text for the car illustration (wip)

The fact that he had to take the time to pull the car over and spank me was, in and of itself, a reason for him to be very harsh about it, he often said. He looked for a secluded place while scolding me for having been a dangerous distraction.

He was going to spank me very hard. I knew that instantly from the foul rhythm of our exchange after I’d accidentally let my bottled tea roll over to the driver’s side floorboard again. I listen to his lecture with painfully deliberate focus, wild-eyed with desperation for anything I might be able to use to make him change his mind, or at the very least, make him feel like I deserve some amount of sympathy.

I find nothing, and the horrible march toward the inevitable continues until we’re pulling onto an old gravel road he’s parked beside to spank me once before.

He stops the car,opens his door, and gets out. The only tactic I have left to gain some leniency is meek obedience. I also get out, and wait for him to open the back passenger-side door like I am expected to do.

He sits in the back seat, points at the zipper on my shorts and says“get your butt out”. I hate when he says that so much I could scream. But I accept the command, and I don’t let a single twitch betray any discomfort as I obey him.

I conduct myself as if I am above all this petty spanking nonsense.The ability to maintain this stoic countenance is my last, pitiful source of dignity. I unbutton my shorts and slide them down only as far as I know I must to meet his expectations satisfactorily.

I bend over his lap, offering my bared bottom to him so that he can give me the spanking he says I’ve earned for being thoughtless.

He smacks my butt hard until he feels certain I will never let things roll around on the floorboard again.

The terrible, burning sting becomes such an intolerable agony that I forget all my shame - I no longer care about anything but making him stop. But any attempt to escape or defend myself will be met with more severe punishment.

He’d make me cut a switch. But if I keep my bottom still and don’t try to cover it, he’ll only use his hand. I swear to him that I will never leave things loose to roll around in the car again. I swear to always pay attention and listen to what he tells me. I cannot tolerate the pain any longer, but getting switched hurts so much worse.

I throw my hands behind me. Instead of switching me, he pins them to my back and regains his stride. I try to twist away, but I tire myself after a few violent thrashes that produce no results. I kick and squirm to try to get him to hit less sore spots, but I have little energy left. I lie limp over his lap, bawling miserably.