Joulukuu 12, 2017, 01:54:29 pm

Kirjoittaja Aihe: It's a fine line, part 2.  (Luettu 2381 kertaa)


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It's a fine line, part 2.
« : Toukokuu 09, 2008, 07:17:27 pm »
In the morning, the brat wakes up, wondering why she’s in the spare room, and it takes a few minutes for all the little wheels to turn in her bratty little brain and tell her what’s going on.  When she finally realises, she tries her best to get back to sleep, but it’s no good, her head won’t listen to her.  She lies there, pondering a heroic escape across the rooftops, followed by a life in exile.  She considers moving in with a family of monkeys, and becoming their queen.  She wonders if she could get herself taken on in a grand house, as a servant girl, and be ravished by the cook every so often.  But then she realises that a)she wouldn’t fit through the attic window, b)the only monkeys nearby are in the zoo, and her Daddy would probably find her there and c) it’s not 1853.  All other options gone, she reluctantly gets out of her warm but wrinkled bed, hoiks her nightie round her (it had got all snarled up in the night) and tiptoes down to the room she normally shares with her Daddy. 

It’s 8.30am, and her Daddy isn’t there.  For a moment she hopes that yesterday is forgotten about, and her Daddy’s just gone to get a newspaper, (actually, she kind of hopes her Daddy’s gone to join the circus, or suffered a loss of memory and moved to the coast, but she won’t even let that thought formulate, because the more she thinks about quite how badly she’s behaved, the more anxious she becomes).   But she knows there really isn’t any way her Daddy will have forgotten, and there isn’t any way she’s going to get out of what she’s got coming.

She pads down another flight of stairs, and into the kitchen.  Her Daddy is there, sitting at the table with a newspaper and cup of coffee, looking solemn and serious.  It flies through her head that she’s never seen her Daddy look so cross and disappointed, and she’s scared for a minute, wondering if she’s going to be sent away in disgrace, or made to grow up for ever.  She stands there, not knowing what to say or do, and feeling very young, and very silly.  After what she thinks is hours, her Daddy gets up and moves across the kitchen to put some toast in the toaster.  The brat realises that without knowing it she has clasped her hands in the small of her back, and is standing looking at the floor.  The only movement is her left foot, whose toes are scrabbling desperately on the floor, as if she’s trying to dig her way through.  Her Daddy speaks, finally.  “Eat your breakfast - and I do mean eat it, not leave it - drink your milk, and see me in my study in 10 minutes.  And do not be late, young lady.  We have a conversation to hold.”  Her Daddy puts a plate with two pieces of toast and marmalade on the table, and a glass of cold semi-skimmed.  The brat sits down and chews miserably.  She remembers the day they made the marmalade, and what a good girl she’d been all day.  Her reward had been a boat trip at the park, and she sworn that day that she’d be good for ever more.  Hm.  She’s not hungry, and she had been hoping that at least there would just be a spanking, even a horrid one, and now it turns out there has to be a conversation.  With three minutes left, she washes the plate and glass, even dries them and puts them away, and makes her way to the study.  She wonders what the self-destructive streak is, that makes her think, even as she walks to meet her doom ‘actually, it’s the study, not Daddy’s study . . .’.  Fortunately, she says nothing about it.

She knocks at the door of the . . .of Daddy’s study, and waits until she is beckoned.  She opens the door, closes it behind her, and stands just in front of it.  Her Daddy is sitting in front of the writing desk in the wooden swivel armchair, legs crossed, arms folded, face set.  “Come here,” her Daddy orders, and she moves to walk past the desk.  “No, stand there please, in front of the desk.”  Thrown, she does so.  Scoldings normally happen sat on Daddy’s lap, and sometimes over it, but not like this, not like a schoolteacher.  That’s never been their thing.  Still, she isn’t going to argue, and she puts her hands behind her back and fidgets with the ribbon on the hated nightie. 

“So, would you like to tell me why you’re here, and why you’re in so much trouble?” her Daddy asks. 

The brat takes a deep breath and starts in.  “Daddy, I’m really sorry, I promise I am.  I’ve been really really obnoxious and I know it and I’m sorry and I promise it won’t happen again.”  It all comes out in one breath, and it’s just as well her Daddy knows her well, because no-one else would have understood a word she said. 

“I’m sure you’re sorry.  You always are sorry when we get to this point.  And you’re going to be quite a lot sorrier before the morning’s over.  But I actually asked you why you were here.”

“I was naughty?”

“Do you want prompting, young lady?  Or would you rather cut out the smart talk and answer the question?”

The brat breathes in sharply and feels herself reddening.  She hates being called to account.  She hates having to admit things, and she hates how things always sound so much worse when they’re reeled off in a list.

“I um . . . lied to you.  And I bought something I shouldn’t buy, and I tried to get someone else in trouble, and I tried to get out of telling you what had happened, even when you kept giving me chances, and I was really rude to you.”

“That just about covers it.  You haven’t mentioned how you’ve been pushing me for days, and how obnoxious you’ve been recently, but we’ll take that as read.  What do you think is going to happen to you now, then?”

The brat sighs and stares at the floor.  “A spanking?” 

“Spanking you doesn’t seem to work though, does it?  You will be spanked, certainly, and spanked hard, but there are other sanctions, you know, and I intend to use them.”

The brat’s blood seems to thin, right there, on the spot, inside her “WHAT?” she asks, louder than she meant to.

“I believe you heard me.  I also believe you knew this was coming.  You are in deep disgrace, young lady.  Tell me the rules that apply when you’re in disgrace.”

This has only happened once before, in all the years they’ve belonged to each other.  The first time the brat heard she was “in disgrace”, she thought it just meant her Daddy was cross with her.  She soon learnt.  She remembered that week still, and how horrible it had been.  She’d had the choice that time – take the punishment, or give up their unique relationship.  If she wanted to be a little girl, her Daddy had told her, she had to accept being treated like one.  Otherwise, they could leave it, and she could behave exactly how she wanted, with no corrections. 

“I am waiting, young lady, and I do have things to do . . .”

The brat felt a sob rising, but swallowed it and did as she was told.

“I’m grounded.”  She began, and her mind ran through the list of things that would mean she couldn’t do.  “but, Daddy, we have theatre tickets!”  Her Daddy ignored her.  She realised there was no point arguing.  “I’m grounded,” she repeated, “and I have to sleep upstairs, in my nightie, and I have to go to bed at eight-thirty.  And I get accompanied everywhere and babysat if you want to go out.  And no TV, and no computer unless it’s for work and you will be monitoring me.  And no telephone calls, and no play dates, and  . . . no fun at all” she tailed off. 

Her Daddy looked over at the little girl, all long nightie and short socks and sad face, and wondered if perhaps she was getting the message, finally.

“It’s a start, little one.  Now - and let’s see if we can do this without a scene - please pass me your bag.” Puzzled, the brat looks round, and sees the bag lying in the corner of the room.  Unsure why, she fetches it and hands it over the desk.  Her Daddy opens it and tips the contents out.  Back in go the pencil case, the work ID, and the things-with-wings.  The rest – house keys, purse, iPod and phone - stay on the desk.  Her Daddy nudges the iPod towards her. 

“Take the case off that.”  She does so, and her Daddy puts it in an envelope.  “You are donating that to Lizzie.  According to you, it only cost five pounds, anyway, although, the receipt I found tells me a different story.  It’s the least she deserves after you tried to get her in trouble.  You will write her a note explaining how naughty you’ve been, and what you tried to call her, and why she is being given this.  You can also ask her, while you’re at it, to help you be a better behaved little girl.”  The brat gasps.  “No!”

“What exactly are you refusing to do, young lady?  Are you telling me you won’t give Lizzie the cover, or you won’t tell her what you’ve done, or that you won’t ask her for help?”

“The last one!  I can’t do that, Daddy!  Please don’t make me do that!  She’ll think I  . . . .”

“She will think that you’re a naughty, ill behaved little girl who needs to be taught a lesson and brought down a peg or two.  You are far too full of yourself, and far too confident in your ability to brat your way to getting what you want without ever being called out on it.  I’m well aware that you think you’re some sort of super-brat, and that you think no-one lives up to your levels, and it's time you learnt that it simply isn’t the case.  Now, pick up the rest of this stuff, and put it in the top drawer of the desk.  Lock the drawer, and then give me the key.  You can have it back in a week when you’re no longer in disgrace.”

“But, Daddy, I . . .Daddy, my phone!  And my purse!  I can’t not have them at work with me!”

“Oh, do tell me why.  I’m fascinated.”

The brat is so upset she doesn’t notice the sarcasm, and takes it as a real invitation.

“Well, it’s not safe not to have any money on me!  What if there was an emergency?  What if I need to get shopping, or I’m ill and I need a taxi?  Or anything?  And . .  if I don’t have my phone, you won’t be able to contact me if you need me, or if you want to sort something out, and I won’t be able to arrange stuff for you and let you know what I’m doing and make sure you know I’m behaving . . . “

“Well, if you’ve quite finished explaining why it would be inconvenient for me for you not to have your phone . . . you will have enough cash for emergencies each day, but I do not expect you to use it.  Last time I checked, you have a perfectly serviceable work telephone, which I can use if I need you.  Lizzie, who knows how to behave, and has therefore not had her things confiscated, can also get you if I need you.  I think it’s safe to say you will not be placed in any mortal danger by not having a phone or purse for a week.  Now MOVE!”

Startled by the sudden barked order, the brat takes the phone, the purse, and the iPod, and the keys, and locks them away.  Returning to the desk, and god alone knows why – she certainly doesn’t – she flings the keys hard across its shiny surface at her Daddy.  They land on the floor on the other side, and quick as lighting her Daddy reaches across the desk, grabs her by top off her arm, hauls her round the desk, turns her around and smacks her half a dozen times, hard, across the buttocks.  She squeals and sobs, and tries to pull back, back that just gets her another half-dozen. 

“I do  not (smack!) intend to put up with (smack!) this behaviour from you (smack! smack!).  You are already in enough trouble (smack! smack!) and you’ve just added a week to your punishment and several minutes to your spanking (smack! SMACK!  SMACK!). 

Her Daddy keeps hold of the top of her arm, and pulls her over to the opposite corner, and lifts up the skirt of the nightie to tie it loosely around her waist.  Her bottom is already pink and hot, and is now exposed.  Gently, but with a definite air of there being no escape, her Daddy lifts the brat’s hands up to her head, and she knows to interlace her fingers and rest them on top.  With one parting SMACK against her now bare bottom, which makes the brat cry even more, her Daddy walks back to the desk, and opens the newspaper. 

The brat is sniffling now, her bottom sore and pink, her nightie tied round her waist, and only that and a pair of white socks covering her.  Fortunately, the brat doesn’t know quite what an appealing sight it is to her Daddy.  All she knows is that she’s stuck here in the corner, hands on her head, about to get the spanking of her life, and already feeling the warmth in her bratty little behind. 

(still more to come, even THOUGH hardly no-one’s even told me what a clever little monkey I am . . . ).


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Re: It's a fine line, part 2.
« Vastaus #1 : Toukokuu 10, 2008, 12:20:43 am »
What a clever little monkey you are bug :laughter:....very nice story and waiting for the next part


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Re: It's a fine line, part 2.
« Vastaus #2 : Toukokuu 10, 2008, 11:43:21 am »
Thank you!  What a terribly kind thing to say, and all unprompted as well!! ;) 

There will be some more, but not over the weekend on account of I was busted writing stories instead of working, and now I have to copy out what I've done so far, longhand, 10 times.  :badmood:

Issat fair, anyone???   :x

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Re: It's a fine line, part 2.
« Vastaus #3 : Toukokuu 10, 2008, 06:22:02 pm »
Bug...I love the way you are building up the anticipation . I can hardly wait for the brat to get her comupents
Wiggling and Jiggling naughty bottoms are my turn on


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Re: It's a fine line, part 2.
« Vastaus #4 : Toukokuu 26, 2008, 11:14:57 pm »
whooo hoo keep it coming! an you are a Clever little brat bug! :hug:

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Re: It's a fine line, part 2.
« Vastaus #5 : Toukokuu 27, 2008, 04:00:23 am »
Yepp... it is always very satisfying te see a deserving brat get her comeuppance  :roll: :roll: :whistle: