Ok, esto es raro.

Ok, esto es raro. Eso dice el titulo no? Encontre una historia en ingles. Si no saben ingles BLEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Que se yo, ando depre, sensible, con mi ataque de soledad , me siento creepy y capaz veo algo bueno en algo que es malo. O al revez. Ni idea, toy loco. Pero la historia es simpatica.... Capaz yo soy como la primera paleta. La verdad no lo se u.u

 

I was afraid of spankings since I was a little girl.

Which is ironic since it looked more like I couldn't get enough of them. Not that I wanted to. I was simply a naughty girl -- very naughty and very often. And the consequences were always similar.

Walking to my room while my parents decided my fate. Agonizing moments of waiting, then steps on the stairs and Dad -- usually Dad -- entered my room. And he usually carried something. Usually the hairbrush, but sometimes it was the wooden spoon and at several occasions when I was REALLY naughty, even the belt. It went quick after that -- I was bent over his knee with my panties down before I knew what happened, and shortly after that I started screaming bloody murder as the implement in question started leaving indelible imprints on my young bottom.

 

When I was about twelve, I started hearing them.

 

It started pretty innocently. One day I wanted to brush my hair in the morning and grasped the hairbrush that was used to thoroughly punish my bottom the day before (I remember spankings perfectly, but I have long forgotten the reasons for them). And I heard it say, very clearly: "That's it, this is how I'm supposed to be used. How come nobody here understands that?"

I got startled and dropped it, but I was already smart enough to know that there's no point telling anyone else because nobody would believe me anyway.

And when I ended on my favorite-unfavorite spot over my Dad's knee a few days later and I felt the touch of the wooden spoon on my bottom, I heard it say: "Well, out of the frying pan and into the fire, right? I'm going to bake you good. Get ready, this is going to burn."

 

And that's how it was for next few years. Every time I touched anything that had burned my bottom before I could hear what that thing says. The wooden spoon loved kitchen metaphors, the hairbrush kept complaining that its purpose is to brush girls' hair, not to send tears to their eyes, and the belt was usually just hissing like a snake and kept warning me that he has a nasty bite. I never told anyone, it was my little secret.

 

But then the fateful weekend happened. I was fifteen. My parents went away and I invited a few friends. You know the drill, you can imagine how the parents came back early and found their daughter drunk/smoking/in flagranti... but too bad for you, they didn't actually come back early, they really came back only the next day. What was the problem? Everyone else had already left and I was the only one left to clean up.

I was trying my very best the whole day, but I didn't have a slightest chance. My parents found me at the exact moment when I managed to improve the state of the house to "very messy".

I haven't been drinking, I haven't been smoking and I wasn't even flagranting with anyone. But my parents didn't know that and my convincing arguments were only met with a blunt response: "If you lied to us about not inviting any friends, who knows what other lies you've told."

See? That's what they call "logic"!

So I was sent to my room and I was waiting for a spanking. I knew that this is definitely a belt offense, but my family surprised me. When the door opened, both Mom and Dad came in and Dad was holding... Once I saw that thing, I immediately realized that it was bad news. It was a small wooden paddle, the kind that has no use at all except changing naughty girls into sad girls.

They probably bought it in some motel, it was imprinted with an I-want-to-be-funny line "Heat for the Seat".

The lecture my parents gave me afterwards was definitely educational, but I don't remember a word of it since I could only think "Oh God, they want to spank me with this piece of wood!"

And so they did. I ended up bent over Dad's knee with Mom holding my hands. And when he lightly tapped my bottom, as he used to do before he started spanking in full...

"Bad, bad girl! Naughty girl! Just you wait, girlie, you're in for a real spanking!"

The voice of the paddle, made just for spanking, was full of poison. I started screaming even before it realyl hit me. And I could hear its voice with every smack.

"Bad girl. It should hurt! You deserve this! And more! More!"

I hated spankings. But I had always managed to get over them before.

But that night, I dreamed of the paddle. I could hear its voice, full of disgust and hatred.

 

About a week later I did something naughty again. Dad entered my room as I was searching my conscience and instead of the wooden spoon I've been expecting, he was carrying the paddle again.

I started crying. I would promise him anything, just to take it away and bring something else. Even the belt. But there was no changing Dad's ming.

"You're a big girl now," he said. "You need something substantial."

And despite my protests, the paddle went once again to town on my bare bottom, no matter how hard I cried.

And I kept hearing the same things -- poison, hatred.

There was no point in telling my parents that the paddle hates me. I knew that I have to deal with it on my own.

 

The next day I skipped the last lesson at school. I wanted to get home before my parents. I carefully opened the drawer in Dad's room and took the paddle out.

"Oh? They sent YOU to bring me this time?" it grinned. "You screwed up again, didn't you? Of course you did! Girls like you need to be spanked every day -- and even if they ARE spanked every day, they will never amount to anything!"

It was only when I took it out in the garden and put it into the fireplace when it realized something's up.

"What are you doing?" it screamed. "I don't belong here! Bring me back where you took me from, right away!"

"You're varnished," I said quietly. "I bet varnish burns very well, right?"

"Are you going to deepen your depravity even further?" it screamed when I put some old newspapers next to it.

I lit a match.

"Don't do it!" It still wasn't able to do anything but ordering me around. "I forbid this! I'll spank you so hard you won't sit down for a month!"

I felt no pity towards it as I was lighting the newspapers.

The stream of curses and insults didn't stop even when the paddle caught fire. I watched as it transformed into ash. I was smiling.

A hand grasped my shoulder. I turned around and saw my frowning Dad. There was no point in denying anything.

"I'll be going to my room, then," I said.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "Let's go to the toolshed."

He had never scolded me so hard as that day. But it seemed he understood something.

"That shopkeeper was a strange man," he said. "Too eager. He was asking about you. He claimed he was making those paddles himself... Who knows, maybe it wasn't the best idea."

He took out a piece of a wooden board.

"But the wooden spoon and the hairbrush are just not cutting it anymore, you know? We need something... stronger."

"Are you going to make a new paddle?" I whispered.

He shook his head. "No, my girl. YOU are going to make it. I'll tell you how."

I started to cry a bit, but there was no changing Dad's mind. I was no newbie in the toolshed, I often helped him with his DIY projects, and so I cut out, according to his instructions, the oval shape with a handle. The board wasn't too thick, but it was pretty sturdy, any hopes that this thing would break on my bottom were in vain.

Once the paddle was cut out, Dad took care of the rest. He drilled a round hole in the handle for hanging, and then he started to work on the business surface. To my surprise, he cut a heart-shaped hole in it.

"So you know that we love you," he smiled. "Even though it's necessary to punish you at times."

"I'm going to varnish it now," he said. "It's going to be dry by tomorrow, so that's when we'll take care of the premiere performance, what do you think?"

I just quietly nodded.

I didn't sleep very well that night...

 

When I came home from school the next day, Dad was already at home. "How do you feel?" he asked.

I looked down. "Pretty silly," I said. "Should I go upstairs?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm going to go upstairs. You go to the toolshed and bring the paddle."

 

It took me a lot of resolve to open the toolshed door. The paddle was hanging on a string from the ceiling, red on both sides. I took it down.

"Hi," it said.

"Hi," I sighed.

"I'm yours, right?"

"Unfortunately..."

"I... know it's going to hurt with me," said the paddle in an apologizing tone of voice. "But that's what I do, see? Please... don't be angry with me."

Despite myself, I smiled a bit. "As long as it won't hurt too much..."

"Only as much as necessary. I promise."

I petted it and started my walk upstairs. And though I knew that in just a few minutes I'm going to be desperately crying with my panties down, I knew that I have a new friend...