My heart felt as if it had hit my stomach when Claire told me that I was on punishment parade. There was a sense of inevitability about the spanking that would follow. There was nothing I could do about it, nothing I could say. Pleading would only make it worse; remorse was expected. She said it quite factually, like a judge reading a sentence. There was no anger, no sympathy, no emotion at all.
She was so beautiful and poised, so calm and self assured. I often wondered how it could be that such a lovely person could be so callous. I thought at first that the worst part of being on punishment parade would be the waiting, knowing that at some time of her choosing, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, or maybe even in a week’s time, that my bottom would be subjected to the most awful spanking. I could put up with the humiliation of having to bare myself and assume a most undignified position. I knew that I would have to offer my bottom up as a target to be caned or strapped and I would have to show suitable remorse. I could take all that. What I struggled with was the wait, knowing that I was in line to be beaten, but not knowing when and not knowing how.
Even worse than the anticipation of the pain though, was the indignity of the punishment parade protocols. Once I was put on punishment parade, I immediately had to go to my room and change into my white cotton briefs and bra. While wearing this underwear was not a hardship in its own right, the implications brought me close to a melt down. Before I bathed and went to bed, I knew that Claire would check my underwear; on pure white briefs, there is nothing that can be hidden. A trace of pee, a hint of sweat. Perhaps a hint of arousal, and most humiliating of all, a bottom that has not been wiped to perfection. Any marks brought further demerits; there was no complaining, no invitation to justify the blemish.
Claire handed me a note that she sealed in an envelope and told me to hand it to the sales assistant at the pharmacy.
“You will need it,” she told me casually, offering no clue as to what; I knew better than to peek inside.
The sales assistant at the pharmacy looked at me strangely as I handed the envelope over; this was certainly an unusual occurrence. She was considerably younger than me; it was perhaps her first job out of school. She read the note that was inside, and looked at me quizzically.
“You need some arnica? Where is the bruising?”
I could feel myself flush; this was so like Claire to put me on the spot.
“I am not yet bruised.”
My voice sounded thin and reedy; why did I have to have these submissive shows in front of a girl half my age?
“Ah….so where do you expect to be bruised? We have different ointments for flesh and bony areas.”
If the floor could have swallowed me then, I would have happily fallen through.
“I expect to be bruised on my bottom.”
A look of incredulity spread across her face.
“I don’t understand. Bruised from slipping on the ice, or from skiing or something like that?”
“No. My bottom is going to be spanked.”
Her face flushed as deeply as mine and I found myself walking out of the pharmacy in no time at all, my bottle of arnica in hand, my dignity in shreds.
I guessed what was coming; my hygiene inspection of the previous night had not gone well, not well at all. Claire’s perfunctory inspection of my white briefs had yielded a decision I knew I could not avoid.
“If you can’t keep yourself clean down there, we will have to provide you with some help and guidance,” she had announced.
I was back in front of the same sales assistant soon after the shop opened in the morning. If she could have run from me, I am sure she would have. She took the proffered note and opened it slowly. The flush came to her cheeks before her eyes lifted from the paper. The walk to the feminine hygiene section seemed to take an eternity. I followed her, my heels clicking on the linoleum floor, my pulse rate soaring.
I watched the sales assistant pick off a small can from the shelf; I could just make out the words Fleet Enema on the label. She held onto these as she reached up for a douche bag.
“Will these be used before or after your spanking?” she asked.
I left the shop, my mind swirling in a turmoil of emotion; how many more days of humiliation would I have to put up with before I got spanked? As much as I dreaded it, at least it would put an end to my disgrace.
I wished that the darn cat bell that I had to wear on a collar during my punishment parade would stop tinkling; that was the worst punishment of all.