Chapter 9: Late for dinner
The back door clicked shut, sealing her in the warm, yeast-scented air of the kitchen. The room was a bastion of domestic order, a stark contrast to the wild, secretive dusk she’d just left behind. The large clock on the wall ticked loudly, each sound a hammer blow marking her transgression.
Auntie Jill stood at the sink, her back to Susi, rinsing a plate. She didn’t turn around. “Fifteen minutes,” she said, her voice calm and flat. “Supper was at six-thirty. It’s six forty-five.”
Susi’s heart thudded against her ribs. The memory of John’s kiss was a brand on her lips, but the heat in her bottom from the afternoon’s adventures had faded to a dull, guilty warmth. “I’m sorry, Auntie Jill. The horses… they were extra muddy. The brushing took forever.”
Jill placed the plate carefully in the drying rack and turned, wiping her hands on a checkered towel. Her gaze was direct, unsettlingly clear. “Sara managed to finish on time. She’s been upstairs washing up for ten minutes.”
The lie, so flimsy and transparent, curdled in the air between them. Susi felt a flush creep up her neck. She looked at the floor, at the worn patterns on the linoleum.
“Go and wash up,” Jill said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “We’ll discuss this after dinner.”
The meal was a quiet, strained affair. Sara, scrubbed clean and smelling of lavender soap, shot Susi sympathetic looks between polite bites of shepherd’s pie. Uncle Rob ate in his customary silence, his presence a solid, unreadable force at the head of the table. Jill spoke about the garden, about the forecast for rain, her voice perfectly normal, which was somehow worse than anger.
When the last plate was cleared, Jill rose. “Susi. Living room.”
The command hung in the air. Sara gave Susi’s hand a quick, furtive squeeze under the table before disappearing upstairs. Uncle Rob remained seated, folding his newspaper with a slow, deliberate rustle.
In the living room, the lamps cast a soft, unforgiving light. Jill stood by the armchair, a familiar wooden spatula in her hand—the one used for flipping pancakes, its surface smooth from use. Susi’s stomach tightened.
“You lied to me, Susi,” Jill said, her voice low and even. “Lateness is one thing. Dishonesty is another. You know better.”
“I’m sorry,” Susi whispered, the words inadequate.
“I know you are. But sorry doesn’t fix it. Come here.”
Slowly, Susi walked to the chair. The world had narrowed to this patch of floral carpet, the smell of furniture polish, and the weight of her aunt’s disappointment.
“Lower your jeans and underwear, and bend over my lap.”
The instruction, delivered so matter-of-factly, sent a fresh wave of heat to Susi’s face. She fumbled with the button of her jeans, the denim rough under her trembling fingers. She pushed them down, along with her cotton briefs, exposing herself to the cool air and the lamplight. The skin of her bottom was still faintly pink from the day’s activities, a private map of her rebellion now laid bare for a different kind of judgment.
She bent over, the position awkward and deeply vulnerable, her upper body pressed into the cushion of the chair. Jill’s lap was firm beneath her abdomen.
The first smack of the spatula was a sharp, stinging crack that erased every other thought. It was a clean, focused pain, entirely different from John’s hand or the playful spanking by the pond. This was clinical. Purposeful.
“This is for being late,” Jill said, her voice calm beside Susi’s ear.
Thwack.
“This is for the lie.”
Thwack.
The blows fell in a steady, rhythmic pattern, each one landing with a precise, burning impact on her sit-spots and the tender undercurve of her bottom. Susi gasped, her fingers clawing at the chair fabric. A sharp, juvenile yelp escaped her after a particularly hard stroke.
“I know you’ve been testing boundaries all day,” Jill continued, her tone conversational even as her arm rose and fell. “A little too much freedom, perhaps. A little too much time with that boy from the stables.”
Thwack.
“This is to remind you that you are under my roof. My rules.”
The pain built, layer upon layer, until her entire backside was a single, throbbing entity of heat. Tears welled in her eyes, born as much from humiliation and the shock of the pain as from any real regret. She bit her lip, trying to stifle the sounds, but a low, shuddering moan broke free.
Jill’s hand stilled, the spatula resting heavily on the inflamed skin. She sighed, a long, weary sound. “You think I don’t see what’s going on? The looks? The whispered conversations?” Her free hand came to rest on Susi’s back, not a caress, but a point of contact, a grounding. “You’re eighteen. I’m not a fool. But dishonesty has consequences here. Always.”
The spanking resumed, a final, relentless volley that left Susi limp and crying softly into the upholstery, the fight and the defiance completely washed out of her.
Finally, it was over. The spatula was placed on the side table.
“Up you get,” Jill said, her voice softening just a fraction.
Susi pushed herself up, her body trembling. She hastily pulled up her clothes, the rough denim a fresh torture against her sore skin. She couldn’t meet her aunt’s eyes.
Jill stood and placed her hands on Susi’s shoulders. “Look at me, Susi.”
Reluctantly, Susi raised her gaze. Jill’s eyes were stern, but the hard edge had gone.
“The next time you have a problem, or you’re going to be late, you use your words. You do not lie to me. Is that understood?”
Susi nodded, a fresh tear tracking through the dust on her cheek. “Yes, Auntie Jill.”
“Good.” Jill pulled her into a brief, tight hug. The gesture was so unexpected it stole Susi’s breath. “Now go upstairs. A bit of arnica cream on the dresser. Use it.”
Susi fled, the sound of the ticking clock following her up the stairs. In their shared bedroom, Sara was sitting on her bed, a magazine open but unread on her lap. She took one look at Susi’s flushed, tear-streaked face and the careful, stiff way she moved, and her expression shifted from curiosity to sympathy.
“Bad?” Sara asked quietly.
Susi just nodded, going to the dresser and picking up the small jar of cream. Her reflection in the mirror showed a girl with wide, shocked eyes. The excitement of the day, the thrill of John’s kiss, felt like a story that had happened to someone else, a dream crushed under the simple, brutal weight of a wooden spatula and the sharp clarity of her aunt’s judgment.
She unscrewed the lid, the herbal scent of arnica filling the air. As she tended to the smarting flesh, each touch a vivid reminder, she realized the summer had just become infinitely more complicated. The rules of the house were real, and the consequences were painfully concrete. The world outside, with John in it, seemed suddenly very far away, separated by a wall of her own making and the lingering, unmistakable heat of a lesson learned.
The world outside, with John in it, seemed suddenly very far away, separated by a wall of her own making and the lingering, unmistakable heat of a lesson learned. She winced as the denim of her jeans chafed against the tender skin, each step a sharp reminder.
“Here, let me,” Sara said, her voice soft as she took the jar from Susi’s unsteady hand. “You can’t reach properly.”
Susi hesitated for only a second before nodding, lowering herself gingerly face-down onto her bed. The cool air hit her skin as Sara carefully tugged her jeans and underwear down again. Sara’s fingers were gentle, scooping the cream and smoothing it over the heated, marked flesh. The relief was instant, the herbal balm a counterpoint to the throbbing ache. Then, without warning, Sara delivered two sharp, stinging slaps to each cheek.
“Because I know you like it,” Sara murmured, her tone knowing.
The sudden slap-shot of pain mixed with the cream’s coolness sent a jolt straight through Susi. She gasped, her back arching slightly. “Maybe not the actual spanking,” Susi confessed, her voice muffled by the quilt, “but the afterglow… the warmth radiating between my legs does feel good.”
Sara laughed, a low, conspiratorial sound. “Well if you ever want me to spank you, I would love to,” she said with a smile and gave another two slaps, their crisp sound echoing in the quiet room.