MY NAUGHTY LITTLE SISTER

BY NAP

[ part 2 ]

Note: This story is a fantasy for adults only. The author utterly condemns any form of actual abuse – physical, sexual, psychological and emotional – to any person of any age.

1967: the summer of love. The Beatles and Bob Dylan blared from the radio and hardly a day went by when my naughty little sister was not slapped on her bare legs or the seat of her knickers. And at least once a week she would go over her mother’s knee for a sound spanking, often on her bare bottom. Marge, my stepmother had no qualms about spanking her daughter in front of me. I did not mind. I loved to see Susie’s cute little bottom squirm under my stepmother’s punishing palm. Despite all this, my seven-year-old stepsister was mostly a happy little girl. She appeared to have no bitterness that I often saw her so painfully humiliated, and had no hostility towards me even when I was the cause of her being spanked.

Susie’s devotion boosted my brittle, eleven-year-old ego no end. Susie loved me to play with her and I certainly did ‘play with her’! I would tie her up, sometimes gag her, and torture her by tickling. She never complained. It was great fun!

One day, a week or two after Susie had been very severely spanked for wetting her knickers – my fault because I had tied her to a tree when she had a full bladder – Susie was in the bath when Marge said to me, “John, would you go upstairs and tell Susie it’s time she was out of the bath. But check that she has washed properly first, and she hasn’t just spent her time playing.”

I struggled to disguise my eagerness to undertake this errand and did my best to saunter nonchalantly from the room and up the stairs, but in reality my heart was hammering hard with excitement. I had seen Susie utterly nude when she had been spanked in the sink, now I was to see her again in the bath. Susie was utterly unconcerned when I walked in on her. She was lying back in the water with a small toy boat aground on the island of her plump little tummy and another bobbing in the harbour between her thighs, which rather spoiled my view.

“Your mum says you are to get out now,” I instructed as casually as I could while my eyes roamed over her flat chest with its little pink spot of nipples. “But first I have to check you are clean.”

“I’ve washed all over John, honest,” Susie declared earnestly as she sat up, scattering her boats in a tidal wave. I’ve washed my neck and my ears,” she insisted, leaning her head forwards and to one side to demonstrate this, “and I’ve washed my private part,” she continued, standing up so that it was plainly not private at all, “ and my bottom,” she went on proudly as she bent forward and innocently pulled apart her bottom cheeks to reveal her puckered little bum hole that was indeed hygienically clean.

“Erm, good. That’s all right then,” I muttered, rather overwhelmed by the extravagance of this wanton display.

Susie hopped out of the water and stood dripping on the bathmat. “Ooh, will you dry me, John, please,”

“OK,” I agreed curtly, not wishing to appear too delighted with the idea. I took a towel from the rail and began rubbing Susie’s sturdy little body. She held up her arms to let me rub under them, and innocently opened her legs for me to dry between her thighs. I felt light-headed as I patted her there. I made a thorough job and ensured that there was not an inch of Susie’s skin that was not rubbed over at least once.

***

Summer ended, autumn passed and winter arrived. Little changed apart from we wore more and thicker clothes, but which, for all their additional layers, did nothing to protect Susie from her mother’s spankings and my own mistreatment. For I was becoming bolder. I had at first been cautious, anxious lest Marge, my stepmother, should disapprove of my exploitation of her daughter. But Marge showed no concern when she found Susie tied up and even gagged.

My father, on the other hand, was troubled. He did not approve Marge’s constant spankings, but accepted a mother’s right to discipline her daughter. I had no such prerogative, however, and one day he unexpectedly came into the room where I had Susie lying on her front with her wrists and bent legs all tied together at the small of her back so that her spine was a concave curve. She was gagged with one white knee-high sock taken from her now bare left foot, and blindfolded by one of my dead mother’s silk scarves whose texture I now found so attractive.

My father, who was normally so calm, quiet and kind, was as angry as I ever knew him. He demanded that I immediately release Susie who, once ungagged, loyally insisted it was only a game and she was having fun. My father crossly told her to be quiet and gripping me so tightly by my arm that he hurt me for the first and only time in my life, he pulled me into the privacy of my own room.

“You are becoming an intolerable bully,” he stated, his eyes so filled with pain that I felt a momentary pang of guilty regret. “It is bad enough that Susie has to be punished as she is, but you—” He stumbled to a halt, overcome with his intensity of feeling.

“For goodness sake, John; she’s just a little girl!”

I did not say that that was the whole point. Instead I muttered about it being a game and my father gave up in exasperation.

After this, I was more careful when my father was around, but in fact, I noticed that he increasingly found excuses to be away from the house, preferring not to be present when his little stepdaughter was likely to be having her tiny bare bottom belaboured by her strict mother. Gradually, I returned to my wicked ways.

One game I invented at this time was ‘Spies’ inspired by the popularity of the ‘James Bond’ films. In truth, this was only a variation of all my other games with Susie, but in this version I was Chief of Intelligence (a title that appealed to my vanity!) and Susie was an agent of ‘SMERSH’ who had to be interrogated. In order to save the planet I was, so the scenario went, allowed to use any means – including torture – to gain the information.

I had Susie tied in one of my favourite positions, lying on her back on the floor, arms stretched above her head tied together at the wrist and then tied to the stout leg of the table. Her legs were not tied; instead, I sat on them.

I demanded to know the details of the plot – a question impossible to answer, since the ‘plot’ was never defined in the game; it was merely the pretext for the torture. Susie was wearing a woollen jumper and thick woollen skirt. I pushed the jumper up to reveal that she was wearing a vest beneath, as was usual for children of both sexes at that time, especially in winter. I shoved up the sweater until it was jammed around her narrow shoulders, half muffling her mouth. I started to tickle her armpits and as usual, she straightaway broke into uncontrollable squeals of enforced laughter and began to twist with a desperate but futile attempt to avoid my hands. Her giggles and wriggles became wilder as I switched to the area of her chest where her breasts were yet to grow, but that were already highly sensitive to my fiddling fingertips. I moved down the sides of her ribs and on to her tummy, now bare where her violent struggles had pulled her clothes apart from each other around her waist.

I left her upper body and began to tickle her legs – one to each hand – just above her dimpled knees. Her little bottom bounced against the floor as intense flurries of laughter were driven from her gaping mouth. I moved my hands up her plumply rounded thighs until I was tickling her right on the leg edge of her knickers. The false, forced merriment exploded from her lips in a spray of spit.

“Stop it! Please no! Stop it!” Susie shrieked as tears streamed from her eyes.

I eased my weight from Suzie’s shins and rolled the helplessly chortling child onto her front. I tickled the tendons behind her knees and then moved up the backs of her swelling legs. Screams of mirthless hilarity burst from her. I flipped up the back of her skirt to show the stretched seat of her knickers. Her buttocks jiggled and jostled as she squirmed, squealing, against the floor. Continuing to tickle her left leg. I raised my right hand and smacked her jumping bum. She squeaked with surprise; it was the first time I had hit her. Nothing like as hard as her mother when Suzie was spanked, of course, but enough, I was sure, to sting a little. I smacked her again. I liked the feel of her rubbery little bum beneath my hand, the resilient flesh compacting briefly at each smack. Susie screeched, but more, I am sure, from the tickling than the smacking.

I was delighted, delirious, drunk with power. I was carried away. I reached up, grabbed the elasticised waistband of her panties and pulled them down.

Susie’s bottom was no longer a mystery to me. Quite apart from her frequent spankings I had seen from the time when she had come to live with us, ever since I had supervised her bath I had also claimed the freedom of the bathroom whenever she bathed, and her bedroom too, and frequently walked in on her when she was nude. Nonetheless, this was the first time I had bared her bottom myself, and after a couple more smacks, I suddenly wondered whether I had gone too far. I hastily pulled her panties back over her bottom, stood up and released her hands. Still hiccupping with uncontrolled laughter, Susie sat up while I watched and waited anxiously. She wiped her eyes and nose with the backs of her hands and began to calm down. She looked up at me and opened her mouth to speak. What was she going to say? What protest or threat might she utter?

Ooh,” she said breathlessly, using a popular catchphrase from the time, “you are awful, but I like you!”

***

After this, smacking Susie’s bottom became one more of my popular pastimes. The scenarios varied. Sometimes I was a stern headmaster punishing his pupil. The fact that neither of us was ever really disciplined this way at our respective schools did not matter. In the England of the 1960s, school corporal punishment was ingrained into the national psyche. Or I might be a strict father chastising his naughty daughter, though in truth, my father – Susie’s stepfather – never so much as raised his voice to her, let alone his hand.

One day we were playing one of these games that involved my giving Susie’s bottom a fairly long, but light, spanking that had made her tiny cheeks very pink. She was a good little actress and squirmed and squealed very realistically when I ‘spanked’ her, although she always staunchly assured me afterwards that I hadn’t hurt her. Nonetheless, this time I knew that she was beginning to be quite sore, but I continued smacking her anyway. Suddenly I heard the front door open. Marge, my stepmother, who had been round at a near neighbour for coffee, had returned. Guiltily, I dumped Susie off my lap and onto the floor where she hastily pulled up her knickers and pulled down her skirt.

I saw at once that Marge had come in in a bad mood and I knew from experience that this usually meant a spanking for Susie, as my stepmother would look for any excuse to take out her irritation on her daughter’s bottom. So it was on this day. Susie was supposed to have cleaned out her hamster, and would have done so, had I not waylaid her into playing ‘Headmaster’ and so she had left it for later. But this was not good enough for her pernickety parent who marched into the room and called Susie “a lazy little tyke” and told her she did not deserve to have a pet if she did not look after it, which was most unfair as Susie was devoted to the well-being of her animals. We all knew from Marge’s anger – real or simulated I do not know – that Susie was going to get a sound spanking for her lapse, and I was looking forward to it when I suddenly remembered that her bottom would still be plainly marked from our game.

Sure enough, Marge grabbed hold of Susie and pulled her, face down, across her knees. As Susie sprawled there, squirming, I found myself uncharacteristically praying that my stepmother would leave Susie’s knickers on so that my guilty secret would not be revealed. But Marge threw back Susie’s skirt and briskly tugged down her little panties before my, for once, horrified eyes. There was Susie’s bum, quite obviously bright pink from a very recent spanking. I must admit I had no thought for Susie’s predicament – only my own. However, Marge miraculously appeared not to notice. She lifted her hand and slapped down hard on the little girl’s preheated cheeks. Within moments, the evidence of my own misconduct was buried beneath a barrage of blows that overlaid it with a band of much darker colour.

Susie yelled from the start. Her bottom must already have been smarting from my recent play spanking, but her mother showed no compunction about slapping those tender cheeks that jumped with every hard hit. Soon Susie was screeching like a banshee and kicking her legs like a demented swimmer. None of this made any difference to her mother who continued to spank her bawling child with a commendable concentration.

I began to relax – which was more than could be said for Susie, poor child! Either Marge had not noticed the colour of her daughter’s bottom, or she had noticed and was unconcerned. Reason told me that the second option was more likely, but either way, I was in the clear. As I enjoyed Susie’s agonised antics I considered the consequences if I was right. It would mean Marge was allowing me even more dominion over her daughter’s body than I had realised, which was a very interesting thought!