Abigail Podret knew she was in trouble when her mother walked in on her lying on her bed, in her bedroom, with Jon Southey’s hand down her jeans. She just didn’t know how bad the trouble was going to be.
Abigail was eighteen, as was Jon. It was the spring of her senior year in high school—she was back home for the March spring break of the boarding schools, and Jon was too, from his own, different school—and she felt that even though she didn’t really get why sex was supposed to be something you wanted to do, it was time for her at least to see if she could bear to do it. If you wanted to do the things that really interested you—for Abigail, that was computer programming, but not boring computer programming—you had sex and found a rich husband who wasn’t too much of an asshole. Or so it seemed to her, though she knew that her parents disagreed about how she should go about finding the husband.
The fact that her parents had told her that good girls weren’t easy, without telling her what ‘easy’ meant but implying strongly that it meant not letting Jon Southey put his hand in her panties didn’t give her very much pause, because Abigail had a rebellious streak. She didn’t think she would like sex, as it had been explained to her in health class, but she certainly didn’t care that her mother wanted Abigail to keep her modesty until she was safely married.
Abigail was not averse to sex, she thought, because that would be stupid, and Abigail Podret wasn’t stupid. The human race needed to propagate, didn’t it? She had to admit she was averse to Jon Southey, after enduring his fumbling caresses for half an hour or so before her mother came home unexpectedly, but she had known more or less, based on health class and on what her friends said, that Jon Southey’s hand down her jeans, inside her panties, touching her pussy (Abigail had resolved to use the dirty words, because why shouldn’t she?) was what sex had to be like, so why not get it over with? And Jon Southey was cute, according to Abigail’s friends. His picture, snatched by her roommate Wendy from the letter Jon had sent in February, more or less proposing that they have sex over March vacation, had pleased the entire floor.
What Abigail was averse to, more than anything else, was telling anybody, ever, what she thought about when she played with herself before falling asleep every night. Which wasn’t sex—but one could easily become very confused about that, Abigail realized, since playing with oneself involved the part of the body also used for sex, apparently, and the pleasure centers used to play with oneself also served to make sex bearable, as far as Abigail could tell.
The confusion grew much greater, in spite of Abigail’s best attempts to use her penetrating intelligence to puzzle it out and tease the strands apart, in the wake of the incident with Jon Southey. “Wait until your father gets home,” was all Abigail’s mother would say. That meant a spanking, but it had been a very long time since Abigail’s last one. Considering the things Abigail thought about when she touched herself, a spanking for having let Jon Southey put his hand down Abigail’s pants seemed likely to mix things Abigail definitely didn’t want mixed.
But surely her father would simply ground her for the rest of break, right? Abigail tried to convince herself of that as she watched TV, waiting for him to come home. Unfortunately, the attempt yielded very poor results. Dan Podret was a severe man, and forbade all talk of sex, or anything the slightest bit suggestive, in his house. Abigail often wondered how she had even been conceived, given that her parents never touched one another in her presence.
And, Abigail reflected, even being allowed to wear the jeans she had unzipped for Jon to put his hand down had required a major struggle, with much screaming and crying and finally Abigail’s mother consulting the next-door neighbors. When Prudence Podret told Abigail’s father that the next-door neighbors were astonished to hear that Abigail wasn’t allowed to wear jeans—or indeed anything but skirts—Dan’s social shame seemed to overcome his familial shame, and he said that Abigail could buy one pair of jeans, to be worn only at home, on Saturdays and on weekdays during vacation.
But Abigail was eighteen now. Surely her father would recognize the impropriety of spanking her. Or at least of spanking her bare bottom.
But Dan Podret saw nothing improper in it, it turned out.
“Abigail,” he said, after a very awkward dinner, “come to my study after you do the dishes.”
Abigail swallowed and said, “Yes, sir.”
When Abigail had taken her familiar place on the carpet in the middle of the room, her father turned his desk chair to face her. His face was set in a quiet fury that made Abigail’s heart beat fast with fear.
“Abigail, I have no wish to go into the details of what your mother saw, and I suppose you will not be foolish enough to deny it.”
Abigail found that she had begun to cry in terror. She shook her head, watching the tears fall to the carpet. She definitely felt foolish. She was eighteen. She could leave and never come back. But if she wanted a real life, she would need her parents’ support: there was nothing to be done about it.
“Answer me, Abigail. Are you foolish enough to deny that you were found with a boy’s hand in your pants?”
“No, sir,” Abigail choked out.
“That’s something, at least,” her father said, though without the slightest softening of his tone. “Abigail, I wonder if you know what people call girls who let boys do that kind of thing.”
Oh, my God, Abigail thought. It’s the 1980s now. Why do my parents have to be stuck in the ‘50s?
“No?” Dan Podret said. “They call them ‘easy,’ Abigail. No daughter of mine is going to be called ‘easy,’ if I can possibly help it. Get yourself over the arm of the sofa, and bare your backside.”
“Sir, no, please…”
“If I have to ask you again, Abigail, you’ll be very sorry you didn’t obey me. I can whip you until you can’t sit down for a week, if you need me to. Do you need me to do that, Abigail?”
Abigail shook like a leaf. “No, sir,” she whispered.
“Then obey me this instant.”
Feeling like she might fall down before she even reached the leather couch that adorned her father’s office, Abigail complied. She stood at the end of it, trying to figure out how to pull down her jeans so that only her bottom-cheeks were exposed, and as little of them as possible. Finally, realizing that her father would spank her harder for any delay, she unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, and bent down over the scroll of the sofa. Realizing with a blush how terribly undignified it must look, she put her hands back, and tugged her jeans and panties down to just below her bottom.
“Further, Abigail,” her father said, as she heard him stand and unbuckle his belt. “The middle of your thighs, if you please, with your legs tightly closed. I have no need to see what Jon Southey was after.”
“Oh, daddy!” Abigail could not help saying, overcome with shame.
The belt snapped down without warning, and Abigail yelped in surprise and pain. “Don’t even think about sassing me, young lady,” her father said. She felt his angry hands on her flanks, pulling the jeans and panties down where he wanted them. Then he began to beat her, hard and fast. Dan Podret did things methodically and forcefully: whipping his daughter to teach her about the rights and wrongs of a girl’s conduct with respect to her body, and to the opposite sex, represented no exception to him.
Within a minute, Abigail was screaming, “Sir… daddy, please… please, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
She heard her mother’s voice saying, “Dan…”
“Prudence, don’t interfere,” her father said, not ceasing to bring the belt down on Abigail’s flaming bottom, and then her agonized thighs, and then her bottom again, as Abigail whimpered and sobbed, her tears pooling under her face on the leather of the sofa cushion. “Abigail needs to understand how important her modesty is to her family. Abigail, if I… ever…” (Dan accompanied each word with a tremendous, excruciating blow from his belt, making his daughter scream in pain each time) “… hear… that… you… let… another… boy… touch… you… between—your—legs… before—you’re—married… and someone else’s… responsibility…” The spanking stopped, though Abigail could not stop wailing in pain, as the sensation seemed to build in her bottom until it became nearly unbearable. “Well, I can’t answer for you ever! sitting! again!”
“Dan!” Abigail’s mother said. “Enough!”
“Stop interfering, Prudence, or you’ll be over the sofa next,” Abigail’s father said angrily. “I’m done. Abigail, pull up your pants. You may go.”
Still crying, Abigail pulled up her jeans. Looking only at the sofa, she fastened them.
“Thank me, Abigail,” her father said.
Abigail closed her eyes and mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”
“Look at me when you speak to me, young lady, or you’ll go right back over the sofa.”
Abigail looked at him. Did she hate him? No. But she would leave him behind just as soon as she could make her own way.
“Thank you, sir,” she said to his still-angry face, trying to make her tone mild so that he would not become enraged again.
“You’re welcome, Abigail. Now you may go.”
Abigail turned and walked stiffly out of her father’s study, wincing at each step. She walked straight to the door and went outside. The summerhouse wasn’t open yet, but Abigail knew where the key was. She had never felt so in need of being somewhere that wasn’t home.