This short story is an entry in the 2002 Soc.Sexuality.Spanking Summer Short Story Contest and is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission. Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice. The author would appreciate your comments
Category: First/Last Ever since I saw this opening line, I knew I had to use it. It just took me a while to flesh out the story.
The Dream
By
In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon. She knew this scene, she dreamed it often. The phone rang, and she answered it.
"Bring the balloon upstairs please," the voice told her.
She grasped the string of the balloon and walked up the stairs, dreading what would happen. The dream always ended before she found the man she heard on the phone. The hallway at the top of the stairs stretched endlessly. She walked down the hall, but noticed something different. Light pooled at the bottom of one of the doors. She opened it and looked inside. It was a little girl's bedroom, and on the bed sat the man she thought of as a father. This surprised her, which stopped her right inside the door. He motioned to her, and something strange happened. She stayed where she was, but her child self walked right up to the man, still holding the balloon.
"Do you know why you're here," he asked her.
"Am I in trouble," she asked.
"No, you're not. I know that you think you're bad because somebody told you that a long time ago."
The little girl gasped. "How did you know?"
"I know what's in here," he said, pointing to her chest. "I can see into your heart, and I'm here to help."
The woman watched as the child considered this, and saw the change on her face, from fear to relief. The little girl hugged the man, letting the balloon float to the ceiling. He picked her up, and sat her on his lap.
"I know you don't believe it yet, but he was wrong. You're not a bad girl. He was bad, not you."
She looked up at him. "I musta been bad. He HATED me."
"No, you weren't bad," he said softly. "He blamed you for what he did. Now it's time to make you feel better about yourself."
The woman stood at the door, watching as he turned the girl over his knee, flipping up the back of her dress. He spanked her on her pink panties, not very hard, just enough so that she felt it. She knew that this spanking wasn't like any the little girl had ever experienced before, it was very loving and gentle. Soon the girl was crying hard. Finally she gave up, accepting the spanking, and he stopped, taking her up in his arms. She hugged him, and he hugged her back.
"Now do you believe that you're a good girl," he asked.
"Yes Sir," she said, tears still rolling down her face.
"Good, because you've always been a good girl. Just remember that, and you can get on with your life," he said as he looked right at the woman.
With that, the little girl disappeared, and the woman ran into his arms. She was crying now too, and that's how she awoke, with tears falling down her face, but she felt settled for the first time in her life.
The End
© Copyright Summer, 2002
Reviews
Sarah Nada <circler73(at)hotmail(dot)com>
This story has a very personal feel to it, and does a good job exploring themes of guilt and redemption. The first line fits into the dreamscape just perfectly, too.
Mary Catherine <marycatherine(at)saintfrancis-sfg(dot)net>
This was a very sweet and gentle story. I really liked the vividness depicted in the locations and the quiet tone of the dialogue. It felt very natural and unforced, which is difficult to achieve in a story like this.
RCG <rcg1574(at)yahoo(dot)com>
A simple story with an interesting subtext. Most psychoanalysts agree that dreams are a way of processing and mediating all the information we receive. It is a wonder we can ever make sense of them.
Simon <srb(at)imrryr(dot)demon(dot)co(dot)uk>
A very vivid story which really drew me in. I thought the dream was very well described, and the idea of the woman watching her own inner child, as it were, was very effective. There was a poignant quality to the whole piece.