Eyes Larger than Bottom

I grew up with a basketball team. Not literally, but there were 5 of us kids which is enough to form a full squad. We actually played together a couple of times, mostly against our cousins before my older brothers started going off to college. You would think that working a farm wouldn’t require a college degree, but this is the twenty-first century where everything needs a college degree. At least that is how all the guidance counselors always made it seem. I just hope there are more jobs for fresh college grads when I finish in a couple of years.

Growing up on a farm meant I had many rules and chores to do on a regular basis. With three older brothers, my chores were not that difficult and mostly were around the house, but the rules applied equally for my brothers as they did for I or my little sister. Well almost equally, because Dad mostly dealt with my brothers when they got in trouble and Mom dealt with Becky and I. This division of labor worked mostly in Becky and my favor, because during the summers and weekends we would stay outside as much as possible where Dad would let us get away with all things of mischief since he didn’t like punishing his little princesses. It was a stereotype we fit into only when Dad caught us, Mom could care less.

Most of the rules were quite standard for any farm family, like always latching the field gates, making sure tools are put away at night, doing your chores on time, keep up our manners, etc. Oddly we never really had curfews, rather we had to milk the cows at 5am, which meant none of us ever wanted to stay out beyond 10pm. The couple times when there was a school dance or something, we had to tell Mom when we would be home and stick to the time. No big deal.

One of the odder rules involved dinner. Living on a dairy farm, we had ample supply of beef, including steaks, for dinner. When we were young, the rule was Dad got the largest one and then we kids choose the smaller ones. When we reached our teens, the rule shifted to, take which ever you want, but you HAVE to finish what you take. My parents were poor growing up so wasting was a big no-no in my family. I guess the rule was actually not to waste anything someone else could use and food was were it came into play regularly.

So back to my current predicament. I had missed lunch today so when we sat down for dinner, I went straight for the largest steak and a nice big baked potato. When Ryan saw what I did, he raised his eyebrow a little as if to say “are you sure?” I was sure, at that moment. Fifteen minutes later, I wasn’t quite so sure and by 25 I was regretting my choice. Since I had turned 18 I seemed to be having a final growth spurt which meant I could eat constantly and not gain a pound. I know, your jealous. Well this new found hunger, plus no lunch, meant I was extra hungry when we sat down. But it still wasn’t enough to finish the 16 oz sirloin steak, a 6-inch potato and a salad plus some veggies.

Everyone else had finished and I was trying to stuff a little more into my stomach when Mom said “Becky, Rachelle will clear the table before we have a little chat.” I sat down my fork admitting defeat. My stomach was so full it ached.

“OK,” Becky said as she got up from the table, and taking her plate to the kitchen. She gave me look of condulences as she passed me. Mom, Dad and Ryan followed Becky’s lead in clearing their setting, now I needed to clear my setting then put the leftovers away and load the dishwasher.

I pushed back my chair when Ryan re-entered the dinning room. “I’ll finish your extras. Maybe Mom won’t be so upset.” Ryan said as he took my fork and plate. It was a nice gesture, which hopefully would work. I hadn’t technically wasted any food.

I picked up some of the serving dishes and took them into the kitchen. Mom was there fumbling with a few of the leftovers that where still on the stove. I sat the quarter full bowl of green beans on the counter and the dishes with the juices from the steaks into the sink, then went for another trip of dishes.

On my arrival from my fourth, and final trip to the dinning room, Mom was standing next to the sink, waiting for me. Her hands were resting on her hips and ‘your in trouble’ was written all across her face. At least it wasn’t the “I’m disappointed in you” look which would rip my heart out.

“I’m sorry Mom. I really thought I was hungry enough to finish everything, but I just couldn’t. I won’t do it again. Can you just spank me and forgive me?” I blurted out before she could say anything. I hated the lectures Mom would give. I didn’t like spankings either, but the lecture beforehand always seemed to put off the spanking on forever while my anxiety just built and built.

Mom looked at me for a moment, then just nodded towards the breakfast nook. Even though I wanted to get this over with as fast as possible, my feet still took little steps over to the table. It was like my body was trying to preserve itself while my mind had clearly accepted its fate. I unbuttoned and pulled down my jeans before leaning over the table to grab the other side. I was hoping Mom would let me keep my panties up. I know, it would probably be the first time, but there’s always a chance.

Mom fished around in the utensil jar for a few moments then came over behind me. I felt her rest her hand on my bottom for a few moments before pulling back and delievering a series of quick spanks spread over both cheeks. They weren’t so bad, since my panties damped some of the sting.

SMACK SMACK SMACK! Mom kept raining down spanks with her hand while she said “Rachelle, you know better than to waste food.”

I bottom was beginning to feel warm as Mom shifted her attention to just one cheek at a time. My right cheek took the brunt of her firepower first. Even through my panties, the sting started to build quickly. I wiggled a little and Mom shifted to the other cheek. It was no time before she had every spank sting like a bee.

And then she stopped all of a sudden. My reprieve only lasted a few seconds before Mom pulled the back of my panties down, rubbing them slowly over my red bottom until they were hanging at mid-tight. The cool air on hot skin suprised me a little.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! Mom brought the rubber spatula down hard and fast. I couldn’t stand it anymore and let the tears flow.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! My crying didn’t deter her as she picked up her speed and force. I wiggled by bottom from side to side which just got her to place her left hand on my lower back while she kept tanning my hide. Bending my knee just earned me a few swats to the thigh.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! Every inch was covered with red marks. The top. The sides. The bottom. The oh-so painful crease between cheek and thigh. I just cried on as Mom throughly completed her work.

SPLAT! “Waaaa!” SPLAT! “Waaaa!” SPLAT! “Waaaa!” SPLAT! “Waaaa!” SPLAT! “Waaaa!” I cried and cried, giving up all my determination to remain strong. The sting was just too wicked.

Then just as sudden as it had started, it was over. I didn’t realize it at the time, because the fire in my rear burned as strong as ever. Mom let go of my back and set the spatula into the sink.

“Come on honey, up you go now.” Mom cooed as she helped me. Those key words released my hands from their iron grip on the table edge, allowing them to fly back to rub my bottom. I buried my teary eyes in her chest as she held me tight. “It’s over now. I love you but be a little more curtious next time.” She let go of me as I started to regain my composure.

“I’m sorry mommy,” I cried wimpered. Why does a spanking turn any girl into a 4 year old? It happens with me. I’ve seen it happen with my sister and girl cousins. It’s like every minute under her mother’s hand, makes a girl act a year, or 4 for that spatula, younger. I’d probably only been over the table for 4-5 minutes, but felt 15 years younger!

“I know honey. Wash all the dishes and put them away then you can go.” Mom said as she motioned to the sink.

I started to slowly step over towards the sink, with my hands still firmly secured to my bottom, when I realized I was bare below the waist. I had to have covered the ten feet to the sink in a second flat. It was the best option to preserve a little of my modesty while dealing with the horrible sting. I heard Mom chuckle at my scamper as she left me alone in the kitchen.

I rubbed for another few minutes, keeping my pubis firmly against the counter in front of the sink. The sting finally resided enough for me to dampen a hand with cool water and apply it to my stingy cheeks. I jumped a little at the first touch, but soon had both cheeks damp. Cool water after a spanking is wonderful sensation, though before a spanking is torture. I learned that tid-bit a year ago after swimming in the pond.

Once the fire was quenched to a mild sting, I got to work on the task at hand. Even though no one was in the kitchen, I didn’t dare move very far back from the countertop. I think Ryan had taken off to his girlfriend’s right after dinner so Becky was the only one who might spy on me. Her spying on me like this is embarassing, mainly because I was naughty than from a lack of modesty.

“Eyes bigger than your stomach?” Becky asked from behind me as I finished up washing the last of the dishes.

“Nope, I wanted to get spanked!” I snipped back, flicking water at her. “Brat!”

“Thought so,” Becky snickered. “You want some help drying?”

She wanted something. There wasn’t any other reason why she would volunteer to help me with my punishment.

“Mom said you could drive me over to Grant’s after you got done.”

Boyfriend time was the real motivator. “Fine,” I accepted. We’d be done in a few minutes and I’d be able to put my jeans back on.

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