A Humiliation Fantasy

Image from spankingshame.com

I hate the fact that I seem incapable of controlling my bratty behavior.

And that this seems to be more of a problem when we have guests.

You give me repeated warnings, but I continue to be insufferable. I persist in my spoiled-child behavior as if under an irresistible compulsion.

It's awful, that moment when you say “Young lady, I am out of patience!” and the whole room goes silent. I freeze like the proverbial deer in the headlights--actually surprised--even though I knew this would happen all along.

I detest the sounds of approval from all over the living room when you announce that I have certainly earned a spanking. 

And the dread command to disrobe.

Here? In front of all our guests?!

Certainly. You behaved abominably in front of them, they have every right to see your correction.

My face goes crimson as I cast about for some miraculous deliverance from this terrible situation.

There is none to be had, of course. You skewer me with your no-nonsense look; my eyes fill with tears and I begin taking off my clothes. 

Every eye in the room fixed on me.

I am soon standing bare as an egg, my hands on my head, and shamed beyond the telling.

A group of well-dressed people listen to every word of your scathing lecture. 

You are selfish, bratty, and inconsiderate of others; I won't have it.

I know it's all true. In my peripheral vision, I see heads nodding in agreement. My face burns.

You surprise me, and it's no pleasant surprise. You say that my behavior is so juvenile, I don't deserve the privilege of looking like an adult. At first, I'm not sure what you mean. Then I follow your gaze down to the wispy brunette bush between my legs, terrified that I do understand.

The look in your eyes confirms my horror. This is unprecedented, apocalyptic.

You ask your best friend to watch me while you retrieve a razor and shaving cream.

I stand naked under the man's intense gaze while you're away. I whimper as I hear fragments of

commentary from our guests:

About time.

Serves her right.

Exactly what she needs.

You return, and I plead for a reprieve as I never have in my life. Unmoved, you clear the coffee table, spread a towel over it, and lay me down on my back. I've been spanked bare-bottomed in public more than once, and it's been terrible each time. But this...this is a whole new species of terrible.

You place a warm, wet washcloth across my most private of areas; I gasp at the contact. You spread shaving cream all over my bush as people gather around for a close-up view. The shaving is worse than horrible. With every stroke of the razor, I feel another layer of my adult status being removed...in public.

You take your time, and it seems to go on forever.

I want it to be over. I want to turn back the clock. I want to emigrate, change my name, get plastic surgery to change my face.

None of these things will happen, of course. These people will all see me again and again; each time they do, their twinkling eyes and knowing smiles will confirm that they're imagining me as I am in this dreadful moment.

When the job is done and the shaving cream wiped clean, I look down, both fascinated and horrified. I look more like a little girl than a grown woman.

Which was the whole point, of course.

After this huge humiliation, going over your knee for a spanking is almost anticlimactic. Still, it stings terribly, especially when you switch from your hand to the hairbrush. As always, I raise a great fuss and make a complete spectacle of myself. I kick, I pound, I howl. I know that this image--that of the naughty brat who had to be bared, shaved and spanked in public--is forever burned into the consciousness of every person present. My tears and cries are as much about that as about the fire in my behind.

I hate the way I helplessly kick and shriek.

It's awful catching looks of satisfied approval all around as I do.

I detest the fact that I can't help but beg abjectly, making heartfelt vows of eternal virtue if you will just put out the fire.

After what seems like an eternity over your knee, you bring my 

spanking to a close.

You release me to do an impressive St. Vitus' Dance, howling, hopping from foot to foot, and holding my scalded rear end in both hands. I am nearly heedless of the fact that my breasts are flopping around and that my newly-nude, no-longer-private zone is on lewd display. After allowing this spectacle to play out awhile, you take me by the ear and lead me to the corner. Hands on my head. Blazing bottom facing the room.

I hate that I must stand in disgrace for the rest of the evening, until the very last guest leaves. I am painfully aware that the parting image in each of their eyes is that of a grown-up naughty little girl, naked, ashamed, and properly chastened.

How will I ever be able to face them again?

[END]

Copyright 2011 by Aunt Carla

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