The Spanking Cascade

Nancy knocked politely on her supervisor's door and waited. His secretary had told the twenty-eight year old brunette that she was wanted immediately, but that didn't mean she should just barge in. She made sure not to look through the window in the door in case she appeared unduly curious.

"Come!"

The young woman opened the door and entered, mentally adding the word in to the command received. The smile she'd put on her face to greet the boss wavered when she saw he wasn't alone: sitting in the sole chair on her side of the desk was her stepfather. The fact that he was at her place of employment wasn't good, especially since he and her mother had only arrived back from honeymoon the day before.

"Your father tells me you've been acting up since he and your mother started dating," the boss began. "To make sure no stroppiness spreads to your work, I'm putting you on daily report. You can collect the forms on your way out. And just to make it crystal clear, if your clients punish you in any way, you can expect double from me, understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank-you, sir," Nancy replied, bobbing her head in acceptance and only adding he's not my father in her head.

"Very good. You may go."

Nancy nodded to both men, virtually bowing in an effort to show them respect, then backed out of the room and closed the door while her supervisor thanked her stepdad for taking the trouble to come in and make him aware of the situation. Whether he had mentioned the specifics of said situation (namely that Nancy was refusing to call him dad) was uncertain, but the damage was done. Now she would have to ask each of her clients to fill out the report form, which would in itself indicate that she was expected to misbehave and would need to be treated especially strictly.

The first garden had gone well. The couple had given a satisfactory report and Nancy had moved on to old Mr. Rainbottom, who seemed to have a soft spot for her, so she didn't expect any trouble there. She mowed his lawn, dead headed the roses, watered the hanging baskets and swept the path as expected, then rang the bell to collect her report sheet. That was where her problems began. Mr. Rainbottom had forgotten that he needed to write a report and when she asked for the form back, instead of a simple everything fine, no problems, he took it upon himself to wax lyrical about his gardener, praising her skill and dedication at interminable length and enumerating the many reasons why he didn't need to punish her.

All the while, the anxious brunette was waiting with ever greater worry that she would be late for her next appointment, although she did her best to hide any impatience from the client. Eventually, he proclaimed himself satisfied and signed the document before handing it back. As swiftly as she politely could, Nancy said goodbye, took her paper and set off in her little van, studiously obeying the speed limit on the way to her next job.

Fortunately, the gardening service allowed for traffic and Nancy was able to catch up almost completely, arriving less than a minute after eleven. She hurried up the drive and worked the heavy brass knocker. Normally, she wouldn't disturb the householder, but the daily report sheet meant she had to do so today, which left him in a less than wonderful mood to start with. Looking at the form and then his expensive designer watch, the thirty-something architect tutted loudly and then said, with a faint air of disgust,

"You're late. Bend over, one swat."

Any other day, he would have neither noticed nor cared, as long as his prized espaliers were properly maintained, but the report card had done its job. Nancy turned and started to undo her jeans, but the client just cupped his hand and gave her a firm smack over the denim. She grunted and rocked forwards onto her toes, blushing at the excessive reaction to a single blow with the hand, even though it had been surprisingly hard. The client didn't seem to mind, though and after a quick thank-you, she got to work and managed to avoid any other transgressions for the rest of the day.

Nancy tried to look relaxed when she handed her daily report to her supervisor, but inside, her stomach was doing somersaults. Everything was satisfactory or better, with the one exception of that single smack, but she didn't know how her boss would respond to that. She didn't have long to wait.

"Grab your ankles, Nancy," he said, taking a large brown rectangular wooden paddle with circular perforations from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet behind his desk. She didn't need to be told to take her jeans down; that was how it was always done at the gardening service, although Nancy had managed to avoid experiencing it herself until now.

"I told you, girl, anything the client gave you, doubled."

"Yes, sir. I'm very sorry, sir."

* THWACK! *

The first swat was shockingly loud in the small office, but Nancy hardly noticed, because she was too busy trying to mentally adjust to the most painful individual experience of her entire life. Her new stepfather had a penchant for the cane (and in particular for using it on his new stepdaughter) and some of the thrashings he'd given her in the three months since he'd met her mother through a dating app had hurt worse in their entirety than this one smack, but as the result of a single swing, nothing compared to this. She understood now why the other girls spoke so reverently about the paddle—and she still had one to go!

The second was no less devastating than the first, maybe more, landing on top of the original bruise. Nancy sobbed quietly and tried to catch her breath, not daring to rise until instructed.

"And it says here you were late by up to a minute," the boss continued, "so one more for that."

His employee tried to speak, to say that was what she'd had the smack for in the first place, but (perhaps fortunately for her bottom), she couldn't get the words out before the awful paddle swung again and the only noises she was capable of making for some time were howls of agony.

"Well? Hand it over." Nancy's new stepsister was only twenty and still at college, but their respective parents had both made it abundantly clear who was in charge when the two were alone. Reluctantly, the limping brunette gave the filled daily report to the freckled ginger.

"One, two-three, four swats—and you were late to work twice! That is completely unacceptable!" The young college student was nearly shouting with indignation, although Nancy knew for a fact that she got worse than that from her lecturers on an almost daily basis. It had become clear that the structure of the report sheet left something to be desired as two people now had failed to connect the punishments with the annotations of lateness and on top of that, it seemed to imply that there had been two incidents, rather than one punished twice. Nancy didn't argue, though. Contradicting her stepsister was invariably a painful experience.

"Jeans down," the younger girl ordered joyfully, brandishing a wooden spoon from the kitchen. "You'll get double what they gave you at work, plus one more for each time you were late."

The five smacks down the front of each thigh were nothing compared with the paddle from earlier, but they still raised little circular weals and left their recipient with tears running down her cheeks, which was entirely acceptable to the girl on the other end of the spoon.

"Now, go to your room until mum and dad get home. I have to make dinner."

Back when her parents had been together, Nancy's mum had been the primary disciplinarian, under her husband's authority, of course. She'd had an incentive to keep her daughter on the straight and narrow, because if any misbehaviour was so egregious that it came to the attention of the girl's father, both his womenfolk would feel his belt. Fortunately, Nancy was a good and clever girl, rarely in trouble either for malfeasance or for academic failures. It wasn't her fault that they needed another income and couldn't afford for her to go to university after she left school with excellent examination results.

Nevertheless, there had been occasions when Nancy had gone over her mother's knee for a dozen (or, very rarely, up to double that) from the old wickedly-painful hairbrush that had been passed down for at least four generations. Thus it was that when her bedroom door opened and she saw her mother standing there with brush in hand, Nancy knew she was in even more trouble.

"How could you shame me in front of your sister? Didn't I bring you up right? Not to mention the report! From now on, if you're so naughty your sister has to spank you for any little thing, you'll get double from me. Am I making myself clear, young lady?"

"Yes, mum. I'm sorry, mum…" and she's not my sister!

It turned out that in addition to twenty smacks for sororal disharmony, Nancy was to get eight to double the four from work and another two for the two supposed counts of impunctuality. Thirty swats, six more than she'd ever had before, on a bottom already bruised horribly by the paddle from work. It was hardly surprising that she was bawling like a baby before they were even half way through. Her mother knew by experience the rhythm and placement that caused her daughter the greatest anguish and exploited this knowledge to the fullest in inflicting the most suffering she possibly could with a mere hairbrush. By the time she was finished, Nancy was nearly hysterical, in floods of tears, tearing at her hair in agony to keep from earning extras by reaching back to protect her helpless bum. It wasn't over yet, though. The twenty-eight year old was dragged by the elbow to just inside the front door, jeans and knickers round ankles, then ordered to stand facing the wall until the man of the house came home.

She was so exhausted, the fact that this presaged further chastisement didn't really enter her head until she heard his voice. She jumped to attention from where she'd slumped against the wall, trembling with apprehension.

"Get into the kitchen, girl. You and I need a serious talk."

Nancy whimpered. That was what he always called it, a serious talk. Six of the best with his rattan cane, maybe a dozen if he could find an excuse that was particularly bad. Well, now he had all the reason he needed to make her life hell.

"Strip."

She obeyed, fumbling with her jumper and bodice, freeing the boobs that were more than a handful but not, according to her mother, big enough to warrant wearing a brassière (although her less well endowed stepsister had drawers full of them). Getting her shoes, socks, jeans and knickers off was harder and she was scared her stepfather would punish her more, but he took the opportunity to berate her for distressing her loving sister (not her sister) and mother (not her—wait, no, that's not right) and promising her double what they had given her. Nancy's pain-addled brain wasn't up to doing the sums, but even if it had been, the idea of eighty strokes of that vicious cane was unthinkable. The extra ten for that thrice-damned report sheet was hardly worth mentioning.

He took his time, ensuring her buttocks were as welted as they possibly could be before he did the same to the backs of her thighs. Quite quickly, he called in the other members of the household to restrain her, but he saw no need to add further punishment for her involuntary writhing under the rod; she was too weak to actually resist him, after all. Her feet took their fair share and then the other women turned her over and he worked his way up her thighs, over her concave stomach and all the way to those sweet boobies that he'd longed to thrash since he first set eyes on her.

Her body was a maze of livid stripes and white ridges when the doorbell briefly interrupted her chastisement. Nobody had thought to tell Nancy, but after the wedding, to which he had not been invited, her biological father had been invited to dinner, in an effort to stop relations between the families souring completely. With ill grace, he'd accepted and was now there with his new girlfriend, expecting a meal and a lot of angry silences, rather than the sight of his daughter stretched naked over the kitchen table, being flogged to within an inch of her life.

"I'm sorry, old man," the new man oozed insincerely, "I just have to finish up here. The girl is so badly behaved I can't afford to neglect her discipline, you know." Having scored a point over his predecessor, he smiled wolfishly and picked up the cane once more.

The fact that Nancy could hardly even scream any more didn't matter to the man disciplining her. In fact, it made it easier for him to explain all the spankings she'd received today, building a litany of faults that behoved him to administer the harshest treatment.

Through it all, her father looked on with growing fury, his young platinum-haired girlfriend stroking his arm sympathetically. Finally, the caning was over and his ex-wife's new husband announced that they could all sit down, because dinner would be served shortly.

"It will have to wait. First I need some time alone with my daughter." So saying, he strode over to the table, shrugging off the blonde's hand and grabbed Nancy by the ear, dragging her off the table and out of the back door towards the shed at the end of the garden where years earlier she had discovered her love of all things horticultural. Unstrapping his belt with his other hand, he snarled "I wasn't strict enough with you, wasn't I? Well, from now on, anything you get from anyone else, you get double from me, d'you hear?"

"Daddy, please, I didn't, please…"

"Nanthy…Nanthy! Wake up, thleepy-head."

Nancy moaned as the pain flared through her body. Every inch ached. She was strung up from the same supports used for the hanging baskets. Her family had left her out all night. Two hundred and seventy straps with the belt had needed some creativity and everything from her face to her heels, from her fingers to her inner thighs, from her shoulders to her labia, spread wide with clothes pegs and twine, had been thrashed. Now her father's horrible girlfriend (in her thirties, but dressed and acted like she was eighteen, if that) was here to annoy her with her ridiculous lisp.

Nancy wasn't prejudiced against people with speech impediments. She was prejudiced against people who pretended to have speech impediments because they thought it made them more attractive to men like her father. The fact that it appeared to work just made it worse. Nancy realized the bottle blonde was speaking again and wished she'd just stop and let her pass out so that she could get away from the pain.

"…I weally weally love your father." She now appeared to have forgotten what speech impediment she was trying to fake. "And he weally loves you—loveth you…loveth…anyway, it hurt-th him to have to punith you, tho it hurt-th me when he punitheth you. That-th why I'm going to whip you now." She took out a short, black riding crop. "Double what he did. Be a good girl and never make him thtwap you again and we'll get on famouthly. Now, thith will be our little thequet. Your daddy would be weally angwy if he knew I wath whipping you—but I think we both know who'd get punithed worth if he found out, don't we?"