By Tracy Lane/Transfemme
"All right, that's IT, young man!!"
Marion Hoskins was at the end of her tether. She'd had the worst day in recorded history and the last thing she needed was another screaming match with her son. The boy had been testing the limits for over a month now, and she'd finally decided it was time for some direct action. All she wanted was a little old-fashioned respect, after all. Recognition for the long days she put in at work; for her senior status within the household. Sixty hours a week in the office from hell and all she could look forward to was a mouthful of Jessie's sneering contempt. Well, all that was about to change. At the end of the day, she deserved better than this. She was the one who brought home the bacon, for Chrissake!
"Get up to your room this instant," Marion growled, scowling down at the boy from withering, arctic heights, "You have ten minutes to get ready!"
Jessie's eye widened with dawning horror. Ten minutes' head start could only mean one thing.
"No Momma, no, please!" Jess cried, knowing what she had in store for him, "anything but a SPANKING!!"
His posturing, adolescent pride evaporated immediately; Jess had good reason to fear his mother's anger. Instigating that argument on the way home had been a tactical error. He knew from painful experience that she wouldn't tolerate any of his snide backtalk. If only he'd managed to keep his mouth shut. There were certain boundaries that should never be crossed. The consequences were too dire to contemplate.
Unfortunately, the time for negotiations had long passed. Marion had already made her decision; nothing would alter her verdict. And that was one thing Jess could count on.
"Get up to your room NOW!!" she snapped, leaning in close to the boy and pointing towards the staircase. A single vertical line appeared on her forehead, directly between her eyebrows. Jessie's heart sank; he recognized that particular signal. His mother wasn't simply angry - she was downright furious. A chill of suspense played his spine like a xylophone. Whimpering in protest, he turned and fled for the staircase, his long, blond ponytail flaring out in his wake.
Marion watched him hit the stairs at a full run. A tall, handsomely constructed woman in her early thirties, she stood with one hand on her hip, forcing her pulse to drop back to its normal pace. Jess was long overdue for discipline, but she wanted to be completely calm when she entered his bedroom. The task ahead would require her full concentration, and she intended to savour every squirming, twitching moment to its fullest extent.
Where was that brush? The one with the teak wood finish, as smooth and dark as a baby grand. She usually kept it on the mantle piece over the fireplace, where it would always be within easy reach. Marion normally applied her open hand to Jessie's naughty bottom, but today, she felt the circumstances required a little something extra. A grim smile touched her full, red lips.
I'm going to enjoy this, Marion thought, walking through to the dining room.
It was time for a dose of Old Faithful.
Jess bolted up the stairs in tears, his expensive Nike sneakers pounding the steps two at a time. He was literally overwhelmed with shame and fright; it had been more than four months since his last spanking, and he knew this would be far worse than a couple of glancing smacks on the tail. His Mother was mad this time, really mad. He should never have started that stupid argument on the way home.
She's going to SPANK me!! Jess thought frantically, wiping the moisture from his cheeks. He sprinted along the upstairs passage way and headed for his bedroom door. He couldn't afford to drag his heels. He had to prepare for his punishment. If he wasn't finished by the time she arrived, things would probably go a lot worse for him.
At thirteen years of age, there were very few things Jess hated more than a spanking. He would gladly have eaten spinach every night for a month if he could avoid going over his Mother's knee. Of course, no such options were available on this occasion. Nothing could temper her judgment once she'd made up her mind. Hot tears filled his eyes once more. He could already feel her wide, scarlet handprint burning into his naked buttocks.
Running through the doorway, Jess paused a few feet from his bed and stood looking around the room, his face a mask of trepidation. How much was it going to hurt this time? Was she going to use the brush, that hard, black heirloom she kept on the mantelpiece over the fire? He'd only felt its touch a handful of times, but he dreaded it more than any other weapon in his mother's arsenal. The last time she'd applied it to his tender young bottie-cheeks, he'd had to eat standing up for nearly three days.
Sobbing in misery, Jess went over to his study desk and started dragging the old, straight-backed chair into the middle of the floor. He'd come to think of it as THE SPANKING CHAIR, the site of a thousand bare-bottomed torments. It was a constant reminder of his juvenile status within the family hierarchy, the fact that Marion was his mother and he would always be subject to her authority.
Shifting the chair to its venerated position, Jess went over to his built-in closet. He hesitated before the folding door, his belly tensing up in apprehension. Now came the part he loathed the most; the thing he despised more than any other part of this ritual of disgrace.
It was time to get changed.
Stealing a glance at the clock (he estimated he had less than six minutes to go), Jess began to undress, pulling off his t-shirt and unbuckling the belt of his jeans. He bit his lower lip, whimpering in consternation. Why did he have to do this? It seemed so unfair, so terribly unjust. Even a child should be allowed some measure of dignity, no matter what he'd done to incur the maternal wrath.
Tossing his jeans and underpants into the laundry hamper, Jess reached back to remove the band from his ponytail. And at that moment, Jessie Hoskins no longer looked like a thirteen year-old boy. He didn't look like any kind of boy for that matter. With his long, curvaceous limbs and his slightly protruding belly, he seemed small, dainty ... vulnerable.
Sniffling like a child lost in the rain, he folded the closet doors back into themselves and surveyed the interior. His soft, child-like features melted with dismay. He'd known what was awaiting him, but a vast wave of despair overpowered him nonetheless.
The closet was full of dresses.
And there it was: the ultimate humiliation. Marion always insisted he dress up as a little girl whenever a spanking was on the agenda. She had instituted this rule not long after his fifth birthday, and had enforced it ever since, brushing aside his protests with barely a second thought. It was the most degrading thing he could imagine, a betrayal of his budding masculinity: being forced to slip into a pair of girl's panties and a sun-frock prior to having his bottom tanned.
Racing the clock, Jess pulled out a frilly pink dress and a handful of dainty white underthings, laying them out carefully on the bed. Despite his rising hysteria, there was a ritual he had to follow when dressing up, a sequence his Momma insisted on, even when he was preparing for a spanking. Everything had to be kept clean, fresh and utterly pristine. A single wrinkle on the frock could earn him an extra five minutes over her lap, and he had no desire to test her patience any further.
Running back to the closet, he fished about until he found the glossy red shoes his Mother had bought him for his last birthday. They were high heeled pumps, the kind made for teenaged girls making their first public debut - junior prom, dinner dance at the Lions club or whatever. She'd found them in a fashion boutique called Young Miss (Momma was always buying things for him to try on, especially when there was a sale downtown. Sometimes she even took him shopping with her, dolled up in tight blond curls and little pink miniskirts. These cross-dressed expeditions were an ordeal of suspense; the risk of discovery was overwhelming).
I hate this, Jess thought, scrambling back to the bed.
Placing the shoes on the floor, he stood looking down at the garments spread out on the bedspread, making a mental note of everything he needed: shoes, socks, underpants, vest and dress. A place for everything, everything in its place. Only four minutes left; no time to waste! Momma would be here anytime now. He had to get dressed.
She's going to SPANK me!
Jess picked up the flimsy nylon panties, feeling a rich, crimson blush saturate his complexion. Shimmering white full briefs, they were covered with pale blue flowers and edged with a dainty pink frill. The very sight of them set his pulse racing. His tummy swirled with warm, fluid shame. The thought of wearing a pair of girl's underpants had him trembling with outrage. He was a boy, goddammit, a young man poised on the brink of maturity. What right did she have to humiliate him this way?
Hurry up!! She'll be here any second!!
Closing his eyes in childish denial, Jess stepped into the sheer, gossamer knickers, gliding them slowly up his legs. The sleek material rustled against his flesh. He felt a rush of fearful excitement – the touch of nylon always preceded the agony of a spanking. His head began to swim with conflicting emotions - embarrassment, guilt ... and pleasure. That was the strangest contradiction of all. Much as he hated being paddled like a naughty schoolgirl, he invariably experienced a thrill of wild exaltation when his discipline was imminent.
The singlet! quickly!
Of course, it wasn't a singlet, not the sort any boy would want to wear. It was a white floral vest, a perfect match for the panties (except that it was made of cotton), right down to the rosy trim around the edges. Gaping with embarrassment, Jess pulled the vest on over his head. Taking a few seconds to smooth out the creases, he tucked it carefully into his panties, precisely as he'd been taught since early childhood. Everything had to be perfect, a single mistake would incur the severest penalties. He turned to check himself in the mirror -
And Jess was no longer a boy.
Jessica Hoskins stood scrutinizing her reflection, her sumptuous golden hair cascading down past her shoulders. With the late morning sunlight streaming in through the bay windows, she was a fragile, delicate nymph, her alabaster skin gleaming like polished marble. Her figure was taking on the lush contours of dawning womanhood: from her slender, tapering legs to her wide, curving hips, she was blossoming like some ripening, succulent fruit.
Illuminated by a subtle backglow, she stepped back to her bed and picked up her brief, pastel sun-dress. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she drew the frock on over her head and settled it lightly into place. Jessie was scared: she'd been unforgivably naughty, and Mommy was going to smack her bottom. She swiped her eyes with the heel of her palm, sobbing in open fear. This was all Jess' fault; he was the one who'd lost his temper, curled his lip and broken the rules. It just wasn't right. She hadn't done anything.
Couldn't Mommy see that?
She sat down on the bed and pulled on her prim white girl-socks. They were her favourites, the ones with the pretty lace frill around the top. She loved wearing them whenever Mommy took her out shopping, they made her feel sweet, lovely and very, very feminine. Of course she didn't feel that way now - she was getting ready for a spanking, and the last thing on her mind was how nice her socks looked. She turned an ear towards the doorway, listening in rising panic. Footsteps were ascending the staircase. Ominous, determined footsteps.
Mommy was on her way up!!
Moaning with desperation, Jessie squeezed her feet into the slick red pumps and tightened the straps about her ankles. In a matter of seconds, Marion would walk in through the door and her spanking would begin. She would be turned over Mommy's knee with her tender young bottom-tops on rude display. The image froze her pulse in mid-beat. It was going to hurt. So much!
Why did Jess always get her into trouble? This wasn't the first time she'd been punished for his errors. It was as if he was doing it deliberately. Getting Mommy angry then leaving her to face the consequences. And today it would probably be a lot worse; today she'd almost certainly get the hairbrush.
Those heavy, clocking footfalls were in the hallway now.
Nooooooooo, Jessie whispered to herself. She stood up and ran a last minute check over her dress, hair and shoes. She hadn't had time to tie a bow through her thick, blond tresses; she could only hope her Mother wouldn't notice this single, insignificant oversight. Not much chance of that, though; Mommy's eyes were sharp. She never missed a thing.
Jessie skittered over to stand before the SPANKING CHAIR with her face downcast and her hands clasped protectively over her bottom. She tried to shrink inside herself, look as small and harmless as possible. It wouldn't do any good, wouldn't lessen her sentence by even one stroke; she was aware of that. But the hope of a twelfth-hour acquittal tortured her nevertheless. She didn't want a spanking, didn't deserve it!!
Mommy's footsteps were right outside the door now. Jessie turned to face her, choking down her tears and all but praying for divine intervention. Please not the brush, she thought over and over, the words filling her mind in gigantic neon letters, please not the brush, please not the brush. She caught herself trembling with expectation, knowing how hot and red and sore her peach would be in a matter of minutes.
Mommy appeared in the door.
She was carrying the brush.
The conclusion to this story may be found in Cynosure: Collected Fiction, exclusive to Doppler Press.
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