Wednesday, 25 December 2013

'Twas the Night Before Christmas' - Guest Fiction

Just a quick update as I am still on holidays. I received this from one of my lovely followers; the very talented Phil, and it was a little late to post before the day, but this is pretty close, so if you want to stretch your Christmas out a little, here is a little present.



Our young hero has an eventful Christmas!


‘Twas the Night Before Christmas


            I was always a “willful” child and my parents, especially my Mom, despaired about getting me to behave better and be more obedient and such.  I wasn’t “bad”, just “willful”, as Mom put it.  Most of her friends and neighbors were of the opinion that a good spanking would do wonders for my attitude.  My Dad agreed but Mom was adamant about spanking and said no.  Dad pretty much let her run the house and pay the bills, turning over his pay to her every week and keeping only “walking around money” for himself.  She was better with figures and more organized (I would characterize it as “anal”, but that would come much later) and she knew where every bill was and where every penny went, so it all worked out.

            At eight, I still believed in Santa Claus and, having no older (or younger, for that matter) siblings to disabuse me of that notion, got quite excited about Christmas.  I usually got every reasonable request I made to Santa every year, along with the usual clothes, socks, underwear and such “practical” gifts that my mother deemed appropriate.  There were, of course, disappointments like never getting the pony and full Lone Ranger gear (including the gun and silver bullets) that I asked for one year or the Dalmatian puppy that I had to have after seeing “101 Dalmatians” that year but I usually got most of what I wanted.  I was always rather demanding and not to shy about displaying my pique about undesirable gifts or not getting what I wanted and this usually caused no little stress on Christmas morning.  Let’s face it: I was a brat.

            Our next-door neighbor (and Mom’s best friend) came over after dinner to drop off a few little “stocking stuffer” gifts and she asked me if I had been good.  I shrugged my shoulders and she and my Mom laughed a little.  She asked me what I wanted from Santa and I enthusiastically repeated my desire for a BB gun.  I saw my mother’s frown and so did she.  She shook her head and smiled.

            “Well, I don’t know if you’ve been that good.  I doubt it.  Maybe Santa will bring you a good spanking instead!” she said with a grin.  I stared at her in surprise.  How could she possibly know that I was wondering to myself what a spanking would feel like and how I had spent a lot of time before I fell asleep at night thinking about it?  I had never mentioned it to anyone, much less my Mom or her.  She left soon after, giving me a wink that made me uneasy somehow.

            I had tried before to stay to see Santa come down the chimney “live”.  Mom always left a small plate with some cookies and a glass of milk for him and, for the third year in a row, I decided to sneak down and catch him in the act, despite my parent’s warning that, if he saw me, there would be no Christmas presents that year, as he didn’t reward “naughty”.  Than night, after dinner and some eggnog and hot chocolate in my PJs, I was sent to bed and told not to wait up for Santa.  Of course, I struggled to stay up and had the idea of setting my alarm clock to wake me at midnight.  I stuffed it under my pillow so as to not wake my parents.  My Mom was a particularly restless sleeper and often got up to investigate noises she heard and check on me.  If I had to get up to pee sometimes, I always woke her no matter how quiet I tried to be.  Of course, it’s impossible to flush a toilet quietly…

            Awakened from a dead sleep by the muffled clanging of the alarm under my pillow, I staggered awake, congratulating myself on my cleverness.  I shut it off and listened to see in my mother would come prowling out of the bedroom to see what the noise was, but no one was stirring (except me).  I slipped out of bed after a minute or two, putting on my slippers and robe and sneaked down the stairs to the living room, being careful to stay near the edges of the stairs to avoid any squeaks.  I had taken my official “Cub Scout” flashlight that I had recently obtained when I joined the local “pack” (Mom was one of the “den mothers”) and used it to shine light around the living room.  The cookies and milk were there, undisturbed, as was the tree, with no gifts there yet.  I knew I’d “get” him this time!

            We had a wooly throw blanket on the couch and throw pillows so I made myself comfortable to wait for the big guy.  I waited for awhile and soon became bored in the dark with not a creature stirring, not even my Mom.  Suddenly, I heard a noise coming from outside.  It sounded like it was coming from the roof.  I got up to look out the window and saw (and heard) nothing.  I decided to go outside to see if I could see anyone on the roof and went out the front door.  It was freezing (literally) but there was no snow and I hugged my robe around me as I shined the flashlight on the roof.  Nothing.  Disappointed, I went back inside, closing and locking the door behind me and luxuriating in the warmth of the house.  As I went back to the living room, I saw a silhouette in the dark, standing in the room.  I shined the flashlight on him and Santa, looking angry, was illuminated in the beam.  Despite being in our nice, warm living room, I felt a sudden chill.

            “Get that light out of my face!” he thundered.  I turned off the light and the living room lights came on although neither of us had moved.  He brushed himself off and looked at me querulously.

            “Sooooo, you’re the boy who was told not to wait up for me…” he said, frowning.  I nodded dumbly after I got over my surprise.  His hands on his hips, he stared at me, frowning some more.
           
            “So I suppose you think Santa doesn’t care that you disobey your parents, hmmm?  Or that you should get whatever you want, even if you’re naughty?” he grumbled at me.

            “Um, uh, uh, how did you know?” I asked softly.  He raised his eyebrows in surprise and chuckled.

            “He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good, for goodness’ sake!” he sang, rather loudly (and badly), laughing with glee. 

            “How do you think I knew?  I know everything, even where you keep your stash of candy bars, young man!” he said.  I gulped because there was no way he could have known about that.

            “Now, I’m going to give you your present!  Not what you wanted.  A BB gun?  You’ll put your eye out, silly boy!” he chuckled.

            “Wha-what do you mean?” I said warily.  “What are you going to give me?”

            “A good spanking, of course!” he said cheerily.  “Now let’s get this over with, shall we?”

            He seized me and dragged me over to the couch, tossing aside the blanket and sitting down in the middle.  I was paralyzed with surprise as he yanked my pajama bottoms down and hauled me over his lap.  With his teeth, he tugged off his woolen mittens and got a good grip on me.  I felt his warm hand rubbing my bare buttocks gently.  I couldn’t believe this was happening!  The lights were on and he was not trying to be quiet or anything.  Why weren’t my parents awake?  I came out of my shock enough to react to this situation.

            “Wait!  Wait!  Please!  Don’t!  Please don’t!  Please don’t spank me!” I pleaded desperately and loudly, to no avail.

            “Oh, I think you’re pulling my leg!  I think you really want to be spanked and I’m going to give you your Christmas wish!” he said in a jolly tone.  With that, he brought down his big hand on my bare bottom.

            A loud “Smack!” was heard before I realized what had happened.  Then I felt the pain come and another smack echoed and another and another in rapid succession as I reacted with yelps of pain, yelling loudly as he spanked my bare, little pink bottom with vigor as he held me on his warm, wooly lap.
The wool of his red pants was a bit scratchy and I was glad he had his legs apart as it was uncomfortable against my penis.  It fell between his legs as he walloped my behind and I was less conscious of it and more conscious of the burning pain building up in my bare butt.  As I fussed and cried, I turned to see both my parents standing there in their nightclothes, looking completely unperturbed at the sight of their beloved boy with his pajamas around his ankles and his bare bottom steaming, tears streaming down his face.

            “MOMMY!” I yelled.  “Make him STOP!  Make him STOP!” I pleaded through my tears.  She looked at me as though this was an everyday occurrence
            “Oh stop making such a fuss!” she said unsympathetically.  “He’s only giving you what you deserve and need!  You’ve been a real brat lately!”  I could see my Dad grin next to her, both of them watching as he continued to smack my poor bottom.

            Finally, he stopped and let me up and I immediately started rubbing my scorched cheeks, crying loudly and doing the “spank dance” around the living room as he watched in approval, his arms folded across his chest.

            “Is that all?” my Mom said, disappointment in her voice.  My father too looked disappointed.

            “Not at all, my dear,” said the jolly old elf.  “Would you mind handing me that?” he said, pointing to a flat box on the side table that I had not noticed before.  Raising her eyebrows in surprise, she handed it to him and he opened it to reveal a large, old-fashioned wooden hairbrush, made of a beautiful, light-colored, well-figured wood.  He held it up and grinned, turning to me and patting his lap suggestively.  I was not about to go anywhere near him, especially with that thing in his hand and I backed away as best I could with my pajama bottoms around my ankles when I bumped into something behind me.

            “Where do you think you’re going, young man?” I heard as I spun around.  It was our neighbor and Mom’s friend, Val, smirking at me.  She was also in nightclothes and a robe and slippers.  I had no idea how she got there as she didn’t come in the door and I had heard no knock or doorbell.  She took me by the shoulders and spun me back around, pushing me inexorably towards Father Christmas, waiting on the sofa.  My pajamas still around my ankles, I stumbled and went down on my knees before both my parents materialized on either side of me, lifting me up bodily and dumping me back over Santa’s lap as I protested mightily.  Santa arranged me comfortably (for him) over his lap and got a good grip on me as I begged my Mom to help me.

            “Help you?” she laughed, “We are helping you!  Helping you to learn your lesson over Santa’s lap!  It’s about time you got a good spanking for all your misbehavior.  You’ve been asking for this, honey and I hope you understand we’re doing this for your own good!” she said, looking sympathetic for a moment.  Behind her, looking a bit smug, Val chirped in her two cents worth.

            “I said maybe Santa would bring you a good spanking, remember?  Looks like you’re getting your wish.  Or maybe I’m getting mine!” she chuckled as she and Mom exchanged satisfied glances.

            Before I knew it and without any hesitation, Old Saint Nick brought the hairbrush down on my already sore bottom with a solid SMACK! then another before I reacted with a loud scream.  If his meaty palm had stung my bottom before, he must have been using a branding iron or something!  It felt like a Mom’s cast-iron frying pan, heated to cherry red, had been applied to my poor bare buttocks.  I had never felt anything like this before and I howled loud enough (it seemed) to shatter glass.  Of course, I took no notice of my actions, focusing only on the agony being applied to my bottom, the sole thing existing in the universe at the time as far as I was concerned.

            I kicked and squirmed mightily, which had little effect on my punishment.  The Man With the Bag (or in this case, the brush) merely gripped me more tightly, “leg-locking” me and twisting my wrist up behind my back to prevent me from trying to block the blows from the brush and applying it vigorously and non-stop as I wailed and hollered at the top of my voice.  He stopped for a moment and I hardly noticed until he began whacking the backs of my upper thighs and my “sit spots” (where the thighs meet the lower buttocks) with the instrument of torture that the brush surely was.  I could only shut my eyes and bellow out my agony as loudly as humanly possible.  I no longer struggled, collapsing limply and simply absorbing the continuing smacks with no resistance whatsoever, save my vocal protests.

            After what seemed like an eternity, he stopped paddling me.  It took me several minutes to even notice, still crying and howling hard before I dimly realized the blows to the site of the raging forest fire that was my bottom had ceased.  I lay there limply, sobbing and bleating like a little, lost lamb in utter helplessness.  I couldn’t even open my eyes, much less see through the tears and could scarcely breathe, coughing and choking on the snot running from my nose.  I felt myself slipping off his lap, landing slowly on my knees in front of him.  As soon as my hands were free, I clamped them fiercely to the two “bowls full of jelly” that my buttocks had become.  They actually felt that way, although like jelly that had been heated by a blowtorch for several minutes first.  I rubbed frantically and put my head back, eyes screwed shut and howled my pain straight up to the ceiling.  I only saw a red blur in front of me, although I felt his wooly, scratchy trousers as I pressed my face in his lap, crying heartily.

            As I eventually calmed down enough to realize what was happening, I opened my eyes and looked around the room.  No one was there!  I was on my knees, PJs down, clutching my molten butt cheeks and crying but Kris Kringle nowhere to be seen.  Or were my parents or Val for that matter.  I remained there, rubbing and sobbing alone for some time before trying to get to my feet.  I stiffly climbed erect, using the sofa for support and stood shakily, knees wobbling as I bent over to pull up my pants.  Too sore to do anything else, I laid down on the sofa, curling up in the fetal position and hugging one of the throw pillows, burying my face in it for comfort, and tried to comprehend what had happened…

            I woke suddenly as a hand shook my shoulder, to look at my mother’s face beaming down at me as I was curled up on the sofa.  I blinked in surprise and looked around the living room.  The tree was surrounded by brightly wrapped boxes and I noticed the glass of milk was empty and the plate of cookies now held only crumbs.  Mom smiled at me.

            “So I guess you missed Santa, huh?” she asked, “You must have slept right though his visit because he came and delivered all these presents.”  She swept her arm around the room by way of example.

            “Well, should we get started?” she said, offering me her hand.  I reached out and took her hand and, as she helped me up, I was aware of an awful pain in my backside.  I must have grimaced because she gave me a look of concern.

            “Are you alright, honey?” she asked, frowning with worry.  I said I was, though I moved very slowly and cautiously.  I rubbed my bottom with both hands and she chuckled a little.

            “You look like you’ve just been spanked, honey.  What happened?  Did you fall on your butt or something?” she said with an indulgent smile.  I nodded dumbly, not knowing how to answer.

            “Maybe we should have breakfast first.”  said my Dad gruffly.  “He wasn’t supposed to come down here last night anyway!  What’s the last thing we told him when we put him to bed?”

            I didn’t answer but my Mom demurred, urging him to come and open presents with us.  He nodded assent and we started opening the presents.  As usual, the presents seemed to have already been arranged into separate piles, mine being the largest.  As I tore the wrapping off my gifts, I began to feel a bit better.  I got many of the things I wanted, but of course, there was no BB gun.  Seeing my disappointment, Mom smiled apologetically and said I was too young to have one and she hoped I understood.  With both of them apparently waiting for the storm, they looked surprised when I just shrugged my shoulders and nodded.

            “It must be a Christmas miracle!” said my Dad drily while Mom glared at him.

            Mom dragged a large, wrapped package out from behind the drapes, which was obviously a bicycle and I perked up immediately.  It was beautiful!  Just what I wanted (along with the BB gun, of course) and I beamed with delight, thanking them vociferously, causing more upraised eyebrows and then satisfied looks.

            After everything was opened, Mom went to the kitchen to get breakfast started and Dad and I started to gather up the wrappings.  Mom called out from the kitchen to make sure we were keeping all the gift labels with the right gifts and my Dad sighed and called back that we were.  He seemed surprised that I was helping instead of playing with my gifts or trying to take the bike outside.

            We had breakfast and then went back into the living room so Mom could inspect the gifts to make sure everyone, including “Santa” was credited with the gifts they gave.  She spotted another box behind a chair and exclaimed, “What’s that?”  I crawled behind the chair and dragged it out and handed it to her.  She turned it over and there was nothing written on it.  She asked my Dad if he recognized it and he shook his head.  She followed with a look at me.  I shook my head too, having no knowledge of it.  She opined that it must be a surprise “from Santa”, looking expectantly at my Dad.  She ripped it open and opened it: it was the hairbrush that had been used to roast my bare bottom by Old Saint Nick!

            We all stared at it, me as though it was a rattlesnake or something.  They both raised their eyebrows at my reaction to the thing and looked wonderingly at each other.  I backed away from it as if it was going to bite me.

            “What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked with concern.  “Have you seen this before?  Whose is it?”

            I just shook my head and claimed to have never seen it before, blaming my reaction on surprise.  She left it in its box on the coffee table as we cleaned up a bit more.  My parents both went back to the kitchen for more coffee.  We normally left our gifts out for display when our friends and neighbors came over for to see what we had and discuss their Christmases.  I stared at it in utter hatred as I left to go up and get dressed.

            In my room, I checked out my bottom, finding not a mark on it, but, curiously, it still felt sore.  Very sore.  I had a flashback to my spanking and rubbed reflexively as I got dressed.  I went back downstairs to check out my new bike as our neighbors came over with few little gifts.

             No one seemed to know anything about the mysterious brush, though all the adults handled it quite a bit.  They all seemed to appreciate its heft and beauty, often mentioning how good it would be for spanking.  My friends and the other children that saw it all shunned it, as though they instinctively knew how evil it was.

            Finally, Val came over with her husband and daughter, a high-school freshman who also was my babysitter several times.  All of them exclaimed over the mystery brush.  Val caught me staring suspiciously at her and seemed to look back challengingly but she admitted nothing.  I was convinced that she had something to do with it, although nothing explained what had happened to me over Santa’s lap.  She held it and swished it around, giving me several significant looks and smirked at me.

            “What are you going to do with this, Ruthie?” she asked my Mom while fondling the brush.  Even her daughter began to look a little nervous at her obvious infatuation with the damned thing.

            “I don’t know, Val.  What do you think I should do with it?” she said questioningly.

            “Oh, I definitely think you should keep it.  Look how beautiful it is!  It must have cost a pretty penny!  And you never know when it might come in handy…” she said, smirking at me again and smacking her palm with it.  My mother raised her eyebrows sarcastically, well aware of her opinions on spanking and particularly on spanking me.  I stared daggers at her and it didn’t go unnoticed by Mom, who frowned at me disapprovingly.

            “And you know nothing about this?” Mom queried her with an intense look.

            “Nope!” she grinned, “maybe Santa brought it for you.  God knows you need it, dear.  Or you will one of these days.  In the meantime, you can always use it to brush your hair…”

            Handing it back to my mother, she and her family prepared to leave.  As they said their goodbyes, she came up to me and gave me an unappreciated hug.  And an even more unappreciated pat on my bottom.  I broke from her embrace with a resentful look and she responded with a slightly unsettling smile.  As she left with her husband and daughter, she caught my eye and then she gave me a wink…

2 comments:

  1. Wow, different take on Christmas, nice story, thank you
    Always
    Ron

    ReplyDelete
  2. If only Santa ever caught me red-handed! Nope. Never happen! Not this little brat!

    ReplyDelete