaced by hiccups and sniffling.
Suddenly, a voice intruded on her unhappy reverie:
"Mama, please say something!", it said, in a desperate tone, "Please, don't be mad...please!"
Her daughter's heartfelt plea pierced the shell that had been forming around her. What was she doing!? She had a lifetime for regrets; right now, she had a child who needed love and comforting. Without a second thought, she knelt down on the floor, enveloping the girl in a fierce embrace.
"Shh, meine Schatz," she murmured, " I'm here...Mama's here!"
Gwen let out a gasp of surprise, and then melted into her mother's arms, her body shaking. As she held her daughter, Dolores fought back her own tears. She had much to cry about, but that was no one's fault but hers, and it was not her tears that should be taking precedence right now. She gave her daughter a gentle kiss on her cheek, and tasted salt. On her tongue it was gentle; in her heart, it burned like acid. She felt herself grinding her teeth; she was angry. Fortunately, the person she most wanted to vent that anger on was right there in the living room:
"You will make this right!", she said to herself, so intently that she could feel her lips moving, "You will not rest until this is fixed!!"
After what seemed like an eternity, Dolores loosened her hold, allowing her daughter to slowly disentangle herself. The girl kept her head lowered, as she tried to wipe away the last of her tears. Dolores rose, her body creaking from the awkward position. Her knees, she noted sourly, would not be thanking her for this for several days. She placed her hands on her daughter's shoulders.
"Do you think you could get up now?" Dolores asked, softly.
"Yes, Mama," her daughter answered, her voice trembling slightly.
“All right, then...take my hands, and let's have a look at you.”
Gwen slid her hands into her mother's. The girl rose awkwardly, wincing a little as her legs extended, obviously still in pain.
She steadied herself, one hand resting on the arm of the sofa, the other still enfolded in her mother's. Slowly, she lifted her eyes. Dolores' chest hurt to see her lovely, vivacious daughter, reduced to this furtive figure, as shy as a stray cat.
Her daughter's face, like the rest of her, was a mess, blotchy from crying, runny-nosed and streaked with tears. Her hair was wild, sticking up here and there in spots where her sweaty fingers had tangled it. She could feel the tears starting in her own eyes again. Gwen looked like a girl who'd been sent home from school after a fight, but Dolores knew who the bully was today.
"Meine Schatz..." she began. Then she stopped. Her daughter's eyes, she saw, had begun to swim with fresh tears. She wanted to hold the poor thing, to protect her, but what could she do to start turning this awful day around?
You could clean up your child , for a start, she thought to herself.
“Turn around, sweetie, and let me see the mess your father made...”
Gwen's eyes opened wide at that. She was clearly alarmed at the thought of presenting her vulnerable bottom to someone who'd been happy to see it whipped not more than twenty minutes ago. Again, Dolores thought: what have I done?
"It's all right, it's all right, I just need to look..." she murmured, giving Gwen's hand a reassuring squeeze.
After a few seconds, her daughter slowly complied, turning to face away from her, and pulling up her top a little in back.
What Dolores saw almost knocked her back onto her knees. She was no stranger to a red backside, but Gwen's was practically purple, swollen and ridged with ugly welts. But there was worse. At several points, there were little moist-looking spots, none very big, but dark red, with thin dark rivulets descending - oh, dear God, she thought, feeling suddenly faint, that's blood! She gently, but quickly turned her daughter back around, trying desperately to smooth the concern out of her face.
“Mama, what's wrong?" Gwen's eyes were big, "you look like you saw a ghost!”
The word was a trigger, and for a brief moment, Dolores was in another place, lying face down on a rough bench, the air filled with screams...her screams...she shook her head quickly. Not now!
“I know that must hurt terribly, and I want to take care of it right away, but first, I need to talk to Papa for just a minute, all right? Can you get up to your room without help?”
"Y-yes, Mama..." Gwen reached down to try and pick up her underpants, but she started to wobble as she did.
“No, sweetie, let Mama take care of that! You don't want to be wearing those just yet, anyway...”
"O.k., Mama..." Gwen's voice trailed off. The poor girl was obviously exhausted.
"Here..." Dolores linked one of her arms with Gwen's, and together they made their way into the foyer, and up the short flight of steps to Gwen's room.
Gwen didn't have to be told to rest. She tottered over to the bed, sat down, and...
Bad choice. She popped back up again, with a fierce intake of breath. Her hand shot to her sore wounded buttocks.
“I think on your belly, Liebchen, at least for now...”
"Yes, Mama," Gwen said, a bit vaguely, and with Dolores' help, she crawled onto her bed and laid herself down, giving Dolores an unpleasant reprise of her bravely positioning herself on the sofa to be whipped. She shuddered.
“I promise, I will be right back, and we'll take care of everything!”
It sounded fatuous and stupid the moment it left her lips, but perhaps mercifully, Gwen had already drifted off to sleep.
Dolores turned on the little lamp on her daughter's desk, and closed the curtains, then quietly shut the bedroom door behind her, and went back downstairs to find her husband.
Dolores quickly realized that Hans wasn't in the house. Walking through the kitchen, she noticed the back door ajar. That was not like him, nor was leaving in a crisis. But where was he? She walked out onto the back landing, and noticed light coming from the garage. What in God's name was he doing in there? Having a smoke? She knew he kept a pack hidden there under his workbench, like a guilty schoolboy; she could hardly blame him if he were sneaking one now.
She was almost to the garage when she heard the sound. At first, it confused her; she wasn't quite sure what she was hearing. But then it came again, and this time there was no mistaking it: the snicking sound of something being chopped. It was coming from inside.
She opened the door. Hans, in his shirtsleeves, jacket laid across a stool, stood in the pool of light from the naked bulb above his head. He was bent forward at the waist, leaning against his work bench, and his eyes were bleary and red-rimmed as if…but that couldn’t be. In all the time she'd known him, she had never seen him cry. She took a hesitant step into the garage, unsure how he'd respond to her presence.
"Hans, we need to talk..." She had meant to confront her husband over the state of their daughter’s backside, but she could feel her courage evaporating as she took in the strangeness of the scene in front of her.
Hans looked up, strained and tired. She noticed the hedge-clippers, sitting a bit ominously, off to one side, and near them, a little pile of scraps. Rummaging through it, he pulled out one that was a little larger than the others with a couple of metal pieces that clinked as he picked it up; it was, she realized, the buckle of his belt, which he had just cut into fragments. He walked over, and with a formal gesture, handed it to her:
“I award you the brush," he said sardonically, "I made the kill, but you after all, arranged the hunt.”
She looked down at the thing, not quite comprehending what he was saying.
“At one point, the belt slipped from my hands for a moment. Instead of letting it fall, and putting an end to this nonsense, I caught it, but I had it the wrong way around, and so, for a time, I was hitting her with what you are holding. You probably noticed the results...I'd like to talk to our daughter now, where is she?”
“In her room, resting...”
“Should you not be with her?”
“I left her for just a minute...I needed to talk to you...”
“Right now, the only person either of us need to be talking, and listening to, is upstairs, wondering what we are playing at, whipping her to within an inch of her life, and then running away like imps! You have had a chance to begin fixing this mess we've made; I would like mine, and then maybe you can remind her that she has a mother who loves her, hmm? After that, if you'd like, we can spare some time for each other; I have some questions I would like to ask you, too...”
Hans put on his jacket, scooped up the chopped-up remnants of his belt, and without another word, made his way out of the garage.
Dolores stood there, watching him leave, turning the little piece of leather, with its hard metal buckle, over and over again in her hands, as a stream of fresh tears rolled down her cheeks and off her chin, staining her elegant dress and mingling with the ones with which her daughter had stained it earlier.
