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I heard it before I felt it, a crack that resounded from the rafters of the farmhouse living room. That very sound sent a wave of heat to my cheeks. I thought suddenly about the humiliating household ‘tradition’ my foster father had informed me of, of girls putting their faces in the cushion when they got whipped. I wondered if it might have come into use as much to save the girl from having her blushing face seen as to make her bottom the most prominent part of her anatomy.
When I did feel the lash a split second later I thought for a moment that I might have been terrified of nothing. It stung, but not so much that I screamed or even grunted. Then I understood, because the discomfort built into pain, and Mr. Carpenter delivered a second lick across the seat of my jeans, and my first cry, a little grunting sort of whimper, had already escaped from my chest.
“Oh,” I heard myself say, into the chair cushion. “Wait… please…”
Another cut from the strap cracked across my bottom, lower down, and I cried out louder. Despite my jeans, whose denim I had thought pretty thick, it felt like the leather made contact with my bare skin. It came down again, and I felt my backside start to squirm, desperately trying to soothe the smart, my hips bucking over the arm of the chair though Mr. Carpenter’s arm kept me from moving more than an inch or so.
“Please what?” he asked, and lashed me again, even harder and with an even louder gunshot sound of leather against denim.
A sob came from my chest.
“Please, sir,” I whimpered, feeling the tears start to flow freely.
His grip loosened slightly. Hope rose inside me.
“Alright, honey,” he said. The little spark of relief, to my distress, seemed to be accompanied by something else—a strange sense that maybe I’d gotten away with something, despite the lingering soreness in my bottom. It really hadn’t been that bad, I told myself. “Now show me you’re learning. Go ahead and take down your jeans and your panties. You’ll stay here, waiting, while your foster mama and I finish dinner.”
Again I felt grateful that he couldn’t see my face. I felt my jaw go slack against the leather of the cushion. My cheeks blazed with a scalding blush. Much, much worse, down below I felt another kind of warmth—the kind I’d gotten just a bit of experience with, so far, when making out with boys in dark corners of the dorm. I had no idea why, but something about the remaining sting from my foster father’s belt seemed to intensify that private, intimate need to a level I’d never felt before. I suddenly wondered if I’d started to get the gusset of my panties wet.
Then I remembered, with a fiery flare in both places, that I hadn’t had any clean panties to put on that morning. The realization made me frantic for a moment, and without any real intention to I started to struggle again, my body trying just to get up and run away, as if an enormous farmer weren’t pinning me down under his arm, with a strap in his other hand ready to punish my disobedience.
Because Mr. Carpenter had loosened his grip, I managed to twist about six inches, but it didn’t take more than a second for him to tighten his arm and put me right back with my face in the cushion. At the same time he started to whip me again, harder and faster than before.
“Sir… sir…” I screamed. “Please…”
He didn’t stop though. My ass felt like it had caught on fire, and suddenly the idea of having him whip me with my pants down and my bottom bare sent a wave of panic shooting through my body so intensely that I screamed, as much in fright as in pain.
“Let… me… know,” Mr. Carpenter said in a grim tone of voice, as if he had no desire to extend this terrible lesson, but he had no doubt that I needed it, “when… you’re…”
Each word carried a lash from the strap. My bottom cheeks clenched and unclenched, trying to make it feel just a tiny bit better.
“I’m ready!” I yelled. “Sir! I’m ready!”
In comparison to the agony my foster father had meted out to my rear end, the embarrassment of them seeing that I had no panties on seemed completely preferable.
The whipping stopped. His arm loosened.
“Alright,” he said, his voice rough but satisfied. “Show me, Grace. Get those jeans and panties down.”
“I…” I said. “Sir, I…”
Mr. Carpenter’s arm started to tighten again.
“I’m not wearing panties!” I shouted into the cushion. “I’m… I’m… sorry?”
“Oh,” he said. His tone had surprise in it. I wondered, with a flare of heat in my face, whether he was trying to suppress a smile, or even a laugh.
“Oh, honey,” I heard Shelly say, from further away.
“Why is that?” Mr. Carpenter asked, his voice gruff.
“Jake!” his wife said, surprising me and confusing me again. She had seemed so subservient and submissive when she asked him to punish me over the top of my jeans, and now she sounded… well, like a regular kind of wife. “What kind of question is that? She’s never lived in a proper household. I bet she didn’t have any clean ones because she hadn’t gone to the laundromat or whatever folks do in the city. Is that right, Grace?”
“Yes,” I said, turning my face to the side to make my voice more audible. I couldn’t see anything but the hearth and the fireplace, which made the whole conversation even stranger. Then, hardly even thinking about it, I corrected myself. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well,” Mr. Carpenter said, “in this house you’ll wear underwear like decent folks. Your foster mama will get you some at the store tomorrow, so you’ll have enough, and you’ll be doing the laundry on a regular schedule as well. Go ahead and get those jeans down anyway, though. I won’t whip you extra tonight for not having panties on, but next time that’s ten extra licks.”
I bit my lip and turned my face back toward the cushion. I didn’t want my foster father—Jake, I remembered, wondering if I’d be able to think of him that way—seeing just how bright a shade of red my face could get. I reached under my tummy and found the button of my jeans. For a moment I pretended to fumble with it while I really tried to think of some way, any way, I could avoid baring my ass to this strange, strong, handsome farmer’s eyes.
