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Subject: Re: Denice Answers Debbie's Hypothetical


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Denice spanks Debbie, Part I
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Date Posted: 19:41:54 05/06/25 Tue
In reply to: Debbie to Denice 's message, "Re: Denice Answers Debbie's Hypothetical" on 20:36:24 05/02/25 Fri
 In sum, Debbie, with reference to the last spanking you just told us about and that you got from your mother, you wanted me to compare that with how a spanking from me might be if, for example, I were taking care of you now for a week while your mother was away—not babysitting you really—but just answering your mother’s concern that you stay with me for that week rather than be left entirely on your own.

I readily agreed (I was glad to do that), and this implied as always before when I took care of you for brief periods, that you would behave yourself, and I would be in charge of you just as your mother is these days now that you are 16, and yes I would have permission to use corporal punishment (as I always had such permission when you were younger), although we all considered that to be extremely unlikely at your present age.

Okay, fine. Now I need to add a few facts to that scenario in order to create what you wanted me to respond to—-a situation that would actually earn a spanking from me taking care of you as a 16 year old girl and with me as, not your mother, but as your long-time family friend and caretaker.

The offense you suggested was your breaking curfew and coming home an hour late with no calls to me ahead of time and no good excuse for being that late. That was the question you asked me to deal with, but the hypothetical had as a given that I would find genuine cause to spank you: how would I spank you, as opposed to how your mother spanks you now, if I were the one in charge of you and if that were the clear response called for on the facts.

So let’s add a little “muscle’” to the offense so it really does meet those specifications. Assume you had asked my permission to go to a friend’s birthday celebration even though her birthday was on a Thursday, a school night. Your friend had invited about a dozen or so friends (mostly classmates, but boys and girls) to meet at her house and you would all go out from there in your own vehicles to an early five PM Birthday dinner at a restaurant. The place would be a surprise to your friend and to her guests but it would be at a place that her parents had chosen and were paying for and it would be in the town center within a half an hour drive of where I live. There would be music and dancing after dinner for these youngsters, so it would be a real birthday party—-with dinner at 5 to 6:30 or so, and then dancing and music for 3 or 4 hours after dinner, but no alcohol—since it would be all girls and boys of 15 to 17.

Assume that I had some concerns because it was a school night and I stipulated you could go if you showed me that you had fully completed your homework assignments that afternoon (and did good work on them) and that we also agreed that in all events you would leave the party and be home no later than 10:30 PM.

Okay. Now on that evening, 10:30 came and went and no Debbie and no call! 11 PM, and no Debbie and no calls from you. By 11:30 I am seriously worried, tremendously anxious. Has there been an accident? Are you in a hospital somewhere? I have called you on your mobile four or five times since 10:45, calling you every 15 minutes or so, left messages, but no reply at all. I don’t know which restaurant the parents chose, I don’t have any place to call other than your phone, and I am really getting frantic.

At 11:45 you come rushing in the door and, oh, you are so, so sorry you didn’t call and that you are so late. Your phone was in a pocket of your jacket, in the cloakroom at the restaurant, and you say you had no idea it was getting so late. The dinner was wonderful, the music was terrific and everyone was dancing and having a great time, and finally when everyone started to gather up to leave you looked at the time and realized it was already just after 11!

And, oh my gosh you tell me, you couldn’t believe that—and you couldn’t just race out the door. Of course, you had to gather around the birthday girl and thank her for the wonderful evening just like everyone else was doing and you had to help her get her presents out to her car and so on. And then you jumped in your car and came home as quick as you could. Oh, Lord, you can’t believe it got that late so quick! It was an accident, a mistake, you never knew or meant to stay that late! Oh, please, please, please forgive me! I am just so so SORRY!

Needless to say, I am sick with anger that you didn’t call, and that you did this. I have been sick with worry since 10:45 when you didn’t show up and didn’t call. I interrupt your wailing excuses and tell you, “Debbie! Stop right there! I am too angry and upset with you right now to deal with this. And it is too late to deal with this tonight. Go up right now and clean up and go to bed. Not another word! When you get home from school tomorrow, I will deal with this. Don’t make any plans for tomorrow. Do you understand me? You are going nowhere tomorrow but school and home. And I will be waiting for you when you get here, you can count on that.”

Those words make your blood run cold. You have blown it good alright, big BIG time! You realize then just how upset and angry I am and you know you are in big trouble. The look on my face is one you haven’t seen for years, since you screwed up badly a few times when you were still only 10 or 12 years old. The first thing that flashes into your mind is, oh, my god, I think Aunt Denice is actually going to spank me. SHE’S GOING TO SPANK ME FOR THIS, I KNOW IT! Oh, my God I bet she’s going to spank me tomorrow.” You almost say something about that, almost ask outright if I plan to spank you, but the words stick in your throat, and you turn and go up to your room, very shaky but very aware you are in for it.

The next day you can’t think of much else all day and even your friends note how distracted you are but you say nothing to them, When you get home I am in the kitchen but you see right away there is no typical after-school snack on the table—no milk and cookies, no half a sandwich, nothing! Just the coffee you see me drinking.

You put your books down nervously on the table and when you look at me I hold up a finger—it’s a hold on, be quiet, wait—gesture. “Go upstairs,” I tell you. “Get out of your school clothes, wash up at the sink, put on anything you want for a top—a tee shirt, a sweatshirt, I don’t care what you put on above the waist. Got it?”

You nod but try again to start to say something but again I hold up a stopping finger. “Debbie! Be quiet. Just do what I say. We’ll talk later. Do you understand? We'll talk for hours later if you want. But right now, just go up and do what I just told you. Then just put on a pair of your Bermuda shorts below the waist. I put a pair on your bed. And your slippers. The Bermuda shorts are going to come down anyway, because your bottom is going to need to be bare for me after you come back down here to the living room. Understand? Then, after I have taken care of the necessary business, as I said, we can talk and talk if you want to. Look at me, Debbie”.

You look at me. You are blushing to your roots and your eyes have teared up and you really do look like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. I look you right in the eye.
“Debbie, there is a time for talk and this is not it. You are an intelligent sixteen year old teenager, and in fact you are an exceptionally bright teenager and we both know it. You know our ground rules very, very well given al the years I have taken care of you for your mother from time to time."

Then you say it. “Did you really think for even a moment—FOR EVEN ONE MOMENT—that you could get my permission to go to a party like that, promising to be back by 10:30 at the latest, and then feel you could waltz in here at 11:45, with no calls at all to me before that—with not even one single call from you—and with no acceptable excuse whatsoever—do you get that?—absolutely no ACCEPTABLE excuse of any kind whatsoever? And did you really think even for a moment that you were not going to get your bottom spanked good for that? Really? Really, Debbie?"

Clearly, you don't know what to say to that. I add, "Well, young lady, upstairs! Right now! Get washed and changed as I said, put on the light clothes I mentioned, and get yourself back down here. I want to see you coming into that living room within fifteen minutes tops. Don’t try my patience one minute longer, Young Lady. Now get upstairs!”

As you go past the living room you can’t help but notice some things carefully placed on the coffee table in front of the couch. A large box of Kleenex, a folded towel, a stack of several washcloths, a basin of water, and a waste basket with a plastic liner on the floor beside the table. You remember in a rush how I always did this in advance whenever I spanked you as a younger child, providing anything I needed to wipe away tears and snot. This was something your mother did at times, but she rarely thought of all the details the way I always did when I was the one who was going to spank you.

You also realized as you headed upstairs that your adopted Aunt Denice was wearing one of her spanking outfits (the kind she word so that her regular clothes did not get soiled). A simple tee shirt and a pair of blue short-shorts that ended at the top of my thighs. This left my legs bare as the spanking platform for you to lie on, since the short-shorts were an article of clothing that in your memory you could not remember me ever wearing except when I was going to spank.

When you came down, being careful not to exceed the time deadline I had set, you found me sitting in the middle of the couch as you entered the living room, and your heart leaped and then plummeted when you noticed that my brown oval wooden hairbrush was also sitting on the coffee table within your reach. You were still desperate to talk to me before your punishment began, and you were somehow feeling that we should talk first, that--even if a small chance only--talk might help defuse a little of your determination to spank me so soundly, that some talk might somehow make this whole thing a bit less of a disaster.

You tried to say something as you walked over to me, but I again held up the insistent finger. “No talking now,” I told you flatly. “We can talk later.”

I then looked up at you and you suddenly realized how calm I was. My face showed no sign whatsoever of stress or upset at this point. And you realized, not for the first time, that you had noted this in fact many years ago, that your Aunt Denice always looked calm and even pleasant whenever I was about to spank you, and my voice and directions were always calm and in complete control. As you stopped at my knees I made a motion several times with that same finger I had upheld to stifle any talk, but now I pointed it at your waist and then down to your knees. “Down”, I said, “to your knees.”

It did not require an exceptionally bright teenager in order for you to understand that. You were already red-faced and slightly teary-eyed, but the motion made you blush furiously, and it seemed as though you had caught fire right down to your ankles. As directed, though, you complied and took the Bermuda shorts at the waist and lowered them to your knees and hurriedly moved to lean forward and get down over bare thighs. While upstairs you had wondered if my directions had meant you should put on only Bermuda shorts and no panties, but even as you asked yourself that you had realized, what difference would panties make since they would be coming down for sure, and then off as soon as the spanking was over and you had to change out of the clothes you were spanked in? And so you had left off fresh panties and put on just the shorts.

Now, as I helped you settle over my lap with your forearms on the couch on one side and your knees on the other, I saw you gasp at the sudden shock—-of the “skin to skin” feel--as your bare front settled down on my bare thighs. You remembered then that you had always noticed that with a little shock each time as a child, and in fact you found the feeling not at all unpleasant, but still startling, each time I was about to spank you. This feeling of shock was always there when I spanked you because your mother always spanked you with your bare front resting on top of dresses, or skirts or slacks of some kind.

Oh, God! Once in position, you found yourself taking in great gasps of breath for a second, already feeling like you would break into tears immediately if you didn’t keep control. The wait before I started seemed interminable. When I spoke my words sounded to you like those of an English judge who had just donned the black hat for sentencing. “This is not going to be quick, Debbie,” I advised you, her words sounding odd because your own ears and heart and senses were all thumping and throbbing. “You know I love you, Debbie," you heard me say, "I couldn’t love you any more if you were my own daughter. But if you ever needed a good spanking to make sure you never did something like that again, you need this one for sure. Cry as much as you want. Seriously. Don’t even try to hold it in. You are going to cry plenty before this spanking is over, Young Lady, and it will be well-deserved crying for sure.”
_________________
End of The Spanking, Part One Denice
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Re: Denice Answers Debbie's HypotheticalDenice to Debbie The Spanking, Part 215:45:06 05/07/25 Wed

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