Hey everyone. New member here, though I’ve occasionally stopped by over the years to read stories. Got into writing some of my own stuff cause of the downtime caused by Covid-19.
I have posted this story on another site (username and story title is the same). I figured it wouldn’t hurt to share the story here as well. I’m sure there’s not a complete overlap between the sites. That said, if you’ve read this before, no spoilers please. I’ve currently written 28 chapters. I’ll probably end up posting a couple a day here until I’m caught up. Feedback is welcome.
Chapter 1: Crime and Punishment
Christmas is my mother’s favorite time of the year. Can’t say the same for myself. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I like Christmas as much as any other kid. Racing down the stairs at the crack of dawn to get the first glimpse of the surprises beneath the tree. Decorating cookies. And candy canes. I absolutely love candy canes.
But mom takes it to the extreme. And by extreme, I mean that I’ve just stepped off the bus to the sight of her at the top of a ladder stringing lights across the front of the house. It is the first week of October.
I do my best to keep a straight face despite the giggles coming from my friends Desi and Samantha. They know the drill, but it doesn’t make the situation any less funny to them. At least this year mom is not putting up Christmas themed Halloween decorations. Skeleton Santa anybody? Yeah, no thanks.
I try not to make eye contact with mom. I swear she is always trying to come up with new ways to embarrass me. She has on the absolute worst Christmas sweater, which is saying a lot because she’s got a closet full of them. It’s an unusually chilly for a fall day in New Mexico, and any excuse to wear a sweater is a good one for her. Walking quietly up the driveway, I nearly reach the front door – Christmas wreath on it and all – without catching her eye. Like I’ve ever gotten away with that.
“Sarah,” mom yelled. “Make sure to check up on your sister before you start your homework. It’s been about thirty minutes.”
“Sure thing Mom,” I reply, followed by a sigh that is too small for her to notice.
I might be turning fifteen soon, but any noticeable back-talk or back-anything meant risking some hard swats to my bottom.
Having been an only child for the first eleven years of my existence I was so thrilled when Emilia was born three-and-a-half years ago. I had helped decorate Emilia’s nursery, picking out all the colors and accessories. I even arrived at the hospital all proud with by big sister shirt on. That thrill had lasted all of three weeks until I graduated from adoring older sister to unpaid baby-sitter. And don’t tell me it builds character. I’ve heard that cliché more than enough.
I open the door to the sound of “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas” serenading through the house, followed by the pitter-patter of bare feet scrambling across the wood floor.
“You’re home! You’re home,” Emilia yells as she rushes around the corner and gives me a hug around my waist. I mean, of course I’m home. Not like mom usually lets me go anywhere else after school is out. Fourteen might be old enough to babysit my sister, but mom didn’t think it was old enough to do things like sleepovers.
Emilia is dressed in a pink, Minnie Mouse t-shirt with a matching pink, Minnie Mouse pull-up. If you are wondering what Mom had asked me to check, let’s just say my latest responsibility was being conscripted into the great potty-training war. This our third attempt. Unfortunately, Mom hadn’t found my jokes about “World War Pee” to be particularly funny.
We had made two heroic attempts at potty-training already: Once when Emilia had turned two and again after her third birthday. We tried every tactic we could think of. Stickers, charts, rewards, special “big-girl” panties, potty-training toilets in every room of the house. There was a week where we had let Emilia just run around naked. That was such a mess. Mom had even half-joked about having me wear pull-ups to model good potty-training behavior for Emilia. I’m so glad she didn’t go through with that.
This time around though we needed to succeed. There weren’t any other options. Emilia would be kicked out of her preschool if she wasn’t toilet trained by her fourth birthday. Mom threw a fuss with the daycare, but I don’t blame them. Who wants to be changing a four-year-old’s dirty diaper? I sure as heck don’t.
Our most recent strategy is for Emilia to be wearing a special potty-training watch that goes off every thirty minutes to remind her to go to the toilet. We’ve given up on those plastic potty-chairs – such a pain to clear up after – and had instead settled for a toddler seat that could be quickly placed on the toilet in our lone bathroom.
“Guess what? Guess What?” Emilia clamored while giggling. “I’ve been dry all day.”
I’m a bit skeptical of that statement. Emilia isn’t very good at noticing her accidents. What was that phrase Mr. Higgins had taught us from that president recently in history class? Oh yeah, “Trust, but verify.”
Emilia smells good at least, so she hasn’t done a number two. That is a relief. The last thing I needed right now was a poopy pull-up to change. I checked the front of her pull-up as well, and the wetness indicators were, surprisingly enough, all still unchanged. Guess she is dry after all. At home, mom never let Emilia wear anything to cover her pull-up. She wanted to always be able to know right away whether it was dry, wet, or messy.
Beep, beep, beep, beep.
Well, mom was right about the timer needing to go off.
“Come on kiddo, it’s time to get you on the potty,” I said, grabbing Emilia by the hand.
This was followed by her usual, drawn-out protestations: “I don’t have to go. I don’t. I don’t have to. I… I don’t.”
Then she stomped her feet and started to pout. Emilia wouldn’t have dared to do that with mom, but I’m the good cop after all. On other days I might have attempted to gently cajole her into cooperation. Today I was wasn’t having any of it. I grabbed her under the armpits with both hands and hauled her off to the bathroom with her whining all the way. A few minutes later it turned out that she had needed to pee after all.
With the potty-training out of the way – for half-an-hour at least – I raced off to the kitchen to get an after-school snack. A few minutes of looking through the cupboards, fridge, and pantry left me feeling less hungry. There isn’t junk food of any type in sight. Mom has been on a health binge recently. I settle for a bag of veggie chips instead.
I take a look at my own watch. Thankfully, it didn’t come with a timer telling me when I have to go to the bathroom. But I had to start doing homework at 4:30 p.m. That’s another one of mom’s rules. So that gives me just about twenty minutes or so to relax.
I wasn’t the only one getting a break. Mom is in the living room as well, showing Emilia how to put together a simple puzzle – of Minnie Mouse no less, cause that’s my sister’s thing right now. I had barely been on the couch for just a couple seconds when mom interrupted me.
“Did you wash your hands before you started eating, young lady?” she asked.
Mom has certain ways of saying things. Young lady means she knows full well what the truthful answer is. Any attempt to fib your way out of the situation would be futile.
“I’ll do it right now,” I replied. I didn’t want to outright admit how close I had come to breaking one of her rules.
“Remember, twenty seconds,” mom yelled after I had already headed off to the bathroom sink.
When I came back to the living room, I wanted to take over the TV. There had to be something entertaining on. But I knew better than to interrupt what mom was watching – home videos of our previous Christmas mornings. Look, most families videotape their Christmas mornings, and then that’s the end of it. They might upload it to YouTube or let the tapes collect dust in a cardboard box in the basement. But my mom, she loves to go back and watch them. It gets her in the Christmas spirit.
I grabbed a library book instead and picked up from where I had left my last bookmark.
“Why is Sarah wearing a pull-up,” Emilia interjected suddenly.
I was confused at first. I mean, I had panties on after all. Then it dawned on me. Bless young children and their questions. I looked up from my book to the video playing on the TV. The slightly grainy footage must have been about six years old. But there I was, clear as day, opening presents next to the Christmas tree while wearing no clothing other than a pull-up adorned with a colorful assortment of flowers and butterflies. The pull-up was sagging between my legs and clearly soaked. I looked at the screen awkwardly for a few more seconds as felt my face go flush red before turning back to intently looking at my book.
Yes, I used to be a bedwetter, and my mom has ample evidence of it for all posterity. That was not something I liked being reminded about, and was certainly not a subject I cared for my blabbermouth of a sister to be aware of.
OK, this is too embarrassing. I hopped off the couch, tossed my empty bowl into the sink and walked toward my bedroom. Getting an early start on homework was better than watching videos of myself in pull-ups.
By my room I really meant our room. Cause three people in a two bed-room house means someone ends up sharing. Which is why I’m stuck in a room with my little sister.
Sharing a room with a baby, or for that matter, a toddler that isn’t toilet trained, sucks. There is always that lingering, hard to describe diaper smell that seems to persist despite the mighty powers of the Febreze can I keep in the top drawer of my dresser. I opened my backpack and pulled out the new book we are studying in my AP Literature class, “Crime and Punishment.”
Earlier today I had struggled not to laugh when Mrs. Whittleworth passed out copies of the Dostoevsky novel. Crime and punishment. That is the story of my life if there ever was one. Mom is big on rules. That is kind of her thing. And not just the normal rules a kid might have, like “no curse words” or “eat your veggies before your dessert.” My life is highly regulated. If I ever get a grade on any school assignment that is less than an “A.” Well, that’s a spanking. My butt still hurts when I think about the one time I got a “D” on a test.
With rules, come punishments, and I’ve experienced every one known to childkind. Time-outs. Getting grounded. Having my mouth washed out with soap. And spankings. That was mom’s favorite. She cherishes her grandfather’s wooden paddle like it is an actual family heirloom.
Once I logged into the computer at my desk, I made sure not to go to any sites that weren’t educational. Yes, mom tracks where I go online, and, yes, if I waste time watching cat videos on YouTube I’ll likely not be allowed to touch the computer for the rest of the week. I logged into the website our school uses to let us track homework assignments and grades.
“Shit!” I said.
I didn’t like what I saw, and I was glad mom was far enough away not to hear me. Stupid Mr. Higgins had given me a “C” on that quiz on President Reagan from earlier this week. What could I have gotten wrong? Getting a “B” wasn’t too bad, especially if it was a “B+.” But a “C?” That wasn’t going to make things fun tonight.
I do, however, have something going for me. Mom has one means of grace. If I’ve broken a rule, and I tell her rather than try to hide it or make her wait and find out herself, the punishment is usually a lot less. Mom does check my grades every couple weeks, but I would have heard it from her already if she’d seen it. I’d gotten better at avoiding spankings recently, but I don’t think I could get mom in a good enough mood to talk her out of them for that bad of a grade on an assignment.
But I didn’t have to decide immediately. There’s not any chance she checks my grades from the living room couch. Instead, I grabbed “Crime and Punishment” and jumped onto my bed only to be greeted with a loud, crinkling sound. So irritating.
Normally, I wouldn’t pay attention to the crinkle coming from the plastic mattress cover on my bed. But after the video, it was just another awkward reminder of my bedwetting phase that I’d really rather put behind me. It wasn’t that mom had been mean or strict about it, but it had still just been such a humiliating experience.
What was funny about the bedwetting was that Mom was nicer, a little, about nighttime accidents. I’ve heard that the condition – I forget the medical name for it – is hereditary, but no way would I every ask her about it.
I had wet the bed nearly every night until I was about nine. Mom never made too much of a fuss about it, besides making me wear pull-ups every night and keeping a plastic cover on my mattress. I had to stay dry a whole month before I was allowed to stop with the pull-ups, but no matter how hard I asked the plastic sheet was there to stay. That, and the reminders every night that I go potty before bed, you know, just in case, like I wasn’t a fully toilet trained teenager.
The rules mom was more stringent on were the ones about daytime potty-training. It almost made me feel bad for my bratty sister. Almost, but not really. The potty-training rules are as follows:
- No big girl panties unless you’ve gone seven straight days with no accidents
- Any accident, no matter the reason, meant you were back in pull-ups
- If you had two accidents in the same day, you’d be back in diapers for all of the next day
- Once every thirty minutes, you had to sit on the potty for three minutes
- No lying about whether you’ve had an accident
Yeah, it’s strict, but I mean, I was potty-trained during the day before I turned two, according to my mom. And Desi and Samantha’s younger siblings, who I think are around the same age as Emilia, all are perfectly capable of using the toilet on their own. Who knows what is wrong with Emilia.
I flipped through the first few pages of the book. I hated AP Lit. This book is going to be the death of me. I’ve only got five weeks to read and then write a report on it. Maybe I’ll ask Desi for help, at least she can get onto CliffsNotes without her parents caring or noticing. As I read through the opening chapter, I couldn’t help going back to think about my own impending punishment. After fifteen minutes and only three pages, I decided that I may as well get it over with. I set the book down and headed back toward the living room.
I tried to be calm as I walked into the room. I really did. But mom must have some sort of sixth sense, cause she caught on right away that I was apprehensive about something.
“Sweetie, what is wrong,” mom asked.
Sweetie, now that’s another one of my mom’s key words. She does that when she suspects I’ve done something wrong but doesn’t know what. I could still back out now, tell her that everything is OK and hold off for another day. But though I had walked into the room determined to get the spanking over with, the words just stayed stuck in my mouth, refusing to come out. Mom gets what is going on.
“Do you have something you need to tell me,” she asked.
I nod, and walk up to her. I know the drill. This scene has played out hundreds of times before in my life. I could recite it as well as any of the lines from my school play. But just like in real life, when it comes time to go before an audience, I always muck it up.
“Mom, I broke your rule about getting good school grades,” I spat out, garbling all the words together.
“No, say that slower and enunciate your words.”
“I got a ‘C’ on a quiz in my American History class,” I said crisply and clearly, with my eyes pointing down at my feet.
“No, young lady, you look me in the eye while I’m talking to you.”
I matched my mom’s eye and felt my face go full red. Oh I hated how I had no control over my blushing. It just always seemed to amply the shame that I felt. I repeated again about how I had gotten a ‘C’ on the quiz.
“And why was it wrong for you to get that grade?”
“Because I need to be an ‘A’ student so I can get a good scholarship and go to college.”
“And what is the punishment for getting a ‘C’ on an assignment?”
This was trickier, you see, while my mom had punishments, they weren’t always consistent. Make it too easier, and she might go a lot harder on you. But if you gave yourself too much of a punishment, well, you were stuck with that as well. I decided to play it cautiously.
“A spanking.”
Mom gave me that look. And I knew right away I had given the wrong answer.
“And just how many spankings is that punishment going to be,” she said.
I hesitated, which was bad. I’m always bad at thinking on my feet. I spit out the first number that comes to mind.
“Twenty.”
Bad, bad, bad idea Sarah. Twenty was more than I’d gotten when I’d burnt dinner and set off the fire alarm. I probably could have gotten away with just five. But mom didn’t object, didn’t say that seems like a bit much. She just gave a soft smile and stood up from the couch. It was so unfair.
“Hold still and lift up your shirt a little,” mom said.
I complied without saying a word. The shock of impending spankings was still fresh. Why, why, why did I have to suggest twenty of them. I pulled my shirt up just enough to reveal the top of my jeans and my belt. I felt mom’s hands as she undid my belt buckle and then pulled the entire belt loose. Next, she unbuttoned my jeans, pulled them off my hips and let them fall down.
Mom sat back down on the couch. She didn’t have to say what I was to do next. I already knew. I stepped out of the jeans, leaving them in a pile in front of the couch and carefully lay on the couch facedown so that my bottom was directly on my mom’s lap. My head was facing the TV, which only added to the humiliation. The video was paused right at an angle where you could fully see how wet the pull-up was. Yellow and saggy. Why couldn’t mom have changed me out of it before opening presents.
Emilia had stopped building her puzzle, which was about halfway done, a look of puzzlement on her face. It has been a while since I’ve been spanked. Who knows, maybe she doesn’t even remember having witnessed it before. I sure as heck didn’t want an audience for this.
“Emilia,” mom said. “Go get the black bag that is in mommy’s closet.”
I should have known I wasn’t going to get away with her not using a paddle. We live in a small house, it shouldn’t have taken even Emilia more than a minute to grab the bag. But it felt like an eternity. Why did I have to get a stupid “C” on that quiz anyway. All I had wanted was to get the spanking done and over with quickly, but it kept getting drawn out.
The pitter-patter of Emilia’s feet signaled that she had at last come back to the room. The plain, black gym bag was what mom used to keep all her disciplinary supplies in. Several types of paddles. Non-toxic soap to wash out mouths. Lotions and ointments for treatment after a spanking. The next choice mom makes would greatly determine my level of discomfort. Please, please, please don’t use the wooden paddle, I prayed silently.
After mom had finished rustling through the bag, I saw Emilia come back into view, sitting on the floor next to the coffee table where she had been working on her puzzle. But she hadn’t gone back to playing. She was facing me with a curious look on her eyes. My face was burning now. Why couldn’t mom just send her away.
Without any warning, mom pulled down my panties to expose my bare bottom. Oh great, this is it. She held the paddle against my bottom to line it up. And she had chosen the wooden one. I’d gone a year without getting a wooden paddle spanking.
Smack. The first whack knocked the breath out of me. I was barely able to squelch a sob. The strikes proceeded likely clockwork every five seconds. One after another. Left. Right. Left. Right. I was able to hold out for the first few swats. But the tears and cries of pain were inevitable.
Emilia watched the entire time. And that brat even started giggling. Suddenly, as quickly as they had started, the spankings came to a stop. The only sound in the room was my heavy breath and receding sobs. A cool sensation covered my bottom as mom rubbed a lotion into my skin. Despite the relief it was giving I knew sitting would be a pain in the you know what for the next week.
Mom pulled my underwear back up and helped me sit on her lap. Her hand took a firm grip of my chin as she held my face steady with hers.
“There, there,” she said. “Now what lesson have you learned from this?”
“I’ll study harder and get good grades. I promise.”
I couldn’t help it. All the pent-up emotion, pain and tension had to come loose again. The floodgates burst open, and I cried and cried and cried into mom’s shoulder as she rubbed my back. It was over. Thank goodness it was over.
Another beeping found filled the house. But it wasn’t Emilia’s watch. Mom quickly set me down on the couch.
“Put your jeans back on and help your sister clean up her toys while I get the casserole out of the oven,” she said.
Just the effort of sitting up and pulling on my jeans was enough to remind me of how sore I was going to be. As I finished pulling on my jeans, the sight of Emilia sitting in front of me gave me an idea about how to teach that brat that it is not nice to laugh when your sister is getting spanked.
I reached down and ever so gently gave her the slightest of tickles, enough for her to feel my touch, but hopefully not enough to blame me for what was about to happen. If there is one way in which my sister and I are most alike is that we are super ticklish at even the slightest touch. I know all her weak spots.
The result was exactly what I had hoped for. Emilia jumped up with a little squeal and placed both hands on the front of her pull-up. I didn’t even need to look at the wetness indicator to know what had just happened.
“Mom,” I yelled, doing my best to keep the satisfaction out of my voice. “Emilia just had an accident.”
Karma may not be a bitch, but It certainly is a wet pull-up.
I do have some idea to possibly mix into the story of your interested but yeah loved it so far