The worst whipping of Danielle’s young life came at the age of twenty, well beyond the point where she thought corporal punishment was still on the table. She had not been spanked or whipped with the belt in nearly six years and she could not even remember the last time her mother Ronda had even said the word ‘spanking,’ let alone threatened her with one. But Danielle, raised in a somewhat strict and religious home, made one fateful mistake.
She forgot to close the door all the way until it clicked.
Naked and in the midst of passionate self-love, she did not hear the door pop back out of place and remain ajar. Nor was she aware that her mother had come back inside the house from the garden. Ronda was on her way to the restroom to wash her hands when she passed by her daughter’s room and caught an eyeful of some serious pillow-humping.
It wasn’t necessarily the act itself (though that seemed distasteful enough), but more so the brazenness of the performance that sealed Danielle’s fate and sent her mother into a frenzy. It was the middle of the afternoon and the door was left open!
Words like 'hussy’ and 'tramp’ and 'deviant’ flashed into Ronda’s mind. She startled Danielle when she barked out in a blind rage, approaching the bed with her hand cocked back into spanking position. A flurry of hand spanks landed on her daughter’s fully exposed backside and thighs. Danielle, caught off guard, tried her best to wriggle free and evade them.
“You filthy girl!” Ronda roared.
Ronda backed off and retreated to the closet. The whipping belt was still there, hanging on the other side of the closet door - a coiled and dangerous snake.
“No, mommy, please,” Danielle begged, when she saw her mother take hold of that dreaded leather. Just the sight of that instrument and the knowledge that it still hung in her own closet filled Danielle with a deep shame. Instinctually, she regressed to a much younger girl as she begged not be spanked.
“On your knees, butt up,” Ronda said, ignoring the theatrics.
It was a familiar phrase, one that Danielle remembered clearly from countless belt whippings while growing up. The punishments, and that phrase, were from years ago, part of some distant past that she wished to forget, yet was never able to entirely. Hearing her mother say those words brought tears. There was nothing she could do now to save her ass. Her vagina was still slick with arousal and the smell of sex hung over the room.
“Butt up!" Ronda commanded. "Do it now or it will be worse.”
In slow motion, Danielle complied. What other choice did she have? She got her knees in the center of her bed, legs together with her head down on the mattress and bottom pointed up toward the ceiling. The position itself was extremely embarrassing and revealing and she was well aware of how much of herself was being shown.
But it wouldn’t matter in the end. In the end, there was just the horrible sting. Ronda was an expert at painting bums red and this whipping would prove to be no exception.
Methodically, Ronda cracked that belt against Danielle’s upturned rear, allowing the leather to lick and snap every bit of milky white space. Danielle was absolutely howling. Her cheeks were striped in searing scarlet in no time. Never had she experienced a spanking that hard or long.
By the time Ronda had finished, Danielle had cried so much that all she really had left were halting, choked-off sobs. Her face and ass were a perfect match in color. Ronda left the room in disgust.
It was an afternoon Danielle understandably never forgot and somewhat predictably, getting a belt whipping became intertwined with sexual arousal from then on in her mind. Later in life, she would practically beg her husband for spankings before sex.
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