This story ends, like most of my experiences at the time, with me laying over my father's lap, my denim shorts pulled down and my bottom bare, as I blubber and sob with each heavy whack of my dad's hairbrush as it smacks down against my shaking bottom over and over as I beg for mercy and cry unashamedly, hoping my daddy will stop spanking me.

But we'll get to that. Let's start at the beginning, eh?

There’s quite a lot of factors included in the recall of this spanking. Like all of the content I post here, it’s a real event which I’m re-telling as accurately as I can remember.

I was 13 at the time. This was the early in 1995; February, if I remember right. We were painting the house at the time. My bedroom was receiving a nice coat of blue, which faded to a dark navy at the top of the room. The idea was to give the room the impression of being a night sky. In order to get the paint that we needed, our family had to take a trip to a out-of-town shopping centre, located several miles outside the city.

While we were there, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before; a Pizza Hut. Now, that’s going to be a pretty peculiar statement given the popularity of this restaurant in the United States, and indeed in the UK at the time. But in the UK right then at that period of history, American Pizza wasn’t a very common food. If we ever had any, they tended to be frozen and bought in supermarkets, often with Ninja Turtles branding. The franchise restaurant which sold them to dine in hadn’t taken off here yet, and wouldn’t for another few years. As a result, eating pizza in a restaurant was kinda a new concept, and I begged my family to let us have our dinner there.

My excitement peaked as we drove past the Pizza Hut, and I saw that they were running an X-Men promotion. This introduces the second important concept into the mix here. At the time, the X-Men cartoon had just launched, and was very popular. Part of the reason I loved the X-Men was how it approached social issues, discussing themes of prejudice and intolerance towards minorities in a way that, at the time, we could all agree on; although if it were made today it would doubtless be the subject of complaints for its 'wokeness' and all that rubbish. But at the time this was awesome, setting it aside from the usual Saturday morning cartoon fair. Like, it was popular in school; it was something I could actually talk to other friends at school about! This was odd for me, because my interests veered towards geek hobbies, which at the time just were not as common. I had read several of the comic books, in fact; something which required me to delve into a dimly-lit comic book store which was run by a surly, condescending comic book fan. Even back then, the stereotype tended towards truth.

So I redoubled my pleading, begging my mum to take us to Pizza Hut, because as the poster in its display proudly proclaimed, you could get one of four X-Men cups, each of which had a comic strip printed on its outside, and came with a 3D cap. The cap featured a moulded image of a character from the show; and more, it had a gimmick which allowed it to 'move' when turned. You can probably find images of these cups on Google; go on, have a look! Like, open up a browser window and check it out now. Go on.

So, you’ve seen it, and you agree how awesome those cups were, right? We’re in agreement about that, yes? Good. Now imagine that you’re 13 years old, and you have a chance to get one of those cups, from a totally amazing cartoon, while at the same time dining on this strange foreign delicacy which it the staple dietary basis for freakin’ ninjas! I think you get the idea of why it was going to be such an epic day. Right, so moving on...

First, I had to trek through B&Q with my mum and dad, picking up paint. Then my mum wanted to have a look in the furniture story; which took hours!! Okay, maybe not actual hours... Sure felt like it. God, sorry, I’m being a brat. What can I say; I’ve not been spanked in years. Maybe it’s on my mind that I’m needing one. If anyone is in the UK and thinks they can facilitate, the comment button’s below.

Wait, what am I saying? Okay, let’s cut right to the Pizza Hut.

I was amazed how busy the place was. I guess being one of the first sit-in pizza places in the UK, people wound up getting quite keen. We were shown to a booth near the window, and ordered two pizzas; more than enough for the lot of us. I asked for a drink; in one of the cool cups.

And about twenty minutes later, the meal arrived. And I found out one really saddening thing. The cups were random. There was no way for me to know which X-Men character I’d get for my lid, and I won’t lie, I was kinda unimpressed. I wound up with Gambit. Like, I won’t lie, nobody liked Gambit. He was designed to be a 'cool' character, and that made him positively un-cool. Like everyone, I had been hoping for Wolverine.

I started to look around at the other tables, and something occurred to me. Two tables across, a father and son were eating their meal. The kid was blond and looked about a few years younger than me, his dad was a very tall chap and looked very muscular. Yet what I noticed, though, was that he had a Wolverine cup.

I didn’t give it much thought, although I did feel a pang of jealousy. I mean, understand that I wasn’t upset or anything. I was still very happy. Gambit was... okay. Ish. I was still more than happy! Positively overjoyed, really. So I eagerly ate my pizza, although I suspect my parents were quite less thrilled with it. And I’ll just say, we had ham and pineapple; which is still the best type of pizza.

Still, we finished our pizza and got up to leave. As my dad paid and I got my coat on, I noticed that the boy and his dad were gone. I figured they must have already left. Now, I figured they must have already left; paid and gone. But that’s when I noticed the boy had left his Wolverine cup behind.

My mum motioned me to hurry up. Just one second I called to her. Then I scrambled back to their table, picked up the Wolverine cup, popped the 3D lid off, and plapped my Gambit lid down in its place. If the kid didn’t want it, I figured, I’d be happy to...

I looked up. The kid and his dad, emerging from the bathroom, were staring at me.

So, at that moment, I’ll be completely honest with you; I had a bit of a panic. I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t thought I was stealing, and as far as I was concerned, I was just taking something that had been left behind. I should have said something to explain myself, but I was in a bit of a panic. I didn’t know what to say or do, and it certainly did look bad. Didn’t it? I mean, it definitely looked like I was stealing, and there was very little that I could say to justify that.

So, without any idea what to say or do, I rushed out of the store to join my mum.

We got into the car, and my dad turned to look at me. "You stole that."

"No" I said. "I didn’t know they were there."

"You could have put it back."

I looked down. "I didn’t steal it. They left it."

I half expected my dad to be angry. After all, the few times I’d stolen before, he had been. But this time it was different. He seemed more resigned. Saddened.

Like I’d hurt him.

I got into the car. "Am I in trouble?" I asked.

My dad didn’t say anything for a while. "No" he said.

I waited for him to continue; to explain. Why wasn’t I in trouble?

He didn’t say anything. He just started the car and drove.

We got several miles, and the car was icy silent. I hated it. Neither my dad or my mum said anything. I slowly fingered the cap which I held in my pocket, afraid to even look at it. No, not afraid... but definitely felt too bad about it.

"Dad" I asked, "why won’t you say anything?"

A slight pause. "Then, There’s nothing to say."

"We don’t talk to thieves" said my mother.

And that’s when their silence fell heavily into place. I wasn’t going to be able to expect a usual punishment for this; instead, it was this. I was shunned, rejected. A lump rose in my throat. "I’m sorry" I said.

"Doesn’t matter" my dad said. "You still did it."

I felt tears well up in my eyes. The car had got back into the city by this point and we wove through city streets.

As we pulled up to a set of lights, I took the cap out of my pocket and looked at it. The 3D print didn’t look so great any more. Wolverine didn’t quite seem so cool. I didn’t want it any more. I didn’t want this thing that made my family treat me like this. That was too high a cost for it.

So, as carefully as I could, I popped open the door to the car and let the cup fall into the corner of the road.

I shut the door and looked over at my dad, hoping that he’d say something. Just kinda, y’know, hoping that things would be better.

Instead he stared at me and said "That doesn’t change what you did."

And we drove back home in silence.

We didn’t speak when we got home. I went to my room, without any comment from my parents, and sat on the side of the bed. Nothing felt right. I tried to play some SNES, but I just couldn’t take my mind off what I’d done; or more accurately, what my parents had called me. A thief. But I hadn’t intended to be one! I kept replaying the experience over and over in my mind, and it kept feeling worse each time.

I kinda hoped that my dad would come into my room and say something; talk to me about it, hash it all out, anything. I realized that I was waiting for him to do so. But he didn’t.

I just sat there, wishing it would all go away.

And, after what felt like hours, I got up and went downstairs to the living room.

My dad was sitting in his usual chair, in the corner of the room. We had just recently got a home word processor; a very rudimentary computer which he used to manage the household budget. He was typing away on that when I came in. "Dad?"

He turned and looked at me. Didn’t say anything.

"I’m sorry" I muttered.

"Okay" he said, and went back to his typing.

I inhaled. "I didn’t mean to do it! I thought they’d already left. I thought they’d just gone and left it there, so it wouldn’t hurt anyone."

My dad turned back around. "So you thought it wouldn’t be bad?"

I looked down. "No" I said. "I mean, I know it was bad."

Y"es, it was" said my dad. "So what are you going to do now?"

I stood there for a long while. I didn’t know what I could do. I didn’t know the kid, so I couldn’t apologise to him. I couldn’t track him down and give him back the cap, that was already gone. My voice was shaking, "I don’t know."

My dad nodded, slowly.

"So like... please stop being like this?"

He looked at me, sadly. "How should I be with you when you do something like this, Spark?"

"I don’t know!" I snapped. "Angry, or... I don’t know. Can’t you just punish me or something?"

"Would it make you feel better if I did?"

I looked down at my feet. I remember they were bare, as they generally are when I’m at home, and I was dragging my toes against the carpet as if I was afraid. "I... I think so?" I asked. "Like, if it’ll make you stop treating me like this..."

So let me make it very clear, this isn’t a 'please spank me daddy' kind of a moment here. This was more like a choice. I knew exactly what I was going to face if I chose this road, and it was a spanking like a little pup. But the alternative, well, I didn’t want that. I wasn’t yet ready to live in a world without the love of my family.

Slowly, my dad nodded. "Do you want to go upstairs?"

I figure, looking back on it now, that was a double meaning. He wanted to know if I wanted my punishment here in the sitting room. But also, I was acutely aware that the hairbrush I was often spanked with was upstairs. Upstairs would provide us more privacy, and I was 13 years old so my spankings were quite a source for embarrassment, so privacy was important to me. But it would be a lot more painful. I knew what my dad meant, in either case. So I nodded, "yes."

My dad stood up, and we moved upstairs in relative silence. We reached my room, and my dad closed the door behind us. My eyes fixed on the wardrobe, where the hairbrush was stored. I knew I was to fetch it, even without being told. I walked over, reached up and grabbed it. It was a small hairbrush, roughly the size of my dad’s palm, with a flat wooden back which I’d felt on my bottom many, many times before. I rarely ever brushed my hair, so keeping it in my room seemed innocuous. Guests wouldn’t ask questions, like they would from a paddle or some such. But it only ever had one function. Only one, and I was about to experience that.

I walked over to the side of the bed, where my dad was sitting, and handed over the brush. He sat it down beside him. "I’m sorry" I whimpered.

"I know you are" he said. "Shorts down, please."

Slowly I started to unfasten my denom shorts. I often wore them; longer jeans were far less common, especially during days when we were mainly relaxing around the house. Occasionally my mother would joke that she bought them for me because they were easier to pull down for my spankings. Sometimes I think she wasn’t joking. If I was uncooperative, my parents would just pull them down. But not today. I tugged them down, slowly, and stepped out of them, leaving myself in only a band t-shirt and white panties.

My dad patted his knee. "Over."

I shuffled up onto the bed, letting my legs slide down to rest on the mattress. I lay mostly flat across his lap, save for my hips which arched across his knees. I felt my paws shaking a little, so I clutched onto the sheets.

My dad placed his paw on the small of my back. It felt strangely reassuring. Then, with only a few tugs, he pulled my panties down. They squeezed around my knees, letting the air feel its way around my bare bottom. I suppose, if you want to know, I’ll tell you that my bottom was quite round at that age; soft, very smooth. Usually quite pale; but often quite red. My dad pushed my tail out of the way and placed his strong palm down across it, covering both cheeks.

"I’m really sorry" I whimpered.

"I know" he replied. And started to spank me.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.

Now I know, I know, the brush wasn’t picked up just yet. That would come later. I think that first my dad wanted to spank me by hand, as that’s exactly what he did. He always spanked me very sternly, never really beginning with light and moving up to hard smacks. He would also space them out quite evenly, so that no sooner than I’d fully registered one smack, the next was impacting.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. Oh god, were we up to six already? I clutched down on the sheets as his paw clapped down hard on my bare bottom. I felt my cheeks shake with each smack. And as it did, a real sense of humiliation burned in me; that I was being spanked by hand, like a little kid, even though I was 13 years old. As a little kid I’d felt my dad’s paw across my bare bottom quite often, and this felt just the same. But I was far older now and could take it without too much struggle, even as the stinging started to swell.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. I winced and grunted. My bottom was still small enough that he could probably have covered it fully with his paw, but that didn’t stop my dad from switching smoothly from one cheek to the next. I think I was struggling at that point. My breathing was definitely growing quicker.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. I was squeezing the sheets now. I could feel the middle of my cheeks growing hot, on each side. That was six hearty smacks to each side, twelve in total. A few years previously, I’d have been sobbing. Instead I was whimpering. My mind focused on the sensation of being punished by my dad.

He shuffled slightly. I knew he’d picked up the hairbrush. Things were about to get a whole lot worse for me. "Daaad.." I whined, "I’m sorry."

"I know you are, Sparkie" he said. "This’ll help you learn your lesson."

I knew my dad’s lecture was going to be strong after all this was good and done. He placed free paw strongly against my lower back, and brought the surface of the hairbrush down across my bare bottom. The echo gave a loud WHACK!!

I cried out, clenching my eyes shut. My body shifted forward, as if trying to push away from the brush. My dad swung the flat side of the wooden hairbrush down again. WHACK!! It’s surface smacked across my bottom again, sounding so loud. I winced very hard, my eyes growing wet and my bottom feeling very naked and very unprotected. I knew I was feeling the full sensation of each whack, and couldn’t help but give a pained yelp. "Ow!" I yipped.

The next SMACK!! must surely have started to set my bottom a hearty red, because that’s when the burning sensation really started to turn into a fire. I started to squirm more strongly now, accenting the whack with an "Oww, I’m sorry!"

I clenched his eyes shut with the next WHACK!!, trying to hold back the tears. My father was spanking harder now, having built up to very firm whacks, each one echoing loudly in the otherwise empty room. "I expect far better from you, Spark!" he scolded sternly.

I couldn’t help but cry out with the next few WHACKs, two more, then three, tears marking my face as I sobbed loudly. I kicked my feet unashamedly, my paws grasping tightly onto the bedsheets. "Oww!" he wailed, "I’m sorry dad, please!"

By the tenth WHACK!!, the muscles in my soft cheeks were no longer tensed, my soft buttocks trembling and shaking freely with each smack. I could genuinely feel the plump puppy fat of his bottom shaking, and the embarrassment made me cry all the stronger.

Laying there, across my father’s knee and being spanked with the hairbrush, I felt utterly powerless. I squirmed, feeling so utterly embarrassed. Here I was, being spanked like a little child, and there was nothing at all I could do about it. I squirmed and I cried, tears flowing very freely now, but all I could do was hope that the next hot stinging whack wouldn’t burn too badly.

Eventually, sometime after the twentieth smack from the brush, my dad placed the brush down on the bed, and slid his strong, large paw to rest atop my very red and very stinging bottom.

I spent the next few moment catching my breath, and waiting for the tears to cease. "Right," said my father strongly, his large palm resting deftly upon my bare cheeks to ensure there would be no further argument, "Now you listen to me. I never, ever want to hear that you’ve been stealing again, is that clear?"

"Y..y..yes daad..." I blubbered.

"And what happens if I do?" he asked.

"I guh..ge..get the bb..brush again..." I stammered, each word drawing out a new whimper. Simply saying the word brush made the sensation in my bare bottom sear itself onto my tongue.

"That’s right" said my dad. He lifted his brush, stood, and walked to the bedroom door. "Now, it’s all over with, understand?"

"..yess dad.."

He nodded. "And I do mean, it’s all over with. Let’s give it no more thought, okay?"

"Uhhuh..."

"You’re a good girl" my dad said He closed the bedroom door. The minute he did, I released another bout of sobbing.

I have, looking back on it now, no doubt that the neighbours heard. They probably heard each of my spankings. At the time I didn’t care. I collapsed down onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow, feeling my crimson bottom. It hurt so intensely, each touch of my finger making my feel all the guiltier for what I had done to deserve it.

The damage, though, was not as severe as I had imagined; looking at it in the mirror, my bottom was a hearty red colour with several very sharp and clear crimson lines. After changing my clothes and washing my face, I came downstairs for dinner. Our dining room table consisted of a wooden bench-like chair (one which I was, rather often, put across for a spanking), and its hard surface was especially sore on my tanned backside that day.

The next day... in fact, no, later that day... everything was better with my family. Nothing more was ever said about the incident and the cold silence was gone. The incident had been left in the past, and we never so much as gave it a second thought. In the years to come, I learned to deal with situations far better, to stand up and explain myself when I was in bad situations, and learned to remain calm under pressure.

We never did go back to that Pizza Hut, although in the summer of that year a larger one did open in the city centre, and we went there several times.

And I still read X-Men comics. So nyeh.